The Spirit of the Sword
The Blumaroo’s ears rose and fell as he lay in a small bed. The sound of waves hitting the shore and the pirates of Seaside bustling to and fro kept his angry, vengeful heart steady and calm. His eyes wandered across the room, scanning the rotting wooden planks, the barrel of fish to his left, and the old pirate Scorchio sitting in the corner, tipping his chair back and forth, evenly breathing, staring at the poor creature in the bed.
“Ahoy thar, ain’t it time fer ye to get up?” he squawked. “’Tis half past eight or so, I think.” He lifted himself from the chair before he began to pace. “Unless ye’re stayin' fer another night - then we can talk gold.” He rubbed his hands together, anxious to rake in more pay.
“I’m considering it, Berig,” replied the Blumaroo. He gripped the edges of the bed and forced himself to rise, a strong pain arising in his back. “I’m not looking forward to fighting more Gelerts out there. They’ve gotten so strong, and all because of Ramtor...”
The Scorchio laughed. “Then get yerself a new sword, matey! You know old Patannis has a good supply of the finest swords.” Berig got up from his own chair and hobbled around, his green eyes taking a moment to look outside of the inn. There was Enlea, smiling and waving to invisible visitors, and Gallar, failing and fishing for the fifth time that week. But, as usual, there were no visitors. Few made it to Seaside, what with the rampaging Mist Gelerts and Dire Lupes that found new and exciting ways to leap from the forests and chase off unsuspecting Meridellians. Only the pirates and the Blumaroo resided in the small town, and even then, you couldn’t call it busy or crowded.
“How long has it been since I came here, Berig?”
“I don’t know. Must be at least a few days, if not a week or more. Ye sure you don’t want something to eat? Ye seem famished.”
“You’ve been far too kind, Berig. I must be on my way today.” The Blumaroo seemed stiff, as though he hadn’t moved in a while. His right hand gripped the hilt of the sword at his belt so tightly his knuckles turned whiter than the color of his coat. “And I’m not stopping for a sword – I’m keeping this one.”
Berig nodded, though his head cocked to the side. “Aye, I understand. I still can not believe ye won’t get rid of that grubby thing. Best I let you go on your way on your own, righ’? Wouldn’t do me good to get too close to you now. Not coming back to Seaside for a long time.”
The Blumaroo only nodded in response.
“Promise me you’ll stop by the ol’ Techo’s for some new armor, though. Alright?”
“I’ve already done so, Berig.” The Blumaroo sighed. “I best be going now. Wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome. I have an Advisor to find.”
“Ahh, the ol’ Ramtor. Best o’ luck, matey. Ye need it to catch that Eyrie.”
Without a glance backward, the Blumaroo entered the fray of the plains outside of Seaside, to fight valiantly, yet lose, against Ramtor the Advisor. Few knew of his corruption, but this old Blumaroo did. Try as he might, he couldn’t knock the blue Eyrie from his throne. All that remained was a sword, given to Berig to send home to Trestin.
It was many months before the inn had another visitor. A younger Blumaroo, the same off-white of that visitor so many years ago. It took Berig nay a second to recognize the face, the one he’d sent off so long ago without a second thought. But this time, there was a visitor at his side, a young Acara, with brilliant blue fur and a flaming fury in her stride.
“Honestly, Rohane, how many more Lupes do we have to fight? This is ridiculous... and I wish I didn’t need these stupid shoes.”
“Mipsy, you’re not wearing shoes. You left them at White River.”
“Well, maybe if we weren’t in such a hurry to find this ‘Advisor’, you wouldn’t have to deal with me complaining all of the time. Am I right, or am I right?”
“Well, if you didn’t try to set everything on fire that you saw, we’d be halfway to the castle by now!”
“We are halfway to the castle!”
Anxious to stop the fighting, Berig took a drastic measure and leapt into the fray. “Advisor, ye say?” The old Scorchio leaned his head outside of the inn, curious to hear the tales the young pets told.
“Yes. We’ve spoken to Delkon about what we heard in Lakeside.” The Blumaroo took a few steps forward, just barely touching the wood floor of the inn. “The King has been overthrown, and we’re off to find his advisor.”
“Well, ye know he’s not far off. Just round the bend of the trees and between the moats sits Meridell Castle. I’d get to it, then... less you want to take a rest for the night.”
“Yes, of course!” piped up Mipsy, shoving a stack of gold into Berig’s hand and claiming a bed for herself. The old pirate saw her stick out her tongue in the corner of his eye, but it was all juvenile nonsense to him.
“I best be off myself, then, Berig.”
“Wait a second, Rohane.” He laid his hand on his shoulder before pointing to his belt. “That sword... I recognize it. Mind telling me what it is?”
“Well, it’s my father’s sword. My mother gave it to me a few years ago after... well, after my father went after Ramtor himself. Few knew of his corruption way back then, but it was there, I know it. His actions weren’t in vain. He knew what was wrong.”
The Scorchio let out a sigh. “I met your dad, all of those years ago. Nice man, he was, don’t get me wrong, but strong headed in the wrong sort of way. Now, I know that sword is important to you, Rohane, but it’s best to put that thing away. It’s what got your father into trouble. Patannis can get you a new one, all set and ready to go!”
But Rohane hung his head. “I can’t. It’s my father’s sword. My mother said I’d do great things with it. If I give it up now, sold it... what would he think?” He sighed. “No. I’ll keep this sword. This sword will get me places my father couldn’t reach. My father...”
“He was a great man, Rohane.”
“I know. And this sword is just as great. I’m sorry, Berig, but I have to turn you down. Mind if I stay the night anyway?”
“Not at all, Rohane, not at all.”
And with that, the Blumaroo went off to bed, only to be tormented by Mipsy for hours on end. She bombarded him with questions about his father, but he wouldn’t answer. All he did was grasp the hilt of the sword, angry at Ramtor, at whoever got him stuck here. Ramtor would fall, and, eventually, his most powerful foe would be felled by what seemed to be the weakest sword.
The weakest in looks, but the strongest in heart. For within that sword rested the fighting spirit of the great warrior, Rohane’s Father.
If you're reading this, this means I've gotten my 8th piece into the Neopian Times! Neomail comments!