"Let us end with the beginning...," were the words spoken in a high whisper, by the large and looming figure in somber robes of shimmering dark-graphite hue, floating legless, by a hands width, above the gray, stone tiles as the edges of tattered cloth curved in deathly flight. For it was Death, that hovered there, behind what was a book immense size and of what could be nearly infinite pages...open only for Him, this haunting scribe, to Lord over what was contained therein.
"It is your time, Szczepan, son of Thornblood...." The full name spoken, family and proper given, awoke a deep, fear-inspired but resigned awareness, that for Chezan, the Thornblood prince and shade-sword warrior of born cause and willed manifestation, his life-chapter of the great Codex was finally to be enshrined...but once written, never again forgotten.
It was then that it happened, within this citadel of judgment, this castle of bones, that the ancient figure before him reached out a cold, malignant hand holding a bone-quill of infernal design, and began to criss-cross the open page, not writing but...the happening, the quill...it did not write upon page with ink, but instead, it pulled memories of Chezan Thornblood's life directly from his own mind, like ethereal wisps of smoke pulled directly from out his skull, and channeled, almost summoned by Death, and forced down as marks upon the pallid and crisp parchement.
The happening was the reliving of memory from the moment Chezan stepped into his own existence...the time, the beginning, of existence upon the Sword Coast...until the time his soul would be barred from imbuing the Thornblood-born flesh. And as each memory passed between the stored source and the Book of Life unto Death, Chezan Thornblood was thus granted reflective insight to his own being, as he shuffled off his mortal coil.
Light rays had just began to illuminate the soft coastal fog with a canary-yellow glow, when telltale sounds of a caravan arriving at speed from the south Coast Way lane, filled the air. A black wood, gilded-edge carriage lurched forward, violently, as the stallions of midnight colored hair were reined in by a strong hand. Hardened steel supported spoked wheels dug into the dry fall earth, skirting marks into the topsoil, eventually still, as the wagon finally heeled. There was a momentary silence, followed by the slow creaking of a wooden frame, coming to rest after swinging its weight.
The warmbloods snorted and chortled behind the bit, their energy of movement tamed, but their spirit only temporarily contained. The driver remained seated above and at the front of the carriage, his race and breed covered by hooded cloth, and his body hidden behind a light leather armor, visibly more decorative than practical, but armor nonetheless. He, she, it...gazed forward, down the well worn, dirt road, sided by cornfields and a lingering campfire. Then further gazed upon the nearby coach stop, lantern lit and occupied with a number of wagons for offloading people or cargo, yet at this early hour, still and unmanned. Lastely, the gaze moved farther off, then upward, towards the monstrous gate and the flags waving high above—their blue and greenish gold color seemingly satisfying, and such that the driver let his head return downward to take a moment to be attentive to the rustling of the beasts tethered by leather length, to his own person. Confirming his grip still held control to the team, with his left arm, he reached around the wooden seat and with a tightly made fist, he banged it hard three times against what he could reach of the carriage side. There was a pause, then....
The carriage door pushed open, creaking on its hinges, revealing little of the dark interior, not helped by the poor light of the early day. But quickly, without pause, a man of youthful features, sprung outward from within that darkness, landing firm-footed upon the dusty earth. A shimmer of difference surrounds him, the passenger, as if complexion and build holds him slightly beyond simply Human. This youth, in the third decade of life, looks upon the walls of the city to which he has arrived, Baldur's Gate, with a serious upon his face, mixed with an undeniable freshness and vigor. Standing tall and chest outward, in the silence with nobody watching, and in such a way of holding himself upright seen at courts of some standing...all to no affect in these vacant farmlands. Adorned in a light armor boasting a solid breastplate, standing against the backdrop this gilded carriage, he paints a picture of regal born, some wealth and means mixed into his bloodline...but again, lost at this moment of a arrival. Any expression of expectation is fast and fleeting. In not too long a time, he reaches backward into the carriage and returns holding both a soldiers helmet, and a exotic blade with an ornate scabbard—another sign of his background, it would seem.
"Sir...by orders of the Master of the House, I have delivered you to this city of Baldur's Gate," spoke the driver, interrupting the moment. The newly disembarked passenger turns to look upward, attempting to catch the drivers face, unable, as the downward looking hood holds a deep shadow.
