Samuel's body sunk like a heavy brick into the soft bed cushions that he was laying upon. Not a coarse, gravely brick that is used to build a castle. It was more like a brick smoothed out from calm river rapids breaking against a shore filled with soft stones. That's how his body felt as it pressed into the rumpled bedsheets that he had untidied during his uninterrupted sleep.
As his eyes started to gradually open like a sunbathing hound dog, the minstrel smacked his crinkled lips and ran his tongue against them. Samuel rose up and stretched his arms above his head as he yawned in satisfaction. Placing his arms down on the mattress, he was tempted to sleep another few hours; however, his curiosity got the better of him.
Samuel climbed off the bed and looked around at a rather beautiful bedroom made of light colored birch wood. The room had a rustic look to it, but nothing inside the room was of poor-quality. Chairs and shelves, all made of wood, were intricately carved by skilled hands with engravings of leaves, trees, and other lovely forest images. There were watercolor paintings of woodland landscapes that were as beautiful as the real thing.
Turning to the far wall, the minstrel noticed a window that took up most of the room with its size. If the minstrel had not taken a second look, he would have assumed it was another one of the intricately drawn paints.
Right below the open window, a silver saucer and a slender glass pitcher, both filled with dazzlingly clear water, lay on a light brown bookcase. Samuel poured himself a glass of the refreshing liquid and afterward washed the grime off his sleepy face. With a smile painted across his mouth, the minstrel gazed through the window.
Outside, the fresh breeze blew into Samuel's room and over his face with its tingly feel. It brought an enjoyable shiver down the flute players spine as if he had dived into a refreshingly cold lake.
Taking in the scent of the outdoor air, Samuel dug his hands into his pockets with a dramatic sigh. Feeling the sharp edges of the paper he had previously buried deep within his clothes, the flute player's desire to transcribe Flint's tale into another epic ballad reawakened. This want burned in his heart as he pondered the ramifications of writing it without the bird's expressed permission. Again, he wondered if creating the song would hurt the crow's trust for him. As Samuel slowly lifted the gold pen out of his pocket, his cheeks flushed while his twitching fingers wobbled nervously above the blank parchments.
Hearing the flutter of wings by the open window, the minstrel immediately shoved the pen and papers back into his pocket as his skin crawled with guilt. Landing on the sill without any grace, Flint coughed harshly. The crow clenched his wound as he pointed his beak into the man's well-rested yet frightened face.
"Good morning sleeping beauty," Flint mocked as he shook the feathers around his sore body. "Feeling better, I hope?"
Samuel gave the bird a frail grin. "Y-yes. Of course!" When the crow gave him an odd look while the fear shown from the minster's face, Samuel quickly added, "L-looks like you're not doing too bad yourself. What time is it? Is it dinner yet?"
"No," Flint muttered while he began pruning himself. 'It's breakfast."
"WHAT?!" The minstrel's heart skipped from the thought of having spent an entire twenty-four hours sleeping.
"Calm down!" the crow reassured Samuel as he waved his wing in a soothing manner. "I guess I should have been more specific. It is still breakfast. You've only slept a couple of hours."
"Really?"
Flint nodded. "Yes... Unbelievable, huh? You may not know this, but here in the elf domain, a good few hours of sleep go a long way. Have you ever wondered why in your songs and sonnets the elves always are portrayed full of energy? That's because here, in their lands, a small nap is as beneficial as a day's rest. Must be the air or something." The crow inhaled deeply as a grin of pleasure appeared on his beak.
"Well in that case..." Samuel said as he hopped back into bed.
"Fine! More breakfast for me."
Licking his lips ravenously, Samuel again rose from the bed. "I suppose breakfast in bed is out of the question?"
"Afraid so..." Flint said as he rolled his eyes at the minstrel's laziness.
Samuel stretched his hands up and shook out his creaking joints a few times. "Alright! Let's get some grub."
Turning the marble front door handle, the flute player stepped outside to see a wood clearing where houses and trees grew together as one. Twenty or so of the most beautiful log cabins Samuel had ever seen were planted on the forest floor in between the dense vegetation surrounding them. Dirt paths, with tiny rivulets cutting through like a spider's web, weaved around Sickle Woods making it look similar to a complex maze.
Traveling on the paths, elves breathed in the crisp morning air of their lovely kingdom. Snowflakes brushed around their woody faces by the soft hands of the cool wind passing among the trees. Even if there was snow fluttering in the air, there was nothing on the ground. The flakes would immediately melt once they hit the moss and grass, giving it a moist look.
Two elven children, wearing necklets of silver and stone, passed by. Even with their young looking faces, their eyes shown of great wisdom and maturity that far a past their age. Samuel greeted them with a boyish smile.
"Hello there!" he called out while waving too them.
Clenching onto their textbooks, the elves gave the minstrel a blank expression that had a slight hint of curiosity in it. It was almost like they were studying Samuel like one would do to an inanimate object. They did not bother the wave or say something in reply. Instead, the children strolled away as they kept staring at Samuel until they disappear behind a large oak tree. The flute player's raised hand fell down as he frowned in disappointment. He had hoped to ask them questions.
