I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the dc fandom wiki has no clue what broadswords and longswords are and can't be bothered to check

A Clash of Crowns

The ancient crown of the Kings of Winter had been lost three centuries ago, yielded up to Aegon the Conqueror when Torrhen Stark knelt in submission. What Aegon had done with it no man could say. Lord Hoster’s smith had done his work well, and Robb’s crown looked much as the other was said to have looked in the tales told of the Stark kings of old; an open circlet of hammered bronze incised with the runes of the First Men, surmounted by nine black iron spikes wrought in the shape of longswords. Of gold and silver and gemstones, it had none; bronze and iron were the metals of winter, dark and strong to fight against the cold.

Catelyn I, A CLASH OF KINGS

Small wonder the lords gather around him with such fervor, she thought, he is Robert come again. Renly was handsome as Robert had been handsome; long of limb and broad of shoulder, with the same coal-black hair, fine and straight, the same deep blue eyes, the same easy smile. The slender circlet around his brows seemed to suit him well. It was soft gold, a ring of roses exquisitely wrought; at the front lifted a stag’s head of dark green jade, adorned with golden eyes and golden antlers.

Catelyn II, A CLASH OF KINGS

As he neared, she saw that Stannis wore a crown of red gold with points fashioned in the shape of flames. His belt was studded with garnets and yellow topaz, and a great square-cut ruby was set in the hilt of the sword he wore. Otherwise his dress was plain: studded leather jerkin over quilted doublet, worn boots, breeches of brown roughspun. The device on his sun-yellow banner showed a red heart surrounded by a blaze of orange fire. The crowned stag was there, yes . . . shrunken and enclosed within the heart.

Catelyn III, A CLASH OF KINGS

Trader captains brought lace from Myr, chests of saffron from Yi Ti, amber and dragonglass out of Asshai. Merchants offered bags of coin, silversmiths rings and chains. Pipers piped for her, tumblers tumbled, and jugglers juggled, while dyers draped her in colors she had never known existed. A pair of Jogos Nhai presented her with one of their striped zorses, black and white and fierce. A widow brought the dried corpse of her husband, covered with a crust of silvered leaves; such remnants were believed to have great power, especially if the deceased had been a sorcerer, as this one had. And the Tourmaline Brotherhood pressed on her a crown wrought in the shape of a three-headed dragon; the coils were yellow gold, the wings silver, the heads carved from jade, ivory, and onyx.

Daenerys III, A CLASH OF KINGS

[H]e donned his crown, a band of cold iron slim as a finger, set with heavy chunks of black diamond and nuggets of gold. It was misshapen and ugly, but there was no help for that. Mikken lay buried in the lichyard, and the new smith was capable of little more than nails and horseshoes. Theon consoled himself with the reminder that it was only a prince’s crown. He would have something much finer when he was crowned king.

Theon V, A CLASH OF KINGS

The denizens of Joffrey’s court had striven to outdo each other today. Jalabhar Xho was all in feathers, a plumage so fantastic and extravagant that he seemed like to take flight. The High Septon’s crystal crown fired rainbows through the air every time he moved his head. At the council table, Queen Cersei shimmered in a cloth-of-gold gown slashed in burgundy velvet, while beside her Varys fussed and simpered in a lilac brocade. Moon Boy and Ser Dontos wore new suits of motley, clean as a spring morning. Even Lady Tanda and her daughters looked pretty in matching gowns of turquoise silk and vair, and Lord Gyles was coughing into a square of scarlet silk trimmed with golden lace. King Joffrey sat above them all, amongst the blades and barbs of the Iron Throne. He was in crimson samite, his black mantle studded with rubies, on his head his heavy golden crown.

Sansa VIII, A CLASH OF KINGS

anonymous asked: What made you decide to make hawk's feathers like knives?

this actually isn’t the first time i’ve been asked something like this, so i’ll add it to my headcanon tag - thanks for asking, i keep meaning to write about it! this could get quite long in terms of caps, explanation etc, so i’ll put it under a read more. there are a lot of comparisons between hawks’ feathers and blades as a whole. i haven’t really gone into how i think hawks’ entire character is meant to be             " someone who appears soft in every way but                 is the opposite of that " - i will probably talk about that more another time.  however, starting with the obvious: 

hawks uses his " primary feathers " as katanas. they are 100% meant to be katanas: he uses katanas as soon as he doesn't have primaries when dabi burns them, and has no problem with using the katana.

he uses his " secondary " and " covert " feathers as  daggers / throwing knives ( conveniently ). his scapulars stay attached until dabi burns his back, and they are the first thing to grow back. i’m thinking  these may as well be the ' sheaths ' for the blades and by having the sheaths removed, as expected, the weapons have nowhere to be stored.

katana MUST be flexible in order to withstand impact: if they are not flexible they are more likely to break, chip, etc. this is true for all swords, but given the very particular forging method of the katana, it’s especially true for them. 

" the heat treatment, or hamon :    The most remarkable historic detail of the Japanese sword    was the hamon.    The goal behind the heat treatment is to create martensite,    highly saturated in carbon, on the cutting edge. Martensite    is extremely hard and allows the blade to be polished until    a razor sharp cutting edge is obtained, although this hardness    makes it very brittle. The term used is selective quenching,    for the Japanese have invented a process that allows the smith    to transform the carbon in martensite only on the cutting edge    of the weapon, while keeping the remaining of the blade as it is,    in order to keep a good flexibility. "

i’ve mentioned it before, but birds of prey and specifically fast birds, such as the duck that can actually reach hawks’ top speed, produce oils to keep their feathers from getting soaked through. 

" Do Coat with Oil :     The single most important step to protecting and preserving    a katana is oiling the blade. Just like wax protects a car's clear    coat from moisture damage, so does oil on a katana. "

someone asked before about hawks’ wings getting wet and i explained that i thought it would be quite difficult - this is another reason i don’t think they would easily, if at all, get soaked through. i think he would have mentioned it if water was problematic, considering he easily mentioned fire.  side note: oil is, obviously, highly flammable :  and swords become extremely brittle - EVEN STEEL MELTS - under extreme heat.

" Longswords have a particularly long effective length.    This, arising from the slender nature of a blade and the    long blades used on such swords, makes them particularly    vulnerable to vibrations. "

as far as real feathers go, it is mostly only peacocks who legitimately vibrate their feathers - though some feathers, when hitting the air at a specific angle, can vibrate. however, hawks can receive information from feather vibrations at all times from the emission of sound - like metal.

as i thought this got pretty long, but from the start i’ve thought that hawks is full of analogies towards moral questioning, such as a nod to the would-be ' noble peacekeepers ' that were  ' sengoku samurai ' - who were in fact government dogs.  as a single excerpt from that page, referring to the onin war:  

" Rather, the war is seen by historians as merely a result    of the overly aggressive warlords of Japan being rather    too keen to put their samurai to some use - good or bad.    Even when the war ended in 1477 CE there was no victor    and no resolution to the inherent militarism that fractured    Japan for the next century as warlords fought each other    with no one in particular ever achieving any dominance. "

all this said, i don’t think it’s too strange that his wings are sharp. while i get it would be convenient for fanon, hawks, himself, isn’t even soft. he just wishes he COULD be. 