"Be off then, man...," dismisses the disembarked passenger, a tone of one used to giving commands. The newly footed passenger then turns his back again to the carriage, as it soon moves to depart the scene—strong hooves pound the ground as the driver careens the wagon away and to a direction bearing southward.
Standing there, in the last-days-of-summer morning air, on a road beginning to come alive with the day taking hold upon this city of the Sword Coast, this passenger, this one Chezan of House Thornblood, feels the moment—one of a tearing, a separation from whatever past now quickly disappears, south, in the form of the gilded carriage—and all that it represents—leaving him to his own devices. He is alone, carrying his rightful things, his only things, left in his possession with claim to his blood and name. "Be it wise or not...here is where I have been delivered" he mutters to no one but himself. Strapping the scabbard with blade to his waist, he then positions the helmet squarely under arm.
Marching forward, he enters the Gate for the first time.
First Tenday, The Fading, 1352 : The Gate and The Graveyard
Chezan Thornblood took less than seven strides after passing under the great arch of the Eastern Gate to the City, when an eager company of three, adventure advertised upon their lips, seized up the young Thornblood by arm and idea, to join them in the riches of "the hunt," that being in their telling, the possessed and animated dead, of which the Baldur's Gate graveyard, was overrun. Having appraised up Chezan by his shined armor and his exotic sword of antique make, they acted as if the God's themselves had delivered the young Thornblood to them, and, saw his blade and appearance to be a divine sign of their coming success—a warrior of some skill...though they had, in truth, mis-appraised him.
Chezan, in the moment of being admired for what he did not possess, bluffed his abilities to be as was wrongly interpreted, a...natural reaction, for the young Thornblood. And once having given his word that he was the master of this sword, that which he called the Thirst of Thorns, he was bound to honor it—even if built on top of misleading interpretation. The company then became four, and Chezan prepared himself for his first challenge, and in doing so, his mental preparation at work while they all walked eastward out of the Gate, he failed to even care to learn their names.
The breaking day faded to early eve quickly, as the four acquired resources at the stalls of merchants within the expanse of the Gate's farmlands. Supplies acquired, a meal was taken, and a plan of operation discussed, so that the company would be well prepared to in the event—though considered by the majority, unlikely—that the company would have to retreat, and worse, that any of them would fall victim to the blade or cudgel. Even with the load of these dark thoughts, the company voiced a general comfort and confidence that, should their actions be greater than their skills, the proximity to population of the living sort, should provide them with a safety, as one of the member's said, "...a net that shall catch us if we fall...or, fail."
Supplies procured, the company lit their torches and walked into the unknown—as the young Thornblood would consider it—and bid the unresponsive guards but a passing glance. For the company was still inspired by the rewards to be gained, be they riches that are earned when luck and circumstance provide one the find, or the experience, a bravery given and strength gained having looked the undead in the face, and...smashed those cold, unnaturally animated bones, all for the sake of glory and promise.
It was not long before glory and promise quickly turned into wanton slaughter, if that would be the term ascribable to what the living can do to the already dead. The young Thornblood would soon learn that those he formed company with, greatly outmatched his own abilities with a sword, with a sling, with....any form of advance and attack. Not that Chezan did not apply his natural gifts, he did it with earnestness, however...the young Thornblood's inexperience with what is truly damaging to the undead, nearly led to his own defeat, in more than one melee. Chezan mustered a good face, to his company mates, and took a tactic of speaking praise to their actions and the strength in their arms, as means to distract them, from questioning Chezan's own inability. Chezan gained greater experience, in this moment, on the power of flattery, more so, than he gained in the skills to effectively wield his own blade...though it lacked no power, in and of itself. The tongue became as worthy as any weapon, and this gain of knowledge sunk deep within the mind of the young Thornblood—his training had begun, in a way he had little expected. "Keen, not only blade edges....," thought Chezan to himself, during and after, the company had waded through the swampy graveyard, and achieved their goals.
Dawn was rising, and the walking corpses thinned in number, the spirits of green mist faded in the yellow light rays that burst through the tops of trees. The cracking of rusted plates of armor and the clanging of loose chains, softened in the distance, behind fog and in bog, until the morning brought not only silence, but a victory, for this small company. Exhausted but filled with exhilaration, they exited the graveyard, a few carrying weighty sacks of the spoils of the fallen undead, where there were artifacts to collect.
