There are two Smithson characters. One is the modern Smithson, but this is all about the medieval Smithson. Same bloodline, same values.
Spoiler for The Tale of Richard Smithson, Part 1:
THE TALES OF RICHARD SMITHSON: FIRST STEPS
Father of Richard; John Smithson
The first chapter of this story takes place in Witherstone, a small old-age village, A prosperous village where the townsfolk hold steady jobs. Jobs like bein a farmer, running the local taverns or- closer to where we're heading to- being a blacksmith.
John Smithson, or Ol' Johnny to the townsfolk, was the only blacksmith in town. His stature was tall, much taller than most. A fierce beard adorned his lower face, bushy and brown, singed to black at several points from working close to the fires. He was visibly tough, his body clothed with scars and decorated with muscles, and he was usually seen with a hammer somewhere on him, whether it be in his belt or his grip. He could create anything the townsfolk needed: horseshoes? Easy. A carriage? It'll take a few days, but it'll get done and it'll get done good. Swords and armour? Well, Ol' Johnny loved them since he was a boy, they're his specialty.
The house he lived in was joined to the smithery, a place which dominated most of the lower floor along with a kitchen and a small table to eat at. The upstairs rooms were mainly for storage and sleeping, but Ol' Johnny had a basement, too. Walking into the place's basement felt like walking into a great armory, with all manners of blades and shields decorating the walls besides wooden mannequins boasting armours, each as magnificent as the next yet all of them were unique, special in their own ways. Some were built for purely for punching, some specifically for shields. One Johnny loved most had a left arm for a shield, and a right arm purely for punching. It was down here, in his hobby room, where John stored his most beloved crafts.
Behind the house was a large garden where a rugged wooden stable stood, populated by a single horse. If you were to stand between the stable and the house and looked around, you would be met with archery targets and wooden scarecrows where John tests out all manners of weapons before feeling satisfied with them. But sadly, John hasn't swung a sword or fired a bow in a long time.
The love of John's life, a plain-looking dairy-maid called Mary, passed away some years ago; It was a terrible accident that shocked the whole village. She was helping the local farmers erect a barn, but some of the barn's construction wasn't stable enough. John only has a few things to remember her by: a wooden carving of her, carefully created for their third anniversary; a clay cup she used to drink out of, now stained with the alcohol John used to cope; and their son, little Richard, the reason why he has not picked up a sword or a shield in such a long time.
Son of John; Richard Smithson
Richard is a sturdy lad. Like quite a few children, he had to grow with only one parent, but the village gave him the love that his mother couldn't. The taverns would give him water and conversation, though he never spoke much. The farmers would give him food and work to entertain him, though he never took much. The blacksmith of the village, Richard's own father, would give him the love of a father and a bed to sleep, though he never slept there much. Richard would rather play in the fields and sleep in the stable, living in his own world, a world he shared with someone else.
During this time in his life Richard was 8 years old, and his friend- Lizzie- was 9. They played together, ate together, explored together and slept together. They were inseparable. At that age, Richard was already gaining some firmness in his muscles from helping around the farms and the smithery; his hair was always ruffled, originally brown but turned dark from coal dust, the same dust that decorated his face like war paint; his clothes were rags, torn in places from playing and fighting. Lizzie's head had short, blonde hair and constantly wore a smirk; her clothes were roughed up, like Richards, but instead of rags they were the dress of a maid; and, also like Richard, her muscles were toughening up, too. Though she did the work of a maid, she and Richard loved to brawl.
Richard's daily ritual was to come down early in the morning and eat his fill of breakfast. He'd go on to help out at the smithery or at some other place in the village, then retire at the barn for an hour or two for a cupful of water and an earful of stories. Afterwards he would rest at his house and eat lunch before heading to the fields with Lizzie. They'd talk and talk, they'd explore together, play together, and even work together doing odd jobs at each others' homes. But what they loved doing above all was brawl. They'd throw themselves down into the fields and have at each other, leaving themselves bruised and bleeding, before helping each other up and laughing it off.
Out of all of Richard's salad days, there is one that stood out. A day like any other, starting off with a regular brawl between the two kids in the fields, like they did every morning. Lizzie won that brawl, as she always did, yet both of them were laughing with happiness in their hearts and bruises on their cheeks. Liz held out her hand and helped Richard up, their laughter dying down as they both rose up.
