Here's an introduction to my namesake, who just so happens to be a rogue. All reviews are welcome.

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"Stop, thief!" someone yelled. "Guards!" Poiniard thought that was odd. Another thief, working the same little street he was? He almost paused to look back, until he realized he was the thief they were shouting about. He was sure no one had seen him, but apparently someone had. He cursed his luck as he ran on, away from the Street of Scribes and down one of Culhaven's innumerable side alleys.

The Street of Scribes was not really a street, but more of a small district. Long ago, it had been a single street, leading from Scribers Hall near the Old Wall down to the docks on the Sea of Cule. In those days, ship captains and caravan masters were forced to use the scribes' services. Poiniard had often wondered why every copper coin had to be greedily accounted for in some ink-stained ledger. Keeping their wealth in vaults in locked coffers wasn't enough? Now, the Scribes had but a tithe of their former importance, and Poiniard never even gave their dusty old guild hall a second thought. The Scribes kept their wealth in paper, not metal.

He paused for a moment to see what his morning's exploits had gotten him. The small sack in his hand contained three gleaming silver targets and a handful of coppers. Not much. That and something else- a piece of parchment, rolled up and bound with a string. Whatever it was, he could look at that later. He tucked the coins into his own pouch and the paper into his boot, and tossed the empty, stolen bag away.

Poiniard knew the town guard would never catch him. Once, he had been unlucky enough to slit a pouch when a trio of the King's Men had been nearby. The guards looked fearsome enough, with their mail and helms and pikes, but that same armor was heavy, and they clattered as they ran. Poiniard could go over walls and through grates, and the sweltering heat didn't wear him down as much as it did the armored guardsmen. He was more worried about escaping any civic-minded townsfolk who might be behind him.

Them and the shopkeeper he'd just robbed. But he didn't see any angry mobs in pursuit, or the tops of the guardsmen's pikes bobbing over the heads of the throng, so he figured he had gotten away. He didn't want to take any chances, though, the way his luck had been lately. He set off again, more slowly this time.

The whole place was a maze of shops, emporiums and craftsworks, but Poiniard knew the streets like the back of his hand. The buildings were crammed close together, three and even four stories high, each story sticking further out over the street than the one below. The buildings were washed in a panoply of bright colors, to set each one apart from its neighbors. The roofs were made of colorful tiles, so that, it was said, the city looked like a basket of flowers when seen from an approaching ship. Poiniard had never been to sea. Up close, Culhaven smelled like anything but flowers. It wasn't even noon, and he was already sweating. He wished winter would come sooner.

It wasn't much later that Poiniard finally climbed up into the garret he called home. It was a tiny attic room, on the third floor of an ancient boarding house a good way from the Street of Scribes. He didn't use the stairs, because they creaked and seemed about to collapse. Every time he came in that way, he ran into someone who lived on one of the floors below, and he hated talking to his neighbors. It was just easier to climb the trellis and come in to his room through the window. He kept his door locked from the inside.

He moved a few iron caltrops under the window, and went over to sit on his bedroll in the corner. His pillow and his cupboard were one and the same- a tattered sack of turnips. He took one out and began slicing his noontime meal.

Poiniard wasn't alone. He shared his lodgings with a pair of old grey bats, Sagus and Magus. One of them was awake, and staring at him, but he wasn't sure which it was. He decided it must be Sagus.

"Not much today, Sagus," he said. "Three targets and some cuppers." The bat, hanging upside down, looked at him. "Stop looking at me like that," he said. "I'm in a bind, and a man's gotta survive. How many times do I have to tell you that? I won't be thieving much longer, though. I'll get out before I get into any trouble with the guards or the guild, and set myself up in an honest living. Maybe I'll take up a trade." Poiniard really didn't know how to make an honest living- other than farming turnips, but he certainly wasn't going back to doing that.

He glared up at the two bats hanging overhead, minding their own business. "Maybe you two are the cause of my problems. Bats are bad luck, they say." A handful of silver and copper coins was not much. His plan was not going well.