The young Thornblood, sharing in the victory verbally but careful to not call attention to his meekness in melee, simply followed and behaved, all the way, until the company had led him far into the Gate, into the inn that was called the Blade and Stars. They seemed eager, and this point, to part ways, and Chezan felt it best to differ to the choices of others, for his concentration was completely occupied with the absorption of all that was new: the streets, the signboards, the dialect in common that constantly reminded him that he was not in the land of his House, his family, but in a land, a place, that had little reason to pay him any attention.
"This is something that I shall change," he spoke quietly to himself.
Second Tenday, The Fading, 1352: The Blade at the Blade, and the Low of Labor
The dream was like the many others experienced before: Father was there, Mother was there, the table was set for all the siblings, but only Chezan sat upon it, in the family hall, the distance between he and them filled by the chestnut wood table impossibly elongated, yet at moments, it was as if he had a close-up on their faces. The soup before him was thick and steaming—a single broken animal horn floating in it. His father seemed small, far down the the stretched wood tabletop. His father eating ravenously, but not using his hands—the cutlery floated, dived and stabbed at the meat, then bringing piece after piece up to the man's mouth, controlled by magiks. His father stared directly at Chezan, burning eyes repeatedly blocked then unblocked by darting silverware.
His mother, at one moment beside his father, then in an instant, at Chezan's side, stirring the animal horn in his soup, then back to beside his father—this flashed repeatedly as well, in time, every few seconds, the signature at steady intervals. Chezan looked to his left, and the sword was there, leaning against the edge of the table, just out of his reach. It throbbed, and Chezan could sense its hunger.
Chezan's father started speaking, the words he could never completely understand, but that resonated in him, like a thumping, no, a pumping that caused his own blood to heat. Chezan stood. His mother, now back near his father in this instance of a flash movement, smiled. She had no teeth—a long, drawn out whistle escaped from this black hole mouth, and Chezan shivered, his body now full of sweat. He reached for the scabbard and sword, but it was just beyond his grasp. He reached again, missing...and again he reached for it....
It was either the thump of falling, or the shock of feeling the floor with his face, that awoke him. A second passed before he came to his senses, lying there on the floor of a room in the upper floors of the Blade and Stars. He raised his head, and the first thing that came into focus was the bottom point of the scabbard to the Thirst of Thorns, leaned up against a table near his bed...but just out of reach from it.
Chezan pulled himself up to sit squatting on his knees an the turned-in balls of his feet, feeling the small breeze entering his room now clearly, upon the sweat coated skin of his naked back. He shivered, slightly. It was dawn—he remained idle, kneeling upon the floor, until the sun fully rose and shed warm rays of light through the distorting heavy-glass window.
---
A few days were required for the young Thornblood to overcome the soreness of the first acts of melee he undertook against a wave of undead at the Gate's graveyard. These days were spent within the confines of the Blade & Stars, both his room, and at times the main hall, near the fireplace. There was a particular dialect in the common tongue speech that he attempted to study, motivated by the idea to mimic it if need be, so that he may learn to pass himself off as a man of this region, should that present itself as necessary. From an inner place even Chezan could not identify, came a desire, a need, to control the knowledge of his background, and more-so, his future. Many times in the past, he had listened to the council of mages that visited his father, and many times heard them say, in a number of different words, that knowledge brokered is true power.
But what Chezan also understood as power, was coin. Gold, holdings, wealth. What a man or woman could do, or become, with great wealth...even if they lacked skill or ability. And those few days of rest at the Inn had taken the coin he had acquired alongside the company of adventures. Light on skills and even lighter now on coin, Chezan was eager to maintain his comfort, and embarked into the Gate, to solve the unfolding dilemma.
The hustle and bustle of the Gate seemed similar to Chezan in many ways to every city of similar size, and Chezan had traveled at times with his family to one court or another, throughout Amn Being a maritime city, it reminded him of Athkatla, but of course, smaller. Quaint. And a bit run down. It had seemed to Chezan that the city was wounded, perhaps a great battle had been fought behind this walls rather recently—he made a mental note to himself to find out the truth of this.
It did not take Chezan much time in wandering before he reached the docks, finding a few people who appeared more in need that Chezan, but willing to exchange some labor for coin. The prospect of being a delivery boy or a fetcher, pulled on nerves, but the heat was kept cool, under the flesh, by will. Chezan came to a conclusion in the moment that work of this sort—being dismissed as a another low face among thousands—would allow him to observe the unknown, anonymously. A favorable position, he thought...or at least, a trick his own mind played upon himself, to make the labor less an embarrassment.