— 𝔭𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔠𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔧𝔬𝔞𝔫𝔫𝔞 𝔰𝔱𝔞𝔯𝔨

the courts offer bread and salt to JOANNA of HOUSE STARK. many say that the THREE-AND-TWENTY year old PRINCESS of WINTERFELL is known to be KINDHEARTED and COURAGEOUS though ill tongues whisper that SHE is IMPULSIVE and HEADSTRONG. when her name is uttered , one is reminded of a slip of a girl running about the keep, hair loose & wild from a day’s ride ; a light, slender blade, pale as milkglass, tucked inside a ceder wood trunk ; piles of books cluttered in the corner of her chamber, bearing tales of adventure ; the maw of a she-wolf drawn wide open, revealing sharp teeth and a sharper tongue ; and full, wine red lips curled into a wicked smile. may she be blessed and protected in this war of crowns. ( fc: medalion rahimi )

stats / musing tag / headcannons

among the smallfolk of the north, the true north, there goes a saying “  it takes a village to raise a child  ” — one that holds true for all, including princess joanna. jo was born in the great seat of the north, winterfell, raised by her father’s unwavering sense of honor & by her mother’s grace, by the laundresses that kept her idle hands busy & the cooks that snuck sweets in the pockets of her pinafores, by the grand maester of winterfell & the master at arms that taught her how to use a short (wooden) sword, and by the small army of her siblings & the thick brush of forest they spent hours playing in.

in truth, much of joanna’s adolescence was spent with her falling into some scheme or another, where in which she has tried to pinpoint just exactly how much she could get away with. leaving at dawn and riding around wintertown until twilight was a minimal offense but strolling into state dinners late with muddy skirts and tousled hair would land her with dirty looks and a stern scolding. openly sneaking out of the keep disguised as a boy wasn’t worth the trouble, so she did it in secret. the worst trouble she’d ever gotten into was when she took a dagger and cut her long, thick black tresses just below her ears (the day before her sixteenth name-day no less) simply because she could.

rebellion was simply jo’s nature. the moment something was forbidden to her it then became her heart’s desire. her father always said that her impulsiveness would get her killed. but strange as it was, jo was at peace with that. better to live life than cower from it, she thought.

random headcanons

she’s half dornish (her mother is a martell) and she spent a good chunk of her childhood visiting her cousins in sunspear and at the water gardens near the coast

fairly skilled with both a bow & longsword AND loves pretty dresses and dancing. joanna stark contains multitudes babey!

speaking of swords, jo has had her eye on one of the valeryian steel swords that house stark has ( as of right now, they have three - longclaw, and the two swords taken back from house lannister & reforged to fit the stark #aesthetic better ) and has probably been asking her father for one since her tenth nameday

literally all she wants is to stay in winterfell & be near her family, she’s really not down for the whole political marriage thing and is actively trying to put it off for as long as possible

which is why probably has abt three failed betrothals under her belt as of rn

(it’s bc she’s annoying and drives them all off)

and also bc she’s lowkey a lil bit of a romantic

nope thats wrong she’s HIGHKEY a romantic

don’t tell anyone tho

her direwolf is named black aly ( named after alyssane blackwood ) and yes aly goes just about  everywhere jo goes. much to the chagrin of literally everyone in the palace.

jo snorts when she laughs

i doubt most people close to her call her by her full name (she’s much more used to being called jo) and she’s probably a little surprised whenever she hears it and just kinda *snaps* into princess mode when she hears it

tbh jo is a little self conscious about not being like other nobel ladies ( her sister in particular - wc ) and sometimes wishes that she could just fit

is really great w kids and has fun aunt vibes!

can and will take all of her nieces and nephews on adventures to explore the north, especially without their parents knowing

probably either 1) riding her horse, lady 2) training with winterfell’s master at arms 3) hanging out w with her family 4) sneaking out of the castle to go on *adventures* 5) reading bc it’s too cold to do anything else

is very much into history & loves spending her time reading books abt it

not so much into politics? she’s a very honest (read:blunt) person and has trouble trusting people who play “the game”

she just thinks they’re inherently dishonest and who lies jo is just very >:( at that

she is like. highkey a “true northern” seperatist. like that’s her one main political belief 

character inspirations : lyanna stark (i mean, duh), juliet capulet, alyssanne “black aly” blackwood, seara targaryen, arya stark, eowyn, shieldmaiden of rohan.

⚜LFRP: E’phraim Daccaia

--Basics--

Age: 25

Birthday: 9th Sun of the 5th Astral Moon

Race: Highlander / Miqo’te (Seeker of the Sun)

Sexuality: Bisexual

Alias: Golden Hound

Marital Status: Attached to @roseatehound

Server: Mateus (Crystal)

--Physical Appearance--

Hair: Midnight black that fades into a sandy light brown near the fringes. Normally kept short, messy, and a bit wild.

Eyes: Sky blue and a striking gold.

Height: Five fulms, ten ilms.

Build: An athletic frame, a lifetime of use, from quarrying to waging war have left his muscles slender yet strong from constant industrious strain. Much more akin to a panther than a bull.

--Distinguishing Marks--

A large scar traveling from his collarbone down across his midsection and ending at the abdomen.

An intricate Gyr Abanian Griffin tattoo dominates the skin across his back, it’s white wings splayed out between his shoulder blades.

Rich aether presence, though it’s obvious to anyone even slightly aether sensitive that something is off. His aether feels...wild, and almost bestial, in nature.

--Common Items--

An assortment of weaponry including two short knives with blackened blades, a longsword hanging from his belt in a patchwork scabbard, and a long spear or short thrusting spear depending on what’s expected for the day. Fun fact, both of the spears are used as walking sticks.

A full suit of armor complete with full helm, he’s never found outside his gear unless you’re particularly close to him. The armor suit itself has a pair of Gyr Abanian Griffins emblazoned on the right shoulder guard.

A light leather pack hanging from his shoulder or tied to the shaft of his spear, the pack itself seems unremarkable, save for the single Larimar jewel hanging from it’s side.

A few items of interest inside his pack include a set of three small stone dolls. Each is sculpted not by a craftsman’s hand, the quality of each belies that, but the smooth figurines hold a special importance to their owner.

--Personal--

Profession: Resistance fighter and mercenary/vagrant.

Hobbies: Sculpting, writing (simplistic), meditation, beast riding, and cooking (surprisingly enough).

