A beginning, 30 coins, an ancient sword. Options

[DarkHunter]

What a man does for money, can bring him to the sky, for a woman, he's going past the moons.

Oran, the mercenary...

He deftly turned the blade aside, striking another heavy blow to its red-hot surface. The clanging of the smithy echoed through the small town, as the black smith once again took up his morning work. A legionarre passed by, glacing in at the smith creating his newest sword. Sweating profusely, he doused the blade in the water barrel, a cloud of steam rising as it cooled. As if timed, the customer, another legionarre from the nearby fort, came in.

"Here you are," the blacksmith said "a blade, tenfold steel, with silver tracings, as always."

The legionarre grunted and dropped a bag of coins onto the counter. Oran turned, his normally bronze-hued skin flushed reddish, and covered in ashes from the fire. Counting out the coins he smiled, another days work finished, he thought to himself, as the legionarre turned and stepped out his door. Almost as soon as the guard left, a scuffy dressed man stepped into his small smithy.

"H'ndrud guld fe ye ter repar meh gar" the man muttered, barely comprehensible, as he dropped a pile of broken leather jerkins, rusty short swords, and various pieces of armour, all ill-matched and rough.

"Are you sure you can pay for the fixing, it'll be at least five hundred gold.... sir..." Oran anwsered the dirty fellow, eyeing him suspiciously.

The fellow spat on the floor, and lifted a blood stained canvas bag from inside the rags. "Tha'll pey fe 't"

Oran eyed the bag and touched it, hearing the clink of coins within, "Very well, come back tommorow and I'll have it patched up for you."

The bandit, for thats what he was, turned and hobbled out, "I se ye 'n the mornin' ten" he called back.

Oran set to work first on the swords, carving off the rust and letting in fall in flakes around his stool, once he had cleaned as many swords as would hold together during the derusting, he set to work on patching the leath jerkins...

The next morning...

Mist flowed down the hillsides from the nearby mountians, turning a light blue in the morning light, slowly fading as the sun rose in the sky. The morning was pristine, the mist had left tiny dew drops on the grass that glistened in the morning sun. The gear that had been left old and ragged, was sitting well repaired and restitched on the counter of the smithy, Oran sleeping soundly in the small room in the back. A sudden rapping broke the morning tranquility as the bandit rapped on the door of the smithy with a rough cane that he leaned heavily on...

[DarkHunter]

A second step

The rapping continued as Oran dragged himself from his bed, shuffled his robes on over the loose hanging jerkin he had left on when he finished it. Trudging to the door, he unlocked it and let it slide open as the ragged bandit, though Oran knew it not, went along the counter colllecting thepiles of gear that he had left to be mended the previous day. Sliding each blade from its sheath, and inspecting its finely sharpened edges, its new shine, and the repair work done to the hilt.

"Thanc ye, I khew ye coud de 't" The bandit mumbled, trudging slowly out the door.

Oran listened and he could hear a few half hearted cheers and a gaggle of men running off. He glanced out the door and saw a rag-tag band fitting on thier fresh armour and swinging thier much improved blades about. Oran eased the door closed as the band ran off into the nearby woods, and smiled. He whistled loudly, a sort of short melody, and his horse came trotting down the street. He mounted and took the short trip over to the Blackfire imperial fort, dismounted in the courtyard, and walked over to the captian.

"Sir, it'd please you to know there's yet another band of bandits in Yezle" he grinned "You know that nasty little hole just past the swamp?"

The captian sighed, took out a bag of gold, counted it, and poured it into Oran's hands. "A thousand gold as usual, right?" The captian asked, Oran nodded as he turned away, heading back toward his horse. Taking the ride back to town, he slipped small notes, on blue writ paper, under the doors of fives houses...

Three hours Later...

His usual band of men, and Matile, were gathered outside his door and she tapped three times on the door with the tip of her bow. Oran opened it, stepping out in his bonemeld armour, and smiled as he looked at his usual choice of men to clear out bandits. Matile, a fiery little wood elf she was, excellent with a bow, and fair with her little dagger from her father. Goasa, his bond-brother, who stood proudly in his steel plate armour holding a gold trimmed claymore, and who had a deep hatred for bandits,as they had killed his family when he was young. Torpin, his half-cousin or some such, who loved adventure and could almost match Matile with the bow, and finally Kiul, Torpin's brother-in-law who worked as the groups sorcerer, and was quite adept at bending fire, and fire magika, to his will.

He grinned ferally, raising his fist with his fathers ancient blade, passed down for generations since the time of the first Neravine. He had managed, himself, to live through the havoc of the oblivion gates and was still thinking about the old sword he held as his little group set off on horses into the forest. They arrived at the door, relocked once more, to Yezle. Kiul stepped forward, and set into a quiet chant and a few gestures, soon he had a fair red glow around his hands, and he slowly pressed one finger to the keyhole, and melted his way through it...

(Sorry about the double post...)