In a dumpy neighborhood lived a crotchety old man name Desai. Everyone knew this old man, but none would approach him due to his abhorrent attitude. He seemed to dislike everyone, regardless of age, sex, or standing.
Though the younger ones found him frightening simply because he would be mean to them, those older ones, especially those who were closer to his age, feared him because they knew of his background, though they dare not speak of it openly for fear that Desai would appear and whack them with his cane.
Even though he was old, his muscles were still strong and he could exert a good portion of his strength when necessary... or whenever one of his neighbors irked him, which was almost daily.
On this particular day, Desai found himself walking his usual path. His cane clacking against the gravel ground, letting others know of his approach. Some moved far enough away so as to not be hit, while others left entirely. Shop keeps color could be seen visibly draining when they caught sight of him, for he always scared away business. Desai ignored everyone, as usual, and turned to head down a side alley. He stopped after only two steps in. He walked this same path every single day for years so he knew every detail of the alley intricately. Whether it was due to his training from his younger days or just his observations from years of walking the same path, only he himself knew.
Today, however, something was amiss. He moved slowly, slower than his normally slow pace. Each footstep was quiet and precisely placed. Though he still stepped with the cane, it no longer clacked against the ground. It, too, became as quiet as a mouse. Slowly, he pressed forward, his eyes scanning all around him, looking for whatever it was that didn't belong. If it weren't for the situation at hand, Desai would praise himself for still being able to fall back on his training and instincts.
As he turned a corner, he stopped. There, crumpled in a dark corner where two buildings connected, lay a man. A scraggly and dirty man. At first glance, he could be mistaken for a beggar, but something told Desai that this man was no beggar. His clothes may be tattered and torn, his hair messy and stringy, covering his eyes, as well as being unshaven and exuding a horrid smell, but the aura that he gave off said otherwise. Though the man was turned so that his back was to him just enough, Desai could tell that he held something close to his thin frame.
Gingerly approaching the smelly man, Desai peaked over his shoulder. There, clutched close to the man's breast, was a sword. At least, that's what it looked like from what he could gather. The man's arm held it tight, almost as if he were holding a lover that he feared he would lose should he let go for even a moment.
Desai snorted. This man was a swordsman? What a pitiable state the man was in. He should be ashamed of himself. These thoughts permeated Desai's mind as he stared at the man. His frown deepened. He lifted his cane, preparing to give the man a good whack, as well as rehearsing the lecture he was going to scold him with in his mind. But before he could fully lift his cane, he stopped. His eyes slowly widened as something caught his attention.
The man shifted his position, and exposed a bit more of the sword. To be precise, he moved his legs so that the sheathe could be more visibly seen. It was this sheathe that Desai saw. He took note of the single red stripe that adorned the otherwise all black sheathe. To others it might appear to be nothing more than a simple design, but to Desai it was a significant sign.
'Why does he have their insignia?!' The old man thought. 'Are they here looking for me?' He immediately dismisses this thought, for whoever 'they' were, he knew that if they so desired, they would approach him directly, not send a message like this.
Desai lowered his cane and just stood next to the man, watching him for a good while.
"Boy", he said plainly, his deep voice resounding around them, all the while looking at the man, but there was no response.
"Boy!" He said with more emphasis, this time nudging the man with the foot of his cane. The man slightly stirred. His eyes opened partially, and looked to Desai. Immediately, Desai's eyes widened in shock.
'This man is at Deaths door!'
"Well shit!" The grumpy old man cursed as he knelt and lifted the man, knocking him on the head with the head of his cane. "Don't die before I've had the chance to kill you, myself, bastard," he grumbled as he wrapped his arm around the man's waist and held him close. With careful steps and a watchful eye, he brought the man back to his small shack.
—————
The man slowly opened his mouth and swallowed his saliva. He slowly regained consciousness and gingerly opened his eyes. He didn't recognize where he was, only that it was dark with the only light coming through a crack from curtains that had been drawn shut. His head was pounding, making even the little light that came in painful to bare. His mouth felt as though someone had stuffed cloth into it to absorb every bit of moisture. The same could be said for his throat. Simply put - he was thirsty. Very, very thirsty. He glanced about and found that a tall vase of water sat next to him, with a smaller cup resting right next to it.
He lifted himself up into a sitting position.
Ignoring the cup, he grabbed the pitcher and lifted it to his lips and began to guzzle down the cool water, not caring that a good portion was also spilling onto his clothing.
"Keep drinking like that and you'll eventually choke," a deep voice said plainly, startling the man. For a second he nearly dropped the vase, only to catch it and hug it right against him. After setting it down and wiping the water from his mouth, he looked around the room more carefully. How had he not seen the man the first time? Yet another question he would have to find an answer to later. In a dark corner of the room, the old man sat. Across his lap lay a sword. His sword. At least, he felt it was his since he awoke with it next to him. He took a quick glance to the sword, then back to the man. He wanted to lunge at the man, but he could feel an aura radiating from him. An old, frightening, powerful aura. An aura that told him he would be injured very badly, if not die, if he did anything rash like lunge for the sword. So instead, he sat there, just staring.
As he stared, something peculiar happened. The darkness surrounding the man seemed to slowly fade, allowing him to become more visible. The old man sat there, staring in return, no emotion evident on his face. His arms were crossed over his chest and he held a relaxed posture, but any experienced fighter could LOOK relaxed while still having their guard up. Wait, how did he know that? He reigned in his thoughts, that answer wasn't important right now.
"I have a few questions for you," the old man began, "first off, where did you get this sword?"
The man slightly shook his head, but didn't utter a single sound. A hint of irritation flashed across the old man's eyes. "I asked a question, boy," he said calmly but coolly, a hint of danger laced within the comment. The man raised his chin and pointed to his neck. The old man's eyes widened a bit as realization set it. "Ah..."
The man nodded in return. "Then let me ask you this way, do you know what this signifies?" He showed the man the design on the sheathe. The man shook his head with a look of puzzlement. As far as he knew, it was a simple design. "No, I thought as much..." the old man sighed, closing his eyes. He sat there for a bit in complete silence, not moving.
"Do you have a name?"
The sudden question startled the man because it had been so silent just moments before. He thought for a bit, trying to recall his name but nevertheless he shook his head no. Nothing could be called to mind. "No name? Really? Do you remember who you are? Where you come from?" Again, the answer was no. "Interesting..." the old man commented to himself. He stood and moved to the window and peered out, then immediately turned to the man. "Bale! I'll call you Bale for the time being. Not like you could refute me, anyway."
That little jab irked him, but the old man was right. Even though he wanted to, he couldn't voice his arguments, thus he accepted his name. "You can call me Desai," the man said as he took his seat once more, placing the sword down to lean against the wall next to him.
"You May stay here until you are fit enough to leave, but do not expect charity. You will work for everything that is provided for you, understand?"
Bale nodded in agreement.
"Good. For now, get some rest because tomorrow I will work you til you wish you had accepted Deaths embrace," Desai said matter-of-factly. Then he did something he hadn't done in decades - he smiled.