going Outside and looking back... (an Ogier solo retro RP)

[Myth]

OOC: Forge the Ogier is going Outside on his own for the first time, and his first stop is the Citadel... fromthere, who knows? here is his bio for anyone that is interested: http://www.dragonmount.com/forums/viewtopic.php?t=1694

 

The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is long forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again. In one Age, called the Third Age by some, an Age yet to come, an Age long past, a wind rose in the Mountains of Mist. The wind was not the beginning. There are neither beginnings nor endings to the turnings of the Wheel of Time. But it was a beginning.

 

Forming around the ever cloud-capped peaks that give the mountains their name, the wind blew south and east, screaming through hollows and valleys, moaning around rocky outcrops, once battlements of a long forgotten citadel. Down it whirled into a large peaceful meadow, and on into Stedding Madan, the home of the fabled Ogier, where it kicked up dust in the open doorway of a soon to be traveler before moving on to other distant haunts.

 

Catching the door before the swirling gust slammed it shut, Forge once again surveyed his gear in the early morning light, silently probing his mind for anything else he would need on his travels Outside. “Well, are you going to stand here all day, or get going?†he asked himself ruefully. “You’ve been preparing for this for weeks, are you backing out now?“ Chuckling silently, he re-packed his belongings in the light the open door provided and hoisted his travel pack over his shoulder. It was a sizeable load, for he didn’t know how long he would be gone, but he lifted it effortlessly before turning to leave. Pausing he stared again at the two objects propped near the doorway.

 

He had never expected a Leaving gift. In fact, most of the other Ogier thought him foolish for going Outside for no real reason. The Elders had made sure their feelings were well known in a drawn-out meeting at the Stump, going over an extensive list of Ogier who had never returned or, if they did, were never the same. In the end, though, they had finally acknowledged it was his choice, even if they disapproved. Returning to his place, he had almost been upset at seeing Koraj his stonemason master and Darak his blacksmith master waiting for him. The two old Ogier did not try to dissuade him, though. Rather they had simply looked at him silently for what seemed a long time before finally Koraj, the older of the two and next in line to join the Elder’s council, broke the silence in the brisk, clipped rumble he always used.

 

“Many disagree with what you are doing, but Darak and I have talked long about this.†Nodding towards Darak, Koraj continued, “We have traveled Outside often and have seen what most here have not. The world Outside has changed. It has long since passed us by, but now a darkness lies across the pattern in the world of men. Perhaps we Ogier could have helped prevent this, but we did nothing. Sheltered in our stedding, we were content to let the humans forget us and live here peacefully. Darak and I fear the Ogier were wrong in this. We understand why you are going, and we want to give you something that may come in useful.†He paused for a long moment before adding, “Hopefully you’ll never have need, and this will do nothing but gather dust as it has for these long centuries.â€

 

Reaching behind him, Darak picked up a long, slender woolen wrapping and handed it to Forge. Looking at his two masters uncertainly, Forge knelt and carefully unwrapped the gift. Gasping in disbelief, Forge held up two battle axes. More accurately, they were masterpieces of art and craftsmanship. Perfectly balanced, each of the battle axes had an exquisitely crafted head inset with flowing leafwork that was mounted on a sung wood haft about seven feet long that looked like it had grown into the head rather than been shaped. Each haft had a slight curve to it and widened slightly at the base as if grown to fit perfectly in his hand. Decorated as beautifully as the head, each haft was covered with carvings of vines and leaves. Additionally, the hafts had been etched with Ogier script…Though the burden is heavy, the work must be done. Have a care, for Death now rides on your shoulder…

 

Looking back up at his masters, Forge didn’t know what to say. Koraj saved him the effort, instead gesturing for him to remain silent while he intently stared down at Forge with a strange expression on his face before saying, “There is a long story behind those two weapons, my boy. For a weapon of Aes Sedai wrought steel and sung wood to end up in an Ogier stedding is a tale worth telling, but now is not the time. I hope you never have need of them, but the world Outside is more dangerous than at any time since perhaps the Breaking. Come back to us, Forge.†And with that, the head Stonemason walked away without looking back.

