As the lord walked down the main street made of gray cobblestones, all who saw him waved and whistled. He waved back and greeted most folk by their first names as he shuffled along. There was no entourage of soldiers or leathers scanning the rooftops for assassins with crossbows or leading him through the streets, peeping around every corner for trouble. This was his town, and as much as he loved it and every soul within its borders, they loved him back tenfold.
Hubert was a tall, heavy man with broad shoulders who exuded an aura of confidence that radiated in every direction as he marched down the street in long strides with his head held high. He wore a permanent smile as he gazed from one side of the street to the other, with his long, gray ponytail whipping back and forth presenting a stark contrast to his bald forehead. A long, brown coat made out of wool, matching pants and a pair of black leather boots completed his attire. He strolled past all the shops and their owners, whom he saw almost each and every day. The bakery was owned by Jake Greenfeld, the local tavern by Keshon Brobany, and a variety of other establishments were all family-owned. Most had been in business for decades and passed the shops down to their kin.
After deciding the yearly party preparations were coming along quite well, he decided to stop by the blacksmith’s. The shop was owned by Henry Aethello, but most of the work was done by his son, Eric. The tall, young man was at his usual station in the booth outside the shop, banging away with his hammer, wearing his usual black, sleeveless leather vest. He carried on as he assembled a set of horseshoes for an order that was less than twenty-four hours old. The young man’s arms were bulging with muscles built up through years of not only blacksmithing, but weapons training with his father almost every day.
Eric had learned to utilize his time well in order to accomplish all the things he was not only ordered to do by his father, but also loved to do. Eric enjoyed the grind of his full day from morning till night.
The daily regimen was always the same. After waking up bright and early, he began studying the lessons chosen by his dad, which was common in small towns like Bryer. All children were home-schooled, and it was the parents’ responsibility to make sure their children were properly educated so they could contribute to the benefit of the town as they got older. This benefited them as well, seeing as most would spend their entire lives here. He studied mathematics, languages, and quite a bit about history. His father emphasized this heavily and made sure he studied for at least four hours every morning year-round.
This was followed by intense sparring, including hand-to-hand combat and the use of various forms of weaponry. The long sword was his weapon of choice, and the one he excelled with during practice. One day a week was set aside to learn ranged combat, including the crossbow as well as a longbow. Eric was not really sure why his father pressured him to such a great extent to learn all these forms of combat, but he didn’t really care either way, since he loved every minute of it. The hours and hours spent training with his father after his studies were finished brought him pure joy.
He would get lost in the deadly dance of blade on blade as he fantasized he was on the battlefield during the famed Undead War, butchering crytons left and right. His father had served in the army of Taron and had been promoted to general before meeting his mother and moving to Bryer. There they started a family as well as a blacksmithing business. This was how he attained all of the combat skills he was now passing down to his son. Eric had no memory of his mother. His father told stories of how wonderful she was and how much he missed her. She had gotten sick and took a high fever shortly after he was born, never recovering. Even though it was not logical, Eric had somehow always felt responsible.
The rest of the day would be spent in the shop banging away with his hammer, making everything from cauldrons to blades, from axes to sickles. Sure, Eric also made weapons, but these were mostly custom jobs that came at a price—a price many seemed willing to pay, given his reputation as one of the finest craftsmen in these parts. Eric lived his life by a handful of simple rules: protect the ones you love, and fully commit to everything you do.
He truly never strayed from these beliefs. Every book Eric studied, he did his best to force every word to memory. Whether he was making a simple candlestick or sparring with his father, using all the energy he could muster, it was with complete dedication to be the best. For the friends and family he held so dear, he would gladly give his live. This complete dedication to a lifestyle so few would ever choose simplified everything in Eric’s eyes. When you know you’ve given one hundred percent, how can there be regrets?