Languages: Eorzean and (very) rudimentary Doman.

Birthplace: Ala Mhigo   🔒 (Find out specifics in RP)

Religion: Faith in the Twelve

Patron Deity: Nymeia, the spinner.

Fears: Being teased about his height, being thrown back into a Garlean Gaol/Science facility, dishonoring the memory of his mother, meeting a pointless end.

--Relationships--

Partner: Yuugao Amanogawa

Children: N/A

Pet/Mount: Izem. A Gyr Abanian true griffin, a proud cloudkin that’s treated more as partner than mount.

Parents: 🔒 (A sensitive topic and one close to his heart, find out more in RP)

Siblings: N/A

Other Relatives: Possible, but unknown even to him at present.

Familiar/s: N/A, but seeking knowledge of weapons that house such.

--Traits--

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

--Additional Info--

Smoking Habit: On occasion.

Drugs: Frequently.

Alcohol: On occasion.

--RP Hooks--

Skyward Warrior: E’phraim’s village, a small settlement nestled among Abalathia’s Spine, has a long and storied history as Griffin handlers and riders. Before the reign of the mad king they provided quite the number of the kingdom’s peerless riders. It’s a tradition E’phraim was raised with, and a symbiotic combat style that he continues to carry with him and honor.

Blood stained resistance: If your character was related to or even part of the resistance they may know his name, and perhaps even his methods. Whispers of attacks and raids on Imperial targets carried out with brutal and unforgiving efficacy still follow him to this day.

Animalistic aether: Born blessed with the echo, albeit a much weaker blessing than most other echo users. After his stint in Imperial captivity however this blessing has become much more ‘unstable’, with fragments of his own memory missing he’s not sure exactly what was done to him but it’s changed him, his body, and his aether permanently.

Enemy of my enemy: There was plenty of time spent on the other side of Baelsar’s wall and E’phraim made every opportunity to make connections with anyone in the Empire’s bad graces.

Warrior in a garden: A complicated upbringing meant that there was very little in the way of education, especially reading and writing. Though he has a rudimentary understanding of written language he could still use help adjusting to more peaceful activities.

--Contact Info--

Discord: Hit me up for that info in the Tumblr DMs.

In Game: You’ll probably see me wandering around Mateus, always up for in game tells! Same name as above, native to the Mateus server.

Tumblr: Message me at any time, anywhere, anyroads, any--yea you get the picture.

OOC: I want to preface this by saying one thing. I HAVE NO PROBLEM WITH PEOPLE WHO RP GARLEAN CHARACTERS. That’s not to say that the relationship between E’phraim and said character won’t be antagonistic if he knows, in fact it likely will be antagonistic but I love that dynamic for character development considering how set in his ways he is at this point, I’d love for that to be shaken up!

Other than that big preface I will say that I’m pretty laid back and always down for spinning some story threads. I’m also down to RP plot points in any point of E’phraim’s life, it doesn’t have to be current, they could be childhood friends even. So please feel free to send me any ask or poke me with any tells at any time, my schedule is also pretty nebulous so I can’t promise a good time structure but I can promise that I always check my Tumblr (even if I don’t really reblog or post that much...I promise I’m here).

Well anyhow, hope this wasn’t overtly long, but thanks for reading peeps!

Meera is going to wield Dark Sister *at least once,* and become the vehicle to move it to Arya.

Six years ago in King's Landing, Dunk had seen him with his own two eyes, as he rode a pale horse up the Street of Steel with fifty Raven's Teeth behind him. That was before King Aerys had ascended to the Iron Throne and made him the Hand, but even so he cut a striking figure, garbed in smoke and scarlet with Dark Sister on his hip. His pallid skin and bone-white hair made him look a living corpse. The Sworn Sword

Last night, @buskerlenny​ had an opportunity to ask GRRM a question at Worldcon, and boy, did she deliver for us: George confirmed that Bloodraven took the Valyrian longsword Dark Sister with him to the wall.  

There was no ‘keep reading’, no ‘you never know’, but a simple yes.  Those three letters opened up a whirlwind of ideas and questions.  Is it now in the cave?  Who will wield it? Why did he take it North?   

Dark Sister possibly showing up in the Winds of Winter means more than the eye thinks - it supports the idea that Valyrian steel is coming even more to the forefront as Winter Comes in TWOW (see: Euron’s Armor).

So yes, it makes logical sense that one of the very few things that can defeat Others - Dragon Steel - happens to be in a cave North of the wall, where one of our heroes is currently wearing tree bondage and pretty much surrounded by snow zombies.

But I’m not here to worry about Brandon Stark.  Bran’s Last Hero journey is, for the moment, surrounded by three protectors - and as Bran more than likely loses two of those protectors in TWOW (Hodor, Jojen), we can expect to see Dark Sister wielded by the end of the book.

I might also add that Visenya is the most likely of the two to garb herself as a warrior, and when so garbed, she would wield the Valyrian longsword Dark Sister, whose slender blade is designed for a woman's hand. GRRM

The many speculations about who’s hands Dark Sister will be equipped in generally circle in on one person, which is Arya Stark.  And of course, Arya is a perfect candidate for Dark Sister.  Visenya Targaryen, the warrior sister-wife-Queen of Aegon I Targaryen (not to be confused with her poetry, art-loving sister-wife-Queen, Rhaenys), serves as a great indicator for Arya’s ownership of  (yes, we get it, it’s a Jon/Sansa/Arya parallel).  It’s definitely an upgrade from Needle, Arya’s “childhood” sword, and a real-deal-Valyrian-sword; the perfect transition for Arya into “womanhood”.

This is all fine and dandy, but Dark Sister is currently sitting in a cave that will be overcome with ice creatures at some point, and for Arya to own Dark Sister, it’s going to have to come South.  And who else could possibly be the perfect vehicle for that sword than the exhausted, ferociously loyal young girl helping to drag the Last Hero around, watching her brother slowly die North of the wall?

"He wants to go home," Meera told Bran. "He will not even try and fight his fate. He says the greendreams do not lie."

"He's being brave," said Bran. The only time a man can be brave is when he is afraid, his father had told him once, long ago, on the day they found the direwolf pups in the summer snows. He still remembered.

"He's being stupid," Meera said. "I'd hoped that when we found your three-eyed crow … now I wonder why we ever came.”

For me, Bran thought. "His greendreams," he said. "His greendreams." Meera's voice was bitter.  "Hodor," said Hodor. Meera began to cry.