 

Left alone with his favorite pupil, Darak, ever an Ogier of few words, cut to the point in his incredibly deep bass rumble. “Sometimes you don’t want to do the job that needs doing, but it must be done.†Pausing, he added, “If you must put a long handle on your axe, make sure you do the job well.†Clapping his apprentice on the shoulder with a look as odd as Koraj’s, the short, but powerfully built, master blacksmith strode away.

 

Shaking himself out of his reverie, Forge picked up the weapons and slipped them into loops on his pack, looked back into the empty home that already seemed to have forgotten him, and shut the door. Picking up the quarterstaff he had leaned up beside the wall, he shifted his travel pack to a more comfortable position and walked away from the stedding.

[Myth]

It had been almost a full day since he crossed the mystifying line that separates the stedding from Outside and its accompanying feeling of leaving home. Taking a breather at the top of a long hill, Forge looked back. In the distance he could just make out, or maybe he just hoped he could still see, the towering height of the Great Trees. With nothing to occupy him but walking, he renewed his journey, striding off down the hill while his mind delved into the past.

 

The Great Trees had been an ever present background in his life. His first vivid childhood memory had even taken place in a Great Tree, or rather, in the air around it.

 

Captivated as a youth by the flight of birds and clouds across the sky, he had wanted to feel what they felt up there high in the air. Barely old enough to run around on his own, he had decided to find out for himself what the sky felt like. Finding the tallest Great Tree in the stedding, he made his way up the trunk with the help of a “borrowed†ladder that he had barely been big enough to drag and prop up, until he reached the lowest limb. From there, he climbed like a giant clumsy squirrel into the heights.

 

Exhilarated by the breeze and unafraid of the dizzying height, he had nearly reached the top of the tree when a dead limb gave way under his weight and he plummeted back to earth, bouncing from limb to limb until, finally, he landed with a thud and a sickening crack as his right arm and wrist snapped like twigs.

 

Hearing the thunderous disturbance, a number of women, including his mother, rapidly gathered around him and began treating his many wounds. Looking back, it was only by the grace of the Light that he hadn’t broken his fool neck instead of just having a few lacerations and the minor bone breaks his unceremonious flight had earned him. With his arm in a splint and sling, he was soon back to playing like normal, but it was during the healing process that he had started using his left hand. Ever since, it felt just as normal to use a hammer, or fork, or whatever with one hand as it did with the other. So perhaps the Light truly had favored him that day.

 

The Creator knew he had not always felt it so, and with that the sun went down on his first day Outside.

[Myth]

Staring into the campfire on his first night Outside as he leaned drowsily back against the trunk of a giant oak tree, Forge unconsciously patted the tree trunk as his mind once again drifted back to the formative days of his youth.

 

It was the time in young Ogier’s lives when they began to take stock of the world around them and their place in it. The Great Trees, and the other trees to a lesser extent, began to call to them in a song without words but with deeply vast meaning. As his peers began to answer their calls to tend the green things of the stedding, Forge was left behind. He heard no treesong. True, he found the Trees a great comfort and often took solace beneath them, but never did he feel the wonderfully spiritual connection that the other children spoke of.

 

Trying, as children do, to figure this out on his own he spent several disconsolate months wandering the stedding wondering why the Light had forsaken him. He spent many a day alone, sitting beneath a Great Tree, crying and searching for answers that never came. That is, until his father came one day and sat with him. He remembered their talk like it was yesterday.

 

Sitting down next to him and looking up into the branches of the Tree and into the sky beyond, his father had patiently waited for Forge to speak first about what was troubling him. His father, sitting their quietly, had been comforting, a presence that meant everything would be okay. His dad would explain everything and make it right.

 

“Pa,†Forge began hesitantly, wiping away his tears and scrubbing at his runny nose before gathering courage and continuing, “Why can’t I talk to the trees?â€

 

His dad looked down at him with a smile and a reassuring pat on the shoulder, “Because you are special.â€

 

More confused than ever, he had replied, “But I don’t feel special! Everyone is taking their places tending the trees, and I’m all alone with nowhere to go.â€

 

“Son, you are never alone.†his father had responded. “Wherever you go, you take your mother and me with you. In here,†he added poking a gentle finger at Forge’s chest. “As for everyone else finding their place, that is fine for them. But you are different.†Turning, his father made a sweeping gesture with his arm toward the forest around them. “You see all the trees, Forge? Each is different. The Creator made it so. And even trees of the same type are different from one another, no two look exactly alike or grow in the same place. Why is that?â€

