>>6012950<span class="mu-i">Master sat next to you, laying down in the tall golden grass while you panted and dried sweat off your neck. You could immediately spot the mirth in his grey eyes. Uh oh. This did not bode well. When he was amused, you either just did very well in your training or…</span>
<span class="mu-i">“A question, my disciple. At this point of your training, which one do you believe to be a Knight’s proper weapon?”</span>
<span class="mu-i">This sounded a trick question. The last time he asked something like that you ended up hanging from a tree until dusk. You would better think about this. Immediately, your eyes shifted to his own weapon, resting against a tree. The sheer-black poleaxe glinted in the golden afternoon light, the shaft and blade both carved in the finest blindglass you had ever seen… not that you ever had the chance to gaze upon many a Kiengir relic. Master’s smirk sharpened a little as he caught you.</span>
<span class="mu-i">“I’m aware that is a special case, Master,” you quickly added. Master was the bearer of a hallowed relic, so choosing what at first seemed the right answer right away would probably have her do sit-ups until her arms collapsed. No, it couldn’t be the poleaxe. The halberd, then? Or… “I would say the sword, maybe, but… it depends?”</span>
<span class="mu-i">He gave you a long look, waiting for you to continue. Feeling your mouth going dry, you added: “W-Whatever Ansàrra decides?” You tried, wincing. Your legs already ached from the morning’s training and you truly were not looking forward to more maddening work-outs. It had already been one year since Master had taken you as his disciple, and by then you had long-since abandoned any idea that labouring in the family’s winery amounted to any sort of hard work… at least as far as Master’s training was concerned. </span>
<span class="mu-i">“That is the right answer, Argia, but it is also a philosopher’s one,” he chuckled, reaching forward to ruffle your silvery locks. Not for the first time, you tried to stifle a blush at how he did not seem to fear your cursed hair, nor hate it. “Indeed Ansàrra decides which weapon one of her Knights brings to the battlefield, as well as his luck with it. But you did mention the sword.” He shook his head and stood up, detaching something from behind his back with a metallic noise. “Swords are a nobleman’s right, a weapon of filigree and grace. But you will not find much filigree on the battlefield, or on the pursue of heathens. Hence…”</span>
<span class="mu-i">He threw something at you. True to one good year of training, even your sixteen-years old arms managed to catch it between your palms. Barely so. It was an axe, with a long metal shaft and a curved head. You gave it a few swings and immediately felt how differently it pulled on your arm and wrist, leaning forward to balance yourself. The weapon’s sharp beak shone under Ansàrra’s sun.</span>
[Cont.]