A few of the local kids saw little Rich and Lizzie brawling in the field. These kids were the bastard sons of mercenaries, 'gifted' to the village because the lazy sods couldn't deal with any responsability. As you'd expect, these children grew up rough and so took on a rough attitude themselves.
"Hah! Beaten by a girl!" echoed from the fence, dozens of meters away.
One of the bastard boys beckoned his friends over to laugh at Richard.
"You little weak sheep!" the boys laughed, "I bet you can't even beat a flower!"
The boys' tasteless insults didn't bother Richard one bit, but what did bother him was that they were calling him that in front of Liz. Richard's small body tensed up, his face frozen in an almost-emotionless gaze, a slight frown tugging at his lips. Before, he was tumbling about and brawling for fun, but now there was an atmosphere of seriousness about him.
Not saying a word, he started slowly walking over to the bastard boys, the leader of them deciding to hop over the fence to further take the piss out of Richard.
"Oh what? You gonna cry?" said the boy, trying to suppress a chuckle.
Lizzie was behind Richard, slightly worried. She knew Richard could take care of himself, but this boy was 12 years old.
The rest of the bastard boys was behind the leader, cheering him on.
"Right then, we gonna brawl it out here, are we?" said the bastard boss down to Richard's face. Raising his arms outwards, he yells "But I don't know if I should! It's awful rude to hurt a girl!" His friends behind him break out into laughter yet again.
Richard just stared at him, both his lips and fists tight. The bastard boss put his hands on his hips and leaned towards Richard, faces nearly touching.
"What you gonna do, slap me?"
In a swift movement, Richard grabbed the boy's hair with his left hand, before swinging in a right hook to his opponent's ear. "Shit!" cried the boy, recoiling away from him, clutching the side of his head. "You'll pay for that!"
The boy ran towards Richard, aiming to kick him, but as his leg swung Richard grabbed his ankle, yanked the boy towards him and punched him again, but this time in the side of his knee. Working at the smith for so long, dealing with heavy metal and hot fires, left Richard tough-skinned and strong. What neither the boys or Lizzie knew about him was that, every night, Richard would practice for hours against the targets around his house. Not with sticks, they could break Not with swords, they were too big for him, but with his fists.
The boy crumpled onto his knees, his leg now slightly numb and unwilling to move without pain screaming at him, he looked up at the little kid towering above himself.
"B-but a girl beat you! H-how-"
His words were cut short as a fist hit his temple. Out for the count.
The bastard boys behind the fence stopped cheering a short while ago, instead looking on at the scene, confused that the biggest of them just got taken down by a kid years younger than him. A kid that just got defeated by a girl mere minutes ago.
"Uh... what happened?" said one of the boys, slowly. "I, uh, think we should get out of here," another one replied, not even listening to the question.
They stood there for a few seconds, motionless, until Richard turned his gaze upwards at them. They darted, swearing under their breath as they did so. Richard swore he heard one of them say "That's one tough girl!" as they scarpered.
He returned to Liz, leaving the mess of a young man behind him, before loosening up his body and letting his face turn from a cold stare to a warm smile. Lizzie still looked shocked, though.
"I.. I didn't think you could take him!" she blurted out, "I mean, he's much tougher than me! And I just beat you! What-"
"Well," Richard interrupted, his voice slightly rough from the smoke he breathes daily, "You just gotta know the places, and besides," he shrugged, "I always hold back with you. Being a girl, and all."
All Lizzie's face said was 'wrong answer' before she stormed off. Richard reached after her, trying to stop her, but she was already away from him. The work makes him tough, but agile? Not so much. He sighed, dropped his arms down to his sides, and just stared at the sky for a while, thinking. Though, shortly after, his thoughts were interrupted by a rock hitting the side of his head. Knowing it was from Liz, he just stuck with it and fell onto the floor.
The sky was getting dark and the air smelled of smoke; from the blacksmith? No, that's too far away. Must be the farmers burning crops. Richard contemplated the world as he laid on it, arms outspread and a trickle of blood running down the side of his forehead. He knew if he waited here long enough, Lizzie'd come back to see if he's ok. She can't stay mad at him. Sure enough, she did come over.
"Hey. You alright?" "Yeah." She squatted at his side, staring at the mark of blood and dirt on his forehead. "I knew you were faking it." "Yeah, yeah." she sat beside him, glancing over to the other boy laying on the grass. Some time passed.
