"What do you do when facing a Twice-Shielded Krangle?" Stallone asked, moping the sweat off his forehead with an old rag.
"Is it an adult?" I fired back.
"Yes," he said with a smile, knowing I had caught on.
"Run away!" I answered triumphantly. "Because once a Krangle reaches adulthood, it develops a second layer of armor, making it almost impenetrable, hence the name, "twice-shielded.""
"Which is why it is a good thing the beast are both slow and rather passive." Stallone offered me the rag and bucket of cold water. I graciously accepted both.
It was one of the hottest days in recent memory, so father had given everyone the day off. Stallone and I took the opportunity to spar with axes. We were currently taking a short break from the rigorous exercise.
My father, like my axe-wielding friend here, had once been an adventurer. For reasons never explained to me, he retired, long before I was born. I have always assumed it had something to do with the same incident that cost him an arm and a leg, literally. That had also never been explained.
So, Father had decided to use the small fortune he had earned from adventuring to start a lumber company that only hired retired or otherwise disabled adventurers. It gives them a sense of purpose, something active to do in their old age. Which is a luxury most adventurers do not get to enjoy, unfortunately.
This has led to quite an interesting childhood though. While most children would have spent their childhoods working a farm or studying for apprenticeships as blacksmiths or carpenters, I spent mine listening to stories from some of the most veteran adventurers of the age. I also received a good deal of training. I had a decent understanding of most weapons, monsters, and ways to survive dungeons. So, I guess it comes as no surprise when I say I want to be an adventurer. Slaying monsters, finding treasure; these are the dreams I have harbored since a young age. And I intend on pursuing them, which brings us to the now.
"Why do most dual-wielders, at least the axe ones, carry three axes?" Stallone questioned, rising from the overturned box he had been resting on.
"In case one breaks or is lost?" I guessed, not quite sure.
"No, if that happens, you don't deserve to use the weapons. Do you remember the first rule of adventuring?"
"Take care of your equipment!" We both recited, in unison.
"Let me ask you a different question. What is one essential thing they lack?" This was how most of the adventurers here taught me; minimal help, forcing me to figure out things myself. I never complained; I took their challenges readily.
I thought about the question for a while, feeling the warm, sultry breeze tickle its way across my back.
"…not having range?"
"Exactly! In most fights, the first blow is often the final. It is important to have a way to initiate, and if possible, end the fight before your attacker can get close enough to be a real threat. Or in the case you are outnumbered, taking out even a single opponent can end up being the difference between life and death. So now, we are going to practice throwing." Stallone strode over and picked up the small piece of lumber that he had set to the side earlier, and rested it on a nearby fencepost.
"Now Fenneck," he said, handing me a smaller axe. "There are many different variables when it comes to axe throwing, but the most important is your rotation."
"Rotation? And why is this axe smaller?" I asked as we stepped a few paces away from the target.
"Your rotation is how many feet it takes for your axe to spin in one...well rotation. The power, your reach, the weapons, all play an important role, but we are just going over the basics. And it is smaller because that axe is specifically made for throwing, but still holds out in a pinch." Stallone grabbed my arm and mimicked throwing the axe, giving me a feel for it.
"We can figure out your rotation later, for now we will work on form. Go ahead and give it a few throws." So, I did. A few hit here and there, making me feel a bit confident. Stallone stopped me after a while, and I prepared myself to have my confidence crushed.
"Three things. First, good on the aim, I see ***'s archery lessons are paying off. Second, when you throw, never, ever flick your wrist! It throws off your aim. Lastly, when you throw, give it everything you have got. The way you are throwing is fine for just hitting targets, but when it comes to a real life scenario, that wouldn't scratch a turtle." He paused as I smiled at his choice of example. "Strange choice, I know, but you get the idea" I nodded. "Even if you get the rotation off, you want to hard enough to give them pause." Stallone looked up into the sky, and noting the lateness, patted me in the shoulder and gave me his farewell. "Continue practicing if you wish, but it is too *** hot out here for me, so I will be heading home."
"What about your throwing axe?" I called out to his well-muscled back.
"Keep it! Think of it as an early birthday present!" He threw back over his shoulder.
I grinned. It was getting rather close to my birthday, wasn't it? I would be turning fifteen in the next couple of days, and it was time for Father and I to start discussing y future.
After a few more hours, I decided to return home. It was beginning to grow dark, and the heat had not diminished whatsoever.
Unlike the rest of the workers, Father and I lived on the property itself; it would be foolish not to.
So, I only had to walk for a few minutes before I arrived at the two-story, cobblestone house. The top story was our sleeping and living quarters, while the bottom was my father's office, so it came as no surprise when the first sight to greet me as I made my way through the door was my large, bearlike father, hunched over, scribbling at his desk.
He struggled to rise from his chair to greet me as I made my way through the hallway.
"No need Father, I am on my way to bathe anyways."
"Alright," he said, lowering himself back into his seat. "I just need to finish up some paperwork here. The stew by the fire is almost ready, so when you are done we can eat. We also have some important matters to discuss."
"Yes sir." I grabbed a pail and headed outside to the well to fetch some water. While doing so, I puzzled at what these "important matters" entailed. Maybe Father and I were thinking the same thing.
"So how was your day off, Ferrick?" My father asked, handing me a bowl of stew. I smiled, Father was the only person that called me by my real name, making it seem special. Everyone calls me Fennick, on account of my smaller-than-average frame, and quickness. My mother, who passed away a few years ago, always called me Fen.
"Fun. Stallone and I sparred with axes and practiced throwing."
"Interesting," my father said thoughtfully, taking a seat at the table. "Have you practiced your forms today?"
"No," I replied, shaking my head and preparing to hear with I am told at least once a week. "I had planned on doing them later tonight."
"Make sure to do so, your mother left you with a gift that is too precious to go to waste."
My mother had come from a long and well-established line of mages, all of which were remarkably powerful. I was no exception, so while I was still too young to receive formal training, my father made sure I at least practiced the basic forms every day. Because my mother had eloped with my father, her side of the family was never very welcoming.
Father finished eating and set his bowl aside, leaning back and almost visibly growing serious.
"Now, Son, I want to talk about your future. We both know you are about to reach the age at which you can become an apprentice." I perked up, wishing, praying, that my wish would be granted. That the thing I had been dreaming of for, as long as I could remember, could come true.
"I know you want to be an adventurer, more than anything, Ferrick. I know how you feel, but hear me out."
I deflated. My joy, anticipation, excitement, all of it, gone. I loved this man, my father, and I would never be able to go against his will, so to know he would not support my dream, especially one he himself had shared, was one of the most crushing experiences in my life. I am ashamed to admit I started to cry, dropping my gaze to the table.
Father sighed and reached over the table, enveloping my hands in his.
"Look at me, raise your eyes, Son. Because me when I say, every fiber of my being wants to let you be an adventurer, but I can't. I made a promise and it is one I would rather die before breaking. Come, let me explain." He stood up and strode off so I slowly rose and trailed after. I was surprised to find I was extremely interested in what he had to say, in a dejected, depressed kind of way.