Bran hated being crippled then. "Don't cry," he said. [...] The floor was rough and uneven, and it would be slow going, full of scrapes and bumps. I could put on Hodor' s skin, he thought. Hodor could hold her and pat her on the back. The thought made Bran feel strange, but he was still thinking it when Meera bolted from the fire, back out into the darkness of the tunnels. He heard her steps recede until there was nothing but the voices of the singers.  Bran III, ADWD

With Meera’s emotional state - and brother’s life - on the decline, we should see her fulfilling the Dark Sister role for a while indeed.   Not only emotionally, but physically, too.  Meera Reed is already known for her skill with a slender, long frog spear.

Meera moved in a wary circle, her net dangling loose in her left hand, the slender three-pronged frog spear poised in her right. Summer followed her with his golden eyes, turning, his tail held stiff and tall. Watching, watching . . ."Yai!" the girl shouted, the spear darting out. Bran IV, ACOK

But with Mikken slain and the ironmen guarding the armory, good steel had been hard to resist, even if it meant grave-robbing. Meera had claimed Lord Rickard's blade, though she complained that it was too heavy. Bran VII, ACOK 

Meera notably finds carrying the heavy sword that had been Lord Rickard Stark’s, made for a grown adult male, difficult, but Dark Sister may be the perfect answer for her to fend off Wights as they travel South.  And Meera more than has the ferocity to wield it.

 "I dreamed of the man who came today, the one they call Reek. You and your brother lay dead at his feet, and he was skinning off your faces with a long red blade."Meera rose to her feet. "If I went to the dungeon, I could drive a spear right through his heart. How could he murder Bran if he was dead?"  Bran V, ACOK

Bran backed away, bleeding, and Meera Reed was there, driving her frog spear deep into the wight's back. "Hodor," Bran roared again, waving her uphill. "Hodor, hodor." Jojen was twisting feebly where she'd laid him down. Bran went to him, dropped the longsword, gathered the boy into Hodor's arm, and lurched back to his feet. "HODOR!" he bellowed. Meera led the way back up the hill, jabbing at the wights when they came near. Bran II, ADWD

Transporting the Last Hero home is a hard job - and while some believe Bran, an incredibly important POV in ASOIAF, will be stuck in a cave forever sitting in this said cave having visions, eating blood sacrifices, maybe skinchanging a dragon once and that’s the end of his story, I know this sounds ridiculous to me too, please let’s get real, he’s going to leave the cave if his arc is going to continue  , I tend to err that this is one thing that show may have gotten right.  The ingredients are there - a cave surrounded by nothing but snow zombies and mythical, fantastical and dying out creatures in the middle of nowhere. It doesn’t exactly scream forever a safe haven.  That cave exists because it is going to get fucked the hell up, my friends.  Especially when you consider Bran’s role as a hero... if his companions die, his dog dies, and their other swords break in the cold.

So, what a perfect moment that will be.  Ice zombies trickling up and down the halls, Meera’s frogspear breaks, Hodor sacrifices himself, maybe Summer even falls to Winter... and just when all is about to be lost, out emerges Dark Sister, and Meera’s hands grip the pommel of that skinny, gleaming blade, slashing it down Wights, and protecting Brandon Stark. 

Jojen was so solemn that Old Nan called him "little grandfather," but Meera reminded Bran of his sister Arya. She wasn't scared to get dirty, and she could run and fight and throw as good as a boy. She was older than Arya, though; almost sixteen, a woman grown. They were both older than Bran, even though his ninth name day had finally come and gone, but they never treated him like a child.  Bran IV, ACOK

Bran sees Arya in Meera on more than one occasion, and for good reason.  Both are empathetic, and skilled with their choice of weapon.  The likened traits he sees in the girls are a product of a little boy’s yearning to be reunited with his family, but also deliberate.  Arya and Meera definitely have a lot in common.  This makes the passage of Dark Sister from Meera’s hand to Arya’s smooth.  

While Meera is strong and skilled, Dark Sister won’t be forever hers. Why? She just won’t want it. In fact, it won’t surprise me if she won’t want this lifestyle in any capacity any longer. She’ll return Bran South of the Wall, and eventually return home (possibly with her brother’s bones), tired, defeated, and ready to mourn.  And her family probably won’t hold it against her - protecting Stark children is a hard job, and sometimes it’s near impossible; just ask Howland Reed.

BONUS, SHINY TINFOIL (that will never happen, and I’ve made my peace with this):

While Meera may not hang on to Dark Sister for more than a moon’s turn, wouldn’t it be neat if her basically-canonical-parentage-according-to-me, Ashara Dayne and Howland Reed, granted her more than Dark Sister, and wielding the Valyrian sword only lended her to embrace her proto-Valyrian bloodline, and she emerged the god damn Sword of the Morning, brandishing Dawn through delicately spun White Walker bones? OKAY, COOL, GLAD WE’RE ALL ON THE SAME PAGE, MEERA REED IS NOW THE SWORD OF THE MORNING.

For a sword: Female, 5'5", grey eyes, short brown hair, thin and not terribly strong (working on that). Engineering-type, better in administrative positions than managerial, some previous experience with a rapier. Thank you!

First of all, grey eyes? That’s f--king rad. I wanna give you some sort of midnight blue elven cloak and photograph you with the stars reflecting in your eyes in a clear sky on a mountainside forest. That’s so f--king cool!

Anyways, onto the sword. You’re short-ISH but also really thin which (speaking from experience here) can be a mixed blessing. Rather than focusing on strength, let’s look at speed and agility! So without going into too much detail, a thrusting oriented weapon channels the strength of the user into a tiny point which makes it great for us skinny f--ks. Likewise you also present a smaller target. 

SO here’s what I’m gonna recommend: 1. A rapier. Not as light as people think (but point of balance and other factors are important) but blinding fast compared to longswords. You can move around quite a bit especially if you study some of the better Rapier masters (Capoferro being my favorite, he’s the rapier equivalent of Liechtenauer’s “strike hard, strike fast, strike first” mentality that uses fast offense to keep an opponent on their toes)

RAPIERS: Well Arms and Armor is really the only maker I trust here, I’m an A&A whore, I know. But they’re making a fully custom rapier for me and they’re the best at what they do. The German Rapier, I absolutely love. It’s got a smaller blade and a gorgeous acanthus leaf motif, perfect for a well-dressed lady. (Full disclosure, my rapier WAS going to be a left handed version with a larger blade but I’m making it a bit more complex and extravagant). Really, all of their rapiers are super gorgeous. You CAN get a Windlass if you absolutely can’t afford an A&A (yes, rapiers are usually expensive because there’s a lot of work in the hilt) and they will probably work fine, but please read reviews beforehand

Option 2: A smallsword. Basically a smaller rapier, they were in use from the 18-early 20th centuries. More of a “civilized” dueling weapon, they got more and more ornate as time went on. I have a gorgeous Saxon smallsword I love. Don’t want a rapier for the size? Walk around with knee high leather riding boots, some white pants, a tailored coat, and a smallsword. BOOM, you’ll look baller. 

