"I'll. . . I'll. . . ergh, I'll think about it. Best I can promise, old
guy." Max shuffled about the bedroom restlessly. Him, go gallivanting
across the countryside looking for a crazy-ass killer like Mahri?
Preposterous. He was just a damned writer, for crying out loud.
O'aka, though a little disheartened, had to be satisfied with that much, and he was. "Thank you, lad. And even if you don't, well, at least get the word out. I don't... I don't want Mahri to kill anybody else, and if he's left to do things his own way, well, he might. I guess a newspaper is as good a way as any to spread the word." He coughed, gazing at Max as he paced. "You really are the spitting image of her, though. Just got heaps and heaps of energy."
Max winced. "Argh. . . no more comparisons, alright? It's freakish." O'aka bowed his head in apology. Silently, he rose from his rocker, wandering off into his bedroom. Ack, I should be nicer, I guess. Max scratched his head. He had a pounding headache by this point.
Moments later, O'aka returned bearing a rather large pouch in one hand and a long, thin, intricate sword in the other. It bore a large, gleaming ruby on either side of the pommel. Tossing the pouch to Max, O'aka withdrew the sword from its sheath: long and gleaming, with mythril-inlaid, serpentine dragons entwining around the blade in a vicious dance, it looked to be of inestimable value to Max. "Whoa, nice piece of hardware you got there, pops."
O'aka, ignoring the slight at his age, nodded sagely. "It looks kind of delicate, really, but this sword couldn't be tougher. I used to have a swordsman friend who wielded it all the time before he retired and hoisted it off on me. Never got a ding in it the whole bloody time. That's not all, though, my lad."
O'aka tapped the rubies on both sides. They began to glow, casting a harsh, bloody light upon the room.
Then Max witnessed something that took his breath away.
The blade seemed to suck the light, the very colour, out of the rubies. The reddish hue appeared as though a swirling liquid, slowly seeping into the sword – which had begun to fade in its own right, becoming somewhat translucent – and billowing out into huge, bubbling blotches that ran into of crevice the sword. It seemed as though it was filled with twisting lava. The two crystals – once rubies – now appeared to be flawless diamonds.
What was most amazing, though, was that the twin dragons upon it had truly begun to dance – they twisted up and around the sides of the sword, flowing amongst the lava and roaring soundlessly. The effect in its entirety was mesmerizing.
Max could feel the heat it cast off in the form of faint wisps of steam from across the room. He winced in shocked amazement. "Good lord, what is that thing?"
O'aka grinned, his first real show of amusement. "This, my friend, is the Flame Talon. Just by tapping these two rubies, you can fill it with magical fire. Don't worry about touching it like that, either: the flames just increase the slicing power, or so I'm told. Feels pleasantly warm, frankly." He ran his fingers across the blade. "This baby kept me warm many a night. And. . . I want you to have it, lad." He handed the steaming blade to Max.
Max was taken aback. "What? Me? Uh, I dunno if I should. . . why?"
The old man smiled. "Consider it payment, my boy. For listening. Besides, if you do end up following Mahri, you'll need a weapon. Something light like this looks right up your alley."
Max accepted the blade gravely, turning it over in his hands. It was indeed remarkably light: and Max watched in fascination as one of the dragons stopped to hiss mutely at him. The warmth that flowed from the blade felt oddly relaxing, and yet it kept him alert: the perfect combination of fluidity and caution rolled into one. He took a few practice swings. The motions felt perfectly natural, as though the sword were an extension of his arm. Steam flowed lazily in long, winding trails behind the blade, rising and vanishing against the ceiling.
"Th. . . thanks. Geez, this thing is fabulous. I bet I could sell it off and live comfortably for the rest of my life."
O'aka nodded. "You could. But if you do, and I find out, your ass is mine, lad." He tossed Max a wink that, for a moment, revealed in O'aka that formerly devilish merchant who had once plagued the markets with his crafty wheeling and dealing.
Max couldn't help but laugh. "I won't, I won't." With a pair of synchronized taps, the living flame seeped back into the diamonds – thus creating a fresh new pair of rubies again - and the sword reassumed its old, gilded magnificence, the dragons static once more. Almost instantly it was cold to the touch.