Back in the east district, as he would learn it called, he neared the entrance to the place called the Elfsong Tavern, in his search for sailors. As he turned to pass around a public sign board, he somewhat rudely bumps into a man standing there, as he passes with a package and a map in his hand. The package falls to the ground, and Chezan makes a annoyed sound. "Oh my, pardon," says the man who was standing idle in from of the boards, and that was bumped. "Pathetic." says Chezan, verbally annoyed while looking at the package upon the ground. He then kneels to pick it up, eyeing the man in tidy apparel, and a well groomed overall appearance. Chezan sensed that the man was searching for something....
"Well you are outspoken for a delivery man I must say." says the bumped man. "Pardon accepted. I should not be lowering myself to such things, as it is." "Ah, the difficulties of life do leave us in placed we'd rather not be. I do understand." "And...a deliver man I am <i>not.</i> But for this one moment, when I serve need, and no one else." "I do wonder. Have your deliveries taken you past any inns that appears...clean?" Says the bumped man, considering Chezan. "I have seen the inside of a number of....low establishments. Though they may serve their purpose, I would question their beds. However..." "I would like to find a decent establishment to change out of these dreadful traveling clothes. I had hoped the sign here would be of use but...." shrugs the man in a what can you do manner. "It would seem that my needs do take me in the direction of what I have been told is the finest inn in this City." "Oh? For a drink after your labors would you perhaps care to show me the way?"
Chezan looks the man over, for a few seconds, in silence. "It may be worth it, in the end. Only doing it, will tell." "I took rooms at the Elfsong here. The smell was tolerablem yet it still does not meet my tastes. I had prefered to find something more suited now that I am no so driven by weariness to settle." "One can only know by the doing of a thing. Shall we be off then? We are heading...." Chezan looks at his map, "to the Palace District, in the north." "Very good then. Best be on with it."
The two men, both seemingly darker in skin tone, more southern region figures, travel as a pair to the Palace District, once or twice stopping to consult the simple map Chezan carries, eventually arriving at the Helm and Cloak Inn.
"Well this does look reasonably promising no? I think yes." "Seems the place. At least it is well guarded." says Chezan, eyeing the large doorman.
After entering—"I am going to take a room and change into something decent. I shall return in a moment after you see to your delivery for the drink I promised."
The bumped man, not changed, returns with a bottle of wine and two glasses, placing them on the table in a booth occupied by Chezan.
The man in new clothes pours out wine, takes a glass and holds it up. "To clean inns." "To clean inns, then." "Szczepan Thornblood." Chezan says, flatly. "That is your name I take it?" "Correct. But I would prefer you address me as Chezan. I simply cannot hear my given name poorly pronounced." "Chezan it shall be then. I am Aurelio yn Palladio el Ashan yi Calimport. If you remember Aurelio I shall be most flattered, no need to worry." "Aurelio it is, then. A man with such a grand name, must aspire to keep it." Chezan seems to grin, but it is somewhat off. "Well, I do think it is best we observe the formalities no? I think yes." "Two foreigners in a new city, it would appear...."
The two foreigners that found each other, talk for some time into the night.
Second Ten-day, The Fading, 1352: The Wyrm Against the Blade
Chezan Thornblood revisited the rumor heard the evening previous, by fixating upon the mental image remembered—the two swordsman at the bar of Blade and Stars, their mugs raised high and saluting each other on their great deeds in adventuring inside the named Hilltop Ruins...as well, their great riches acquired. Fully occupied within their own party of two and self-congratulations, these two adventures failed to notice Chezan overhearing their every word: the location of the ruins, the direction and distance from the Gate, what was discovered...but most importantly for Chezan, what was left undiscovered. It was in this moment that Chezan finally put a thing and a thing together—this Hilltop Ruins must be the place the bone grinder from the Farmlands merchant corral had been speaking of. Finally, it would seem, patience had paid off—thought Chezan had at many times consider the practitioner mad, and the labor he contracted, pure foolishness—and by not-doing, Chezan had found a path to fulfill the contract, and make good on his word given.