 

“That’s simple,†replied Forge. “They each grow in their place according to the Pattern.â€

 

“That’s right,†his father affirmed. “But Ogier are not trees, made to stand in one place from their birth until their death. We are able to choose and search for answers on our own, and though most follow a well worn path, others blaze their own trail. You understand how that works. A well traveled path is easy to follow, but always leads to the same place. A new trail is often difficult to make and sometimes more difficult to follow, but it will take you a way no one has gone before. Forge, son, you are meant to travel a new path, one that is different from the others. And, who knows, one day it may take you to places beyond your wildest dreams.â€

 

Forge smiled at his recollections. Often as a young Ogier in the days that had followed, he had found solace in his father’s words when he was struggling with the path that lay before him.

 

It had been the next day that his father had introduced him to an old, scary looking Ogier, at least that’s how he had felt at the time, and told him that he was to try and work with Stone as an apprentice. His first meeting with Koraj, the Stone master, had left him more than a little frightened. The brisk, clipped manner of speaking that Koraj used sounded cold and foreign and had done little to re-assure his newest apprentice, and the demanding workload inspired many very un-Ogierlike thoughts of violence from Forge in the months that followed.

 

As time passed, Forge began to realize that he had been completely wrong in his initial assessment of Koraj. The old master had a rough exterior, but inside he was the exact opposite. His harsh treatment had been a test to see what Forge was capable of, and the young Ogier flourished under the difficult taskmaster. It seemed that what the Creator had taken from him with regard to the green things of the stedding, he had given in abundance with lifeless stone. Forge realized early on that he was very good at stonework, and under Koraj’s teaching his gift was honed masterfully. He was destined to become the most gifted Stonemason in the stedding, but that was in the years to come. All Forge new at the time was that he had taken his first steps down a new path, and he was happy.

 

And as the fire winked out, Forge fell asleep with a smile and dreamed.

[Myth]

His second day Outside found Forge crossing rugged, rocky terrain through steep, boulder-strewn hills cut across with rapidly gurgling, swift flowing streams. The tough hickory quarterstaff he carried proved useful time and again, as his feet slipped on water-slicked rocks and treacherous footing. A hand longer than he was tall, the staff was smooth from years of handling and had saved him more than a few sprained ankles and broken bones in his travels over the years as well as putting a few knots on heads in friendly sparring in the stedding.

 

Taking a slow and easy pace, Forge’s mind drifted back into the past, recalling the first time he had picked up a quarterstaff. A walking stick had not been what he had in mind.

 

It had been early in his adolescence, although he had already begun to be acclaimed for his Stone talent. He had just returned from a closely supervised trip Outside with several older stonemasons, including stonemaster Koraj. He hadn’t even taken time to clean himself up upon returning, rather he had dashed off to tell his sweetheart, Lily, what the humans were like.

 

His work clothes covered in travel dust and sweat, he wasn’t a model of Ogier high fashion, but Lily wouldn’t care. He found her, as usual, among a large group of friends. Gathered around an older boy dressed in a finely embroidered coat and spotlessly gleaming, knee-high black leather boots, the group was listening with rapt attention to his tale. Forge knew the boy; they didn’t get on well. Forge thought Ambran a high-nosed, pretty boy prig who was afraid to get his hands dirty. Ambran thought Forge an uncouth lout, suited for nothing more than menial, sweat-filled labor. They had often had cross words.

 

Evidently Ambran had just produced his first piece of sung wood, a spoon. Although it was too small for any Ogier to use, he was lording it up like he was the greatest talent since the Breaking. A spoon! Hah!

 

Forge wasn’t clear on exactly what happened next, all he remembered was Ambran repeatedly insulting him in front of Lily, waving that stupid spoon around like a scepter, and a dark rage coming over him. He didn’t remember the fight, just the sight of Ambran lying bleeding on the ground, crying and yelling that the brutish ruffian had hit him. Forge recalled the cold fury that had possessed him listening to the sniveling Ogier on the ground and the accompanying urge to stamp him out. Finding the first thing that lay nearby, Forge picked up an oaken staff intending to rid himself of Ambran’s taunts forever. The sight of Ambran’s eyes, round with fear as Forge stood over him hoisting the staff to crush his skull, was clear as a spring morning in his mind. But it was at that moment when a large hand caught the staff from behind with an iron grip.

