Problem was, Flik and I had different tastes in swords. He likes the little pissy twigs they call longswords... one-handed weapons. Fast, but weak. I've snapped a good many of those in half during my day. Of course, Flik's been pretty loyal to one sword most his war-torn life, a decent steel blade forged in his homeland.

I like bigger swords- two-handed brutes, the heavier the better. Sure, I don't get as many shots in as Baby Blue, but all my shots count. Most times an imperial only tasted my blade once before collapsing to the ground in a dead heap of flesh. The ones who tried to parry just got their shield smashed up, so they could stand there with their knees knocking while they soiled themselves and I finished them off.

But even I get caught of guard sometimes. We had the jump on Sonya Shulen's soldiers- they were clearly thrown off by our surprise attack. I think the blow landed while I was busy relieving some poor sap of his ugly imperial head- some lucky punk put a nice hefty gash in my exposed muscle. Last thing he ever did, too.

Lord knows why it was that night, nursing the worst wound I got during the whole Gate Rune War, in which Morgan decided to pick on me.

Morgan was a student at Qlon Temple, an ambitious martial artist. I used to be amazed at how well Morgan could fight- I watched him spar with some of the best fist-flingers of the Liberation Army, but hardly ever saw him hit the mat. He may not have been blue, but the guy was definately lightning.

He always talked in enigmas, that guy. Never heard a straight sentance out of him, but then I guess the rigorous training one goes through to become a master at unarmed combat comes with some pretty irksome side effects. He talked a lot about discipline, a lot about honor, a lot about silent winds and the feelings of the soul and some such rubbish. Whenever asked how he could be such a successful warrior dispite the fact he was completely blind, he would simply respond, "The light in my eyes has faded, but the light in my soul continues to shine."

Digressions aside, it was on the night that I sat in the infirmary holding a blood soaked cloth to my shredded arm that Morgan showed up. I did not say a thing- I had no idea he knew I was there. He sat on a small wooden bench opposite me and folded his hands into his lap. It was kind of funny, looking at those hands, which had felled a hundred men, which I knew could probably kill me before I could blink, folded peacefully on his legs. .

He refused to say hello to anyone, at any time. Tonight he greeted me with, "You are hurting, Viktor, but it is not the wound in your arm that pains you."

"I dunno about that, Morgan, this thing hurts like hell."

"There is a sadness in your voice. It is not something I can hear, it is something I can feel. It is because of that sadness that Lord McDohl is our commander, and not you. You do not feel it... but it is crushing you, drowning you, threatening to overwhelm you."

I laughed. Or I forced a laugh. I guess I needed to laugh to prove I really wasn't depressed. "I'm fine Morgan. You know me, I'll be out there tomorrow bashin' heads with the best of them."

He sighed. "Yes, you will..."

I realized what Morgan meant by that while I was laying awake in that little room in South Window, the iron wedge of insomnia lodged in my psyche. Well, I think I realized what he meant... it's not like I'm the insightful fist-flinger he was. I'm a warrior, a brute, a fighter... war's part of my blood, part of my life. As much a part of me as the eyes in my face and the lint between my toes. Giving up my sword (even one as obnoxious as the old man) was like severing a major artery- without battle I would eventually wither up and die like an old prune.

The reason? I didn't know. I still don't. That's not really a question that has an answer. Might as well ask why the sun comes up every morning, or why lemmings heave themselves off cliffs.

That's why I was so relieved when, finally, the two week mark was up. Pohl Treybell and I headed along the path (without a decent blade, I wasn't about to go too far into the open plains- to many deadly squirrels for my taste) to Kuskus. With any luck, I would be able to pick up my sword and get on with my life.

In case you hadn't been paying attention, luck isn't something I have an abundance of.

After a good hour of pounding on the thick, wooden door of Kuskus' blacksmith shop, and peeking through the sliver of glass between the curtain and the windowsill, even one quick glance through the keyhole, Pohl and I arrived at the conclusion that the crater-faced smithy had skipped town. I crossed my arms over my chessed and sighed. 5000 potch was a lot of money, especially for a drifter like me. Matter of fact, it was the last scraplings of cash I had left over from my most recent trek through the Banner Badlands. Drifters like me don't really have a reliable source of income.

My blood boiled. No note, no message, no nothing. No notice. The stammering little runt could have at least had enough decency to wait until my sword was finished before he took a vacation.

Pohl got the attention of an old woman who was wakling by, out and about fulfilling some daily errands, no doubt, and asked her the burning question- where have all the blacksmiths gone?

"Oh, that nice young man (his pa works the shop just up that way). Yes, yes, his master Tessai (nice boy, that Tessai, I knew him since he was knee-high) took him off to Tinto (been there once, too dry for my bones), said something about an untouched vein of iron ore deep in the mines (quality weapons forged ufrom the ore found up there in Tinto, they say). Yessir, that nice young man told me to pass the message along to a strong, muscular man named Viktor..."

For all I know, I coulda got halfway to Tinto before the old hag finished her speech.