"Well, aren't you gonna get up?" Liz started. "Nah. That rock taught me a lesson, gonna stay here a while an' learn it." "What lesson?"
Richard looked at Liz and grinned.
"Not to piss you off."
All John could see from his window was Elizabeth sitting on the field and giggling, before slapping the floor. Richie was probably there with her. He took a deep breath in:
"RICHIE!" he boomed, "TIME FOR SUPPER!"
Sure enough, the boy rose up from in front of her, talked to her a bit, before darting towards home; after a few minutes, he was there.
"Playin' with Elizabeth again?" enquired his father. All Richard did was smile and nod before heading indoors.
Richard's 13th Birthday
"Happy birthday, son," said John, patting Richie on the shoulder as he walked into the room, who just smiled and nodded at his father. "Here," uttered John as he searched around on the floor next to him, "I made you somethin'."
Now thirteen, Richard was a teenager; though young, he stood as tall as any man in Witherstone, save his father. His hair is constantly filthy from his work, keeping it a dirty blonde. His skin is as tough as ever, his lips thin and rough. Though he was a vision of toughness with his body covered with toned muscles, his grey eyes were kind ones, eyes that said "It's alright. I'm chill."
Richard sat down at the table next to his father, eyebrow raised. What could he be getting? He doesn't reall need much in life. He's got his friend, his father, a job. He's comfortable. Though, this train of thought ended quickly when his father placed a pair of iron gauntlets onto the table.
"Here you go. The first pair I ever made. Sturdy as anything. Go on, try 'em on."
Picking one up with both hands, Richie inspected the gauntlet. The metal was dented in many places and was rusting around the edges, weathered from decades of use. The leather was worn out, but still strong. There were iron plates covering the forearm of the gauntlet, the plate on top sticking further back than the rest, designed to cover one's elbows. The hands themselves were covered in metal plates, one per finger segment and several on the back of the hand to help with articulation. The knuckles were studded and the most worn-out part of the whole glove, and he could bet why.
"I often see you at night, punching away at the targets and air. I used to be a bit like that myself, so when I took up the business of blacksmithing from my own father, I worked hard and made these. They were designed to punch, as you could see from these studs there. Here, put them on already."
John gently shoved the other gauntlet in Richard's direction. Looking in his fathers' nostalgic eyes, his own expressing happiness, he took the gauntlets and slid them on. They were slightly tight around his muscles, and yet were comfortable. They were heavy, sturdy. He clenched his fists, getting a feel for his new armour. Richard loved them.
"Hey!" echoed a woman's voice from outside. "Richard! Out here!"
That familiar voice belonged to no-one but Lizzie. Richard's best and only friend.
Richie stood up out of the chair and moved towards the door; as he opened it, Lizzie just jumped into the house, hugging him for a short while before releasing her grip.
"Thirteen, eh? You're a young man now!" she grinned.
At first glance, Lizzie seems more male than female. Her hair was dirty blonde- like his- and very short, giving her a tomboyish appearence. Her skin was lightly tanned from working in the fields, no longer being as dirty as it used to from her and Richard's daily brawls. Nothing about her lively nature had changed through the years, not her hazel eyes nor even the mischiveous smirk on her face (which Richard eventually noticed only appeared around him.)
"Hey, Ol' Johnny," she said, walking to Richie's side, "I'm going to borrow your son for a while, alright?" She smiled warmly. "yeah, sure. But bring him back soon, he hasn't had breakfast yet," replied the father.
As Richie and Lizzie left the house, John could hear Lizzie say "Oh, wow! Those are some tough lookin' gaunts you got there! Them from your father?" as they walked off together.
"Those seem really cool. You ever think you'll make the rest of the armour one day? Maybe even a sword?" questioned Lizzie as the pair walked out onto the field.
"I don't know about a sword," replied Richie, "I just like punchin' stuff. Though I would like to have my hand at my own suit of armour one day." He punched the air a few times, a fighting combination against an invisible enemy. "Man, I love these."
Lizzie giggled, an act that would seem strange around anyone but Richard. "Well," she said, smiling, "Remind me to not brawl with you whenever you're wearing those."
"But we haven't brawled in years, you know that."
"Yeah, but only 'cause I'd beat you," retorted Liz. She stopped walking.
Richard moved on a few steps ahead before realising she was lagging behind. He turned around and faced her.
"Hey. What's up?"
Lizzie fidgeted slightly. "Well, y'see... my family."
