This is mostly background on Dorian, but not a flashback. I dunno, I kinda like one because it's just so... real? I don't know. I don't know if you'll feel the same thing when you read it as when I wrote it, but enjoy!
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Old Sam's Cider is still going strong… the millers still live in the same old dilapidated shack… the trees have grown taller but other than that… nothing's changed.
The Port (as it had always been called, since it was one of the oldest port towns known) was as familiar as it'd always been, perhaps bigger… Or maybe he was just smaller all those years back. It felt as if he had just woken up and was strolling down the street, a normal every-day sort of afternoon. He breathed in… It was the scent of home.
But Dorian knew, 'home' was only a technical term for where he was born and raised. He had a mother, a gypsy who left her family when Dori was only a waddling fledgling, a father who was… eccentric, but caring. And a best friend who turned out to be a cutthroat traitor. This was life in the Port though, and in a town dominated by merchants and small business squabbling to make a living and outcompete each other, this was considered the norm. It wasn't that Dorian hated the place, no! He appreciated it in a way only a port-beast could, the lessons he learned in the alleyways, the hard dealings in life… But also the wild excitement and adrenaline that rushed through his body when he and a gang of friends leapt over shambled rooftops on moonlit nights, the hum of the crowd that continued way past the hours of day, the lanterns strung above littered streets, casting glows off exotic foods and jewels brought over from many leagues away… It was a life worth living indeed; it made him ready to face anything thrown at him. It made him ready to leave his home too.
But now he was back, and although Dorian knew exactly what he had set out to do, he felt obliged to make a stop first. More out of duty than nostalgia, but this was his way. A rusty bell hanging above the door clanged wearily as he stepped inside a messy workshop of a room. A drooping banner that hung across the room announced: Welcome to Finnigan's Forge! There was nothing but a few ornamental metal pieces and some rusty pipes and the sort: a tool shop. An empty counter separated a draped entryway from the rest of the room. Nobeast was around, but the place was warm and inviting. Dori's claws left prints in the sawdust as he made his way to the back and lifted the hinged countertop as he had done many years ago. The tattered drapes felt worn and as if they hadn't been cleaned since he'd left. Like the rest of the town, it was as if everything had stood still, and had been awaiting his return.
A muffled clinking affirmed his thoughts as he brushed the curtain aside and made his way to the back, past a narrow wooden hall crammed with unfinished projects and various gadgets and aprons. Nothing's changed. It grew warmer the deeper he went, and the clinking grew louder. Soon it was sweltering hot, the wooden walls gave way to rock, as if one had just stepped out of a house and into a cave, brightly lit by the fire of a forge. A bony figure was bent over an anvil, hammering a piece of molten steel. Anybeast who cast a glance over this creature would not have thought much: a skinny old Golduck with many wrinkles and a pair of spectacles wedged onto his crooked beak. His once-white shirt was tucked loosely and sloppily into a pair of baggy trousers, sleeves rolled up to expose tired muscles and worn, webbed claws.
"Ahoy, Pops." Dorian said almost boringly, as if he had just come home from school. He withdrew his saber from his sash and shelved it atop two hooks on the wall and walked over to inspect his father's handiwork.
The old blacksmith did not even look up. His face was contorted with concentration as beads of sweat rolled freely down his forehead. Clang! went the hammer against the metal, a thin, tapered thing already taking the shape of what will probably be one of the most elegant swords to grace the continent. Here was Finnigan, the (self proclaimed) greatest blacksmith in Teria, a title the Golduck touted with much pride, and one he had not been challenged for as of yet. If one looked through the rippling heat and thin layer of smog that billowed across the room before escaping through the single, overworked chimney, one would spot glinting daggers, heavy maces and axes, ornamental pikes decked with red silk imported (or given as a gift) from the West, shields and swords, armor and arrow tips… Handles bore insignias of different clans, oceans and mountains, leaves and vines, fierce dragons coiling around hilts embedded with precious stones. And all of these were fully functional. "A weapon is made to slay a foe first, and then to be admired by the victor later," Finnigan had always said.
