The Swordsman in the Tower

Eptol stood, with his hands on the hilt of his sword as it stood point on the ground, looking sombrely forward. In a day or so he would change poses. He was probably going to go with crouching with his back to the door, sword in its sheath and head bowed. He had trouble telling the passage of time in that one though.
Sometimes people came. There was a time when it was mostly young warriors seeking guidance in the ways of the sword. He was a katana man for preference, but he'd had a lot of time to train in other blades. A lot of time. But apparently other forms of warfare had grown more popular than swordplay at some point. There was a time, someone told him, when people had outgrown war. But it ended, as Eptol hoped it wouldn't. Now mostly people came just to see if he existed. Sometimes one of the cultists would come and make sure he was okay. Usually they were from the same family as the last one that checked in. Once it had merely been a very lost tourist who Eptol made polite conversation with for half an hour.
His ears pricked when he heard the elevator.
When it stopped, he tilted his head and lifted up his sedge hat with a thumb. The figure in the centre of the platform was kneeling. Eptol spoke, taking his time to let his voice get used to it again.
“Hrmmm... Half-elf. There's some Ashfall in you, but you've lived in Allaria your whole life. Eastern coast.”
The young woman lifted up her head, her face a mask of disbelief, “How did you-”
Eptol broke out into a smile, “Hi.”
The woman quickly bowed her head again, “Greetings, great and ancient master!”
“Tut tut.” Eptol turned away, “You come to me seeking training in the sword and already you bring up my advanced age.”
“I-I-I'm sorry, I did not mean-” Her face flushed, “You don't look a day over 40!” In fact, he didn't. His immortality had been granted long before age took him.
Smiling broadly, Eptol turned back around, “Oh, hush, child. Have the legends forgotten my humour?” He motioned for her to stand, “Come, sit. Do you drink tea?”
“Sure?” She rose hesistantly and crossed awkwardly to the small table set up by the computer array. Eptol motioned again and she sat down.
“You must tell me all about the outside world. I hear so little up here.” He motioned to the tea tray and lifted it into the air. He had it made to order. The whole set, when the pot was full, weighed just under five pounds. It floated gently to the table and settled before the young lady, who was wise enough not to comment on it. “If I have been keeping track right, the year is 11,025, yes?”
“26,” She coughed, “But you were close.”
“Do people still listen to music on crysboxes? I was quite fond of mine until it broke.”
“Actually, we use recpages now. It's way cheaper than recording on crystals.” She saw the expression on his face, then elaborated, “They're like little rectangles of pressed card with a pattern on. We have little devices that read the patterns.”
“Fascinating...” Eptol nodded slowly as he poured the tea then sat down, “What is your name, child?”
“Resma Minayto.” She visibly froze as she wondered what the polite thing to do was, and settled on a slight deferential nod.
“Happy to see some names remain popular.” He smiled genially, and several seconds passed.
Finally, Resma exploded with, “Are you waiting to see if I'll drink before you and is it some kind of secret test of character?”
Eptol blinked, “Actually I just don't really like tea. I just offer it to people because I like serving it.”
“Oh.” Resma looked into her tea, and sipped.
“May I see your blade?” Eptol said conversationally, and Resma hurried to unsheathe the katana and present it hilt-first.
Eptol held it up to the light, and ran an eye across it, “This was forged by Salandra Smith in New Noore. It belonged to Hamish Grey.”
“My grandfather.”
“He was an excellent student. It is a fine sword. You should be proud.”
“I am, sir. It is to honour him that I hope one day to be a master of the sword.”
Eptol nodded.
“Understand that mastering the sword will be only the secondary aim of my teachings.” Eptol stood, and looked relatively severe as he returned the sword.
“Sir?”
“Attitude is more important than skill, Resma. Your grandfather took months to get it into his head, but once he learned it he was leagues better for it.” Eptol drew his own sword and whirled it as he spoke, “Skill will only win battles. It will only kill opponents.” He moved into more complex forms and slashes, “A positive outlook, a calm mind, a friendly attitude. These will earn and keep companions. They will keep you going, and keep you sane. They will make it so you do not need to call upon your skill.”
Resma stood to watch him.
“This is the greatest lesson I will teach you, Resma, so listen well.” He finished the display facing her and sheathed his katana, “The greatest victory you can win happens before you ever draw your sword.”