Then he remembered the little scroll, and took it from his boot. He turned it over and back in his hand, examining it. Carefully, he removed the string and unrolled the paper. Poiniard could read "signs and shingles" well enough- almost everyone in Culhaven could- and for him, knowing the letters of the Trade Tongue was enough to get by in the city. But he also knew dwarven lettering when he saw it. There were two words written there, "Manyswords Mercantile," the name of a tiny armory near the end of the Street of Scribes. Tucking the paper back into his boot, he lay down on his blanket and decided to wait until dark. The bats said nothing.

***

It was well into the hour of Latewatch when Poiniard arrived outside Manyswords Mercantile. A light fog had rolled in, and there was thunder in the distance. The night air and sea breezes had cooled things somewhat, but it was still hot. The entire lane was dark, except for this one particular shop, where a lantern still hung in the window. Stange that it would still be open at such a late hour. Poiniard checked the dagger hidden in his wrist sheath, and took the paper from his boot. Carefully, he entered the shop.

Except for a small door at the back, every available space on the walls inside the shop was covered with weapons, in racks of one sort or another. There were swords of all sizes and shapes, from daggers to claidhmores. There were axes, double-bladed and single. There were even a few pole-arms and spears. He saw no guards inside, just the shopkeeper by himself. Perhaps because of the lettering on the scroll, Poiniard had been expecting a dwarf. But it was a man who greeted him, or seemed to be. The shopkeeper wore heavy robes and a cloak despite the heat, with the hood of his cloak drawn up. His face was hidden in shadow.

Poiniard eyed him suspiciously. "Eh, this is Manyswords Mercantile?" he asked.

"Thou hast found it," said the shopkeeper, rising to his feet. "I am Manyswords." He spread his arms, indicating the variety of edged weapons for sale about the shop. "I sell all manner of weapons, not just swords, some imported, all of the finest quality." The man's voice was odd, sibilant. His accent sounded foreign. His manner of speaking was unfamiliar. To Poiniard, it sounded vaguely antiquated. Then the hooded man appeared to notice the scroll he was holding. "What interests you?"

Poiniard looked about for the closest thing at hand. He picked up a sharp- edged coldsteel longsword. The sword had a hilt shaped like a pair of sweeping wings, with a trio of glittering rubies set in the tang. He pretended to examine the sword closely. It was probably worth more than he could steal in a year.

The hooded man shook his head and took the sword from Poiniard's hand. As he did so, his sleeve brushed up against Poiniard's arm. The man paused. "Something a little less cumbersome might suit you better. Come, perhaps this one." The shopkeeper went to another case on the wall and brought down a sword, shorter than the first, and set with tourmalines instead of rubies. "This one is much easier to.carry."

"Hrm, that one looks quite nice," Poiniard lied. "How much?"

"If I let this one go for less than a thousand crowns, twould be a steal."

Poiniard didn't like the sound of that. Had he caught some double meaning? He couldn't make out the man's face to read anything from his eyes. Did the hooded man suspect? There was definitely something strange and sorcerous about this fellow. Poiniard decided not to press his luck. "Erm, not today, thankee," he mumbled, and started backing towards the door.

"Wait, wait," the man almost hissed. Poiniard thought he sensed some urgency in his voice, but could not be sure. "Let me show thee this, instead." He took out a third sword, about the same length as the first, but not as ornate, and without the jewels. The blade was not shiny, and seemed to be made out of something other than steel. The hilts were burnished, the pommel plain and unadorned. "Mayhaps this is more to your liking?" He held it out to Poiniard. "This is Wyrding."

Poiniard blinked. That meant nothing to him, but he liked the look of the weapon.

"Wyrding," repeated the hooded man. "The scourge of Damral Hill, once wielded by Thog Darkblade himself, slayer of demons, maker of kings, legendary blade of the Wolfbrands. And here it is, in my shop. I told you, lad, I sell only the finest weaponry."

In spite of himself, Poiniard was intrigued. Not so much by the supposed lineage of the thing, that was probably a lie. But the thought of having a longsword suddenly appealed to him. He took the sword in his hand. He'd come here perhaps to rob the place, but now he found himself wanting to actually buy this sword. He imagined how he would look wielding it. His father used to be a soldier, before he had retired to the farm. His older brother had gone off to become a mercenary- something which pleased his father if not his mother. Poiniard himself had left home to become a mercenary as well, but that had not lasted long. He wasn't a fighter. "What is the price?"

