Chap 1 WIP

Journey on Path of Demigod
by KusoDM

Chapter 1 - First Meeting with Two Swords Man

	Roush Miller sat at the bar of the tavern situated at the crossroads, finishing the meal that he paid for and drinking the last of the mead served to him. It was the first time in a long time, or maybe ever, he had had anything other than his mother's cooking. He was raised on a farm, and every day he would rise to eat a plate of eggs and mashed oats, and for dinner it would usually be a stew or a meat roast with vegetables. This was a roast chicken he was eating, but the difference in spices and seasonings made him realize how much things would be different from here on in his life.

	"You sure look like you enjoyed your meal there, son," the innkeeper said to him, a heavy set woman with a fruity voice. She gestured to his right hand, which was a dark red, whereas the rest of his skin was tan from working in the sun all year. "Is it difficult to eat or use utensils with burns like those? I've never seen any like that before." He looked down at his hand, and didn't say anything at first, then looked up and said to her, "No, it's healed, it just gets very warm sometimes." This was no burn, but this was the first time he'd have to think about what it would look like to anyone else.

	Only a few days ago on his 18th birthday, he was enjoying dinner with his parents when his hand lit up with fire. While his sleeve was burned away and he left burn marks on the table and silverware, he didn't feel the heat or any pain from it. He was never sensitive to the heat of the sun, and hardly ever sweat, but his parents were simply proud of his hardiness. When they saw this, though, they realized something unusual must be happening. "My son, you must leave us for now," his father said, "With a sign such as this on the advent of your manhood, you must be destined to a life greater than what we offer here. You must journey to the Temple of the Gods on the Hill of Wisdom, and there you should be given a sign." Roush was concerned, and found it hard to imagine a life away from the farm. He knew of the assortment of gods that assisted and granted fortune to their followers. He and his parents had always worshipped the God of Farming, who blessed their crops with rains and fertility, and would keep disease away from their animals. That was all he knew, and now he must learn more.

	He set out the next morning, walking along the road with robes to keep him safe from the elements, a wide hat to keep the sun out of his eyes, a new pair of boots that he had been given for his birthday, and a clubbed walking stick. It was about five feet tall and carved from a tree branch. The bottom had a steel tip, and the top was heavy and weighted with stone on the inside, should he need to defend himself. Near the top was a comfortable leather grip and thong. On his back he had a pack holding preserved foods made by his mother, as well as a tent roll and extra clothes. He had slept out under trees for the past few days instead of sleeping in any inns so that he could conserve his money, but after a while he came to be missing a comfortable bed.

	Now that he had been given the walking stick, he started practicing to fight with it. He was never violent as a child, but he thought that in case someone should try to attack him, he should be ready to defend himself. It was not a great weapon, he came to realize, but if it were a better weapon, would he not be tempted to use it more often? When he practiced with it, fighting imaginary enemies, he thought only of ways that would hurt them, but make them want to run away. Something like breaking their noses, hurting their wrists or feet, ways that would only make them realize that if they were to fight any longer things would only get worse for them from there. Afterwards, he would sit and think to himself, I will only fight to keep myself safe. I must not have ill will for others.

	The time came to defend himself earlier that day. He was surprised when it happened, because while he thought that it might be necessary at some point, he never thought that he had to. A man had been hiding in a ditch on the side of the road, behind a bush. Roush nearly missed him as he came up to the bush, but something about it looked funny. When the bandit jumped out, he was brandishing a knife and told Roush to give him what money he had. Roush declined and rebuked the bandit, telling him to begone, but the outlaw was keen to show that he didn't have the knife for nothing. Roush tried to keep his distance from the bandit, and he was backpedaling almost the whole time. His robes and clothes were only made of wool, nothing to protect himself from a blade or any other weapon. After a few swipes, he noticed the bandit's movements were repeated. He would step forward with his right foot and make a lunging stab, then try to cut in front of him while his arm was extended and he was leaning forward. Roush thought about what to do, then decided to go for the man's knee- if he was lunging forward, the knife would be too high to block or chip at his staff, and the knee wasn't as low as his foot, so it would be easier to hit. After a few more attacks from the bandit, he saw his chance and turned his stick, striking at the man's knee from the side and cracking it loudly.

