• It was almost amusing to see a massive and well-muscled warrior like Cladof smile and jitter about with such a childish demeanor. Normally a stoic and silent beast of a man, the prospect of meeting the person who had crafted his childhood, and influenced him to such a high degree, reduced him to a giddy and nervous wreck. Unable to sit still and take a seat, as did the Steward and the Cannoness , he paced aimlessly across the foyer. Occasionally, he would look towards the Steward and ask “Is it time yet?”, a question that was oft answered with an annoyed shake of the head, and a curt “No, sir. Not yet.” After the eight repetition of the question, the Cannoness rolled her eyes as she groaned slightly, turning her head towards the Steward and asking “For the mercy of my sanity, would you please just wake him up?” The Steward glared at her with narrowed eyes, and the Cannoness’ outburst shamed Cladof into staring meekly at his feet. “You know that it isn’t possible to rush milord,” spoke the Steward as the Cannoness rolled her eyes. “He is a journeyman of the arcane arts, and, as he is required to tap into such magics daily, must routinely receive a full ten hours of sleep. A minute less would be unacceptable.” The Cannoness let out a weak laugh, replying “Oh yes, I’m sure his casting of magic is of terrible importance, and certainly not the latest of his petty hobbies and dalliances. Why, by all means, the man should get his rest. It’s not like we’ve been waiting for an hour already, simply to be graced with his presence.”

    The Steward gave The Cannoness an incredulous look, saying “Milady…”, and she raised a hand and replied “Oh no, it’s fine. I’m fine. His soldiers are ordered to rest for but five hours a night, but such an important man as he deserves much more than us common rabble.” The Steward stood from his chair and looked hard at the Cannoness, saying “That’s quite enough. If you insist on bringing your simple and wrathful airs into this well-kept haven, I will simply cast you out as one might open a window and toss out refuse.” The Cannoness gave him a sly smile as she leaned back in her chair, saying “Ah, but then milord wouldn’t be able to receive his precious report, would he? And it’s not as though I could just deliver the report through a courier, no, milord had to decree that I drop all of my duties so that I could bring it personally. Might I ask why? My charge is the Forecleft Hold, and while it is certainly a vital area that is located near the holds of other kingdoms, it is also an area that hasn’t seen true conflict since before my birth! What is there to be reported that could possibly be unusual?”

    The Steward rubbed his forehead as the Cannoness railed against his master, and Cladof felt a small amount of pity for him. The Cannoness, having got her words in, triumphantly looked around the room with a raised chin. Her eyes eventually fell upon Cladof, and she narrowed her gaze. “And you,” she said, “why are you here?” Before Cladof could answer, the Steward calmly and plainly said “A private matter.” The Cannoness ignored him, and continued to stare inquisitively at Cladof, her head tilted and her eyebrows raised. “Well...” began Cladof, but it was all that came out of his mouth before his voice cracked. As he cleared his throat, the Cannoness laughed and said “Yes? Well? Go on.” Cladof looked at her with a sheepish expression, continuing “I’m a , uh… Well, I’m a fan of his work.” The Cannoness tilted her head back and widened her gaze, repeating “His work”? Cladof looked down at the floor and added “His books.” “His books?” repeated The Cannoness with an even more amused tone to her voice, her smile growing by the second. “Ah, yes,” she continued, “his books! It’s been ages since he’s written one of those, hasn’t it? Why, you must’ve been no more than a child when he composed the last of his works.”


    “I was,” replied Cladof plainly. “And if I recall…” began the Cannoness, however she was interrupted by the chime of a clock, a piercing yet soothing tone produced by a mixture of clockworks and magic. “Ah, finally!” exclaimed the Cannoness, as she stood from her chair and stretched. The Steward stood as well, and he led the two guests past the foyer doors. The main hall was a fantastic vault of art, with comfortable lighting produced by lamps that were shaped like various animals. It was all very fantastic, however Cladof was too excited to be impressed by anything less than the impending meeting. Traversing through what seemed like countless hallways and corridors, the Steward eventually led them into the private chamber of the master of the manor. The room was lit by the dim yet steady light of the burning fireplace, so that the gilded furniture and ornaments seemed to slightly reflect the dancing of the flames throughout the room. The master was, unceremoniously, asleep in his rather plain bed. The Steward approached the Master through his snoring, the volume of which caused the Cannoness to smirk. “Milord,” spoke the Steward as he slightly shook his Master, “it’s time to rise. Your guests have arrived.”

