A Script from the Peony War | manxman |

Script Two | Sword of the Craven | ~ part one ~

"I bet the kings have gotten bored," one voice would claim.

"Apparently the Midland's newly crowned king sat for a mere day and a half," another would follow, "A usurper, I bet, tossing blame for their king's death on another to hide their treachery."

Whatever the idea for the reason of the war, those of the Zayne were typically wrong in their assumptions. They weren't much of a people to care for what was going on beyond their mountain peaks and up the river's journey. So long as they received their tradings of rice, silk, and shiny gemstones, all for the cost of their sought after spices, they stayed away from northern business. Anything happening beyond the Zayne Fork was of no true matter to them.

That's what Allsun Beck liked most about the Zayne. Once you were below the Fork, you were essentially one of them, stripped from whatever crimes you may have committed elsewhere. But most still knew not to speak too loudly of their own pasts. Certain deeds were still considered dirty, and anyone could cast their judgment if they deemed you worthy enough to be claimed by Death. Harming children and the elderly was a devious crime, rape was on the list, but murder was strangely not on the list of dirty deeds here in the Zayne.

Some people, they believed, deserved to die if the murder was of an innocent or done with the target's back turned. Only cowards and the weak killed the innocent and ignorant. Now that he thought about it, Allsun Beck was likely surrounded by people who would gladly watch him die...if they ever discovered his life's most grievous mistake.

Sitting at the edge of his bed, Allsun exhaled a burdened chest of air, gaze falling onto a uniform that'd been made specially for him. As a rather lofty man, he stood out from a great many of the Zayne. His height was towering and his build comparable to that of a moving mountain, and his face was usually a feature that "didn't quite fit".

Aged to three and thirty, Allsun had the countenance of a man no one would consider had ever once wielded a sword, but his body told another story. So while the Zayne was his newly acquired refuge, it was a bit of an everyday occurrence to be questioned left and right about who he was — who he'd been.

He never quite answered; truthfully, at least.

As it had been drilled into his mind from the day he was given a sword, Allsun stood from the bed and crossed the small room. In two strides, he was already at the other end, where he collected a tool leaned against the opposite wall. Just as the uniform beside it, the sword had been made specially for him. It fit in his grip ideally, and the weight distribution was perfect. No strain met his wrist, and the distance its lengthy blade could reach was phenomenal. It would almost always guarantee victory when put to use in close combat.

Leave it to the smiths of Kavmeer to make the perfect weapon.

Returning to his bed with the sword in hand, Allsun grabbed a cloth from a nearby stand and commenced polishing the blade. A reflection of himself told of its spotless condition, but he continued the task regardless of the current shine.

Force of habit.

Allsun didn't think he'd ever grow out of it.

"Do you ever put that thing down?" a voice asked, and Allsun didn't bother bringing his eyes to the person. This was their room after all. He was only a welcomed guest.

Besides, it wasn't like he would be able to see them properly even if he did meet their eyes. Due to an acquired injury that'd left scars against his pupils, Allsun Beck's eyesight was immensely blurry. He hadn't a problem getting around and tending to the majority of things himself, but the details of this world were lost to him that unfortunate day. Sometimes he thought he deserved it, this sort of impairment, as what he was left with was better than what he'd taken.