A tan, well-muscled young man stood in an open space surrounded by racks of practice weapons and training dummies wearing loose clothing that wouldn’t hinder his movements. He stretched briefly before selecting a wooden sword and launching into a series of forms and stances, barely pausing in each one before continuing, flowing through the forms his mother had taught him, while she watched appraisingly from outside the circle. He fell into an almost meditative state as he moved, and unconsciously flowed into the forms that had haunted his dreams for as long as he could remember. With a forward lunge and thrust, he pierced one of the straw stuffed dummies with the wooden sword, released its hilt, and spun away from it. As he spun away, his hand casually snagged a staff from one of the racks and he effortlessly twirled it about, falling into forms more suited to the weapon in his hands as though it were no more difficult than breathing.

He continued to move about the training space, almost effortlessly switching from weapon to weapon as he went, until he was drenched with sweat. His mother called out, “Enough!” and he froze mid-movement, legs spread apart, left hand extended, and a scimitar arced forwards over his head in his right. His chest was heaving as he tried to catch his breath, and sweat had plastered his jet-black hair to his forehead. He swiftly returned all the weapons to their proper position, knowing full well his mother would refuse to tell him how he did until the place was put to rights. Once he finished with that, he turned to face her, waiting impatiently for her assessment.

She gave him a broad grin after what felt like an eternity of her just staring at him with her arms folded across her chest, “You did wonderfully Damien, if I wasn’t so set in my ways and so far out of my prime I would likely be having you teach me your style of fighting. I’m so proud of you for developing your own fighting style so fast and so expertly, you waste little energy between blows, your movements focus on allowing you to dodge blows or deflect them with as little effort as possible. You clearly take after me in that regard, your father prefers to rely on his armor while bludgeoning things into submission with that stupid hammer of his. You either need more practice with maces, clubs, and that scimitar you used last, or to drop them entirely. You leave yourself with too many openings using them and I would hate to see your pretty face scarred up after all the work I did bringing you into the world.”

Lecture over, she laughed and hugged him tightly before shoving him towards a tub of water they kept near the practice field. “Clean yourself off before you go to work, you stink. Oh, I can’t wait to tell your father that your talents lie in bladed weapons, the old fool probably already has another stupid war hammer all wrapped up and ready to give to you that matches his own!” She laughed again, her eyes sparkling with amusement, then turned and flowed back to the house with a catlike grace that put the lie to her constant claims of age and infirmity, and told a tale of a lifetime of training for combat to those that knew what to look for.

Damien shook his head and sighed before going to rinse off the sweat he had worked up. The water was icy cold and sent shivers down his spine as he used a bucket to pour it over his head and shoulders. His parents had both decided that his eighteenth birthday would be a day of testing. His mother knew basically everything about his fighting ability, since she had been his instructor since he was little, but she still insisted that he demonstrate his abilities this morning. It still irked him that they never believed him about his Dancing Man though. After a week or so of the dreams he had gotten the urge to imitate the movements, and his Mother, in her infinite wisdom, declared it his imaginary friend and eventually settled on him being a prodigy when it came to fighting as he got more proficient. Eventually he had just given up on trying to convince her otherwise and stopped mentioning the dreams that taught him his way of fighting.

Not like it matters anyways, she still destroys me when we spar. There has to be something I’m missing. Sure, against most opponents I would likely win easily, but that won’t help me if I have to fight someone skilled. His father was to give him his journeyman assignment today, and while he was excited to finally be allowed to progress from apprentice, he was a little worried that his mother was about to put his father in a foul mood right before they got started. When he finished rinsing most of the sweat off he rushed back to the house, eager to change into clothes that weren’t soaked in freezing water.

Once he was changed he headed for the forge, only to be stopped by his father calling from the kitchen. “Your mother tells me you favor the blade.” Definitely annoyed by that. Damien thought. “Well contrary to what she may have thought,” the old man shot her a mock glare, “I don’t have a hammer for you. No, you are a weaponsmith my boy, and any weaponsmith worth his anvil makes his own personal weapon. So the forge is yours son, you have three days to make a weapon for yourself. I expect it to be perfect, and should you fail to meet my standards, your next opportunity to advance will be in one year, as tradition demands.”

Damien froze for a moment, then grinned broadly. Three days to make a weapon for myself? And I get the forge to myself for those three days? He was barely able to contain his excitement at the prospect, it would be challenging, but his father had given him a test that was a birthday present at the same time. Since it was an order from master to apprentice, regarding an advancement test, he stuck to the protocol his father had taught him, “Yes Master, I understand. I will get to work immediately.”