    The Master stretched and yawned as if shrugging off weights that sleep had placed on him, replying “Guests? Have they been waiting long?” “Oh, no,” spoke the Cannoness, “Only for the past hour. Hardly worth mentioning.” The Master smiled, falling back into his bed as he wiped his eyes. “A whole hour?” he said in a mockingly surprised voice that was still not yet completely awake. “It must have been quite the test of patience. But testing is the method by which our talents are measured, as well as later improved upon. And of all the virtues that can be honed, patience ought not to be the last, for there are things sown in life that one must learn to wait a lifetime to reap.” “It’s not that I’m unable to gracefully spend my time, it’s not I detest when it is wasted. After all, I’ve only so much of it in this life. So may we please get on with this?” The Master looked at the Cannoness as if trying to remember who she was, and he then looked towards the Steward, who said “Milord, this is the Cannoness of the Forecleft Hold, come to give her report in person, as requested. Pray, receive it quickly, so that she may depart in equal haste.”

    The Cannoness shot the Steward a venomous glance. The Master sat up in his bed and nodded to the steward, while raising his hand to beckon forth the Cannoness. “Milord, all is…” she began, before the Steward interrupted her with a cough. She shot him a glance, curtly asking “What?”, and he replied “Pardon me, but is it not proper tradition to kneel to one’s lord when delivering a message or report?” The Cannoness looked at the Master, who simply shrugged. “Oh, fine!” she exclaimed, dropping to a knee. “All is well in the hold milord. Provisions are well stocked and violence is unheard of. As you know, there was discontentment among the soldiers of the king who were recently garrisoned in this territory and placed under your command, but I can assure you that such talk has disappeared in the past few months. We’ve been training extensively in preparation for a possible invasion, just as you’ve ordered, even though I must honestly say that such an attack seems beyond unlikely. This concludes my general report. Good day,” she said very quickly, rising to her feet and making her way towards the door. “Miss Cannoness?” called the Master after her. She turned in her tracks, and replied “Yes, milord?” “I appreciate your hard work, and I apologize for any inconveniences that may have caused you. Come closer, and allow me to thank you for your services,” he said, reaching for a small chest on a shelf beside his bed.

    The Cannoness took on an odd expression of caution, and replied “You can thank me later,” as she once again turned for the door. Once again, the Master called out “Miss Cannoness?” She turned once more with a sigh, and angled her head at him with wide eyes as if to inaudibly ask ‘What now?!’ The Master smiled, and said “Tis a long and strange passage that lay between here and the manor’s entrance. I fear you may lose your way. Please, allow my Steward to accompany you on your way out.” The Cannoness slightly opened her mouth as she thought for a moment of something to say, some excuse to not have his company, yet nothing came to her. She closed her mouth and pursed her lips, saying “Fine,” as she bowed her head slightly and raised an arm towards the door as if gesturing the Steward to lead on. The Steward took a step towards her, but turned to the Master and said “Milord, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you unprotected in the company of another.” The Master scanned Cladof, who smiled in the embarrassment that comes from being stared at. “It’s quite alright,” said the Master, “I think my friend here is of no danger to me.” “Very well,” sighed the Steward, who led his charge away.

    Obviously still tired, the Master leaned back into his bed and wiped his eyes with one hand, while using the other to magically pull the curtains away from a large window. As the curtains fell back, sunlight fell into the room, and Cladof had to squint until his eyes had adjusted. “Now then,” spoke the Master, “what brings you here?” Cladof shuffled his feet, saying “Well… I’m just…” before stopping to clear his throat, and he continued “My, uh… name is Cladof.” “Ah, Cladof! I’ve heard of you!” said the Master. “You slew the Hyphal Birds that ravaged the townships of Cleos, did you not? And the dragon… Ha! I must admit, when I first heard tell of how you slew that vile lizard, I became quite tempted to take up my quill once more and write tales of equal grandeur, if a comparable tale could ever be written!” “Actually,” began Cladof, regaining his sense of social bravery, “that’s why I’m here. Your st…” he momentarily stuttered, and briefly paused before continuing, “stories. I grew up reading them, actually. They inspired me to carefully study the art of warfare and combat.” “Is that so?” asked the Master, smiling. “Oh, yes! While the Cannoness’ charge, the Forecleft Hold, is very peaceful, the region I grew up in was one of constant turmoil. The only happiness I found in my childhood, the only escape from the bloodshed, was when I managed to sneak away from my parents to an abandoned barn, where I’d read through my favorite stories time and again,” replied Cladof.

