You were in a tavern when you first met the most extraordinary person you’d ever meet. It was a tavern which was most frequently populated by mercenaries, adventurers, heroes, bandits, and gladiators in a sort of uneasy truce. As a result, it was an oddity to see anyone of age drinking there. It was the danger of the occupations, and you and everyone else in there knew it. So when he strode through the doors with his thin, long, white hair streaming behind him you and everyone had to know how. His skin was almost totally unmarked by the scars that so frequently branded the types to walk into the bar at a quarter of his age and he walked without any limp or obvious injuries. He would have drawn scorn at a young age, clearly being untested, but at his age? He drew more respect and attention than the king himself would have.
You were probably the only historian in the tavern, so you decided to discreetly cast your gaze to the sheath tied at the old man’s waist to see if you could discern what legendary weapon he must have had to survive so long. And yet, you couldn’t see any recognizable marks. It wasn’t glowing, humming, or hovering. The sheath was totally nondescript, and the hilt was simple leather wrapped metal. No ornamentation, no jewels or ancient script, no runes. It looked more simple than any weapon you had ever seen before.
The old man turned to you. He laughed. It was a clear, crisp laugh. You wouldn’t have expected it from someone of his age, but it silenced the tavern and cut through the air. His voice carried the same gravitas and almost frightening charm as his laugh did, and everyone in the tavern seemed to wait for each word to fall out of his mouth.
“I can feel you all staring, but this one’s different. You sizing me up, or just my weapon?”
It took you a second to realize he was talking to you. “Well...I’m a historian, you see. I go through dungeons and all just to find information. I know quite a bit about weapons of unusual power, but I can’t seem to identify yours.”
He smiled. It was a warm smile, as if he was talking to a favored, if dull, grandchild. “Well why should you be able to? It’s mine, after all, and my business. It’s rude to ask a man about his weapon without getting to know him first.”
You had never seen anyone in this bar who wasn’t willing to brag about whatever magic weapon they had acquired for seemingly endless amounts of time, even if it was relatively mundane. This old man took you by surprise with his reluctance, but you could see that there was a glitter in his eyes and the smile hadn’t left his lips. He was baiting you into asking more, and you were more than curious enough to indulge him.
“Well...” you decided to choose your words carefully. You wanted the information as fast as possible. “It’s just-we don’t see too many elders in here, and none that I can remember have been as...” you couldn’t think of a polite way to put it.
“In one piece?” He prompted.
“Yes. That. And I figured that your weapon would have to be one of real power to protect you for this long, and it’s odd to see one of such power be so totally nondescript.”
At this, his smile grew wider. “You’re making a lot of assumptions there, young one.”
You were confused. Assumptions? What assumptions had you made? “Such as?”
“Well, the biggest one is assuming that my weapon has any magic about it at all!”
You laughed. At this, his smile fell. You were taken aback by his sudden shift in expression. You had made an assumption this time-that he was joking.
“And what’s so funny? You don’t need a magical weapon, not really. Not if you’re good enough. Anyways, I’m here to drink, not to be mocked.”
You were actually stunned. There was a real anger in his voice. “No, sir, I’m sorry. What may I call you?”
“James.” He said, and turned to the bar.
“Tell me then, James. How have you managed to survive for so long without any kind of magic?”
James beckoned to you. The anger was out of his voice, but so was the mirth. What he said sounded completely businesslike, and left no room for an argument. “Sit with me. I see something in you, something I had at your age. But you’ll never get to live to see it yourself if you keep using that weapon as a crutch. Sit with me and listen. I’ll tell you my story, and then you come with me and I’ll teach you how you can live to tell yours too.”
When you sat with him, the bar grew still as well as silent. “No,” he said. “I don’t want any of you listening in. It wouldn’t do you any good anyways.” And his voice was so clear and commanding that they all listened, and he spent the night telling you his saga.
