Chapter One:
The beginning.

The man walked into the local tavern, and sat at the stool at the bar, his eyes red and bleary. “Please, get me the strongest you have,” He said, pulling out a coin purse from inside his robes. “I have enough money here for any cost.” The bartender nodded, and took the money, walking into the back storeroom. When he came back, he was carrying the largest mug they had, full to the brim with a thick, blue liquid. The man nodded, his thanks, and took a swallow of the liquid, and he coughed, the liquid feeling like he was pouring fire down his throat. When he finished his drink, he walked out the door, squinting into the sudden brightness. He spit into the dust on the side of the street, his saliva thick. A second man walked out of a nearby alley.

“I hear someone is looking for you, stranger,” The second man said, grinning and pulling out a knife. “Dead, or alive. Which would you prefer?”

“My name happens to be D’arveck. If you think you can capture me, or even kill me, you are mistaken.” A silent malice seemed to emanate from his body, exuding a palpable aura around him. “I feel that somehow, it will be you will fall into the dust, your blood watering the plants.” The bounty hunter clutched his chest, feeling as if someone had just put a blade through his ribcage, and his eyes widened as blood began to pour from his nose. The aura around D’arveck became visible, and it hardened into a knife, the blade slicing the bounty hunter’s arms and legs off. “On second thought, I will cause you to suffer the rest of your life. You shall never hunt another human, and you will barely be able to support yourself. No woman shall look at you again, and every child will be whispering about the freak that was once a great man. This is the lesson you have learned on this day, and may others learn the lesson from you, or suffer the same fate, if not worse.”

The man walked out of the town, and slung his legs over his horse. He clicked his tongue against the top of his mouth, and the horse leaped into the air, riding into the stars, leaving the bounty hunter on the ground, crying into the dust and grit on the road.

A pair of eyes watched from the window of a house nearby, and the young man watched the horse fly off, vowing to become just like him, without anybody being able to tell him what to do.

Chapter Two:
The discovery

“Sinth! Honey, come away from that window!” The young man stepped away from the window, the same one he had been looking through a year ago, the last time he saw the man with the flying horse. He walked into the eating room, and looked sullenly at his mother.

“What is it, mother? I have more important things to do,” Sinth said, gesturing wildly. “I have to keep an eye out for that man to return!”

“Honey,” His mother replied, her tone one that would not accept any arguments. “You have been looking out that darn window for a full year now. That man is not coming back. You have to do something productive for yourself and your family, so I have asked Mr. Lenbar to allow you to be his apprentice. It should be something you enjoy.”

Mr. Lenbar was the local blacksmith. While Sinth enjoyed working with tools such as hammers—he had actually made his own small smith in the backyard, creating simple forks, spoons, and knifes for his family to use—he didn’t like Mr. Lenbar. Mr. Lenbar was a cynical person, and no matter what anyone did, it was never good enough.

That night, he walked over to the blacksmith, pushing aside the wooden door, and walking into the dark, hot shop. “Mister Lenbar?” Sinth called, looking around for the smith. “My mother told me you agreed for me to be your apprentice?” There was no answer from within the smithy. Sinth walked to the back of the store, parting cobwebs with his hands, and looked into the forging fires, the heat washing over him in a wave, causing sweat to break out on his forehead. He saw what seemed to be a sword on top of a metal rack within. Sinth shook his head, wondering how the blacksmith thought it would make a good sword when it melted, for the blade had already begun to becoming more like the molten metal, a result of placing too much Yreckyut powder in the flames. Obviously, the smith had left the forge for some reason.

Sinth found the pair of metal tongs nearby, and he pulled the sword out of the fire. He brought it to the nearby Anvil, and looked around for a hammer. He found one inside the cabinet next to the horseshoes, and began to carefully shape the blade. After he shaped it, he struck it into the barrel full of water, wincing as the steam scalded his arms, and pulled it out, cool once again. Now he needed to make the hilt, but first he had to find where Mr. Lenbar kept his metals to melt down. He walked into the backroom, and stopped, his eyes widening in surprise. Laying facedown on the floor was Mr. Lenbar, with blood slowly seeping from a gash in the back of his head. Next to him was the culprit, a stoking stick, which had fallen on Mr. Lenbar when he was reaching for his water bottle.

Sinth ran to the doctor, and brought him to Mr. Lenbar. “I found him like this,” Sinth said, still slightly frantic. “The stick must have fallen from where it lay, right here.” He pointed at the two prongs sticking out from above the door, one of which had broken. The doctor merely nodded, and pulled out some gauze from the bag he held, wrapping Mr. Lenbar’s head in it, and securing it tightly with a small length of rope.

“He should wake in a few minutes,” The doctor said, closing his bag and standing up. “Luckily, the wound was not fatal, but he will not be able to work for a few days. Does he have an apprentice that can man the smithy for him?”

“Yes, sir,” Sinth replied, handing the doctor the money he was going to use to pay for his dinner. “My mother has made me his apprentice. This was the first night, however. He hasn’t taught me anything yet.” The doctor accepted the money, and left, leaving only the advice to make sure Mr. Lenbar didn’t exert himself too much.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Lenbar opened his eyes blearily, and he groaned, grasping his head. Feeling the bandage, his eyes sharpened and he looked around. “Who did this?” He asked frantically, grabbing the stoking stick, and standing up. “Show yourself!”

Sinth walked through the doorway. “It was I, with the help of the doctor three doors down,” He said. “Put the stoker down, you can’t exert yourself. It might open your wound again.” Mr. Lenbar slowly placed the stoker back on the floor, and staggered over to a chair nearby.

“Who finished the sword blade?” He asked, gesturing towards the blade laying on the anvil where Sinth had left it. “It is… interesting work.”

“I did, sir…” Sinth replied. “I am sorry, but the metal was beginning to melt in the forge.”

“It is well done, however…” He pointed out several flaws in the workmanship, including a single mistaken bump on the flat of the blade.

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More to come shortly, but any thoughts on the story/a possible name for it, please let me know

That was a very interesting post you have there young author. Very appealing indeed (hope that came out right).