    “And which stories, exactly, were your favorites?” asked the Master. “Well,” said Cladof, “I was always enchanted with the exploits of the knight Raegul.” The Master laughed and exclaimed “Raegul the Mighty! Ah yes, I could never forget crafting him and his adventures. How he slew the foul swamp beasts that ate up caravans as if they were so many morsels, and ended the wicked ways of the Witchcrests of the Forgotten Moors, and…” he stopped to think of more of Raegul’s adventures, and Cladof assisted him by adding “Yes, and the time he defeated the Dragon King of the Three Bays, and when he tricked the red-sailed Halfior armada into sailing towards the territory of a monster of the sea… I loved all of them, all of his tales of triumph against all odds, and I remember them to this day.” The two laughed heartily, each obviously amicable to the other. Cladof looked down, and as his laughter began to fade, he said “I… I didn’t have much of a choice in life. As soon as I became old enough to understand the concept of death, I from then on lived in constant fear of it. But your stories made me realize something; that I did have a choice. Even against enemies and armies more powerful than the world had ever seen, Raegul never once failed to claim victory, and I realized that I too could attain that kind of bravery. No matter how bleak things seemed, I became determined to carry on, just like him. Eventually, I enlisted with the King’s army, even though I was exempted from the royal drafts as I was at that point the sole surviving male heir of my family. Not only did I survive, but I received honors, and was even granted nobility for slaying the Phylaask that eviscerated the majority of my garrison.”

    The Master seemed to be quite moved by just how much he had influenced the warrior before him, and he reached out to pat Cladof on the shoulder, saying “I’m pleased that you found the strength to carry on, and very glad that you came to visit me. Truly, I’m more humbled now than at any other point in my life, and I’d like to thank you for brightening an old man’s dreary day.” “Oh, no,” spoke Cladof, “it is I who should be thanking you!” The Master smiled and replied “Nonsense. Now, if you don’t mind, there’s a matter that I’d like to discuss with you.” “Yes, of course,” replied Cladof, “anything.” The Master sat up in his bed and thought for a moment, before saying “You’re truly an admirable hero, and you seem to be a kind enough sort now, however I’m afraid that your reputation as a normally cold and violent man precedes you.” Cladof seemed to straighten up, and his smile began to fade. “Yes, some might say you’re correct,” he replied. The Master continued, saying “The songs of the street seem to commemorate your victories in battle as often as your torturous treatment of the common people.” Cladof seemed to take offense at this statement, and he asked “Torturous? How so?” “Well,” said the Master, choosing his words with careful thought, “they say that you struck off a man’s arm, simply to test the sharpness of a new blade. And, in truth, I have also heard that he was not the first to become an unwilling assistant to your harsh needs. Lately, there has also been talk of how you ravaged a married woman who refused your advances, and slew her husband when he attempted to protect her.” Cladof listened intently to the Master, but shook his head in disagreement.

    “I would hardly call that torturous,” he replied, “for those are privileges held by the noble caste, of which I was honorably inducted. I can see how you might think me to be a cruel man, but it is the way a true warrior needs to be. The common people need to fear and respect me, to in awe of my reputation and to be kept in line. After all, was I not able to quickly end the Telrith Rebellion because of that fear, intimidating the rebels into surrendering after but one battle? Remember, no man or woman alive could take my place, and defeat all of the opponents that I have faced; every person has their place, and while mine is to efficiently conquer, theirs is to efficiently serve.”

    The Master shook his head, and said “You ought not to think of yourself as more important than the common people. Remember, though the brilliant gem may put other substances to shame, it was simple tools that released it from it’s earthen cell, and later cleaned and cut it, allowing it to show the world it’s luster. If not for the farmers, what would you eat? If not for the tailors, what would you wear? If not for the blacksmiths, what would you wield into battle?” Cladof rubbed his eyes, growing impatient, and replied “You fail to understand. Any man can learn to tend a field or to sew, but very few can stand before the beasts that I have faced and retain their courage. In truth, without the protection I provide, there would be no fields to tend, no materials to be made into clothing, no trade routes from which metal can be delivered to smiths, and so forth.” “Ah,” spoke the Master, “but the reverse is also true. Such is the nature of coexistence. But let’s put all that to the side for now, as I have a question to ask you.” Cladof looked at him expectantly and replied “Yes? What is it that you wish to ask?” The Master smiled, and asked “Have you ever read ‘The Cook’s Day’, by chance? It was one of my final stories.” Cladof, who had become fairly agitated by their recent discussion, seemed slightly confused at the change of topics. “No,” he replied, “I haven’t, unfortunately.” The Master gave him a sly grin, saying “It would seem that you stuck to the tales and chivalry, hm?” Cladof returned the smile, and replied “You’re fairly correct in your assumption. Truly, the story must not have caught my attention.”

