52nd of Spring 515AV
Before first light had awoken the denizens of Riverfall, a small figure ran through the semi-dark. The fresh morning air cleansed his lungs. His boots drummed the street to the rhythm of his heart. At his side was Scrapper, the flecked young pup Kavala had more or less given him.
His training with Mizra had continued and the giant Akalak had once too often commented on his small stature and slender build. Adults, he sighed inwardly as he took a sharp turn past a closed bakery, ready for the final lap. First people had complained he ate and grew too little, now he wasn’t strong enough. I’ll show them, he vowed, I am not weak.
Sweat glistened on his brow. He was thankful for the cooling air, freezing and gluing darkened strands of hair together. He could smell his own stink as it trickled down his neck and down his chest. I am not weak.. Puffing his cheeks he redoubled his efforts, pushing through the searing sensation shooting up his legs. Out in the distance he could already make out the hulking man-boar that was his mentor. Two practice longswords lay at his feet alongside a bulky bundle with Gods knew what in it.
Timothy skidded to a halt. Mizra awaited him with crossed arms. “You’re late.”
First light hadn’t yet awoken the rest of Riverfall, yet here he was, panting like a dog. “I’m sorry,” Timothy wheezed as he rested his hands on his kneecaps.
“You’re a slug. My grandmother could’ve ru-“
“I said I’m sorry!” he snapped, shooting daggers at his mentor. Always snide, always commenting, always dissatisfied with his efforts to become stronger, faster, better. A blur of motion. A kick registered in the hollow of his knee. Within a heartbeat his back hovered above the cobblestone. Mizra loomed over him, deep-blue hands clutching his collar, keeping him an inch from the ground.
“I thought you wanted to become a great warrior.”
“I do.”
“You're not succeeding.”
Timothy’s eyes narrowed. He could only soak up so many insults to his pride. “Maybe I need a better mentor-“
Mizra let him drop to the stone. “I take it you’ve tired of my services then? Very well. Good luck Timothy Mered-“ The Akalak began to turn away.
“-Wait!” He scrambled to his feet and sucked in a deep breath. “Wait, I am sorry, you’re right. Please don’t go…”
Mizra clicked his tongue, the veins in his neck were like ropes as he stared down at his young, desperate pupil. “Sorry, I didn't hear you. What did you say?”
Tiimothy gritted his teeth and attempted to keep his voice calm. “I said,” he breathed, “that I,” he pointed at himself, “am sorry.”
One of the toughest fighters in Riverfall had little patience for excuses. “Don’t tell me you’re sorry. Show me.”