Year fifteen rolled around, with it another trove of weapons. Over the years he had received every weapon imaginable. Homemade axes and swords from Uncle Gunn, contraptions he could not even describe from Aunt Fred, small, easily concealed knives from Aunt Cordy, ancient, medieval blades accompanied with volumes of text from Uncle Wes. His father added a crossbow to the pile this year.
Then the package arrived.
Small, innocuous, it contained a single, very sharp, very pointy wooden stake. The attached note simply read I received my first stake at fifteen. Someone should carry on the tradition.
Connor examined the hand carved stake, admiring the detail, and wondering why his father suddenly looked so melancholy.