 

“Lad, maybe we ought to reconsider,†came an incredibly deep bass rumble from over his shoulder.

 

Turning around, Forge looked squarely in the eyes of Darak, the stedding’s master blacksmith. Very short, but broad, and incredibly strong, Darak looked like an anvil on legs, but the look in his eyes was as patient as a stone. “I know the boy is annoying, but is it worth killing him?†Darak asked, in what Forge would learn over the years was a typical, straight to the point question.

 

Standing their with his fists clenched, covered in sweat and gulping for breath after the surge of adrenaline and anger, Forge looked at the pathetic figure on the ground and disgustedly tossed his staff aside. “No, sir. I don’t think so.â€

 

Darak patted him on the shoulder then, adding, “You can’t let rage get the best of you, lad. Becoming a worthy fighter is much like shaping a weapon, it requires heat, and sweat, and time. If you mean to harness the anger within you and make from it something useful, come to me when you are ready,†before he walked away without looking back.

 

So began his trial by fire with Darak, perhaps the oddest blacksmith apprenticeship in the history of the Ogier. The unusual, second apprenticeship was just as influential as his first. Darak’s perceptiveness molded Forge’s energy into mastering not only the young Ogier’s anger but the intricate dance of pressure, heat, and molten metal. Forge came to love working with steel and iron as much as he did working with stone, and he was just as gifted.

 

His wasn’t a gift of living beauty, like working with the Trees, but it took him on a beautiful path just the same, and Forge blazed it masterfully.

 

And like a leaf floating down a creek, the young Ogier threaded his way through the mountain valleys toward his place in the Pattern.

[Myth]

Making his way with care across the slippery, rock-strewn mountain valley floor, Forge continued his journey both toward the Band of the Red Hand’s Citadel and back into his past. The smooth-worn quarterstaff in his hand brought a smile to his face as it also brought back recollections of his first weapon lesson.

 

Several months had passed before Darak, the stedding’s master blacksmith and Forge’s mentor, had finally felt him ready to begin weapon training one afternoon. Forge was almost bursting with anticipation of fighting with deadly axes and visions of glory, but Darak had simply brought out two staves. The youth couldn’t disguise his obvious disappointment, which seemed to amuse the elder Ogier.

 

“Not what you expected, eh?†queried Darak with a grin. “Well, I think it will do for today. You have to crawl before you walk, my young hero.†Tossing one of the staves to Forge, he continued, “Now, we will start shaping you into a warrior, my boy, but are you made of strong enough stuff to handle the forging?â€

 

With that, Forge’s lessons began. It wasn’t the mad lunging and exaggerated swinging of weapons that he had imagined in his head; rather, it was much like a dance. Subtle movements leading into other subtle movements. Balance and discipline. Thrust and parry. Soon the sweat poured from him like rain from a thundercloud.

 

Darak and Forge kept at it with the patience that none but Ogier can match. Showing the youngster the proper method, then sitting on a stone with his pipe watching intently and occasionally offering a comment or two, the master began sharing knowledge gained over thousands of years.

 

The sun fell from the sky as Forge finished his first evening’s lesson. The youth was dead tired, but a smile etched his sweat and dirt stained face as he wearily made his way home. Darak had promised he would work with him every day after his studies and other work was done, and Forge felt a pride that made the exhausted muscles worthwhile.

[Myth]

The rugged terrain stretched on in the distance. Forge paused on a small shelf overlooking one of the myriad deep gorges cut into the Mountains of Mist in ages gone by. The treetops of towering giants were well beneath his vantage point, some almost as tall as the Great Trees, and the blue-gray silhouettes in the distance promised days more of mountain vistas to come. Wiping a sweaty forearm across his dripping face, he smiled at the view. The unconscious gesture took him back to another time when he had been just as sweat-drenched…

 

The loud clack clack of the quarterstaff had been resounding through the clearing for hours. A young Ogier was working despite the pounding heat of an angry red summer sun hanging directly overhead. In the shade of a nearby oak, a much older Ogier reclined comfortably, puffing contentedly on a pipe. Every so often, the elder Ogier would pause from his thoughtful smoking and offer a terse suggestion to the youth.

