Tales of Richard Smithson: First Steps

Richard Smithson: Prologue

Father of Richard; John Smithson

The first chapter of this story takes place in Witherstone, a small old-age village, A prosperous village where the townsfolk hold steady jobs. Jobs like being a farmer, running the local taverns or- closer to where we're heading to- being a blacksmith.

John Smithson, or Ol' Johnny to the townsfolk, was the only blacksmith in town. His stature was tall, much taller than most. A fierce beard adorned his lower face, bushy and brown, singed to black at several points from working close to the fires. He was visibly tough, his body clothed with scars and decorated with muscles, and he was usually seen with a hammer somewhere on him, whether it be in his belt or his grip. He could create anything the townsfolk needed: horseshoes? Easy. A carriage? It'll take a few days, but it'll get done and it'll get done good. Swords and armour? Well, Ol' Johnny loved them since he was a boy, they're his specialty.

The house he lived in was joined to the smithery, a place which dominated most of the lower floor along with a kitchen and a small table to eat at. The upstairs rooms were mainly for storage and sleeping, but Ol' Johnny had a basement, too. Walking into the place's basement felt like walking into a great armory, with all manners of blades and shields decorating the walls besides wooden mannequins boasting armours, each as magnificent as the next yet all of them were unique, special in their own ways. Some were built for purely for punching, some specifically for shields. One Johnny loved most had a left arm for a shield, and a right arm purely for punching. It was down here, in his hobby room, where John stored his most beloved crafts.

Behind the house was a large garden where a rugged wooden stable stood, populated by a single horse. If you were to stand between the stable and the house and looked around, you would be met with archery targets and wooden scarecrows where John tests out all manners of weapons before feeling satisfied with them. But sadly, John hasn't swung a sword or fired a bow in a long time.

The love of John's life, a plain-looking dairy-maid called Mary, passed away some years ago; It was a terrible accident that shocked the whole village. She was helping the local farmers erect a barn, but some of the barn's construction wasn't stable enough. John only has a few things to remember her by: a wooden carving of her, carefully created for their third anniversary; a clay cup she used to drink out of, now stained with the alcohol John used to cope; and their son, little Richard, the reason why he has not picked up a sword or a shield in such a long time.

Son of John; Richard Smithson

Richard is a sturdy lad. Like quite a few children, he had to grow with only one parent, but the village gave him the love that his mother couldn't. The taverns would give him water and conversation, though he never spoke much. The farmers would give him food and work to entertain him, though he never took much. The blacksmith of the village, Richard's own father, would give him the love of a father and a bed to sleep, though he never slept there much. Richard would rather play in the fields and sleep in the stable, living in his own world, a world he shared with someone else.

During this time in his life Richard was 8 years old, and his friend- Lizzie- was 9. They played together, ate together, explored together and slept together. They were inseparable. At that age, Richard was already gaining some firmness in his muscles from helping around the farms and the smithery; his hair was always ruffled, originally brown but turned dark from coal dust, the same dust that decorated his face like war paint; his clothes were rags, torn in places from playing and fighting. Lizzie's head had short, blonde hair and constantly wore a smirk; her clothes were roughed up, like Richards, but instead of rags they were the dress of a maid; and, also like Richard, her muscles were toughening up, too. Though she did the work of a maid, she and Richard loved to brawl.