"Three silver targets," said the man.

"I'll give you two," answered Poiniard.

***

The streets outside of Manyswords' were empty, but Poiniard looked twice to be sure. He thought he heard the sound of boots on cobblestones around the corner. If a guard patrol happened upon him after dark with a naked blade, he'd be taken to the dungeons for sure, but he had no sheath to put it in.

Next to Manysword's was a candleshop. He tore down the banner hanging over the door and used it to wrap Wyrding. He slung his bundle over his shoulder and quickly made his way back to his boarding house. Climbing the trellis was easy, even while holding his sword in the other hand. Once inside, he lit a candle, drew the curtains and unwrapped Wyrding. He sat holding the sword in his lap.

Poiniard couldn't believe his luck. He'd found a magic sword, he was sure of it. No one with a name like "Thog Darkblade" would use anything but a magic sword. He carefully touched the edge of the blade with his thumb, checking its sharpness. According to legend, magical swords were made by the dwarves. The most famous swords were all owned by kings and great lords, kept locked away in vaults and armories, swords like Spellbinder and Giantslayer. Perhaps this one would bring him good luck, or grant him seven wishes. Now, that would surely be useful. But, no matter how hard he tried, Wyrding didn't seem to do any of those things.

He closed his eyes, and wished very hard for a bag of gold. He took a pair of unweighted dice from his pouch and rolled them three times while holding the sword in his other hand. It didn't seem to have any affect. He looked around for Sagus and Magus, but they were not there. He wished they were, in case bats blood were somehow necessary to awaken the sword's powers. The sword felt good in his hand, well-balanced. He swung Wyrding easily back and forth a few times, cutting through the air, but it neither sang nor burst into flames.

Then another thought occured to him, and he scowled. Some magical swords were said to be cursed. Some were cursed so that you could never drop them. He quickly let go of Wyrding, but it just fell to the floor like a normal sword would. Others brought bad luck, or insanity, or drove their wielder into a frenzy of killing. Wyrding didn't seem to do any of those things, either.

"Oh well," he sighed, speaking to no one in particular. "In the morning, maybe I can find a diviner to tell me something about you." Poiniard had never gone to a sorcerer before. In fact, he tried to avoid them whenever possible. But hedge-wizards and soothsayers were easily found along the Street of Scribes. He still had a few cuppers left, and that should be enough for a simple reading. He carefully put Wyrding on the floor beneath his bedroll, replaced the caltrops guarding the window and snuffed out his candle. Before he went to sleep, Poiniard opened the curtains so the bats could get back in when the sun came up.

***

Poiniard rose early and went to the Well Market, a square along the Street of Scribes. During the day, the place was filled with the stalls and wagons of travelling merchants, and throngs of travellers and townsfolk. After dusk, the Well Market emptied somewhat, leaving only a great stone fountain in the middle of its cobblestone expanse. To one side was the sign of the Dancing Bear, a passable three-story inn with a raucous tavern that stayed open well past dark. Poiniard frequented it on occasion. In truth, he knew the place well, and that was how he had first come to meet Bhenyamin the Magician, who lived around the corner.

He wore his new sword in a plain sheath at his side. It felt a little awkward at first, carrying a real weapon, not just knives and throwing daggers. It made him feel important, somehow, like some great hero of the north, or maybe it just fired his imagination. It also made him feel conspicuous, so he tried to walk with the sheath pressed close against his leg. His eyes lingered on the fat purse of a wealthy Pomaini, hanging unheeded from his belt while he haggled with a wine-seller who had just opened his stand. But Poiniard ignored the temptation and pressed on, making his way towards the alley beside the Dancing Bear. He had not come to pick pockets.

"Excuse me!"

Poiniard nearly jumped at the voice. Fool that he was, he had walked right into a woman coming out of the Dancing Bear. "Sorry," he stammered. "Pardon me, I was not paying atten-" He stood gaping at the woman before him. Her clothing was plain enough that Poiniard had not even noticed her at first. She didn't wear a dress or gown, rather a belted tunic and trousers like a man. But from the sound of her voice and the curly auburn hair that spilled out from her hood, there was no doubt she was a woman. When she pulled back the hood of her cloak, he saw that her slim face was perhaps the most beautiful he had ever seen. Her eyes were brown, and thankfully Poiniard saw in them right away that she was not offended by his rudeness.

