Rowan breathed in the brisk evening air as he strode into the fading sunlight dappling the forest. The familiar scent of pine needles and loam soothed his spirit, and he allowed the tension from village life to unwind from his shoulders. This woodland glen had become his private sanctuary, where he could hone his craft without prying eyes.
Selecting a small clearing, Rowan unsheathed his trusted blade in one smooth motion. He took a moment to feel it's comforting weight, drawing strength from the bond he shared with this tool. Then he flowed into the opening stance, eyes narrowing in fierce concentration. His body danced the intricate patterns with instinctive grace, each calculated strike ringing out into the stillness.
As the sun sank below the trees, staining the sky crimson, Rowan poured all his being into the ritual. Sweat slicked his brow but he did not falter, losing himself to the poetry of motion. His form was poetry in steel, every muscle singing in harmony. In these sacred moments, he was not a village outsider but a force of nature - guided by an innate purpose far greater than any title could hold. Darkness fell, and still he honed his edge beneath the gathering stars. This was his sacred calling, and in its pursuit, he found ultimate peace. Rowan's blade sliced through the night-thickened air, each practiced swing guiding him deeper into trance. Only the quiet rustlings of nocturnal woodland dwellers broke the stillness, a comforting backdrop to his solitary dance.
As his muscles burned with a soothing fire, a flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye. Rowan froze mid-strike, every sense straining into the gloom beneath shadowy boughs. There, between the boles - was that merely a drifting leaf, or something more substantial lingering just out of sight?
Gripping his hilt till knuckles paled, Rowan slowly pivoted, scanning the enclosed forest. The faint scrape of branches yielded no other sounds. Yet an innate prickling raised the fine hairs along his arms; something, or someone, watched from the fringes of his perception.
He dared not call out, for such an incursion onto his secret training grounds could bring no good. Rowan flowed silently into a guard position, steadying erratic breaths to hear all. Whatever lurked so close to home, his blade would give an answer should it threaten all he vowed to protect. The deepening night held its mystery a while longer. Rowan tensed, sword raised, as a sudden flurry of movement broke the stillness. A nightmarish form erupted from the tree line with guttural snarls, hackles bristling in the dim starlight.
Goblin was the name his people gave these forest demons, and well it fit the horror before him. Wiry muscles bunched beneath mottled flesh as it brandished a chipped stone blade, thin lips peeled back to reveal yellowed fangs. Its slanted eyes locked upon Rowan with savage hunger, saliva flying as rumbling growls emanated from its chest.
Only tales around village hearths had prepared him for such a beast, yet nothing could brace one for their twisted visage. Rowan gasped, feet sliding backward in spite of himself, as waves of foul breath assailed his senses. Every iota of woodland menace seemed distilled in the goblin's wiry form, a nightmare given flesh and bone.
Steeling his nerves, Rowan centered himself and leveled his gleaming sword. Whatever evil this demon harbored, no threat to homeland could be tolerated whilst breath remained in him. His moment of shock passed; now the dance would answer its own question. The goblin burst into a frenzied charge with alarming swiftness, dull blade raised in two gnarled fists. Rowan braced himself, senses sharpening beneath the hammer of adrenaline.
As the creature barreled down, every muscle sang its readiness. Years of drills under Sergeant Geralt's stern tutelage coalesced into instincts fluid as quicksilver. Rowan flowed liquidly to the left, feeling the rush of putrid wind buffing his cheek. The goblin bellowed in dismay, skidding through empty air.
Wheeling with preternatural grace, Rowan sighted along his trusting sword. His rapid breathing remained steady, attuned heart beating in time with the blood pounding in his ears. Each sensation enhanced his connection to this sacred dance, this revelation of purpose through dedicated craft.
The goblin spun with a shriek, launching into another flanking attack. Rowan evaded once more, steel whispering through sparse bushes untarnished. This creature may have caught an untrained man unawares, yet against a warrior honed every day at the forge of effort, its crude tactics stood little chance. The dance had only begun. The goblin wheeled for another charge; jaws stretched in a skull-like grin. Rowan planted firmly and awaited its coming, ready to turn the beats of battle to his song.
