34th Summer 502 A.V.
A fifteen year old Raenfae stood in the open entryway of his house, bouncing back and forth on his feet slowly, feeling his weight shift. His father, a man larger than he was, stood with a wooden longsword at the ready, watching his son dance from one foot to the other, ”Why do you move like that? You move like someone ready to dance as opposed to a fighter!” To emphasize his point, his father struck out with a horizontal swing suddenly, the wooden blade whistling softly as it cut the air towards the youth’s left side. Raenfae, caught off-guard by his father’s sudden movement but ready to move quickly thanks to his stance, stepped back with his left foot, followed by his right foot as the weight of his body shifted to the left foot, his body rotating to let the blade swing by without hitting him. Had he been a better fighter, he would have stepped in to place a killing strike with his wooden dagger, but he was still a novice at best. He sought more the arts of dancing, poison-crafting, subtle attacks with daggers versus full fights. The brutish way of his father, though useful, was not a tool Raenfae sought to employ, much to the disdain of his father.
Whack!
The flat of the wooden blade found Raenfae’s upper left arm. The skin, exposed as they were training shirtless, turned an angry red color with dark purple and green bruising already showing up. Raenfae let out a yell of pain, dropping his wooden dagger in shock and pain. His eyes glanced up in anger at his father, but this was quickly reigned in. He had let his guard down in his thoughts and he had suffered for it. He was at the age that his father showed no mercy except to strike with the flat of the blade so as to avoid cracking his ribs or breaking his skull open. He picked up his dagger and nodded to his father then left without another word. He was done with the training and his father would have to accept this. He had other matters to attend to, training his mother had lined up for him. Washing up and changing into a white linen shirt and white linen pants, he headed out with his pack, knife and leather gloves he used to collect ingredients. His mother had shown him a couple of mosses she wanted him to gather and bring back to the house to turn into a poison. It was the next phase of his training, expanding his skills to include moss poisons as well. He had shown a great interest in the craft and she was intent on fostering it until it fully blossomed.
His feet carried him out from his house and down the street. The sights and sounds of Ravok erupted against his senses. People milled about, walking slowly and talking while others hurried on to important meetings, some clad in casual wear and others walking in robes, the people in the street clearing out of their way respectfully so as not to offend them and bring about judgment. Stepping down onto the street, Raenfae walked along the street, his eyes dancing over the beautiful sights of the buildings and their elegant architecture that rose to the sky in worship of Rhysol and the Voice, or so it seemed to him. Beautiful women moved past him and beside him, some exchanging flirtatious smiles with him that he returned without hesitation. Too bad he did not have the time to stop and talk more leisurely with one of them and maybe have a drink followed by night of romancing. Shaking his head to clear it of the fog of desire, he brought himself back to what he was out to do. Turning down a street, he began walking along the canal’s edge, enjoying the lovely view of people gliding down it in Ravosalas guided by expect navigators, letting friends and lovers enjoy a worry-free trip. He was heading to the Southern Trading Post to leave the city to look for moss along the edge of the lake. As he neared where he would need to get on the ferry, he could not help but notice a woman, about his age, with pale skin and beautiful red hair. He watched as he slowed his pace, guiding himself into a spot where he could see her face again. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of pale green eyes, not vibrant and loud, but soft and gentle, a different kind of beauty and one that he could not help but look at. |
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