"What about them?"
"My father. He's a merchant, though the rest of our family are farmers and maids." She paused. "But... he was offered a better job."
"Really?" replied Richard, "What as?"
"I don't know yet, but it's in another town. Woodstone."
There was a pause between them. Richard never really contemplated life without her. But maybe she isn't-
"Are you going with him?" Richard spoke, breaking the silence. For once in his life, his words came out faster than his brain could think them through.
"Yeah. I have to."
"When?"
"Uh, Next week."
Richard sat on the damp grass, uncaring of the coldness flooding into his body.
He paused, letting his brain think. After a short period of silence, he spoke up.
"For how long?"
"I don't know."
A happy day spoiled with bad news. Richard stayed on the ground; and, like how Lizzie always does, she sat with him. He slid his arm out of the sheath of metal and leather and held her arm.
"Well, I don't know what I'd do without you," his earlier thoughts breaking free of his lips. "Promise me you'll come back some day. That you'll back to me."
"I promise."
A small smile broke the sadness in Richie's face, finding some solace in the fact that they may be seperated, but not forever. He knew their relationship was strong and could stand this.
"Well," he grunted as he stood up, helping Lizzie up next to him, "as long as you keep that promise, I'll be happy. I'll wait for you."
And, a week later, she left.
Richard's 20th Birthday
Richard had a daily routine to complete, same as every other day. He got up early in the morning and had a simple breakfast of bread, cheese and water. He then started up his smithery, left to him by his father who died two years ago. John may have been a powerful man, but he had lived many years and a life of smoke aged him faster than normal.
When the furnaces are hot, Richie moves onto dealing with the early-day orders. These are usually horse-shoes, nails and tools. These are simple things to craft. Afterwards, he would cook himself a warm meal- usually some form of stew or broth- and sit outside his house, staring off into the hilly distance, a single road disappearing between the grassy knolls. This takes about an hour, usually because this is when he daydreams; sometimes of his father, sometimes of work, but mostly about Lizzie; what would she look like now? What would she sound like now? Would she have found someone? No, she promised to come back to him. How long until she'll return?
Afterwards, he'd go into his smithery and work on the larger projects like carriages, wheels and barrels. They take a few days to make, but he's got time. When the sun sets, he settles down at the tavern a short while for a quiet drink before heading out to do his nightly training.
When he was young, he'd just use his fists. When he became 13, he started using his gauntlets. Shortly after he became 18, his father helped him through creating his first set of armour; though John couldn't help much, he told Richard all the ins and outs, all the dos and don'ts, and at the end of a few months time Richard had a set of iron armour. But Richard saw a lot of room for improvement.
After his fathers' death, Richard finished his second set of armour. The metal was shining, patterns engraved throughout; joints were covered with leather and chainmail; the helmet's face had vertical slots running from side to side, allowing Richard to see out, but nobody else to see in: his gauntlets were sleek, each forearm covered with a metal plate that extended just beyond his elbows, the plates engraved with silver-like flames in the metal; the knuckles were studded, like Ol' Johnny's gauntlets, and the fists were designed not to hold swords or shields, but to punch. All of the hand was covered in metal, even the palms. They were engineered to clench into the perfect close-range weapon. It's a trait of the human hand to quadruple in density when curled into a fist, the gauntlets multiplied it tenfold. This armour was locked in the basement of Ol' Johnny, where Richard researched his father's armours, getting the best and leaving the worst, making something that could serve him well and stay as a testament to his father's past works.
The metal of the armour was thick and heavy, so as Richard trained in it he would grow stronger and gain stamina. The armour was intimidating, towering over anyone who came across it as Richard grew taller than his father. He was a seven-foot man of muscle, and although at a distance people may confuse him for a war-born monster, his grey eyes remained calm and cool, able to reassure with a gaze and to say the words he never would.
Richard seldom spoke to his father. The only person he ever truly talked to was Lizzie, and not a word had escaped his mouth since she left. He believed that words are intimate, that they can connect two people; he and his father were always connected, them being father and son, and so he never felt any real need to speak. Lizzie was his friend, and she meant the world to him. Richard bares his soul through his words, and he knew she was his soulmate. But with her gone, speaking was pointless.
Though eventually, when the day came that Richard turned 20, he spoke again.
His words were "You came back."
But those were all the words he spoke that day, because although she came back, she didn't come back to him.