Chezan's appraisal of the two adventures gave him a momentary confidence—he had been training for days now, and after the success of regaining the goods for the Merchant League by conquering a bandit group single handedly, the talk of weakling kobolds with poor aim spoken loudly and brashly by the two, fed his growing desire to see for himself, what riches remained in this ruin.
Crossing the Chionthar river for the second time—first by foot, and the first crossing was when he was delivered by carriage to the Gate—he took a pause upon the bridge. There, Chezan stopped to admire the construction of such a span, and dared to look over the short wall far down toward the coursing water there. Construction and engineering were not his forte by any means, yet, intellectually he could grasp the simple principles of stonework...or at least that is what Chezan thought...and easy enough it was, to believe something when not asked to apply it in practice. Still, the long crossing was made far more enjoyable to Chezan, as he considered just what it would take to tear down such a bridge as this. "Probably would take a dragon," he thought to himself, as he neared the southern side.
With surprise, but actually, a combination of surprise and dismay, Chezan observed a well-worn path leading of the Coast Way road westward, toward where his rumored directions were also leading him for the first time. As he trudged up the hill path, he considered his fortunes already gone, yet...he remained resolved to visit. In this moment, Chezan considered the action to visit the ruins another teaching moment—he would contrast the value of rumor, in particular of these ruins, and as well, come to test his own sword-arm against these kobold creatures. Over the last days, Chezan had begun a daily regimen of sword play, hours of concentration behind the blade, the Thirst of Thorns, gaining insight into its weight, its balance, its...hunger.
The unfolding darkness, lit by innate vision
The blade catches the flicker of flame set in sconce
Large eyes, beady in the low light, flash equal
Steel sparks ring in atrophic halls
The Thirst is transferred, and the wielder, infused.
Rats, traps, cauldrons and taunts
The halls grow quiet, eventually
A pattern in pathways, emerges
And then ends, in darker steps going down.
There is a rumble, and beings of blades
Bolstered by tricks of the tips of bat-like wings
Blood splatters onto coin, scattered here and there
Collected. Earned. Until there is more to gain...
A hiss. A slivering. Burning eyes armored by vile green plates
Pure power crashing through floor, yet steel greaves stand firm
Keen by magic, flesh from under plates is opened
Claws rip the iron basket holding high the mind
Death appears over the shoulder, laughing
The blood-fire burns hot, and the blade pierces upward
The shriek of the dying wyrm is never forgotten.
As the young Thornblood retraced his steps in reverse, the looming arches of the Wyrm's Crossing—and a smile did cross Chezan's lips when he dwelled on the name in contrast to his recent actions and adventure—his lightened load by one letter was not actually noticed, as the weight of gold coin from the wyrmling's hoard, hindered his march back to the Gate.
Back in the Blade and Stars, Chezan made no celebratory salutes, nor spoke far-to-loudly in the main hall, glorifying himself in acts of battle. No, he drank alone. He did not mind, in the moment. For in this moment, he simply started at a parchment found left in the Inn, upon the bar top.
Third Tenday, The Fading, 1352: When I fight a man for real, I don't want him to know what I can do.
There was little doubt that the young Thornblood rode high upon emotional horse, having bested a beast any commoner would cover in fear from, possibly even the tale spoken, would conjure such images of terror alone. But Chezan was educated, with many books and many scribes giving into his childhood fantasies of great deeds by great warriors, allowing him to read what most likely was fictional accounts of knights both of the light and shadow—tales written on decaying, old scrolls put alongside the more practical tomes, those that granted Chezan skills in language, in courtly speech, alchemy and basic tactics of the warfare.
Yet the book only describes the sword; it does not educate what is learned when the blade is in hand.
It was well within Chezan's exceptional, natural skill at reasoning that he understood fully that his successes holding the blade were not because of his own hand and knowledge directed the outcome—it was The Blade, itself, that granted him skill. The success alone, in his last venture to the Hilltop Ruins, kept the embarrassment of ego quiet. As well, it kept Chezan from any boastful action, as it was, when he had returned to the Blade & Stars, to find rest. And it was the scroll that offered greater training in the art of swordsmanship that he found upon his return, that possibly promised a reversal of the current situation. Chezan would seek out the specific training offered by the Bladestone Foundation, that which was named upon the scroll found, if it was attainable. A number of missives were exchanged between the young Thornblood and the Foundation, leading up to a general call to combat practice....
