Hours went by in the blink of an eye as Calf and the King conversed. Calf had reminisced of the past and reminded his father of how his kindness and strength had brought him back time and time again, first from the depths of despair and the brink of annihilation, then once more from being consumed by hatred and the call of bloody revenge. He emphasized the last in recent memory, his welcome despite Calf's failure to overcome his rites.

"I am ready to take destiny in my own hands again thanks to you!" he shouted with determination.

The King laughed mirthfully at that, picking Calf up and twirling him three times before setting him back down, squeezing his arms in conveyance, teary eyes the only other tell on the otherwise hidden emotions threatening to overcome him. He went behind his throne and produced a huge parcel wrapped in sanded king buckskin. Despite his strength, the King seemed to buck at the weight of the parcel as he descended the throne. Once he was next to Calf, he sat the parcel down. Though he'd lowered it gently, the parcel hit the floor with a loud thud. He gestured for Calf to approach the parcel and shook his head when Calf tried to open it, asking him to lift it instead. Calf was first confused, then nervous for a moment before grabbing onto it with both hands and heaving with all his strength. The parcel did not budge even an inch. This remained so even after multiple attempts from different positions. The King placed a calming hand onto Calf's shoulder, who was now breathing hard from his exertions. He breathed lightly onto Calf's forehead, which seemed to re-energize him as his breathe promptly steadied to a slow rhythm.

"The humans, like the Taurs, have their bastions where large collectives of them reside, and they have classifications even among the peoples of the same nation. They have tribes, each with their habits and guiding principles that differentiate one subgroup from another. These differences they call 'cultures', usually identifiable through audio and visual cues, their languages, dress, address, and so on. The semantics you can piece out from the archives, so I won't bore you with any of that detail."

That had sounded like the beginning of a lecture and despite not getting formal education about the half-being nations yet, he'd had a starter course in his previous life as a village prince, and a trickle of details from the archives during his research. After a brief pause, the King continued.

"Inheritance, Heritage, you've become first in line for mine since the day we met. This is all due to the choices I made for you, and though they're ones you've grown to accept and own, that's not all that's available to you, that’s not the end of your birth right."

With this, the King brought his attention back to the parcel. He tugged at one string, holding his free hand to the opposite side of his pull to steady the objects peeking out of the buckskin. Calf was surprised at the sight of the objects, for their volume could not justify their weight. The King nodded for him to try now, and even when he attempted to lift them one at a time, it was still too much of a challenge. The King took his place and lifted each one in turn. Though he'd managed with less effort this time around, the taut arm muscles told Calf there was still quite a lot of weight to each. Having shown each item to Calf, he sat him down and regaled him with a few tales of human military might and culture. Everything came full circle when the items from the parcel became props in their conversation.

"... and this is a traditional military set, consisting of a close-quarter spear, a knobkerrie for blunt force, and a shield for protection. Combatants within a raid party are expected to be versatile and capable from all ranges, using the best tool for the job as opposed to rigidly adhering to one. The sheets in the hollowed trunk contain the forms that go with each implement from the set. Your ancestors were from those lands, and although it's been generations since any of their migrant descendants have practiced these forms, this is still your forefathers' heritage, your heritage."

Calf marvelled at the items and his eyes sparkled with excitement at the new knowledge, only for his smile to falter when he remembered the weight of the items. The King smiled encouragingly at him, gesturing one last time to the Bow and the Arrow pouch. Calf grabbed the pouch handle and heaved, only for the pouch to follow his heave with little resistance, propelling the arrows formerly within it high into the air. He was only stunned by this momentarily, before righting the pouch, moving it left and right to swallow the falling arrows. He set the pouch down and confidently lifted the bow, its weight feeling just right in his hand. Next, he tested the knob-headed short shaft his father had called a knobkerrie, which packed quite the heft at the knob. Lastly, he tested out the spear. Trying to wield it with both hands was just weird and it felt at home in his right hand. He held it with a firm grip just at the base of the shaft and rotated his wrists, feeling his way through its advantages and limitations. It just felt right but given his aversion to close-quarter combat due to how squishy he would be in comparison to the average Taur, he didn't think he'd get a good chance to use it.

The King packed the spear and knobkerrie back into the buckskin. He gave Calf the rest of his gifts upfront, emphasizing the shield and with that his message was clear, to preserve himself above all else as he had a lot to look forward to on his safe return. Calf wore his carving knife in a sheath at his waist, the pouch over his shoulder and his bow slung on his back. He held the shield in his off hand to afford him the chance to pull out attacking implements swiftly as soon as the need arose. He thanked his father again, bidding him farewell before turning for the main entrance, he'd have his supper, and then he'd head out to rule his destiny.

⯁⯁⯁

The streets were devoid of traffic as Calf made his way to the kitchens. All the cadets were penned by now, considering dinner had been served three hours ago and evening training sessions had been suspended for that month. The emptiness made him a bit tense, though he'd be lying if he said he missed the boisterous bunch that usually littered the area. He found a single serving cadet with a bucket of thick broth and a gourd of beer. He refused the offered bowl, to the cadet's surprise. Given the suspicious events of the earlier rites and deliberations, he hadn't trusted the rich broth being served, by one of the Red Grove cadets no less, and had opted for fruit, dried nuts, and water from his supplies. He requested a live chicken from the cadet, who bristled at the request, as expected, and intended.

He defused the situation by asking for directions to the closest coop instead, where they would starve tomorrow's birds before their hour of slaughter. He'd settled for a turkey as opposed to a chicken and caught the largest he could spot, placing it in a perforated sling pouch head out. His request for a live bird serviced multiple contingencies, as a guaranteed untainted source of protein should he need it, a potential distraction should his rights involve carnivorous attackers, and a source of fletching should he run out of available arrows or be required to make some from scratch, though the last was highly unlikely. Finished with all his preparations, he exited the mess hall, heading East, where he assumed the 'Crossroads' from the poem lay.