Silence
When Lizzie returned with her family, she looked radically different. She was no longer the short-haired tomboy Richard grew up with, but she was now a lady-like visage of feminine beauty with clean, pale skin and bright, blonde hair flowing down to her fair shoulders. But what Richard noticed more was the man at her side. Her father would be rather old now, which meant the man she walked through the door alongside with his arm around hers wasn't him.
"Hey, Richard! Long time no see!" Elizabeth sang, her arms wrapping around Richard's giant body. "Could barely recognise you with all these muscles!" she giggled. Her voice was more developed, but in essence the same as before, though the accent she spoke in was far more upper-class than Richard could ever hope to be.
"Say, where's John?", Elizabeth enquired, looking around, only to find Richard cross-armed, shaking his head.
"Oh," Liz said solemnly, "Well, I know how that feels." There was a brief pause of silence in memory of the deceased father, before the man at her side cleared his throat.
"Ah, yes. This is Alexander," announced Elizabeth.
The man held out his arm; his hand was clean, the nails cut short and neat. Richard's own hand took it, a mess of hair and dirt, the nails short but rough. They shook firmly.
Alex withdrew his hand, wiping it on his clothes to take some of the filth off. "Well now, I've heard all about you. You and Lizzie here were childhood friends, yes? Although, you're quite the opposite of a child now" stated Alex, his eyes scaling Richard's height. "I dare say you're the tallest man I've ever met. About seven foot, I presume? Little lower? Well, I can see why this place has such a tall ceiling!" Alex joked, though nobody laughed.
He was a thin man with skin as pale and clean as Lizzie's. He felt like a proud man, his attitude making him seem larger than he is, though in reality he was shorter than the lady next to him.
"Well," Alex carried on, eyes darting around the shop, "Lizzie here reckons your father was the best blacksmith she ever knew, and from looking around here, I can see that it runs in the family. Excellent work, sir."
Richard's arms were still crossed, not a sound escaping his lips. The only signal that he wasn't ignoring Alex was the occasional shrug or nod. Richard knew Alex was trying to befriend him (the compliments made it painfully obvious), but both of them knew it was failing.
"Don't talk much, do you, chap?" inquired alex, placing his hands inside his own pockets.
"Well, he always talked to me!" interrupted Elizabeth, "We could talk for hours on end, couldn't we?" She gave a smile towards Richard, and Richard gave one in return, though there was no more warmth there.
"Well, it was nice meeting you," Alex stated, eyes turning to Elizabeth. "I think we'd best go to the house, it'll be dark soon."
"Sure!" replied Elizabeth, "See you tomorrow, Richard!" she chirped, waving her hand as both of them departed out of the smithery.
The first dew
Richard was sitting at his downstairs table, cheese and bread on a plate in front of him. It seems like today he doesnt have much of an appetite. He was slowly about to attempt a first bite until he heard a voice echo from outside.
"Richard! I'm coming in!"
A few minutes later, Lizzie was sitting at the table, smiling. She was a different person now. Now, when she smiled, she smiled without that memorable mischevious smirk of hers. Her face was now plain and felt empty. Richard couldn't help but think: what happened to her? How much did she change? Is any part of her the same? The silence carried on, until he realised that it was him who had to speak first.
"How y'doin'?" uttered richard; the voice escaping his mouth was alien to him. It was deep, gravelly; the smoke of the furnace must have taken its toll on him, just as it did his father.
"Doing just fine," Lizzie replied. "Man, you're huge now. Bigger than your father ever was." Her eyes scanned over him; he felt like they were taking him apart, analysing him. "Hey," she started, "I know I'm different than I was before. When you live among the pompous for as long as I have, it rubs off on you. Trust me," she stifled a giggle, "when I first arrived there, I was a laughing stock. A brawl or two changed that, though."
Richard put on a smile and nodded, "Brawling, eh? Used to do quite a bit of that." He paused. "Say, what's with that Alex guy?" he murmered, leaning towards Lizzie slightly.
"What do you mean what's with him?" she replied, "He's my fiancé."
So much for eating.
"Actually," she continued, "That's sort of the reason why I'm here. I wanted to settle down here, back at my real home, but we planned on doing that after were were married." She sat up on the chair, looking at Richard straight in the eyes. "But I came earlier because... Well, I wanted to get married here and have you as the best man."