Her companion was another matter. He stood beside her protectively and loomed over them both. The man was taller than Poiniard by a head, at least. His shoulders were intimidatingly broad. He wore a dark green cloak over leather armor set with metal studs. His great, black beard stuck out down to his chest. In one giant hand, the man held a sturdy cudgel, almost large enough to be called a tree.

"Move along, little man," he said in a bearlike voice.

For a moment, Poiniard thought the woman's eyes had wandered to Wyrding at his side, but when he looked back, even her tall guardian had already disappeared into the crowd.

***

The Magician Bhenyamin sat alone in the shade behind the inn like a beggar. He wore tattered robes of heavy velvet despite the season, and Poiniard wanted to pinch his nose at the stench coming off him. His hair was a grey tangle, and his wrinkled hands shook incessantly. Before him was a wooden cup and the box which held his magical components- chicken bones and rat fur and other such things.

"This man was truly a great wizard, once," Poiniard thought. Then he blinked. That thought had come unbidden into his mind. What could have made him think that? He chided himself for a fool. The old man sitting there looked more like a charlatan than a wizard. "Greetings," he said. "I have come for-"

"I know why you are here," Bhenyamin snapped. "You want answers." The old wizard peered at him intently. "Ah, yes, I know you. Poiniard you call yourself."

Poiniard had no idea the man even knew his name, let alone remembered him, but then sorcerers were nothing if not surprising. He sat down beside Bhenyamin with as much respect as he could muster.

"You want answers," repeated Bhenyamin, tapping the wooden cup with a gnarled hand. Poiniard dropped in his last few coins. He drew Wyrding from its sheath and handed the sword to Bhenyamin. He looked to the old fortuneteller expectantly.

"Hrm, this is very old," Bhenyamin said.

Well, that was something at least. "What does it do?"

"Do?"

"Yes, what are its powers?"

"Well, it is very old," he said.

"Yes, you just said that. But is that all? Is it magic?"

Bhenyamin rolled his eyes. Thog Darkblade once wielded this sword. "Of course it is magic."

"But what kind of magic?" Poiniard asked. "Will it bring me good luck?"

The fortuneteller thought for a moment. "Perhaps with a magic sword, you will try things you would not otherwise attempt, and succeeding in them, you might consider yourself lucky."

That thought had never occurred to Poiniard before. "So, you mean it is a lucky sword?"

Bhenyamin did not answer. Instead, he rubbed his hand along the blade, muttering to himself. "Hrm, now that's interesting."

Poiniard leaned forward. "What?"

"With this blade, you will move about silently and unseen in the shadows."

Poiniard sighed. He did that well enough already. "Anything else?"

"Any lock will spring open at a touch of this enchanted blade."

At last! Poiniard couldn't believe his luck. This was finally his road to wealth and fortune. He would finally be able to put the life of a peasant behind him forever. With the help of this magical sword, he could become wealthy, prosperous, comfortable.

"Magic does not come without its price," Bhenyamin added.

"What does that mean?" Poiniard asked, suddenly alarmed. "Is it cursed?"

"Cursed? I'm not sure what you mean."

"You know, cursed!" Poiniard spluttered. What kind of sorcerer didn't know what a curse was? "Will bad things happen to me if I keep it?"

"Did bad things happen to you BEFORE you came upon this sword?"

Poiniard nodded dubiously.

"Well, there you are, then. Swords are either magic or they are not, you know."

Poiniard sighed. "I mean, will it bring me BAD luck? Will it make me go blind, or mad?"

"Ah, now I see what you are asking." The old man shook his head. "A sword cannot be cursed. Only people can be cursed. But magic does not come without its price."

"Yes, you said that already."

Bhenyamin straightened up and handed back the sword. "Rest easy, Poiniard," he said. "Wyrding is yours now."

"Thank you," said Poiniard. He got up to leave.

"Until whichever long-dead wizard forged the thing comes looking for it," Bhenyamin added with a mischievous smile.

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This work of original fiction is © Poiniard (FanFiction ID 68338). All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of the author.