Twas the night before the battle. Captain Horndall gave the Shepeste militia the entire night off to rest and recuperate their energy. But one group felt restless. There was a certain electric feel to the air. It felt vibrant as excitement and anxiousness mixed. It kept them wide awake. So they gathered in Jobb's tavern, eating good food, sharing stories, and enjoying each other's company. The fireplace was warm, cooking with a surprising amount of wood that Rose fetched somewhere Jobb didn't know.
The tavern was alive with chatter. The people were huddled in one giant group, no one left out. They were smiling, laughing, sharing stories and passing meals and drinks. Some had even brought instruments and began strumming a few tunes, and others joined in singing. Jobb never felt his tavern sound so alive. Jobb never felt Shepeste feel so alive. He never felt Shepeste so united and strong. The last time it was so was when the Old Hill still stood.
Jobb was busily going back and forth from the kitchen to the tables delivering the tall orders of his new brothers in arms. He caught Gaskin in the middle of telling a story of how he trained with a pitchfork and apparently defeated the fully armed quartermaster. It was a tall tale, everyone in the room knew, but they listened anyway if only to laugh at the old farmer.
Gaskin paused when he saw Jobb. "Say, where's your girl Thorn?"
"Oh, she's busy."
"Is she? I thought with her being here you'd get help waiting tables."
Jobb laughed. "She has more important things than helping her father wait tables, Gaskin."
Thorn went upstairs since the sun set and hasn't come down ever since. She locked herself in her old room, the very one she spent her childhood in before she left Shepeste for the Consortium academy in the city. She made it abundantly clear when Jobb checked into her earlier that she wanted no company other than the piles of grimoires that she brought into her room. She told him she needed to prepare her spells for the coming battle. She will have the biggest role to play tomorrow, after all, so he asked nothing and allowed her to focus on her duty.
Besides, strange things happen whenever those grimoires are around, and Jobb would rather stay away from those mysterious things and be where he's most familiar: his tavern. So he soldiered on, working his tavern with a smile constantly plastered on his face.
Soon he was done with the orders. He wiped his hands on his apron and went to join the group, this time as part of the party rather than as a bartender. Looking for a place to squeeze himself in, he realised the vacant spot next to a quiet looking young man, barely older than Thorn.
He was there with the group, but his mind seemed far away. He hasn't spoken a word since the beginning, preferring to stare outside the window towards the milky moon from the rim of his cup. He had green eyes and black hair that was curled messily on his head like a sheep's thick fur. Leaning beside his chair was his only companion, a sword. It was one handed, with a thick pommel and a thicker hilt.
Jobb sat beside him. No protest. But he didn't speak a word either, which Jobb wanted to change.
"That's a good sword, um…"
"Boyd," the young man replied.
Everyone's eyes turned to the sword in question. Gaskin whistled.
But Boyd by no means looked rich. He wore a simple deep green tunic that matched the green of his eyes. His boots were made of hard leather and travel worn, with cuts and grazes here and there and thick coats of mud caking it. His hands seemed rough and calloused from hard labour. Or, Jobb thought, practising the sword. Or both.
The young man saw the question lingering in Jobb's eyes, one he dared not ask. So instead, he answered away. "It was my father's."
Gaskin shook his head. "War took everyone. Took everyone too soon."
"I'm sorry," said Jobb.
Boyd smiled from the rim of his cup. "Don't. You said it yourself, Gaskin. The war extracted a heavy toll from all of us. I'm barely the most tragic person living in Shepeste. Save your pity to those who wished for it. As for my father, he was a good man. He led a good life, and died the right way. I'm not sad."
Heads nodded to the wise words coming from one so young.
Boyd lifted the drink to his lips and downed its content in big gulps. He had to wipe his chin with his sleeves when he's done.
For a long hard second Boyd said nothing, content in staring at his empty cup. Jobb was about to move the topic when Boyd spoke again. "Damn but am I scared shitless for tomorrow, though."
The group erupted into laughter. But it was good natured. Jobb even allowed a few chuckles in himself. There was something hilarious about the young man's dry deliveries.
But Boyd didn't join in their laughter. The smile on his lips barely reached his eyes.
When the laughter died, and the quiet returned, he finally said, "My father used to tell me stories about the bravery of the Heroes. It always took the fear away."
Gaskin grinned. "Then share. I'm sure some of us here are scared shitless too but wouldn't say."
Boyd scratched his beardless chin. "There's not a lot of stories because he only talks about Jason, and Jason only."
"Ah, Jason," Gaskin said. "That's a man I'd follow to the ends of the earth even if I'm armed with a pitchfork."
The group echoed his sentiment.
"He was not a Hero, he was the Hero, I say!" One said, and more followed.
"Never was there a Hero quite like him,"
"He was a gentleman of fortune, he was!"
Boyd shared his story, and all was absorbed.
Jason, the Wyrmmonger, the master of all weapons, wyrmmetal or not. With sharp or blunt, short or long, he danced through the battlefield, leaving a path of blood. Among the Consortium, he wasn't as revered as the other heroes for his skills didn't align with theirs. But Jason was popular among common men all over the country, and the Shepestians were no different. He was 'one of the boys'. He's the one who fought with sword and spear alongside Heroes who wield world-shattering magic, against enemies who could burn the fabric of reality.
Boyd continued. "You know, my father met him once when he joined the war, back when he was green having just left Shepeste. The crazy thing is, you always hear about Jason's might and think he's a seasoned veteran riddled with scars and a bush of a beard for good measure. But you'll be surprised by just how young he looked. He had this red hair, cut short like a young boy's. His jaw was free of a single hair of beard or moustache. And he stood no taller than my father then. He told me when he looked at Jason, he could see me in him. He was just so young.
"When he told me about his encounter, it was hard to grasp why my father idolised him above the other Heroes. I remember I once asked my father why is Jason so great if he has all that wyrmmetal helping him? And he'd tell me 'If I hand you a wyrmmetal sword right now, do you reckon you can stand toe to toe against the Sorcerer King?'"
Boyd lifted his sword and gazed at it. "Then he'd push this sword here right to my chest and said 'The weapon doesn't make the man.'"
His eyes remained glued to the sword, and for a second, Jobb thought he'd never continue. But then Boyd laughed mirthlessly and said, "Maybe that's why, even if I have this sword, I'm still scared. I'm not quite the man yet."
Jobb smiled and clapped his shoulder. The force shook Boyd to the core. "You'll be alright, son."
Boyd lifted his eyes and met the eyes of the others, and strong, fearless eyes looked back.
"We'll have each other's backs," Jobb said. "We're Shepestians, and Shepestians are tough. Tomorrow we'll survive, and we'll survive together. We always have."