Here’s the bad part: No one really makes smallswords anymore. A&A does, but it’s rather plain and unadorned. BUUUUUT smallswords are widely available at military antique places. That German one of mine? (If you want to see a photo, either search or reblog this so I can attach an image) Yeah, $230. Solid floral brass hilt, mother of pearl inlays, smallswords are GORGEOUS. Online places include Czernys, Stewarts Military Antiques (150 miles or so from Flagstaff but still in the Phoenix area so they know me well lol) or really anywhere else. THe British, Russian, French, German, and Italian Kingdoms are the most prolific, but it’s just a matter of taste. Probably not gonna find the scabbard but since they were usually made of metal don’t worry, they actually did more harm lol. Expect an etched blade, a sword that’s light as a feather, but still something of making a precise thrust.

There you go, slender and small but wickedly lethal swords for a small and slender lady. PS grey eyes still sounds so cool, wish there was some sort of elven looking sword I could recommend but I hate leaf blades because the mass further out makes them too bendy for my tastes. 

The Society

A short story written by Max Galván

Warning: the following short story includes mentions of blood, violence and death. You have been warned

It's been around two weeks since Hanko won the duel for his family's inn, he didn't make a big deal about it but he felt good about himself when people acknowledged and praised him as a local hero, truth to be told you don't get to win a duel to the death against a man who came to the top of the city's aristocracy by usurping other's property by judicial duels alone every day, especially when you killed him by stabbing his throat in such a graceful manner as Hanko did. For his first fight with swords he did pretty well.

It was time to close, Hanko made sure Father and the other guests were in their rooms, cleaned the tables, sorted the food for tomorrow's breakfast, and lastly swept the floor and gathered the trash to throw it out; before he opened the door, Hanko picked his longsword for good measure, you never know if a friend or relative of the aristocrat would hire an assassin for his head, better safe than sorry. Hanko opened the door put the trash and the swept dust on its place and right before he headed back to the inn, he saw the mysterious figure of a man wearing a cape and a big, feathered hat. He would normally ignore this and close the door but then the man spoke to him.

-"You are the young fencer known as Hanko, am I right?" His accent made it obvious he wasn't from around here, probably he's from the southern provinces.

-"Um, yes... But I'm not much of a fencer, I just had a duel and that's all. Who wants to know?"

-"Let me introduce myself, my name is Diego Galvez de la Espina. And let's just say that your most recent deed has become of interest of the Society..."  The mysterious man approached slowly into Hanko, as he approached the light of the door's lantern made his appearance look clearer; he took his hat off to reveal the lightly wrinkled face of a middle-aged man, with short curly hair and a set of waxed moustache and goatee.

-"Society of what? Of the pompous dagger-eating bastards?"

-"Hah... The Society of the One True Science, actually."

-"One True Science...?"

Diego: Yes... What if I told you magic was real but not the way you heard on fairy tales? You cannot expel fireballs from your hands, nor make things appear and disappear out of thin air... all those tricks are illusions and those who make them are nothing but performers and scammers... The One True Science studies and teaches magic in its most real nature. Your dagger is your wand, the weapon you wield is your staff, the moves caused by your muscles and bones are the source of the magic's power and the death you cause on your enemies... that is your spell.

Hanko kept silent, he could barely digest what Diego said, he didn't even know how to reply so he let Diego continue.

-"But there is one trick, though... The spells work only when your enemy wants to die..."

-"That's nonsense! No one wants to die!"

Diego chuckled to Hanko's reply.

-"That is what everyone says, young fencer... But in practice, in the fight, the desire of death grows stronger as the unfortunate commit mistake after mistake..."

-"Whatever tell me what you want from me, so I can tell you "no" and then we can keep on our lives and never see each other again."

-"The Society wants to recruit you, Hanko Hettinger... Yet, a test is needed to see if you really are worthy..." Within a moment’s notice, Diego drew his sword. It was kind of different to other swords Hanko has seen, the hilt seemed to have a pattern of curved bars of metal and the blade was long as a longsword's, if not longer but it was slender and compact enough it could be held with just one hand. It seemed to be a rapier, he only heard of them being carried by southern nobles but never saw one in person. Still, this sight didn't make him hesitate to close the inn's door and draw his sword.

-"Oh, I know where this is going... If you have said it before I could have already made you cry for mama now!" Hanko was prepared for a fight, but he spotted something else; Diego stood in upright with his heels almost touching, his body was in profile while he held his rapier with his right arm straight in line with his shoulders while his left hand was close to his face looking with the chin up; it contrasted Hanko's deep and wide stance by far. Before the fight could have begun though, Diego turned his back and drew his rapier back into his scabbard and put his hat back on his head.

-"... It's no use, I have made my calculations... And in all cases, but one, I have given you a horrible death."

This obviously upset and confused Hanko to say the least.

-"And what about the exception?"

-"Oh, I just leave you full of wounds and incapable of holding a sword and standing for life... Anyway, I don't want to be charged of murder or crippling another man so, farewell! Diego tipped his hat to Hanko before walking away into the darkness of the street.

-"I'm fed up with your bullshit!” Hanko charged in frustration, ready to make a wrathful cut.

To be rejected for a fight was one thing but that commentary was the last draw on his patience, but before he could strike, Diego turned his feet and suddenly pulled his rapier in a moment's notice, pointing at Hanko's throat, one inch closer and the fight was done for. Hanko threw a powerful cut while stepping away to put the dagger aside and do his next blow, and so he did by throwing a horizontal cut aiming at his head, but Diego took advantage from the energy of the previous cut and simply ducked under the next one and the next thing Hanko saw was Diego throwing his hat at his face. The distraction gave Diego enough time to untie his cape and set his feet in position.

-"... You remind me of myself when I had your age... without hesitation, straight-forward, yet reckless and full of openings. But that can improve, don't worry." Diego adopted the same stance he took at the beginning. The real fight has begun.

