Months have passed since then; the autumn breeze, while frigid, is a breath of fresh air from your daily labors and the heat at Gundrik's forge.
There is that matter of Bregan's new fancy sword you have to pay off, but in all honesty, you already earned that much weeks ago. No, your biggest problem is that you have another mouth to feed, the one that belongs to your friendly neighborhood necromancer.
It is both a blessing and a curse that Gundrik's usual underling has taken ill, as it allows you a full day's wage working under the dwarven blacksmith. It also makes you perpetually sore and covered in charcoal dust from head to toe. Your scent is not unlike a hairy dwarf who never feels the need to bathe. Your social life has turned over and died, though you just can't seem to figure out why. There has to be a reason why the boys don't seem so keen to flirt with you anymore.
"Ah reckon tha'd be ah good day's haul, Ronald Dunhall. Might be mah dwarven eyes 'ah goin, but I do think ye be gettin' tha hang o' this." You wipe the sweaty grime off your face with the sleeve of your woolen tunic. Gundrik might have it right—you are becoming quite the talented nail-maker. You even have the blistered hands to prove it. But nothing numbs the pain of workplace injuries quite like payday does. "Here ye go, an ah added ah somethin' extra for good behavior!"
You weigh the pouch of silver in your hands. Something extra? It's the same weight as all the previous pouches…is he drunk on the job again? Last time he was, you ended up making a dozen gardening hoes for an order that didn't exist. You're still trying to clear them out of your inventory.
"Do ya 'member when we was talkin' ahbout ye favorite weapon weeks 'n weeks ago? Well, ye are in fer a surprise!" The dwarf bellows in excitement. But as far as surprises go, you're just astonished that he recalls that conversation.
Gundrik pulls out a sword that glistens in the light of the firepit. It is in this moment, covered in soot and barely able to keep your shoulders raised, that you know you've crossed a chapter. Figuratively speaking, of course. "Go ahead, lass, take it." You eagerly comply, finding it quite a bit lighter than you'd have thought by the look of it.
Unlike Bregan's blade, this one is no doubt of dwarven make. The squared bottom and short hilt gives that away. In length, it is slightly shorter than a typical longsword, but broader. More chopping power behind the swings. You give it a few just to verify its balance. It glides through the air just like you imagined it would.
You thank your employer graciously and head to the grocer with a skip in your step. With all this energy, you might be able to make it through another of Silvanus's magic lessons without passing out! At this point in your magic training, it's the small victories that count. But dang, you feel like a badass walking around with some steel on your back. It's no wonder Bregan is never more than an arm's length from that sword of his.
A figure enters the path ahead of you and turns squarely in your direction. Speak of the devil.
"Ronald Dunhall. We need to tal—is that a new sword?!" Bregan's lecture—no doubt well prepared and rehearsed—is cut short upon the sight of shiny new steel. You see his grubby fingers tingle, and you reluctantly hand over the sword. The boyish excitement doesn't fit a knight-in-training, but you wouldn't want to spoil the moment.
"This is a good sword…Gundrik ought to be proud. A shame its wielder isn't trained to use it! I've got some techniques and exercises, it'll be a cinch to get you up to speed." Bregan nods to himself as if it were all decided.
It takes a good manner of self-restraint to hold in a groan. When you aren't working as the reluctant apprentice of smithing, you're struggling as a magician's apprentice under Silvanus. The very idea of being the apprentice of anything else makes you want to turn over in a fetal position and cry. You try to explain to Bregan the severe lack of free time your life holds at the moment, but the redhead doesn't budge an inch.
"You work way too hard, Ronald Dunhall. I hardly see you around town, except when you head to the grocers, which is what I bet you're doing now. You think with all that food you'd bulk up, but you look gaunt and sickly…I'm just worried…" Bregan trails off at the end there, but you know keeping up this charade is taking its toll.
