The gift of a sword

Hello you night-time dreamers. This next tale comes from the people of the Grove. Sleep well demon-kind.

— Mistress Silence for Radio Luna

  It was one of those nights when the air is just a little too cold, when the rain drips through the treeline but does not really fall to soak the parched earth. The start of the wet season or one of the drier weeks within. Whenever it was, the mage Terren Softbreeze was lost in the Forbidden Forest, having strayed off the path in search of herbs for a potion he needed made and had not the spare to trade for. With little patience, and a hunger often seen in mages, Terren had decided to go looking for the herbs himself.   Now Terren was a city mage, his feet were soft in his sandals, and his hands were only calloused by the circuit ink brush - and so scratched and lost and itchy and just plain sad; the dripping rain was not helping any as it soaked into his fine and thin cloth garments. Things were not helped by the fact that Terren could hear the low keening cries of the children of Izdione.   If panic was not a part of Terren's psyche, then the twisting of his ankle as he stumbled over uneven ground and the snapping of his brittle wizen-ed's staff would be reason to panic. The tattoos on his skin had washed off hours ago, and the snapping of a staff that had been over-thought and overworked until it was Sakur-pate-thin and not at all suited to be the walking stick of a frightened mage left said mage defenceless to the keening of those hungry from the deep woods. And so - panicked - Terren ran.   It was more of a stumbling gait that Terren made as fear overwhelmed the thinking mind, giving way to uneven footing and raking hands across trees and scrub that bit back into his delicate flesh. Soon blood would mix with this completely dishevelled and collapsing look of him as his grey-green eyes wildly sought some sort of hint back to the city. But still the Children of the forest were coming for him, and they were hungry.   Now as we know, we should all lift up together, and that sense of community and uplift does not seem to be lost on our demon neighbours. For it it was a nameless iron demon that found the downtrodden Terren before the Children did. "Help me, I can hear them coming for me." Terren cried, throwing himself on the spiked and armoured raider.   The raider chuckled, hefting a large rusted and jagged sword. "I will protect you, little green-sprite, and get you back to your home." Now the journey back was not fast, and the Children were still hunting them, but the raider used tricks from beyond the Gates, and Terren was glad for the demon's tricksy ways. But the Terren and we should be glad of the subterfuge for eventually the pair reached the edge of the forest. "Take a breath here, the Beasts do not hunt outside the forest." The raider said, helping Terren stand aloft as the mage struggled with his strength. Eventually the demon sighed and offered Terran his sword. "Find this a home where it can fill its thirst"   Terren protested for both what did he have to trade the raider, and how would the raider get home? The raider showed Terren a wicked blade, smaller but still sharp and explained that the demons believed in both glory earned in hardship, but also in the value of a passed on good deed. That kindness was an ever travelling light, passed from one in need to another. And that Terren would find a person in need of the blade when he got home.   Back in Natare, Terren almost forgot the sword as soon as he walked through the membrane of his house. He had slid the sword behind a clothes storage gourd and was planning on getting on with a sad week of failing in his research projects when his partner came in with a story of a combat mage who was allergic to spell ink.   Terren almost put it out of his mind as a odd little story, except Terren's partner mentioned that the universe had not done the combat mage a kindness; giving them the skill of body and memory and then giving them this allergy.   Inspired, invigorated though still looking half chewed by the forest, Terren left up and grabbed the sword, racing to the training grounds to seek a kindness repaid. The mage eventually found the fighter with the allergy, her forms flawless - in combat with her mentor. Interrupting, Terren offered her the solution of the blade, suggesting that a simple cell might be strapped to the blade to help it store circuits placed upon it.   The fighter asked Terren what had brought on this idea, and what Terren wanted to trade for this sword and so Terren recounted his story with the demon. While refusing a trade from the fighter, for that would not match the way of the demon's intent, the mentor laughed and remarked that they knew the person trading Terren's herb. So swapping the mentor's favour for a future kindness, the universe helped Terren avoid the forest and inspired him to switch his research into discovering a hypo-allergenic spell ink.  

Now looking into the tale, we can find accounts of a combat mage a while back with a sword, but isn't it just nice to imagine a world with a little more kindness in it? And with that all you rascals and night time wanderers need sleep as Debron starts to wake. Sleep well, Levis.

— Mistress Silence of Radio Luna