Hanko charged again with no difference on intent, but no matter how many cuts and thrusts he did and no matter how fast they were, Diego could dodge and parry them with ease, almost as he could see them coming slowly and every time he had the chance he gave Hanko superficial cuts with either his rapier. Hanko was not sure if Diego's cuts were limited on purpose or his weapon lacked the mass to deal deeper wounds, but he was dead sure every cut built up his frustration more and more. I was just ridiculous, whenever he thought he could bind his sword with Diego's to gain advantage, the other just redirected his blade effortlessly to do a cut, and when he thought. Also, there was footwork, when Hanko gave a step forward, Diego just stepped aside in a circular manner gaining his back and making Hanko turn to defend himself. As the fight wore on, Hanko received more cat-scratching cuts and thrusts on his arms and legs. That was until it came to Hanko's mind to do the same technique he used to win the duel, if it worked on a pompous and more skilled aristocrat, so too will work with this one. Hanko put himself in a high guard, feinted for a middle cut, released his right hand to do a whipping motion with his left one  which was holding the pommel, Diego bought the feint and aimed for his head, Hanko then caught his sword's hilt with right hand behind his head and went for a downwards cut to put his rapier on the floor, he locked the rapier with the crossguard and threw a thrust into his pretentious face; but what Hanko didn't expect was that Diego turned his head just slightly so that the blade would just do a glancing draw cut through his cheek. Hanko couldn't believe it, his strategy worked, but not fully, at least he dealt damage on his opponent's ego. Diego stepped back to check himself and recompose but before he could, Hanko charged again with another downwards cut, this was it, if Hanko would overpower Diego once again, he would now have another win in his record. Alas, in a moment's notice, just when the two swords were about to bind, Diego pulled a dagger from his back and received Hanko's cut along with his rapier. For some reason this block was stronger than Hanko's cut, so his longsword was kept in there; out of sheer desperation, Hanko kicked at Diego's abdomen but before it could even connect, he stepped aside once again, dropped his dagger so he could grab Hanko's arm and put it in a lock and right after that he aimed his rapier's point at Hanko's mouth. The fight was almost over.

-"Ah, now that's what I wanted to see! You could have done better but at least you're not dead... yet. Congratulations, you have passed!" Diego cocked his arm to do the thrust and Hanko, defeated, hopeless and scared, let go a scream that was shut by the rapier's point penetrating his throat.

After that, everything went dark for Hanko, dark and cold. He couldn't feel anything, the humid smell of the street at night, the glimmering light of the candles outside the pub, the feeling of his sword at his hand, all gone. If this what happens after one dies, then Hanko now must deal with this for the rest of his life.

But then, a faint yet sudden sound came to him, a familiar noise as well; as time wore on the sound became clearer and clearer, after a while it was obvious, it was the sound of two or even more steel blades clashing and sliding with one another. Hanko then felt like he could open his eyes and so he did, only to see a ceiling and the rays of the sun shining into his face, the discomfort made him to sit up on the bed he was laying now; he rolled the sleeves of his now strangely fresh clean undershirt to see stitches all over his forearm, where he remembered having cuts from that mysterious swordsman. Then he looked around with his sight and found many beds set on his left and right, arranged into a line, it was, Hanko presumed a nursery of some sorts, the whole place was new to him and he didn't know how he got here. Clashing metal? Waking up in a nursery after thinking he died in the hands of a stranger? His undershirt being washed? Hanko didn't like this, and he wanted answers.

He turned his body to set his feet aside the bed and stood up with pain in his legs, of which he also received cuts and most likely they were stitched as well. He walked into this door which seemingly led to a larger room, he got through the door and saw he was on an elevated ground and right below he could see dozens of men fighting each other individually, as if they were practicing drills and every pair was standing on some sort of circle with plenty of lines across it; these men were fighting with all sorts of weapons: longswords, rapiers, swords with bucklers or daggers, staves, sabers... Hanko would keep looking in wonder at this huge fencing hall should he had not seen a recently familiar face with the corner of his eye.

-"Ah, you woke up!"

-"It's you... What is this place?"

-"Oh yes, I almost forgot it's your first time here. This are our headquarters"

-"I... I thought you killed me!"

-"And that I did, boy! you were in luck I came with some medics of the Society, so they could revive you! It was a close call." He laughed as it was something that happened regularly. Hanko tried to think about what happened that night and it came to his head.

-"You said... I passed, right?"

-"mhm, to be honest I haven't had been cut by a prospect in years." Diego showed the stitches on his cheek from that wound of the other night "As I said, you need to improve, but that's why I brought you here."

-"Well, I never said I'd join you, did I?" Hanko wasn't fond of the idea of staying near the man who killed him, even though he got him revived as well

-"hmm... look at it this way, the only reason our fight lasted that long is because I was playing with you, like cats do with their prey. You died that night and now you're given the opportunity to live again and to learn how not to be so easy to kill... again. Also, we're a highly selective lot so consider yourself fortunate for being a prospect and not an enemy of ours..." Hanko thought of this deeply, it was true he was out skilled, and he knew he would find trouble after winning the duel sooner or later, so the best thing he could do is to train to become better and be ready for when that moment hypothetically happened. Now he's involved in a secret society, so he was sure he will see himself involved in fights as well.

-"... Fine, I'll join you. But on one condition!"

-"I'm listening."

-"I will never ever have to wear whatever you have on." Hanko pointed at Diego's outfit, the same one he wore that night.

-"Ah, no worries! We have no strict uniform norms, except for this. Diego approached his fist to Hanko and opened it to reveal the pendant of a coat of arms. It was a field of Gules with a combined border of Or and Argent, inside it there were two crossed swords, with their point upward and above them, a scale with the image of an eye on its hinge, all these figures were in Sable. The looks of the pendant immediately took Hanko's attention, he took it to give it a closer look and to hang it around his neck.

-"Huh, not bad. I'm in then!" Hanko didn't know how it was possible he could have been brought back to life, but the mere fact it happened meant he has offered a second chance. And if taking that chance involves fighting with swords within a cryptid group on gods know what places and situations, so be it. Maybe he would not see Father ever again, but maybe the best option now is to disappear, so he could have an eye over him and the inn business from the shadows from now on.

-"I'm glad... well then, welcome to the Society!" Diego drew his rapier and handed it over to Hanko. "Once your wounds heal come with me, we have some training to do."