    “Well,” began the Master, as he excitedly straightened up in anticipation of having the chance to tell a story, “I’ll briefly tell it to you. To begin, it’s about a cook by the name of Tilda, a woman who was always treated poorly by her ‘betters’. Now, if you’d made it past the first few pages, in which she is introduced and tales of her woe are regaled so that her character might gain the audience’s sympathy, you’d have found that there is actually an adventure in it. You see, a terrible wizard makes his home in an ancient tower, and sends out undead soldiers to harass the people of a nearby kingdom. The King and Queen hastily assembled a group of valiant knights to go out on an expedition to raid the tower, and to defeat the wizard. Of course, these ‘knights’ were all noblemen who were eager to gain prestige and influence in the kingdom, and were used to lavish lifestyles. Rather than survive on the usual gruel and rations of the army, they resolved to bring a cook along, and loaded up a few horses with rich ingredients from which lavish meals could be crafted. However, the chef that they had originally commissioned for the venture was afraid of perishing during the dangerous expedition, and so he decided to send one of his understudies in his place. Naturally, he was unwilling to have his favorite students in danger’s way, and so he resolved to send Tilda, who he saw as talented yet replaceable. “

    “The expedition was soon underway, and the knights set about slaying any undead creatures that stood in between them and the wizard’s tower. It took them more than three days to reach their destination, and every night they set up a camp and enjoyed Tilda’s meals. Of course, though she performed her job as well as possible, the knights loved nothing more than to treat her poorly, and they daily came up with new methods of tormenting her. Soon enough, they had reached the tower, and wasted no time in searching it’s many floors for the wizard. However, they soon came to realize that the tower was being protected by far more than just simple undead soldiers; there were also powerful and mysterious creatures fighting on behalf of the wizard. The first that came upon was a Wirn, a horrible man-like beast with skin as tough as iron, save for a soft spot on it’s back. Of course, the knights tried to distract it while one of them would attempt to get behind it, however the Wirn had dozens of eyes that allowed it to see both in front of and behind itself. The knights seemed to fall into disarray as their arrows and swords bounced harmlessly off of the beast. Tilda, noticing it’s eyes, remembered that her spices had always made quick irritation of any eye they settled on, and came up with a plan. She grabbed the pouch of spices and herbs on her hip, and cast a fistful of Hatchpan powder, a very hot concoction, towards the Wirn. Almost immediately, the beast gave up it’s attack and began to roll about in pain, and the knights wasted no time in striking at it’s now defenseless point of vulnerability.”

    “The Wirn wasn’t the only creature that they faced, for they soon encountered a deadly Quarnbird, a winged creature with claws that could slice through metal with ease. The agile bird tormented the knights, who were unable to strike such a quickly moving target. After years of catching distressed chickens, which had left a fair amount of scratches on her forearms, Tilde knew what to do. All of the men swung their blades wildly, occasionally trying to grab at the Quarnbird’s slick wings, and avoided it’s legs and sharp talons at all costs. As the Quarnbird flew towards Tilda, expecting her to falter under it’s attack as the knights had done, she stood her ground. As it came closer and raised it’s talons towards her, Tilda quickly took a step towards it and easily grabbed hold of it’s outstretched legs. The Quarnbird was completely startled by the turn of events, and didn’t even begin to struggle until it was too late; though it managed to leave a few gashes across Tilda’s forearms, she ignored the pain and squeezed both of it’s legs into one of her hands. Having done that, she took a knife from one of the bewildered knights and hastily set about slaughtering the beast as if preparing it for dinner.”