 

“Maintain your poise, lad. You’re leaning too much.” or “Watch your footwork there, Forge. It leaves you off balance when your feet are too close together.” The suggestions were more than that. They were instructions. The youngster had a fire in him that matched the heat of the weather, and the observant eyes from under the oak were crafting that ready material into a weapon.

 

Clack clack. Clack clack. Lunge parry. Left right.

 

“Enough. Take a break, lad. You won’t master it in a day,” sounded the incredibly deep bass rumble of the older Ogier’s amused voice. The master rose from his comfortable resting spot and made his way over to the pupil and the training dummy he had been “fighting.” Bent over with his hands on his knees and gasping for breath, the student was still nearly as tall as the teacher. “Forge, my boy, you’re doing fine. But you must concentrate even more when you get tired. Fatigue makes cowards of us all, but heavy arms may never fight again if they don’t manage the proper forms.”

 

Darak, the stedding’s master blacksmith made his way over to his own quarterstaff which was propped against a nearby tree. Hefting it easily with a hand the size of a large ham, the master addressed his young apprentice. “Pay attention. This is what I mean.”

 

Darak swiftly pivoted on the balls of his feet and rapidly went through a series of drills with the staff. The oaken shaft was a blur in his hands, with each maneuver ending in a precisely controlled blow that would have crushed a skull or a deftly executed lunge that would have crushed a windpipe. Watching the stout Ogier move through the drills was like watching an anvil suddenly begin dancing, because despite being only as tall as the youngster’s shoulder, Darak was almost as wide as he was tall. Forge, of course, had seen the master at work many times before. Darak was the un-questioned stedding champion with the quarterstaff in addition to being the master blacksmith. Both were reasons why Forge was studying under him.

 

The demonstration came to a halt as swiftly as it had began. The footwork was as structured as that of a dance, and just as important to follow. Smiling around his pipe, Darak asked, “Did you see that? Yes? Good. Show me.” And quick as lightning from a clear sky, he struck at his pupil.

 

A resounding CLACK shattered the momentary calm.

 

Forge grinned as he met the furious attack with his own staff. He had learned much in the past year since he had first come to learn from the blacksmith. The initial frenzied clack clack staccato soon slowed to a more rhythmic thump thump, the sound as regular as the clicking of a metronome, as the two combatants probed for weakness and wove a deft defense. Their two staves were extensions of their muscular arms, the sharp clack clacks the point counterpoint rhythm of a lovely but violent dance.

 

Forge’s grin slipped off his face quickly as he rapidly grew tired, his brief respite not enough to overcome the previous labors of the day. Clack clack. His feet shuffled to the tune heard only in his head. Clack clack. A quick parry narrowly nudged a blow past his ear, preventing a severe headache. Clack clack. His lunge was met with a solid blow that almost knocked the staff from his cramping hands. Clack clack. He blocked the overhead strike by gripping both ends of his weapon, although the force of the blow drove him to his knees. Clack clack. His counterattack was staved off by deft footwork and a surely spun backhand blow.

 

Clack clack. Clack clack. Clack clack. The drill went on for what seemed like hours but really was only a few fevered minutes. Clack clack. Clack clack. Clack clack. Clack THUD.

The end of Darak’s staff caught him squarely in the pit of the stomach. His quarterstaff fell from his hands as he bent over double. Gasping for breath, from both the blow and fatigue, Forge struggled to stand upright. A strong arm slid around him, and helped ease him aright.

 

“Are you okay, lad?” Darak’s concern showing as he examined his young protégé. When he assured his teacher that he was, Darak grinned knowingly. “You’ll be feeling that in the morning, I’m guessing. But that was a fine go. Truth be told, I was lucky there. That, and the fact you are so tired you can barely stand are the only reasons I‘m not the one who‘s hurting.” Removing his skull cap and wiping a massive hand across his slickly wet bald scalp, Darak added with a smile, “You’ve certainly improved, my boy. I’m not sure how much more I can teach you.”

 

Forge beamed at the praise. Darak was always forthright with him, whether with criticism or approval. Knowing that his teacher wouldn’t say that unless he had earned it, made him almost forget the pain in his stomach. Well, it made it easier to handle, anyway. Wiping a sweaty forearm across his dripping face, he smiled…

 

Returning to the present, Forge slowly eased himself down the steep mountainside. He still had a long way to go.