You are getting stronger from the hard work with the smithy and smarter from all of Silvanus's lectures. Well, the ones you manage to stay awake through, anyway. But exhausting your body and mind day in and day out…you're bound to look the worse for wear.
An accusatory finger points at you. "There's something you haven't been telling me. You can't keep a lie from me for long, Ronald Dunhall." Well actually, you can. It has been over three months since that fateful day in the forest when your father found a dark mage stuck in a beartrap. Three months of hiding him from the entire town, who all think the lordling had been picked up by his relatives and is currently sipping tea with barons and duchesses. The reality involves far less tea, unfortunately.
Without your consent, Bregan decides to accompany you on your shopping trip. This will prove troublesome, especially since you're hoping to ask around about rumors of demon hunters about. The trick is to bring up demon slaying in casual conversation…
As Silvanus's sole source of information on current events, you've started to make it a habit to pay attention to what's going on in the world. You can't say you've made much progress, but seeing as how slow news travels as of late, who can really blame you? Under the redhead's scrutiny, you purchase your usual fare from the shopkeeper. It is good that Silvanus's tastes are more tame than most nobility; you doubt your wallet could stomach peacock and oysters every week.
Now that you think about it, a religious group of warriors seems like just the sort of thing Bregan would fanboy over. Maybe he knows something.
A radiant sort of euphoria erupts from your companion's features. "The Paladins of Light! Saint Freylae's Calvary, the Bishop's Garrison, even the Cossack Order! The opportunities to serve the justice of the Fates are countless, but I'm surprised you've taken an interest in them, Ronald Dunhall. I've dreamed of becoming a paladin, after proving my service to our King with the knights, of course."
Great…while the redhead would-be fighter fantasizes about holy warrior guilds, you've just learned the names of groups who'd like nothing more than to see a mage like yourself on the pointy ends of their swords. Bet they'd get a lordship for it, too.
On the way back home, the prolonged awkward silence eats at your nerves, so you decide to make some small talk. That, and you're earnestly curious about how the newlywed couple is faring.
"You haven't seen big sis around, but she's already starting to blow up like a bullfrog. Hate seein' her let herself go like that." It's quite possible that she's pregnant, but you decide to let Bregan believe what he wants to believe.
Being as your home is the regular stomping grounds of many hungry little monsters (siblings), you have to get a bit creative as to where you store the food. You manage to hide it under several other crates in the main room.
"Well, guess that's that, then. I've got a few errands to run before dinner. Good night, Ronald Dunhall." In a surprisingly unstubborn fashion, Bregan leaves you be. A good thing too, as you need to sneak these supplies out shortly after dinner.
It's weird, but you rarely see your family much anymore these days. Your older siblings, well they're the same—into their own ordeals with their own friends. All the little ones are getting bigger, developing personalities (of the annoying sort, mostly) and really just acting like little people. You feel a pang of guilt when you realize that their big sister hasn't been around to help them much. A game of horseshoes or a hunting trip, you think you can manage to work in something on the weekends.
During the meal, your father mentions something that catches your attention. "Think we gots a Druid or somethin' way out back. Been seein' campfires fer the past few days up around the creek." You don't intend to correct your father, in that it's actually a hunted dark mage out back, not some hermit fond of mushrooms. But this is troublesome; Silvanus will have to move to a different location, and soon.
With all the food gone, dinner is promptly adjourned and you slip out with a week's worth of cheese, hard bread, and salmon. The path into the forest is one you know quite well by this point, and you could probably navigate it blindfolded. The return trip back is often a walk through pitch darkness, though your eyes will be well-adjusted by then.
"Ronald Dunhall, welcome back." You catch Silvanus leaning up against a tree, quickly jotting down notes on a piece of parchment in the fading rays of the setting sun. Noticing what you are carrying, he pockets the paper and approaches you. Giving a gracious bow, the magician thanks you. "You are too kind, my champion. I feel as if I am a heavy burden, but allow me to reward you with a special lesson tonight." S-special lesson? What exactly does Silvanus have in mind?