    "As the battle for the tower raged on, and even more mysterious creatures revealed themselves, the knights began to realize that Tilda was constantly defeating their enemies for them. Slowly but surely enough, they each began to take on an air of shame, now regretting how they had treated her in the past. Before long, they had reached the final level of the tower, and found themselves doing battle with the wizard himself. Unfortunately for them, the wizard was not without means, and he donned a suit of armor into battle that shone like the sun; it was finely crafted, created by one of the world’s greatest blacksmiths, who had forged it years earlier as a ransom exchange when his only daughter was kidnapped. Somehow, the fabled armor had found it’s way into the wizard’s possession, who was a greedy collector of items of mystery and power, and it was made of an alloy so powerful that no blade was able to pierce it. The wizard laughed as the knights attempted to strike at him with their arrows and blades, tossing them away effortlessly, and he unleashed a variety of spells upon them. As fireballs flew through the air, Tilda simply watched and assessed the situation. ‘He’s protected,’ she thought, ‘like a crab in it’s shell.’ Suddenly, she knew exactly what to do. When the expedition had first entered the tower, they had given one of their lanterns to Tilda, so that she might hold it and illuminate the dark rooms of the tower while the knights did combat. Along with the lantern, Tilda also had a small jar of oil, which she was now gripping tightly in her hand. After putting some of the oil in her mouth, she walked up to the wizard and tried to look helpless (for an evil wizard can never resist a helpless victim), and he summarily laughed heartily as he threw a fireball towards her. Wasting no time, Tilda immediately spat out the oil, and the fireball was reversed towards the wizard as it swallowed every drop of the fuel. As the fireball hit the wizard, he fell backwards in surprise, and Tilda seized the opportunity to attack.”

    “There were a few remnants of the flame across his armor, and he tried to douse them by casting a stream of water. However, before he could succeed, Tilda threw the oil jar at him, and the flames erupted uncontrollably as it smashed into his side. Sadly for the wizard, he was always more interested in spells of fire than water, as he loved their immediate destructive power, and as his skill in water magic was lacking, he found himself unable to douse the erupting flames. Before long, the heat from the fire began to cook the wizard, and his now extremely hot armor only added to his demise. After the flames had died down, the knights approached the wizard; while he was quite dead, the armor had lived up to it’s reputation; despite the extreme heat, it had remained unblemished and without warping. The knights were stunned at Tilda’s success, and one asked ‘How did you know what to do?’ Tilda simply shrugged, and replied ‘When first preparing a crab to be eaten, there’s no need for the shell to be immediately removed; the proper amount of heat is enough to bypass the shell and cook the meat from within.”

    “Triumphant, the expedition returned home to be rewarded and recognized. Of course, while the knights did indeed try to claim more responsibility than was truly due to them, they couldn’t help but recognize Tilda and to tell of how she cleverly defeated the wizard. When the king heard of her bravery, he offered to make her one of his knights, however she had no such intentions. “No thanks,” she said, “I’m happy enough as I am. After all, one doesn’t need a title to be a hero. And besides, if I gave up my passion of cooking to chase monsters all day, who’d feed you lot?” The King relented, although he did force all of his knights from them on to be trained in cooking as well as fighting, hoping that the skills of the trade would make them as useful as Tilde proved to be.”

    The Master finished his tale, and fell back unto his pillows. “The end,” he said. Cladof did not seem impressed, and replied “A cute story, but hardly relevant.” “Ah,” started the Master, who seemed both excited and tired, “but it is completely relevant. You see, while the story is a bit outlandish, it does have an important lesson to it; that every person is capable of being a hero. And you must not forget that every person who adds something to the world, even in only a small way, is a hero in their own right. Beyond that, every trade and walk of life provides people with unique skills and outlooks. Everyone you see is beautiful and important, even if only potentially.” Cladof laughed, and replied “That’s quite a lovely philosophy you have, but unfortunately, like most philosophies, it’s far too hopeful and unrealistic. I’d hardly trust in a cobbler, or a pauper, or a bookbinder to fight my battles; after all, I’m a professional, and…” The master interrupted him, saying “And it’d be as difficult for them to fight, as it would be for you to take on their trades and specialties?” Cladof grew impatient once again, and said “if I had to, then yes, I could. Remember, not everyone is as important and capable as you make them out to be. For instance, when your father was the prefect of this region and you were but an author, how would your books and words have fared against, say, the dragon that I slew? Could they truly have saved or changed the world?” The Master smiled and took one of the books off of his shelf, a collection of some of his short stories, and placed it in Cladof’s hands. “I did slay the dragon,” he said, “and Raegul was the blade that I used to do it.” In bits and pieces, the truth and power of the Master’s statement dawned on Cladof, and for the first time he saw not himself when he looked at his reflection, but everyone who had helped him to become who he was today.