The Crimson Snow

Prologue

     As a younger man, I was always the kind of person to seek trouble for trouble’s sake. As an Ursathrope, I would always be wandering from mountain range to forest and back again, following paths shared by the animals we shared forms with. As a Snow Elf, I was always shrouded in long sheets of ice and wind that could peel my face back. To keep warm, many found comfort with their lovers, using each other’s bodies throughout the night. I kept warm by other means. Whenever we’d stop at a trading post or village, I’d always wander into a tavern while my people slept on the outskirts. None of them found it amusing when I’d return to them the morning after, smelling of cheap ale and blood with a bruised face or freshly broken knuckles. My family were the least amused, seeing as I was supposed to be preparing to take up my father’s stead after his passing. As the future chief of my people, they wanted me to settle down and prepare a family of my own while I my people became accustomed to their new leader or some nonsense like that. I was infinitely more interested in seeing how many battles I could squeeze into my life.      As the years pressed on, my family became more and more worried that I wouldn’t find a wife. Alternatively, I became increasingly worried that my legend as a fighter would end before I found someone who could defeat me. For all of my battles, there was only a single fight which worried me enough to make me change forms and, even then, I only used it since I was outnumbered and already battered a bit. Some bandits had caught the small patrol I usually lead to secure the safety of my sleeping tribe. As I was returning to them after a victorious bout with a Goliath, I saw them bound and face down in the snow with bandits rummaging through their packs. Still a bit drunk, I ran in with my sword and axe drawn, forgetting about how weak I was from the Goliath. They were trained, unlike the many other bandits I have killed before. In my drunken state, I had easily lost both of my weapons as the three bandits attacked me from all sides. In my rage as the bandits slammed their swords and clubs into me relentlessly, I transformed into my hybrid form as I tossed them flying off of me.      One man was terrified after seeing an already intimidating Snow Elf transform into a walking bear almost triple his original form, desperately trying to make sense of what his eyes were telling him. He couldn’t even muster out a scream before I mauled him to death. Another was trying to hack away at me with his  longsword just as I finished killing his friend. He struck me across the back once before I caught his blade in my paw. With his sword still in my grasp, I stood up and stared into his eyes. I towered over him, standing almost another two feet above him. Terror entered the man’s eyes when I gripped him by the throat and lifted him above my own head. With my other hand, I gripped the wrist of his arm wielding the sword and squeezed until I heard a sickening grinding noise and the sword landing in snow. I released his throat and instead grabbed the leg opposite to the arm. With all my might and a terrifying roar, I yanked both limbs in opposite directions. His scream was deadened by the falling snow and the terrible tearing sound that came from his midsection. An obscene spurt of crimson painted the snow at my feet. As I held the two halves by my sides, I heard wet droplets land against the snow as the rush of adrenaline made the blood in my head pound against my skull. The last man witnessed my silhouette split a body in half  with my bare hands. I saw him tremble in fear before trying to escape by running directly into the forest. I ran on all fours after him, steam seeming to blow past my eyes from my mouth. One of my own tried to call out for me to stop, but I was too drunk from the ale or too high from my bloodlust to listen. Like his first friend, I mauled the man to death, starting at the sternum and ending at his throat. I returned to my Elven form as I made my way back to the three patrolmen. The first two were marveled at my presence, showered in red and leaving a bloody trail with each step. The third person was lying face-down and seemingly lifeless in a pool of red as well. I rushed to the body and quickly turned it over to find the person was actually my youngest sister. She was worried that I hadn’t come back to celebrate her birthday after I stormed off following an argument with our father. Still coated in blood, I carried her back to the tribe but not before she died in my arms. With her dying breath, she asked me to look after a friend of hers. I wasn’t even allowed the chance to accept before she passed. Thanks to my appearance, I received the nickname “The Crimson Silhouette” when I returned to the tribe that night. From then on, I stayed with the tribe and consoled my sister’s friend as best as I could. I don’t know if the grief helped, but I my sister’s friend soon became infatuated with me and I still needed a wife. We married not too long after, our grief turning into love.

A Dark Deal

     “I need to find him! He’s all I have left of her!” I shouted at the large totem we built in dedication to the bear god, Ursan. I fell to my knees in desperation as I continued to scream, “Please, help me find my son. You didn’t help when he died from Frost Heart. Instead, I made a deal with a dark spirit and you punished me for it. I’ve grown to understand your reasons and have made amends since then. I don’t expect you to have forgiven me, but I’m begging you. Please, help me find my son.”

     I was answered with nothing but silence and a cold far worse than any winter I had experienced in my centuries of life. I waited for only a few minutes but it felt like days before I slammed my fist against the ground with a strained, “Damn you,” as I rose to my feet. 

     With anger back in my heart, I gathered my sword and axe from the base of the totem as I muttered, “You’ve left my prayers unanswered for years. I was a fool to think you’d listen this time.”

     I spat on the totem as I stated, “I’ll find my son even if I need to make a-”

     I turned around and paused as I heard a much too familiar dark voice whisper in the back of my ear, “Oh, how I love it when you spite your god.”

     At the entrance to the tent, I saw a black mist take the form of a slender man’s silhouette with horns protruding above blood red eyes. No mouth was formed, yet I felt him continue to whisper, “I thought I heard you call for me. I’m always willing to make a deal, especially with someone as renowned as you. So what would do you need from me?”

     I said back to him, “My son was kidnapped by a group of soldiers looking to recruit one of us for the Great War. I offered myself, but they were fixated on having a child they could raise into a weapon. They agreed to leave the morning after, but they had different plans. I can’t track as well as I used to. The years and battles I’ve been in haven’t been the best to my senses. I need help to track him. Can you do that?”

     “Of course, I can,” the darkness hissed, “but, as always, it must come at another price.”

     I waited for him to continue as my frustration began to fill me with an old fire I thought I had left in the past.

     “You only met me after you had given up your moniker. The Crimson Silhouette, I think it was,” he said as he crept closer to me, “I would love to see how you gained such a title.”

     He crept to my side and continued to whisper, “I could revert you back to that time. To a time of fury and violence. A period where time hadn’t robbed you of some of your senses and reflexes. I’ve heard the tales from fellow demons and even some damned souls you sent to the Nine Hells. I’m very much impressed, but I would love to see you in action again.”

     I considered his offer for a second. I knew that if I could go back to that age, even for a few hours, that my son would be safe again. I didn’t know if I could trust what he had in mind for his price, though.

     “I saved him once already, remember,” he asked with what seemed like a chuckle, “I mean, it didn’t turn out the way you expected it to, but a life for a life, right? I promise, this time, noone else you care about will die. Listen, I’ll even say that the price this time is that-”

     Without letting him finish, I responded, “I accept.”

     The shadowy form laughed and I almost felt him smile as the smoke seemed to slip inside of me. I felt an unearthly fire coalesce inside of me as the darkness rushed inside through my eyes, ears, and mouth. I felt like I was suffocating as this fiend entered my body. My limbs seemed to seize and lock in place as my vision turned dark.

     He stated, “This time, I’m along for the ride. Now, go get ‘em, Einar.”

     My vision flashed white as I realized that I was already running through the forest with a conviction I hadn’t felt since my sister died. I had already transformed and was hot on the trail of the carriage with weapons in both hands. Despite being surrounded by a blizzard, I effortlessly found my son’s scent and tore through the snow after him. I caught up to the caravan of soldiers with my son unconscious in a cage in the back of their carriage.

     Three of the five men hopped off the carriage with weapons drawn and ready. Those on foot dashed straight for me. The one leading them was cut short by my axe after I threw it into his face. As he slid across the ground, I tore it from his skull as I continued my manic dash for the carriage. The next person to reach me found himself ran through with my sword. I continued to carry the body ten feet before tossing it to the wayside. The last person actually managed to land a strike on me before I cut off her arm then slit her throat over the snow. The last two still on the carriage were pushing their horses as hard as possible through the blizzard, hearing their allies’ blood-curdling screams. The horses could only go so fast through the blizzard, and I was properly acclimated to such weather. I jumped farther than I ever had before and began to almost fly down towards the head of the carriage. As I landed, I sunk my sword through the back of the driver’s head as I swung my axe into the passenger’s neck before kicking her off. I ground the carriage to a halt as I panted in pure rage.