Max slipped it into the scabbard. "Hrm, this whole thing is a bit showy, don't you think? I'm liable to have it pilfered."
O'aka shook his head. "You don't get out at all, do you, lad?"
Max began with a slick line involving all the women around Luca who kept him constantly busy, but a cock-eyed glare from O'aka forced the young man into a lamely delivered "nah". O'aka nodded. "Didn't think so. Weapons that look kinda like these are all over Spira nowadays, or were when I was a part of the world. Most people wouldn't take a second look at that sword of yours, not unless they had a really keen eye for these sorts of things." He shrugged.
"Really? Geez. But, I'm guessing this is stronger than most, right?" His eyes ran from end to end on the sword, absorbing very nuance of both pommel and sheath.
"Oh yes. If my friend was true to his word, then it can split rocks – once you know how to swing it properly, of course. Otherwise it'll just take off your head."
Although this should have elicited a laugh, Max was deadly serious. He nodded carefully. The sword seemed to have ensnared his mind, which was what ever sly O'aka had planned on: if only a little bit, he knew Max was edging towards an adventure that would put the blade to use. It was worth a shot, in an event: and O'aka felt good to be putting his skills to use for one last time.
"The pouch has another little sack in it with the barrier nullifying gunk Mahri gave me. Use it to take that sucker down. I'm sure it'll work. There's some money in there, too: feel free to have it. I. . . don't much need it, anymore." The old man sniffed.
Max turned slowly to O'aka, eyeing him suspiciously. "Anymore? What, you're not leaving here at all?"
O'aka slowly shook his head. "No, my lad. . . like I said, these old bones of mine are done with this world, especially after the blossoming debacle that took place in the last week. . . now, in exchange for that, I need a favour from you, lad."
"Uhh. . . sure, go ahead." The old man seemed to be shutting in front of Max: his face was sagging, his knees shaking, and those dimmed eyes had just about lost their lustre entirely.
"Take that sword out again, lad. One last time." Max did as he was bade. O'aka, creaking his way over, carefully set it ablaze with twin taps from aged fingertips. The room was cast in an orangey light.
As though he'd been awaiting this moment, O'aka drew a long, carefully folded piece of straw from his pocket. "This's been sitting around the old shack for a good fifteen years now, my boy, brought in from lord knows what. Probably an old crate I chopped up for wood long ago." He delicately touched the end of the straw to the very edge of the flame: it was instantly alit with a tiny, dancing flame.
"A normal fire wouldn't suffice. Not for old O'aka. No, I wanted it to be special, right from this here sword. Thanks, lad. You can leave now." The old man pivoted on his heel, albeit slowly, and began a steady march into his bedroom, the straw burning brightly, its flame growing and consuming ever more steadily.
Max's confusion was soon replaced with fear as the realization of what the old man was doing hit him. "No, O'aka, don't be stupid – "
But it was too late. The fire, a far more powerful being of magical nature, had already set aflame the bed sheet on which it was laid. In the midst of it lay O'aka, the tiny tongues of bright orange already licking at his feet and slowly spreading upwards. He did not seem to have the power any longer to care about the pain, as all his energy had been directed into intoning one final message to his horrified companion.
"I'm paying now for my failure, lad. Go, if you can, and rectify my mistakes. I'll be praying for your success." And then he was gone, swallowed whole by wild, devilish hues.
---
Max sat and watched the fire engulf the house of a man who he'd only known for about an hour, but who had charged the youthful reporter with a quest that seemed far beyond his experience. The sword, still active and flowing, was stabbed deep into the dirt, partially in frustration but mostly in honour of the old man. How it did O'aka justice, Max didn't know: it just felt right. The dragons contained within the blade seemed to watch mournfully as their former owner, now upon his blazing funeral bier, was consumed.
Max watched the house steadily burn and fall into ruin for a very long time. His mind was lost in thoughts of its own. When the steady realization that night had fallen came to him, the fire was already out, having barely scorched the grass that stood around the now vanished cabin.
"Seems like magic," Max whispered, and tapped his blade twice. Everything fell into darkness. Settling down with his head upon a rock – he could no more have cared whether he was seated upon a porcupine, so utterly fatigued as he was – he fell into a long, restless sleep, in which white haired youths with unwieldy scimitars lusted for his flesh.