He spun around and rushed for the forge, pulling on an apron as he entered. He already knew what he wanted to make. In his dreams he had seen many weapons and how to wield them, he had practiced with the ones he recognized and had access to, and dismissed the more exotic ones, since many of them seemed complicated to make and use, and explaining where he got the idea for them would have had his parents talking about his ‘imaginary friend’ again. One of them had stuck in his mind though. He was drawn to it like a moth to flame, and now he had an opportunity to make one for himself. In truth his fixation was in no small way due to the fact that he had seen it, and only it, in his dreams for a solid month now. He dreamed how to forge it, how to balance it, how to wield it, in dreams more vivid than any of the others he had had.

After selecting the steel he wanted to use and placing it into the forge to soften, he went to an area of the forge his father set aside for staves. Different wood staves were arrayed along a wall as far as they could get from the actual forge, crucible and basically anything that could set fire to them. They were intended for use as the haft of polearms, axes, maces, and spears. Damien took his time going through his father’s stock, until his gaze settled on one in particular. Well he did say that the forge was mine to use, and that he expected it to be of the best possible quality, which means he won’t mind if I use the best quality materials, right? Once he finished making excuses to himself, he reverently picked up the most expensive stave his father had. There was only a single stave of amaranth in the place, and it had cost his father dearly to acquire it.

It was seven feet in length, perfectly straight and smooth, and he couldn’t help but marvel at its rich, dark purple coloring. He carefully inspected every inch for defects, running his hands along its length reverently. It had been in the forge for years now, his father had bought it with the intent to use it in only the finest of weapons, but so far nobody had been willing to pay the exorbitant amount of money he asked for it, regardless of how much more durable it was than other woods that were locally available. Satisfied that it was perfect for what he needed, he went to work, painstakingly adjusting its length, cutting the proper fittings into the stave, sanding rough spots, and applying a thin coat of finishing oil.

He only stopped working on the stave to work on the steel, and over the next three days he only allowed himself a couple of hours of sleep each night on the floor in a corner, and he ate whatever his mother brought him as fast as he could, so wrapped up in his work that he barely tasted it. When the third day finally ended, he had finally gotten it fully assembled and ready. Well, ready-ish anyways. I would prefer to be have been able to spend more time sealing the haft and polishing the blade, but it should be good enough to present to my father now, and I can always spend more time on it after he sees it and I get some sleep. He could barely keep his eyes open he was so tired, and he was covered in smears of soot, but he was more than a little proud of his work and carefully wrapped it in cloth before resting it over his shoulder and making his way to the house for the first time in three days.

He trudged inside, and when he saw his father seated at the table waiting expectantly he hesitantly presented his new weapon to him. As his father took hold of it he couldn’t help but blurt out, “Please, if it makes you angry, can you wait till tomorrow to yell at me? I’m exhausted.” His father tried for a moment to hold in his mirth, since judging his apprentices work was supposed to be a solemn affair, but he failed and let out a booming laugh before starting to slowly unwrap it. The laugh cut short though when he laid eyes on the dark purple wood, and a scowl started to descend across his face.

He didn’t say anything yet though, simply continued to unwrap it, his scowl faded as he inspected the weapon in its entirety. A five-foot length of amaranth treated and hardened, capped by a two-foot blade that resembled a scimitar, with a single edge curving gracefully backwards, only it had notches along the back of the blade that were designed to catch on swords and shields with proper use, allowing him the opportunity to disarm or force his opponent to stumble. Its other end was capped in a heavy steel spike that balanced the weight of the blade, allowing him to handle it almost as though it were a staff and not a polearm.

As he inspected the rippling lines and patterns that flowed like water across the steel, and the more pronounced wavy line that followed the edge of the blade itself. Then the heavy spike at the other end, his father finally spoke. “It’s beautiful.” It was almost a whisper and there was a lengthy pause before he cleared his throat and continued, “Consider it a passing score son.” He gently lowered the weapon to the table, “I wouldn’t have expected a glaive, or a polearm of any kind for that matter. Most don’t choose it as their personal weapon, counterweighting the blade is a stroke of genius though, and with the shorter length... you intend to use it like a bladed staff don’t you? Do you feel up to giving a demonstration for your poor elderly parents in the morning? I’d love to see it in action, and we can consider it partial repayment for using all of my amaranth.” He gave Damien a mock scowl, “Oh, before I forget, here is your token, and your maker’s mark. When you get a chance, you should mark this,” He gestured at Damien’s weapon, “what do you intend to call it?”

Damien took them, his mark was a stylized design of his initials in the shape of a hawk, he had come up with it a few years ago when his father had asked him about it. Then he looked at the token and froze. He looked up at his father with wide-eyed shock. He let out another of his booming laughs at the expression, “It’s no mistake son, you were skilled enough to make journeyman status by the time you were fourteen, and I registered you as one with the guild when you turned sixteen. You just passed your Mastery test, congratulations and happy birthday!”