	When his knee shattered, the bandit cried out in pain and fell to the ground, dropping his knife and clutching at his knee. Roush kicked the knife away, and said tot he bandit, "See what happened, when you threatened a traveler like you did! This punishment did not come from me, but from the god of travelers!" Roush didn't know if there was such a god, but if there was one then he would have to thank them later. The bandit was still lying on the ground, and when some time had passed he was still there. Roush didn't know what to do for him. Walking ahead and leaving him there would be cruel, he thought, but he did not like the bandit for trying to rob him. This was the first time he'd have to do something for someone he didn't like, for the sake of kindness. Roush ended up making a splint for him, from a dead tree whose branches were easy to break and by cutting the leg from one of his pants off to keep it tied to his leg. "I suppose you'll be stuck there for a while," he said, looking down at the bandit, "I don't think it will be too pleasant, but I don't wish to stay around you any longer." He put the knife down and said, "This is yours, I won't take it from you. I couldn't deprive an injured man protection from any wild animals, after all." Roush thought that he had done enough, and made his way back down the road in the direction he was going in the first place. After a while, he started to think if he had done enough, having left the man in that ditch instead of bringing him along. Could he have kept him from attacking in the first place? What would Roush have been left with if he had given his money away? He cleared his head, and thought that asking questions like that would only make him uncertain in the future. If questions of possibilities and intentional results kept coming to him, he might be paralyzed in future events. Something like that might end up spelling disaster for him.

	As he looked at his hand and the events of the past week unfolded in his mind, the questions came to the surface again. They made him uncomfortable, and he decided to push them down once more. He was prepared to go up and go to bed, tired and ready to sleep until he was no longer tired and whatever fatigue he had would finish draining from his body as if the mattress were a sponge. Atthat time the door opened, and entering it was a man in leather armor. His hair was long, but clean and wavy, a rich and earthy brown. His darker eyebrows sat overa pair of tired green eyes. He could use a comfortable bed, too, was the first thing Roush thought, before noticing the traveler's broad shoulders were slouched. His clothes were faded and well-worn, but not falling apart. On his back was a backpack, as well as a sword. Roush had never seen one before, and while he wasn't the violent type, seeing the weapon excited him.

	"Hello again, good sir," the innkeeper said, wringing her hands together as the traveler came in, "Do we have the privlege of hosting you once more?" The traveler nodded and said, "Yes, I'll be sleeping in the common room, though." He came up to the bar and set his bag down, propping his sword on top of it. "I need to settle a debt at the grocer's, but I'll be back for dinner as soon as that's finished." He put some money on the counter, enough to pay for the night and food, then left. Roush counted the money out before the innkeeper swept it up and thought, either he's not as tired as I am, doesn't have enough money, or doesn't need to be comfortable to sleep well. Looking over the sword some more, he came to think it was lovely. The guard and pommel had a feather design, and were silvered. The pommel was rounded and as thick as several coins stacked on each other, with a cut green gem in the center. The scabbard and grip were made of the same black leather, and the scabbard had a silvered chain from top to bottom. The innkeeper noticed that Roush was gazing at it and said to him, "Don't be touching that sword there, boy. That man is Ewan Blackbank. He's a Fighter, and they call him Two Swords Man."

	Roush had a few questions after that. "What would I need with his sword?" He asked, first, but he didn't expect her to answer so he went ahead and asked, "Why's he called Two Swords Man if he has only one sword." The innkeeper chuckled and tapped her finger to the side of her head. "Wouldn't you like to know," she said, "But let me tell you, I've been around long enough to know the answer to that one. It's best that you don't know, because the only ones who see his second sword end up dying." Roush didn't know how to feel about that, so he ended up looking vexed at the response, before looking back down at the sword. Something like that, a weapon that could really be used to end a man's life in one way or another, he thought it should look more sinister, scary, like it should have a real chain around it that would need to be unlocked first before it could be pulled out. But there it was, just sitting in a sheath. Is this the kind of world I live in, where it has to be this easy, because it may be necessary to draw it that quickly?

	Roush sat at the bar for a while longer, thinking about how he felt after his encounter with the bandit, and what would have gone differently if he had had a sword instead of his stick. The Two Swords Man came back and took his seat, talking to the innkeeper about goings-on outside the town, and what he had gotten up to recently. Roush couldn't feel anything strange about him, he didn't seem like a killer, nor a manslayer or monster. Perhaps he could be satisfied just in the defeat of his enemies, rather than the outright destruction of them.

	Fate didn't conspire to keep a fighter's sword in its sheath for too long, though. Another man came into the inn. He was dressed poorly, and was missing much of his hair and teeth. But what he lacked for in health, he seemed to make up for it in aggression and spite. Roush had a feeling when the man came in, one that told him, this man is here to fight the Two Swords Man. He was right, as the rough-looking man said to the fighter, "Hey there, Two Swords Man, around here they call me One Knife Man. I bet I can kill ya and take your swords, and then I can be Two Swords One knife Man." He sounded drunk, not just in his manner of speaking, but in a way that only someone who was intoxicated would think that what he said was funny, or even threatening. The Two Swords Man turned around quickly, his eyes darting around the ruffian, before rising up and picking up his sword. The movements were quick and almost simultaneous, but Roush saw them in their functions, one at a time. The Fighter didn't want his back turned ot a potential enemy. Next, he scanned his enemy to see if he was any threat. Third, he drew up and picked up his weapon. The speed was the impressive thing to him, the young farmer boy, because he knew that if they were slowed down enough the Two Swords Man would look jerky and simple.