She continued, tilting her head as she recalled old memories, "Back in the town with all the pompous people, I couldn't seem to make any friends. I kinda wished you came along with me, but then I met Alexander. Though he was upper class, he was kinda disliked amongst them. He was rash and wild, and he sorta reminded me of you. Before we knew it, we were together." Elizabeth sighed. "Hey..."
"Yeah?" Richard muttered.
She paused, "I came here this morning because I need to ask a huge favour of you. It'll mean the world to me."
He paused, "What is it?"
"Alex insisted on getting expensive ones, but I'd prefer it if," another pause, her eyes moving up to lock onto Richard's, "if you could make our wedding rings?"
Richard's mind exploded, yet his body didn't even twitch. He couldn't say no to her, she's the world to him. Her happiness is all he's ever wanted, but to make her happy this time would be to destroy his own happiness. She promised to return to him, but she didn't. But she was gone a long time! Of course things could have happened! Just because Richard lives a simple, lonely life doesn't mean she does. He knew this could have happened, he just really wished it wouldn't. He had to accept this. He had to. He needed to. So, for the sake of her happiness at the sacrifice of his, he let out one last bit of his soul for her:
"Sure."
Half an hour later, he was alone again. His breakfast was in front of him, untouched. He knew he had to be tough, like he always was; he had to be silent and take things as they come; he had to be strong for those around him, but he couldn't this time.
When Richard's mother died, he was 6. He hardly has any memories of her but he knew he loved her and that she doted on him constantly, but even so, he was strong for his father and didn't cry.
When Richard's father died, he was 18. That was the man who brought him up and taught him everything he knows. That was the man that turned Richard into the man he is today, but the smithery needed running and so he took a hammer in hand and didn't cry.
But half an hour after he agreed to create the wedding rings for the woman he loved more than anything, after he agreed to make the wedding rings for the person he wanted to spend his life with, after he agreed to forge- with his own sweat and blood- the wedding rings that would kill his hopes and dreams, to give up the woman he waited for for years, he cried for the first time in his life. He was a hardened shell, a strong and seemingly emotionless man, but the shell was cracked, and he starting gushing out.
Clenching his teeth together, trying to control his emotions, he started working. He got two strips of the best metal he had- iron foraged from a fallen star- and smelted them into rings. He tempered them in scalding-hot oil, and put them in an oven to heat-treat them. When the day was done, he pulled them out and set to work engraving them. He set upon them the engravings of silvery flames, like those on his armour, and put his soul and emotion into these rings.
When he had finished these rings, he retrieved a small, wooden chest from the corner of the workshop. It was the first thing he and his father ever made together. He carefully placed the rings inside and set them on the smithery table.
Goodbye, home
Late into that night, Richard disappeared; he left the village with nothing but a sack of his clothes along with a few tools, and he left wearing his armour. And so, Richard's life began anew.
The next morning, Elizabeth entered, expecting to see her old best friend sitting behind a simple breakfast, but only found a neat wooden box.
"Wow," she whispered under her breath, "amazing." She analyzed the rings, admiring their masterful engravings and how the light shined and refracted off them, how the sheen flowed along the lines and shapes. She noticed something shine within the ring, some text. She brought her eyes close, curious to see what it said.
"These were meant for us," she muttered reading it. She didn't realise it yet, but it was starting to dawn on her.
At the wrong time, Alex burst into the room. "I knew you'd be here! Where's that big oaf- oh?" He moved towards her, plucking a ring from her hand. "My god," he paused, "This is some beautiful craftsmanship indeed. And what's this, 'These were meant for us'? I hope so, they're marvellous! Here, let's put these back in the box. I'll take this straight to the church where we'll be married!"
Alex pecked Lizzie on the cheek before plucking the ring off her finger and placing them in the box, closing it. As he began to walk away, he noticed a tear down her cheek.
"I can tell you're rather emotional about these rings. They are quite beautiful, aren't they?" he remarked, before walking away. As he walked through the doors, he muttered "Would have preferred ones with diamonds on, though."
Far away, within the sturdy confinement of a four horse carriage, the initials "J.S." carved into the side, were the grown up bastard boys of over a decade ago. They were heading out to a mercenary camp, prepared to fight fights that their fathers had before sending them off to the cozy little town of Witherstone. But instead of lively chatter of what's to come, they were all silent and uneasy, their silence matching the armoured man sitting amongst them.
This is a story I wrote several months ago, and I recently just gave it a proofread. Hope it's alright!