     Standing over the passenger holding my axe in her neck, I said, “I believe we agreed on you leaving empty-handed!”

     Coughing up blood, she stammered as she said, “We were sent by the army. The generals don’t take no for an answer. They’re desperate. We thought that having a lycanthrope would give us an advantage.”

     “That’s why I offered you me! Not my son!” I shouted in absolute frustration, “Now, you’ll be paying for your deceit.”

     I tore the axe from her neck and reeled back for a furious swing. The first spurt of blood from her neck hadn’t finished covering me before the swing severed her head from her body. I had swung with so much force that her head actually halted in the air for a moment while the stump that was her neck flew back, slamming against the snow.

     I stared at the body as the crimson stain spread in the snow, her head resting on top of her body. I turned to the carriage and walked to the cage my son was still unconscious in. I took a deep breath as the rage subsided and closed my eyes as I took a deep inhale. However, I tried to open my eyes but my vision stayed black.

     The fiend said, “Well, that was quite a show. You certainly deserve the nickname your people bestowed upon you. In a blizzard, I bet all someone could see of you is a red form strolling toward them long before they realize that there’s a face on that body.”

     Annoyed, I said, “Enough with the pleasantries. Thank you for helping me rescue my son, but I should get back to actually returning him to the tribe.”

     With a laugh, he said, “Oh, no. That’s not going to happen. I know I told you that I would help you rescue him, and I did. But...”

     I worried as he said, “If you could do all that, just imagine what this one would be able to do if it was put through hell as well. Or, even better, what other souls you’d fill the Nine Hells with on a longer rescue mission. Doesn’t that sound delightful?”

     I screamed, “You bastard! You touch him and I’ll-”

     He cut me off with an arrogant, “Yes, I know you will, but still, this is infinitely more exciting, isn’t it?”

     The last thing I heard was laughter before I began to yell at nothing. I woke up the next morning lying on the ground in front of the Ursan totem. I stood up and ran outside, worrying that all that I thought happened the night before would turn out to be just a fevered dream. My brother was outside of the tent with a saddened expression on his face.

     “I’m sorry, brother,” he started, “but we couldn’t find him. We looked all night and the carriage didn’t help.”

     Dumbfounded, I asked, “What do you mean? Wasn’t he caged in the back of the carriage?”

     “No, there weren’t any cages,” he told me with a sincere look, “When you brought the carriage, the back was completely empty. You told us that you fought the soldiers but the carriage was empty when you were finished with them.”

     “That’s not at all what happened, Alfr,” I told him angrily.

     “That was what you told us, brother,” he said sternly, “the only thing you hadn’t told any of us was how you somehow lost about a century and half in age.”

     Still soaked in blood, my memory returned to me as I heard a ghastly chuckle creep from the back of my head.

     Flustered, I stormed off with my weapons, and myself, still covered in stale blood. I told him, “Alfr, I’ll find Leifr myself.”

     “How long is that going to take? The tribe doesn’t like being without leadership, Einar,” he spouted back at me.

     “Well, that’s what you’re here for,” I told him, walking towards the outskirts of the tribe’s resting place, “With your guidance, my eldest would be more than capable of leading and protecting the tribe.”

     “Then, what do I tell them about why they’re chief left, huh?” he responded angrily.

     “Tell them the truth,” I said as I began to run back down the road I chased the carriage on, “That their chief made a mistake and is now trying to save the heir that his wife died for. If they accept that answer, so be it. If they don’t, then assure them that I’ll return soon enough.”

     Without allowing him to respond, I dashed off, my restored youth still withstanding. As I ran through the forests, the fiend’s voice crept back into my mind and said, “Don’t worry, Einar. Your son will do fantastic as part of the war effort. You’ll have a proper heir, just as bloodthirsty as you. His legend could surpass even your own.”

     “Oh, I’m going to savor the day that I die, fiend,” I spoke, nostrils flaring as I ran through the forest as fast as I could, “because I’ll be free to roam the Nine Hells in search of that black soul you have, just so I can tear it from  your wretched form.”

     An angry smile crawled across my face as the fiend gave no response. I ran as hard as my legs could carry me, blood pounding in my skull again. To think that I could be so foolish as to trust the thing that took my wife away, the thought alone only helped in fueling my resolve.

Epilogue

     For the first few years of my search, I didn’t believe the fiend. I searched all across Kalldor, checking every illicit salesman and town of ill-repute for signs of my son. Every time, I came up empty-handed. I returned to the tribe to rest for a few months before hearing that the Great War ended, refueling the hope I had of rescuing my son.      Much to the dismay of my brother, I went off again. For the next few decades, I searched high and low for my son across the continent. I still failed in finding him. Every few years, I would always return to the northern side of Kalldor, travelling throughout the mountains. Many times, I’d return to my tribe to lead for a few months before leaving again. My children understood my reasons, and some even wished to help, but I always convinced them to lead their people instead while I went off to try to make amends for my mistakes. My siblings would always give me a tongue-lashing on my way out, seeing as they were the only ones able to as our parents had died long before my last son was born.      However, there were plenty of times when I’d return to the mountains of Kalldor without the ability to find the tribe. During those times, I’d go to a tavern and spend my time there. I no longer fought recklessly as I did in my proper youth, despite many trying to rile me up for it. Instead, I found a lover in a town on the eastern side of the mountains in Kalldor. It had been now close to a century since my wife’s death and I had become wearily desperate for the warmth of another woman. We spent some good nights together, and our feelings were starting to show for one another. She was in her 30s and I was technically in my 600s, but the fiend left me revitalized so I was physically in my 400s instead. We may have actually loved each other, but we both knew that it wouldn’t last. She was married after all.      After saying our goodbyes, I left to find my tribe again. I stayed with them, accepting that my son had most likely perished in the war. After the next few decades passed along, I felt the need to remain in a single spot, desiring a more sedentary home for my people. We went to the peak of Kalldor and created our home there. I created two gravestones in memory of my wife and son. I still pray to Ursan daily, hoping that my son is still alive somehow and that my wife is at peace. I also hope that the second woman I loved found a happy life, despite her claim of being cursed. Honestly, I find it funny now, though. She claimed a curse was put on her against her will, while it seems that I asked for mine.      Regardless, I know I’m destined for the Nine Hells after the things I’ve done. The blood I’ve spilled and lives I’ve destroyed still haunt me to this day. No matter how many more I may have saved, I know that I’m damned for everything I’ve done. I’m destined for an eternity of pain and torment, which I’ve been prepared for for decades now. In the end, I simply hope that no one I love joins me and that they have found their peace, or will eventually, with a clean soul away from crimson snow.