DISCLAIMER: I don't own the character in this chapter. In the future I'll post which characters I own and which any one else owns, and you can pretty much safely assume that any other characters are owned by Patricia C. Wrede and her publishing company.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Ooooookay…. Well, this is me first deliberate fic, I've had this idea for awhile now, but I'm just now getting around to putting it on the figurative paper because of commitments and a few teachers who think people have no life outside their class….. Anyway, on with it! This is a chapters fic, I don't know how long it's going to be. I'm just sort of writing it as it comes, and around a very full schedule, so please be patient with me. What else did I want to say…? Oh yes, TITLE! I NEED a title, and I suck at coming up with them, so if you read this and get an idea, please tell me what it is! R/R, thankees veryvery much. -Noala
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He walked down the staircase with slow, deliberate strides. The flickering light from the torches in their sooty holders on the walls cast a strange shadow over the stone wall, a shadow that twisted and writhed as if flowing with the heat generated by the small fires and trapped within the staircase. He could have easily used a bit of magic to transport himself to the Armory instantaneously, or at the least provide himself with a steady light and a bit of cool air, but he preferred not to. The ingrained habits learned in his childhood were harder to cast off than the ragged clothes he had worn in his daring adventure five years earlier, but he had acquired a sense of self-sufficiency and honor in doing things "the hard way," with only your wits and any spare objects around to aide you. He briefly reflected on this strange preference of his as the stairway wound down, seemingly winding into eternity. At the bottom of the endless corkscrew was what he was searching for.
The Armory had not changed much since the last time he had been there. There chests still lined the wall; the assorted weapons hung in their near-decorative patterns on their individual hooks. The weapons – swords, bows, maces, more – were all excellent weapons in some way or another, even if only excellent in visual appearances, but none were for him. In a pinch, one might do, if it was the right one, but there was no advantage, and several disadvantages, to taking another weapon when the right one lay so close at hand. He strided towards the third chest from the left and lifted the lid, wincing as the hinges let out a shrill scream of agony. In the chest were four swords, jumbled together like so many toothpicks. But he knew; oh, and well he should know, which one he had to retrieve. He reached for the one sword with copper inlays on the grip and pommel, a double-edged blade with a keen shine. He flicked a fingernail against the edge and listened to the clear sound, well satisfied with fate's choice. He then dug in the chest and pulled the sword's scabbard from under the rejected blades; the sheath was midnight blue with gold, silver, and copper inlays. He quickly fastened the sword belt around his body and sheathed the shimmering blade with one smooth motion. The sword made a melodious scrape as it entered the sheath, and there it rested. Daystar, Prince of the Enchanted Forest, set his hand on the hilt of the sword he would bear on his first willing adventure.
