Grath's Story - Week 4

Grath rubbed his eyes, and took another drink of his beer. He was sitting in a high-backed chair before the fire of the inn he and his traveling companions had their rooms in. In his lap sat a thin book, its open pages revealing text of a fairly large hand, with fairly frequent illustrations. The book had cost him quite a bit more than he might have expected, though he had gotten a discount from the shopkeeper on account of outweighing the little man by a hundred and fifty pounds, and having a sword taller than the little man. He had gotten some funny looks, however, as he trundled out of the small shop carrying the copy of "The Swordmasters - Tales for Little Ones of Heroism and Bravery," under his arm.

Grath turned a page. There was an illustration on the next page, of a man in white plate armor and holding a longsword. The caption above the image read "Ser Helvis, The Whyte Blaide." Grath read the text slowly and carefully, his mouth moving along with the words. He read the tales of Helvis' achievements in the Ivory Army, of his military conquests before becoming a Swordmaster, and of the events that lead immediately to his induction in the Swordmasters.

Grath set the book aside for a minute, and took another pull at his beer. All of the stories were the same; a man (or, in at least one case, a woman) distinguished himself in service to someone else, was a good little soldier or bodyguard or whatever, and sooner or later they killed someone for their masters that caught the attention of one of the already-existant Swordmasters. Grath frowned. He didn't have a master, didn't want a master, didn't want to play lap dog to someone with more money than skill, but it seemed like that was the only way to be what he wanted to be.

Grath sighed. One more, he thought. One more story, and then he was going to chug the rest of his beer and go upstairs to pass out. He turned the page.

The illustration on this page showed a man in brown leathers, dashing through a forest with a large sack over one shoulder and a thin sword in the other hand. Behind him, a pair of guards gave chase, but one was about to have a tree limb fall on his head, and the other appeared to have several cuts on his body. The man with the sword was smiling a wide, mischievous grin.

Grath rubbed his eyes. This didn't seem at all like the others at all. For a moment, Grath thought this picture might have been bound into the wrong book, but then he read the title above the image: "Myrrick, The Laffing Blaide." Grath set down his beer and read. Apparently, Myrrick had been a theif, a man who robbed corrupt and angry nobles and gave his loot (well, most of his loot, because a man has to eat) to churches and farmers and those in positions to do good with the money. He never snuck about to do his thieving, though; his talents with the sword meant he could dash in, disable the guards, grab the loot, and be gone before wider alarms could be raised. It was even rumored that he had once picked a lock with the tip of his rapier in the middle of a fight.

Grath grew excited as he read. Sure, this Myrrick wasn't anything like him, but he wasn't anything like any of the other Swordmasters he'd read about so far, either. If these men could differ so much from each other and still be what they were, perhaps his idea wasn't so futile after all. He downed his beer, called for another, and turned the next page.