"Don't worry," Flint muttered as he limped underneath the man's shadow. "They are students of Master Rivlit and have pledged to silence all emotions from their hearts and minds. They just finished their morning rituals over there at the shrine." The bird pointed to an open-air cabin with a golden roof.
Samuel grimaced as he looked at the building slightly covered by a thick layer of ivy. "Why would they want to give up emotions?"
"Why not!" Flint snapped. "I once was an unofficial student their myself back when Aerris, alongside Master Rivlit, was leading it." The crow immediately sighed. "Unfortunately, it was too difficult for me to silence my thoughts. Too many terrible memories... They even lent me one of their necklets to ease the strain. Nevertheless, that still didn't help."
Samuel's eyes brightened up at the new information.
Seeing the minstrel's realization appearing on his face, Flint explained, "Yes, the necklaces are enchanted. It gives off a magic aura that can help restrict their more emotional side. The jewelry is also a sign that they are dedicated in following the example of the blue elf who rules them."
"Really?" Samuel muttered with a worrisome frown. Recalling Rivlit the elf, the flute player asked, "Wait? How come he doesn't have a necklet?"
"He doesn't need it. When you lived past four generations of blue elves, being emotionless comes as naturally as breathing."
"Four generations!" Samuel quickly added the number of years in his head. "So he's about four hundred years old?"
Rubbing his sore wound, Flint said, "Four-hundred and thirty-two, give or take. Err... Mr. Samuel? Mind if you lend me your shoulder? I'm rather worn out from the flight here."
The minstrel knelt down for the bird who immediately leaped on top of him and perched on the man. With the crow's bristly feathers brushing against Samuel's face, the flute player giggled lightly at the touch.
Flint scoffed at Samuel's silly amusement. "When you're done laughing like a deranged idiot, you mind if we press on?"
"Certainly!" the flute player chirped with a smile. "I'm famished right now!"
"Well you'll have to keep on feeling famished for a little while longer. Bleak and I have some training for you before breakfast."
A worried grimace glowed off Samuel's flushed face as he wondered where the bird was leading him. On the way there, they passed by a young elf couple who were all smiles. Walking hand in hand with blissful joy, the two looked lovely together with their glittering black hair and rosy cheeks that were prefect for kissing. The minstrel greeted them with a friendly wave. In turn, they waved back to Samuel and Flint.
I guess some of the elves still have emotions, thought the flute player as he grinned.
Once the happy couple left, Samuel tilted his head as far as his neck would allow. He marveled at the height of the trees which seemed to go on without end. The only few branches sticking out from the top of the trees had hardly any leaves growing off of them. This allowed the sunlight to zoomed down to the forest floor, causing the light to give off a spiritual look that caressed the flute player's cheerful face.
With all this wonderment filling his eyes, Samuel was startled to hear a strange sound oozing from the bird's beak. Flint was whistling, and it actually sounded joyful. The crow's crisp chirps brought a smile to Samuel's face. Attempting to avoid eye contact with the normally angry bird, the flute player carefully tried not to disturb Flint so he would continue to fill the forest with his joyous song.
Flint finished whistle once they entered a small clearing were Bleak was busily standing up an oak log, that was equal to her height and weight. With a mighty thrust that would have made a giant proud, the barmaid's brawny arms chucked the wood downward into a pothole besides her. An ear piercing thud permeated Sickle Woods as Bleak grunted from the force she had used.
Jerking his quivering body two steps back, Samuel feared what Flint had in store for him. The minstrel then took notice of something tied loosely to the bartender's wobbling hip. What was hanging was the deceased duke's sword, the one with the golden handle.
"So, you're up," Bleak flippantly said as she wiped the bark from her massive hands. "Let's get started, shall we?"
Lumbering to the small man, the bartender yanked the sword out, causing the sunrays to dazzle against the blade, and handed it to Samuel. The minstrel eyeballed the weapon in a worrisome manner but did not make any motion to take it. Glancing up at the bird scowling at him, Samuel hoped in all earnestness that they were not planning to do what he assumed they were doing.
"Well go ahead and take it!" Bleak grunted as she jabbed the hilt into the flute player's contracting chest.
Stuttering over his high-strung words, Samuel mumbled, "I-I... No... no thank you... I have no need for a weapon."
Bleak snorted as her hand and the sword fell down to her flexed thigh muscle. "What the hell's with you?" she muttered in a daze. "Why the heck not? Flint is actually willing to spend the time teaching you how to defend yourself. You should be gratefully!"
"I am gratefully," Samuel reassured her. "I just believe there are better ways than fighting to keep yourself safe. I- I'm a pacifist. I don't believe in resorting to violence."
"HAH!!!" Flint mocked as he tossed his head back violently. "You don't believe in violence?! Are you a dolt? Violence is a part of living. You may have lived without the threat of someone seeking to hurt you in your tranquil filled life, but you're with me now! The quicker you learn to keep yourself safe, the less of a hindrance you'll be for us who have to keep on saving your life. Take the damn sword!"
