Good day, my dear readers. Perhaps your wondering why I’ve started this post with a thinly veiled profanity. Well, initially my morning was simply inconvenient and did not warrant such an uncouth reaction. As you have no doubt noticed by now, given the late night/early morning posts I do, I have a bad habit of staying up till ungodly hours of the morn when I can afford to (usually going to bed around 4 AM, if you must know), thus leading to an equally horrendous habit of sleeping in late. Well, I was up till about 3:45 last night, and I rather inexplicably woke up a mere 4 hours and 45 minutes later at 8:30ish. So I’m a bit tired. Nothing I can’t handle. But my morning has taken me for a different sort of ride. I decided, silly me, that I wanted to watch an old Disney movie. You know the kind, back in the day when Disney was intense and they didn’t pull any punches. When villains were dark and brooding, when death was all too tangible, when the characters had emotionally crises caused by very real problems. Back when Disney was still good and Mufasa’s death devastated a young Matthew Matherne (I’m a very emotional person, you see). Back when Mulan’s “A Girl Worth Fighting For” had the most jarring mood shift in cartoon history. Back when Tarzan was so steeped in the bleak reality of nature that it seemed almost impossible for that movie to have an actual happy ending, until, you know, it did. Anyways, that was my intent when I loaded up Netflix. I was going to watch a good, old Disney movie. Well, while I was looking for one, I happened upon a collection of Disney shorts, and I thought, “Hey, I could watch this instead and NOT be emotionally compromised.” Silly me. The third or fourth short into this documentary, I guess you could call it, I don’t know, was one called “The Little Matchgirl” and it did not have  a terribly feel good ending, in my opinion. I mean, you have the whole “they’re in a better place now” vibe. But the girl still died. And that struck a chord with me this morning. And the state of things hasn’t improved all that much as I’ve kept watching Disney. Not that I’m going to stop. This is why old Disney was good. It made you feel uncomfortable and sad and angry. It challenged you. Anyways, Disney is doing all things that it’s supposed to and because of that you’re getting the one of the earliest posts you’ll probably ever get and also the most profane title you’ll probably ever get. So to cheer up the morning, you’re getting another mini-sode.

A Blacksmith’s Adventures with Weapons of Legend: Svard Forsta

“I am rage. I am agony. I am the furious screams of the oppressed,” the large abomination growled dramatically, cracks in his skin glowing as if lava flowed through his veins. “I am the wrath 0f-”

“Shut up!”

From out of nowhere, a booted foot struck the man in the face, disrupting his sentence and confusing the hell out of everyone present.

“You’re not angry, I’m angry!” the strange commando shouted, standing over his baffled victim, battle axe in hand.

“Alexander?” Tom asked, looking at the fearsome axe warrior.

“I am the paragon of Angern! No one is angrier than me! If anyone has the right to be called anger incarnate, it’s me!” the man boldly proclaimed as loud as he possibly could.

“No, I do, you bastard!” another similarly outfitted warrior shouted, charging at Alex. “I’m his freaking exemplar!”

“Gaius?” Tom inquired, no less perplexed than before.

Alex redirected his fiery rage at this new entity. As the two fought, Tom’s foe slowly crawled away. He did not escape notice, however. Tom’s current weapon quickly spoke up.

“You. Wielder. Are you incompetent or something? That oaf of a man is fleeing. I can’t do anything unless you use me,” the Svard Forsta said, mercilessly mocking her new master.

“Oh, shut up, Svard.  Geez, who new a talking sword could be so annoying?” Tom had acquired this sword quite by accident on the way here. He picked her up from a bandit on his way here. He knew she was special, but he did not know just how special until she felt the need to remark on his poor fashion choices.

“How dare you, human! I am no ordinary sword! I am the Svard Forsta! The First Sword! I was the weapon of choice for the greatest of your mortal kind! You should thank me for gracing you with my presence! And I told you to call me Svarda!”

“Whatever. As I recall, you were once a great and mighty wind guardian, until a Anvers scholar trapped you in this form. How far the mighty have fallen.”

“You dare take that condescending tone with me? I never!”

“How’d you end in the hands of a bandit anyways? Anverlund takes good care of its magical artifacts.”

“Mph. I don’t know why I’m bothering to indulge you, but fine, if you must know. After the passing of my first master, I was passed around to various mighty and powerful warriors. When Anverlund established their library or museum or whatever they call it, I was put there on display for scholars, warriors and lords to ogle. For countless years I sat there, bored and unsatisfied, until a young boy, a simple slave, approached me. He was seeking escape, and I agreed to help him if he agreed to help me with an escape of my own. So we departed for far off lands, eventually finding ourselves in the depraved town of Silversin, where the boy, now a young man, established an apothecary’s shop. One day, a street urchin, on an errand to retrieve some medicine, noticed me laying in a corner, sleeping, and absconded with me. He sold me to the highest bitter, a crime lord, and for a time I was passed from one powerful ne’er-do-well to the next. Eventually, they lost me in the forest you call Blacknight, where my last master acquired me. He died in a horrible and tragic accident which I caused by refusing to cooperate. Then you found me.”

“Another question: have you always been this obnoxious and self-important?”

“How dare-” she began, but was interrupted by a burst of wind that issued forth from her own blade.

Tom had finally reengaged his foe, and it was time to finish this battle.