Arriving with punctuality, the farmlands north of the Gate impressed a serene rurality, to the eyes of Chezan Thornblood. Pasture gates, short grass, rolling hills. Then, like spark from a flint, heavy footsteps, armored shoulders and jingling scabbards descended upon the open field that had been marked as training ground. Chezan maintained his common and somewhat distant demeanor, in this moment of being unknown in a new situation. It was not an unscripted reaction—the young Thornblood balanced the mystery in first encounters, taking initiative to employ what social skills to gain knowledge of all that he would meet, in first instance. It was as applicable practice—not always met with success.
The first to arrive arrived as individuals, but as standing together, formed a motley crew: orc-blooded, plane touched, human shield maidens and swordsmen. The aura of skill radiated strongly among many in these early attendees, and that energy washed over Chezan—the young Thornblood saw much to gain, should training come his way. The plane touched, the man of living stone, who arrived with confidence and shortly after, began to armor himself on the edge of the training grounds, spoke:
"I've two new students it seems...Who might ye two be?" The eyes of the genasi moved between Chezan and the towering orc-blooded male standing at the edge of those now present. "I have been seeking the Bladestone. I am Chezan of House Thornblood...I have left word..."
"I've heard you're looking for able warriors." Spoke the orc-blooded, almost at the same moment as the young Thornblood. "That's ye? Well I am glad ye have found us. We're about to begin training." "Welcome" The genasi speaks as he strides forward to offer Chezan Thornblood his hand. "Ashan Wayne, well met." Chezan grasps the man by and with a forearm, locking them together for a second, as he nods to Ashan, in greeting. "How experienced a warrior might ye say ye are sir?" "If life is long, then my training in swordsmanship has only begun. I yearn to learn much, and put it into great use."
The armored teacher representing the Bladestone Foundation, this Ashan Wayan, gathers this information, as well, that of the early arrived orc-blooded. In the quick dialogue, in the backdrop of the pasture of the farmlands, a large group forms, growing in number such that it resembles an audience, as it may be understood once a station for healing and a bardic group arrive.
"Thank ye for coming to the Bladestone Foundation training everyone!" The genasi warrior takes a prominent position ahead of the assembled, in the marked pasture. In now time, he has selected the orc-blooded to melee against one of the shield maidens who presented themselves as a member of the Foundation. She is called miss Ronja, and set to challenge the orc-blooded, who self-describes as Hunk. The melee goes to the winner, Hunk. The grown audience accepts the result, though it seems to surprise.
"Mister Thornblood. Can I have ye in the ring." The Foundation leader begins to setup another melee.
Chezan's eyes turn toward Ashan, but his helmet does not move. "I do not think so, Wayne." "Nay? Just here to watch? I'd like to see what ye can do if ye are willing. But I will not push."
Chezan moves toward the fence of the pasture marked for training...and raises his hand for Ashan to come close to him...if he will. "I sought out a means and mentor for sword training...not to put on a performance for...others." says the young Thornblood, in a lowered voice, nearly a whisper, to Ashan Wayne, then ending by looking upon the nearby and gathered spectators. "I remain interested in your foundation...but I have my own...terms. Call them...preferences."
The armored genasi nods, then responds in an equally moderated voice "Well, we shall have to work outside the group training then. Still, stay, watch and learn what ye can."
The young Thornblood returns a simple nod of recognition, then steps once away, back from the fence.
A large group is assembled inside the marked pasture, and the training offered by the Foundation turns to an exercise of already gained martial abilities, set to test against others of potentially equal skill—likening to a contest, which seems to satisfy the audience now grown to thirty in number, surrounding the set-out training camp.
Another finely armored man looks down the fence to Chezan, as well, another nearby arrived to participate.
"Either of you two thinking of fighting?" says the warrior, now leaning upon the fence, casually.
Chezan speaks down the line to the man, after being questioned "I've come to learn, not to perform for the enjoyment of others." "Isn't so much for enjoyment. Its for the education." "Tis not a view on the proceedings, that I share with you, then." "Aye, I guess not...But are ye wanting training in a less public arena then?" he replies, as he looks down the fence once more at Chezan. "There is proper time and place, to display one's abilities"
The armored questioner is hailed by Ashan to begin to compete against others—it may be that they will speak again in the future.
A number of hours pass, within the pasture and the setting, where the young Thornblood observes the might of many far beyond his league. But that, thinks Chezan for now, shall remain unknown, to them all.