Dorian reached forward and took the tongs from his father, who willingly gave it up and continued hammering away without losing a beat.
"Towards me a bit, lad," he said finally, in a creaky but cheery voice.
Dori rotated the tongs that held the metal bit, and his father resumed his work.
At last, the blade was plunged into a vat of water and laid aside. The blacksmith sighed wearily and wiped his face with a sooty towel before hunkering down on a barrel and taking a swig out of a nearby flask.
"SO." He started, clapping his hands on his knees, "How is my boy faring?" Finnigan's eyes smiled in the way it always did as he looked his son up and down, not at all surprised that he was there.
"Oh, same old," Dorian replied, "Up to no good out on the seas."
The old one nodded, as if expecting nothing but this very answer, and instead shifted his glance to the old saber hanging on the wall. "Let's take a look at that old blade of yours," he said, shuffling towards it and gingerly taking it off the rack. "Hmmmm…"
He swung it a few times experimentally and looked it down its hilt. "Hmm… yes…" He carefully felt the edge of the blade and tasted the flat part of the metal. "I remember this. I made it for you the first time you left with your friend…"Turning to Dorian, he asked, "Would you like a new one, son?"
Dori took his saber from his father and ran the blunt edge in his claws fondly before placing it back in his sash. "No thanks," he replied warmly, "An old fool once told me the weary blade is the one that has won many battles, and the old blade is the one to trust."
Finnigan tossed his head up and laughed openly, a merry laugh that could be trusted. "That's my boy! I'm glad to know you haven't forgotten everything I've taught you!" he said, placing his claws on his son's shoulder. And then he added, in a voice that bore nothing but honesty, "You make me proud, son."
"I know, pops," Dori replied, patting his father lightly on the back. He noted how he was taller than his dad now. Finnigan's shoulders felt thinner and more tired than they did in his glory days, but his smile was still the same. And his eyes still twinkled.
"Well! You're probably heading off, and I probably should head off to the market," said the blacksmith, disappearing down the hallway to the front of the shop.
Dorian took one final look around the old forge, and followed. Finnigan was busy tidying up a few things, or looking for his overcoat; one could never tell. Dori made his way back past the counter and nodded towards his father. "Take care, pops." And he left, the rusty bell tinkling pathetically behind him.
Finnigan looked up and gave it a queer look. "Hmm, I really should fix that."
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It was done.
Her Captain was right, they had landed at the perfect time. And now eight were dead, their stony faces unmoving on their banquet table. Were they staring at her? No, she told herself, the dead see nothing… Still, the room was cold and hollow (like their eyes…) and she needed to leave… Now, before the merry voices below found the horror that awaited upstairs. Like a shadow, she planted one final object in the middle of the table, the key to unleash unimaginable chaos; and she was gone.
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"Where are we?" Flint asked, turning a map over in his claws.
Skipper sighed wearily and flipped the parchment so that his friend was actually reading the front, before replying, "Ye shouldn't have bought that from that shady merchant, mate. T'was a scam…"
"H'oi! That beast said he was the architect of this town!" Flint said indignantly.
"And so did three others, Flint…"
Suddenly, a particular stall caught his eye. Whereas the typical stall was a ramshackle structure practically groaning under the weight of all its wares, this one was elaborately draped in multicolor fabrics and housed only a few antique looking books. An elegant portrait frame bore a sheet of parchment with the name of the stall written in cursive writing: Legends. Interestingly enough, nobeast cast this stall a second glance. Perhaps reading wasn't the strong point of this town.
"Let's take a look," said Skip as he approached it, "We might learn something interesting from one o' these books."
Flint groaned, but went along with it. Learning wasn't his strong point either.
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COOL. Let's hope I don't wait another year to update. As usual, thanks so much for the reviews/alerts/favs in the past, and I hope most of all that you enjoyed reading this!
-Canyx