As dirt scattered beneath burgeoning footsteps, Rowan pivoted with lithe grace. His blade flashed forth in an arc of quicksilver, singing its cry of vengeance. Scarlet flecks scattered into the loam as steel sliced deep across the creature's midsection.
A gurgled shriek rented the glade as the goblin crumpled. Small black claws scrabbled in the dirt, vainly trying to stem the flow from its rent belly. Feral eyes bulged with raw anguish and terror, fixed on Rowan in their last moments.
Though gripping his hilt till bloodless, Rowan felt no exultation - only a somber clarity. His craft was a solemn duty, its edge wielded to protect all he held dear from demonic manifestations such as this. As the goblin shuddered its last, a trickle of gratitude warmed Rowan's heart for the skill and strength to defend his home. The dance moved ever onward into deepening mysteries... Rowan stood rooted, chest heaving, as the goblin's feeble spasms ceased. His blade point rested upon the loam, staining the earth darker where scarlet mingled with the soil. This, then, was the chilling result of his craft - the snuffing out of life that could never be returned.
A tingling crept along his skin, raising the fine hairs beneath his sweat-slick tunic. Rowan lifted his gaze to find the glade awash in an eerie aura, as though the veil between realities had grown thin. From the writhing mists emerged a strange sigil, glowing in ghostly ivory - the angular strokes seemed to form characters akin to his people's script.
Focusing his swimming mind, the sigil's meaning resolved before his eyes. Two words, etched in a luminism alien yet unavoidable. 'Sword God' they read, balanced upon a field of lavender mist.
Rowan stumbled back in shock, brow beading anew. What foul sorcery was this, bestowing a title so lofty upon one as lowly as he? His head buzzed with questions that would find no answers this eve. Only deepening mysteries inherited in this forest's fastness, pulling him step by step into obscurity's dance. Rowan shook his head fiercely, as if the motion could rattle loose this apparition's meaning. "Sword God"... what sinister power bestowed a title so lofty upon one as lowly as he? A title normally reserved for legends of old, immortal beings of lore.
He reached out hesitantly, watching his callused fingers pass through the glowing haze as if rending a silken veil. Strange vibrations tingled along his skin, setting his senses alight but yielding no further insight. Whatever mystic force had marked him so, its sigil could not be left for others to happen upon.
With a determined inhale, Rowan focused his will upon the swirling sigil. Bit by bit, the ethereal light coalesced into his cupped palms, swirling in on itself until only a small nugget of foxfire remained. Closing his fists, Rowan whispered a prayer of thanks and scattered the compressed nimbus amongst the leaves.
What tale could he spin to explain such a title if any saw its aftermath? The village already saw him as an oddity - this would brand him further a pariah. No, this secret must remain buried with the fallen goblin until he grasped its meaning. For now, he'd trust only Elia and continue cultivating their destined roles in solitude. The road ahead grew ever more obscure. Rowan plunged into the deepening woods, feet flying soundlessly over root and loam. His blade hung loosely in his numb grasp, mind whirling with questions that seemed sure to evade answers.
What curse or blessing had been woven into these woods this eve? Why had the goblin come, and why had strange lights appeared upon its fell? Most mystifying of all - what did that shimmering title, 'Sword God', portend for his destiny's unfolding?
As the canopy drank the final glimmers of twilight, Rowan's cottage emerged from the gloom. He darted within, sagging against the rough-hewn door in a mute attempt to banish the cords of tension from his frame.
This night would lend no easy slumber. Each flickering heartbeat seemed to echo the manifestation's cryptic message, forever replaying behind Rowan's tightly shut lids. As deep night crushed the glade, only one certainty remained clear - whatever visions had been granted within these ancient boughs, their effects would ripple through Rowan's tale henceforth.
His name day's lowly rung within village life seemed but prelude now, a simple starting stroke before grander themes. Whatever truths this forest held; its inscrutable voice had deemed Rowan fit to hear. No matter what happens, he would honor its trust.