O'aka, though a little disheartened, had to be satisfied with that much, and he was. "Thank you, lad. And even if you don't, well, at least get the word out. I don't... I don't want Mahri to kill anybody else, and if he's left to do things his own way, well, he might. I guess a newspaper is as good a way as any to spread the word." He coughed, gazing at Max as he paced. "You really are the spitting image of her, though. Just got heaps and heaps of energy."
Max winced. "Argh. . . no more comparisons, alright? It's freakish." O'aka bowed his head in apology. Silently, he rose from his rocker, wandering off into his bedroom. Ack, I should be nicer, I guess. Max scratched his head. He had a pounding headache by this point.
Moments later, O'aka returned bearing a rather large pouch in one hand and a long, thin, intricate sword in the other. It bore a large, gleaming ruby on either side of the pommel. Tossing the pouch to Max, O'aka withdrew the sword from its sheath: long and gleaming, with mythril-inlaid, serpentine dragons entwining around the blade in a vicious dance, it looked to be of inestimable value to Max. "Whoa, nice piece of hardware you got there, pops."
O'aka, ignoring the slight at his age, nodded sagely. "It looks kind of delicate, really, but this sword couldn't be tougher. I used to have a swordsman friend who wielded it all the time before he retired and hoisted it off on me. Never got a ding in it the whole bloody time. That's not all, though, my lad."
O'aka tapped the rubies on both sides. They began to glow, casting a harsh, bloody light upon the room.
Then Max witnessed something that took his breath away.
The blade seemed to suck the light, the very colour, out of the rubies. The reddish hue appeared as though a swirling liquid, slowly seeping into the sword – which had begun to fade in its own right, becoming somewhat translucent – and billowing out into huge, bubbling blotches that ran into of crevice the sword. It seemed as though it was filled with twisting lava. The two crystals – once rubies – now appeared to be flawless diamonds.
What was most amazing, though, was that the twin dragons upon it had truly begun to dance – they twisted up and around the sides of the sword, flowing amongst the lava and roaring soundlessly. The effect in its entirety was mesmerizing.
Max could feel the heat it cast off in the form of faint wisps of steam from across the room. He winced in shocked amazement. "Good lord, what is that thing?"
O'aka grinned, his first real show of amusement. "This, my friend, is the Flame Talon. Just by tapping these two rubies, you can fill it with magical fire. Don't worry about touching it like that, either: the flames just increase the slicing power, or so I'm told. Feels pleasantly warm, frankly." He ran his fingers across the blade. "This baby kept me warm many a night. And. . . I want you to have it, lad." He handed the steaming blade to Max.
Max was taken aback. "What? Me? Uh, I dunno if I should. . . why?"
The old man smiled. "Consider it payment, my boy. For listening. Besides, if you do end up following Mahri, you'll need a weapon. Something light like this looks right up your alley."
Max accepted the blade gravely, turning it over in his hands. It was indeed remarkably light: and Max watched in fascination as one of the dragons stopped to hiss mutely at him. The warmth that flowed from the blade felt oddly relaxing, and yet it kept him alert: the perfect combination of fluidity and caution rolled into one. He took a few practice swings. The motions felt perfectly natural, as though the sword were an extension of his arm. Steam flowed lazily in long, winding trails behind the blade, rising and vanishing against the ceiling.
"Th. . . thanks. Geez, this thing is fabulous. I bet I could sell it off and live comfortably for the rest of my life."
O'aka nodded. "You could. But if you do, and I find out, your ass is mine, lad." He tossed Max a wink that, for a moment, revealed in O'aka that formerly devilish merchant who had once plagued the markets with his crafty wheeling and dealing.
Max couldn't help but laugh. "I won't, I won't." With a pair of synchronized taps, the living flame seeped back into the diamonds – thus creating a fresh new pair of rubies again - and the sword reassumed its old, gilded magnificence, the dragons static once more. Almost instantly it was cold to the touch.
Max slipped it into the scabbard. "Hrm, this whole thing is a bit showy, don't you think? I'm liable to have it pilfered."