Grumbling under his breath, Samuel reluctantly curled his fingers around the gold handle and brought the blade to his pale face. It's razor shape edge was almost translucent as the sun made it give off a slight violet color. Immediately, the image of Duke Willard's death at the hand of the bird burst into Samuel's head again, making him shake all over.
Hopping to the ground, Flint stepped up to the towering wood log and beckoned for the minstrel to follow. The bird unsheathed his rapier in a flash. He swiveled his wing around for his wound to prepare for the labor he was about to endure for the sake of teaching Samuel the art of sword fighting.
Clearing out his throat, Flint began, "My expertise is more fencing orientated, but I'll try to modify my teaching for the use of your sword. Now extend out your weapon like so."
The bird stretched his wing and rapier to the log as if the weapon was an extension of his body. Without wobbling, Flint's arm and rapier remained motionless in the air as his other wing shot out behind him for balance.
Mimicking the pose to the best of his ability, which was not much, Samuel's humdrum expression matched his lack of skill and interest.
"Gods!" the bird muttered as his sword fell limp. "Hold it up! Your arms are as wobbly as a turkey's neck. Do it like this!" Flint brought his weapon up again. "Strong! Keep it firm but don't strain it. If you have to, hold it with both hands. That might help. This is a basic fighting stance! Grip the sword. I could whack it out of your hand without any struggle whatsoever."
Doing as he was told but not enjoying how strict the bird was, Samuel eventually learned the stance as his two hands held aloft the sword as firmly as he could muster.
Kneading his aching skull, Flint proceeded to the next step. "Alright. Let's see if you can even swing the sword."
"Could I learn how to block first?" the minstrel asked even though he guessed what the bird's answer would be.
Gargling on his spit, Flint spewed the thick saliva out of his beak in disgust. "No! I'm teaching you my way. If you want to learn to block first, then I suggest you find a new teacher."
"I didn't want to learn in the first place!" replied Samuel. "I thought this was about teaching me self-defense not how to kill people. I'm not going to learn how to fight just so I can kill!"
Stabbing his rapier straight into the soggy ground, the bird shot his protruding bill up at the flute player. "What do you really think fighting, and self-defense for that matter, is all about? It's about not getting yourself killed! I will not lie to you, killing someone in the process is an unpreventable result. That's just the facts of self-preservation. Now, can we start?"
"I won't use a sword to kill!" Samuel swore as his voice hardened.
"What did you think a sword was for?!" Flint threw his arms and pointed at his rapier as his temper flared. "It's a sword! A weapon used to kill. It's designed distinctly for that purpose." Shaking his head, Flint muttered, "Mr. Samuel. Whether you want to or not, there are those who seek to kill and hurt us. You can either kill them before they murder you or, you can just forget all about going to Planker's Creak, cause you're not going to make it without a little killing. You got that?" Flint ruffled his feathers out and reached for his weapon. "Now, may I proceed or are you going to keep whining like a child?"
Knowing it was pointless to go on arguing with the bird, Samuel exhaled and extended the sword.
"Thank the gods!" Flint cheered as he began his lesson.
Even with his injury, Flint spun through the air and landed jab after jab with his rapier on every side of the log. Samuel eye's darted about as he tried to keep up with bird's frantic and deadly movements but to no avail. Flint fought like an animal as his wings cut through the air. Each prick from his weapon left deep gashes in the long. Landing back on the soggy ground, his feathers stood up from his back like a row of spikes.
"Now you try," Flint muttered without needing to catch his breath. "No need to do the whole thing. Just attempt the first three motions. And forget about all the flying I added. I over did it with that. Try it!"
Samuel wanted to say no, but he just sighed and attempted it anyway. Swinging his body and sword around like mad, Samuel nearly lopped the bird's head clean off by accident.
"Watch it!" squawked the bird as a few of his feathers were diced off the top of his head. "You're aiming for the log!"
This hectic training went on for quite a while to the minstrel and Flint's agony. Whenever the flute player would make a mistake, like swinging the sword too feebly for the bird's taste, or if Samuel forgot to move his legs in the right position, causing him to fumbling about the arena, Flint would throw his wings up in the air and utter a tirade of obscenities and complaints.
"NO!!!" the bird screeched as he rubbed his injury which was still recovering. "It's all wrong! Damn idiot!"
Frustrated himself at the bird's lack of understanding on how difficult and confusing his teaching method was, Samuel backed away from the log and let the sword go limp in his hand. Meanwhile, Bleak, who was watching his struggles with a look of distain, swung her nose up in the air as her eyes burned with frustration. Every muscle on her body sagged off of her large frame as she shook her head. Looking at the barmaid's arrogant expression, Samuel lifted his hand and rubbed his sore neck.
Suddenly, the flute player's eyes perked up when he noticed someone quietly standing behind the bartender that no one had seen until now. Recognizing who the elf was, Samuel kindly waved at Lori. Bleak curled her eyebrows, not sure what the minstrel was doing. She turned around, immediately jolted back with a startled expression at the horrible sight of the smug elf...