📜 20. “Blades for the Needy”
🌄 Turdas, 13th of Hearthfire, 3E 433
(Desolate Mine, West of Cheydinhal)
The rain eased by dawn, leaving a clean scent in the air as I set out from Cheydinhal. Burz’s instructions were direct—bring weapons to the men stranded in Desolate Mine, help if I could, and report back. The task seemed humble, almost mundane, but I felt the old weight of service in every step.
The mine lay nestled among mossy stones and weeping birches. Its entrance was unmarked save for a battered crate—my burden, filled with swords and axes, dulled from disuse but needed all the same. Inside, I found them: Rienna, Elidor, and Galtus Previa. Fighters Guild, but tired, hungry, and wary of every sound in the dark.
They greeted me with more relief than ceremony. Goblins had overrun the tunnels. Supplies were low, tempers shorter still. I handed out the weapons—one to each—and watched hope return to their faces. This was no great crusade, but a simple mercy.
We moved through the mine together, clearing nests and barricades. The goblins came in snarling waves, but side by side, we drove them back. Each blow of my hammer was less a prayer than a promise: you are not forgotten.
By midday, the mine was ours again. Rienna wiped her brow, and Elidor tried for a joke, but mostly we just breathed, grateful to be alive. I checked wounds, whispered a blessing or two, and left them with supplies enough for a fortnight.
Returning to Cheydinhal, I reported our success to Burz gro-Khash. He nodded, a rare glint of approval in his eyes. "You've done well," he said. "You're promoted to Apprentice. Keep this up, and there'll be more work for you."
I accepted the new rank with quiet gratitude. It was a small step, but a meaningful one on my path of service.
Mercy is rarely glorious, but it sustains the weary. The first oath is to the living, not the legend.