O'aka shook his head. "You don't get out at all, do you, lad?"
Max began with a slick line involving all the women around Luca who kept him constantly busy, but a cock-eyed glare from O'aka forced the young man into a lamely delivered "nah". O'aka nodded. "Didn't think so. Weapons that look kinda like these are all over Spira nowadays, or were when I was a part of the world. Most people wouldn't take a second look at that sword of yours, not unless they had a really keen eye for these sorts of things." He shrugged.
"Really? Geez. But, I'm guessing this is stronger than most, right?" His eyes ran from end to end on the sword, absorbing very nuance of both pommel and sheath.
"Oh yes. If my friend was true to his word, then it can split rocks – once you know how to swing it properly, of course. Otherwise it'll just take off your head."
Although this should have elicited a laugh, Max was deadly serious. He nodded carefully. The sword seemed to have ensnared his mind, which was what ever sly O'aka had planned on: if only a little bit, he knew Max was edging towards an adventure that would put the blade to use. It was worth a shot, in an event: and O'aka felt good to be putting his skills to use for one last time.
"The pouch has another little sack in it with the barrier nullifying gunk Mahri gave me. Use it to take that sucker down. I'm sure it'll work. There's some money in there, too: feel free to have it. I. . . don't much need it, anymore." The old man sniffed.
Max turned slowly to O'aka, eyeing him suspiciously. "Anymore? What, you're not leaving here at all?"
O'aka slowly shook his head. "No, my lad. . . like I said, these old bones of mine are done with this world, especially after the blossoming debacle that took place in the last week. . . now, in exchange for that, I need a favour from you, lad."
"Uhh. . . sure, go ahead." The old man seemed to be shutting in front of Max: his face was sagging, his knees shaking, and those dimmed eyes had just about lost their lustre entirely.
"Take that sword out again, lad. One last time." Max did as he was bade. O'aka, creaking his way over, carefully set it ablaze with twin taps from aged fingertips. The room was cast in an orangey light.
As though he'd been awaiting this moment, O'aka drew a long, carefully folded piece of straw from his pocket. "This's been sitting around the old shack for a good fifteen years now, my boy, brought in from lord knows what. Probably an old crate I chopped up for wood long ago." He delicately touched the end of the straw to the very edge of the flame: it was instantly alit with a tiny, dancing flame.
"A normal fire wouldn't suffice. Not for old O'aka. No, I wanted it to be special, right from this here sword. Thanks, lad. You can leave now." The old man pivoted on his heel, albeit slowly, and began a steady march into his bedroom, the straw burning brightly, its flame growing and consuming ever more steadily.
Max's confusion was soon replaced with fear as the realization of what the old man was doing hit him. "No, O'aka, don't be stupid – "
But it was too late. The fire, a far more powerful being of magical nature, had already set aflame the bed sheet on which it was laid. In the midst of it lay O'aka, the tiny tongues of bright orange already licking at his feet and slowly spreading upwards. He did not seem to have the power any longer to care about the pain, as all his energy had been directed into intoning one final message to his horrified companion.
"I'm paying now for my failure, lad. Go, if you can, and rectify my mistakes. I'll be praying for your success." And then he was gone, swallowed whole by wild, devilish hues.
---
Max sat and watched the fire engulf the house of a man who he'd only known for about an hour, but who had charged the youthful reporter with a quest that seemed far beyond his experience. The sword, still active and flowing, was stabbed deep into the dirt, partially in frustration but mostly in honour of the old man. How it did O'aka justice, Max didn't know: it just felt right. The dragons contained within the blade seemed to watch mournfully as their former owner, now upon his blazing funeral bier, was consumed.
Max watched the house steadily burn and fall into ruin for a very long time. His mind was lost in thoughts of its own. When the steady realization that night had fallen came to him, the fire was already out, having barely scorched the grass that stood around the now vanished cabin.
"Seems like magic," Max whispered, and tapped his blade twice. Everything fell into darkness. Settling down with his head upon a rock – he could no more have cared whether he was seated upon a porcupine, so utterly fatigued as he was – he fell into a long, restless sleep, in which white haired youths with unwieldy scimitars lusted for his flesh.