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]

Go big, or go home...

Oran kicked the door, a loud echo sounding down the cave behind. A pair of bandits braced against the door, and archer standing ready his bow nocked, and waiting. A second crashing sound echoed, then a third...fourth...fifth... the bandits glanced down nervously, as the banging stopped. The one on the right turned, still leaning on the door, "Ye think thier gone?" He asked his buddy. He friend, a dunmer, coughed a string of dark red blood, slumped and fell over, revelaing where a large blade had been jammed through the door, and into the bandits ribs.

"Fire!" Was yelled simultaneously, the bandit frightened and nervous fired, his arrow sticking into the door just above the gap, a second thud sounded in the same area on the outside of the door, but a third arrow shot through the crack, faster than the eye could track, and stuck into the bandit archers neck, where slippery with blood, the bandit scrabbled at it until the rest of his life-blood spilled in a little lake around him.

More crashing sounded, and the surviving bandit backed away slowly, and just as he turned to run a bonemeld armoured warrior crashed through the door. The bandit turned, facing down the warrior, rather than be shot in the back as he ran...

Oran grinned as the door came apart, revealing a crumpled body with a large hole through its weak leather jerkin, and another bandit still slowly running his hands along a blood soaked arrow protruding from his neck. The last bandit looked around nervously, and raised his steel katana, Oran charged him, his ancient long sword swinging in a vicious upward hack, the bandit jumped back from the swing, and took a poor horizontal swing back at Oran, which was parried, and the defect in the design revealed. As the bandit went to cross blades in a test of strength, Oran's blade slide down, and the katana, lacking a crossguard of any real significance, allowed the blade to slide down and split the bandit's wrist to the bone.

The dunmer screamed in pain, and tried with a bloody arm to strike the next blow, but the small form of Oran stepped aside and let Goasa sink his claymore halfway up the blade into the bandit who blinked heavily and sunk unto the blade. Goasa slipped the claymore back out, and lead the chrage deeper into the cave. Familiar passages and corridors opened before them as they moved to the communal fire pit in the heart of the cave. Matile and Torpin put down the pair of bandit guards at the enterance with four arrows each, and Oran stepped into the heart of the cave once more.

It had changed dramatically than any other bandit group that had inhabited this wretched hole, the walls were draped with heavy hangings, the cave floor rugged, and a desk and lanterns were sitting in the middle. The old bandit who had ordered the armour and weapons repaired sat behind the desk, looking clean and better off than when he had entered the shop. A quartet of bandits with halberds stepped out from behind natural pillars and stood around their leader...

This post has been edited by DarkHunter: Jan 25 2007, 11:11 PM