[Myth]

He stood on the brink of nothing. The ancient game trail he had been following down the mountainside ended here. The side of the mountain had been undercut by a river in some long distant past, and eventually the ground had given way under its own weight. Peering down, Forge looked into the now-dry river bed 20 feet below and pondered his situation. Looking up, the daunting task of re-tracing his steps, only going up this time, wasn’t appealing. That left only one option… going down.

 

The height wasn’t the problem. The rocks in the creek bed were. Landing on one of them could easily break a leg, or worse. Walking along the edge of the bluff, Forge searched for a sandy stretch to jump down onto. Several minutes later, he found a likely landing site and dropped his travel pack and quarterstaff over the edge. Plopping down on his belly, he eased his feet over and then pushed away from the bluff. He landed with a soft thump.

 

Grabbing his travel pack, he slung it over his shoulders, then he retrieved his quarterstaff from the sand. The movement triggered a happy memory as he moved downhill in the dry riverbed…

 

He reached down and picked up the quarterstaff from the sand, then moved to the center of the cleared spot he and Darak used to spar. They had faced off with each other here several times a week for the last year, except when Forge had been Outside on a carefully monitored trip to work the Stone. The last time they had sparred, Darak had announced that he had nothing further to teach the youngster, and now Forge was ready to see if the announcement was justified.

 

Darak was calmly hefting his quarterstaff in his heavily calloused palm. The master blacksmith stood only to Forge’s shoulder, but was nearly as broad as he was tall. Forge was already taller than the average Ogier and showing no signs of slowing his growth. His lean, adolescent body was starting to show hints of becoming thickly muscled, due to genetics and to his work as both a stonemason and as a blacksmith.

 

The two giants circled each other, moving with a grace unexpected with their size. As if hearing an inaudible signal, they launched at each other with savage power and speed. Clack clack. The violent contact of two oaken quarterstaffs meeting shattered the afternoon stillness of the stedding. Clack clack. Crushing blows were met by unyielding parries. Clack clack. The two Ogier danced their way from one edge of the clearing to the other. Clack clack. They came together, separated only by their staves and the strength that held them. The short pause as they disengaged was nothing more than the calm before the storm.

 

The youth detected a weakness he had never noticed before from the older master. Age had not begun to slow Darak, so Forge’s realization was solely because of his growing skill. They circled, mere paces apart, seeking a weakness to attack. Forge smiled. His master had indeed shown him all he knew, but the day had come when the pupil would become the teacher. The Ogier as a people no longer felt the call to arms, and rarely picked them up except for the hotly contested competitions during festivals. Until now, Darak had been the unquestioned ruler of those jousts. But the master blacksmith had spoken truly. His time had come and past.

 

Clack clack. Losing his patience, Darak attacked, but his thrust was thrown wide by Forge. Off-balanced, Darak was momentarily at a loss and Forge took advantage. Clack clack. He pressed his attack, not hurrying but systematically revealing the holes in Darak’s defense, then exploiting them. Clack clack. Clack clack. His blows were just missing his target. His speed was too much for Darak. Clack clack. He had mastered the techniques his master had taught him, and his talent was shining through. Clack clack.

 

Forge spun away to give him enough distance to operate effectively. The staff was a blur in his hands. Clack clack. Like an adder, its tip struck time and again. Clack clack. High, low, left, right. Clack clack. He moved his weapon with precision unseen from an Ogier since Ages gone by. Clack clack. No member of the stedding was his equal any longer. Clack clack.

 

In that moment, both sensed the inevitable.

 

The blow was swift and precise. If it had been a true fight, Darak would have been dead, but Forge pulled the blow at the last instant. Still, the sickening THUD of oak meeting bone signaled the end of his weapon apprenticeship.

 

He wasted no time throwing his staff aside and checking to make sure his master was okay. He smiled as he reached down to help Darak stand. The older Ogier’s groans were probably exaggerated for effect. At least, that’s what Forge told the moaning blacksmith as he rubbed the big knot on his bald head. “It’s not my fault, you have nothing to protect that big melon but your skullcap,” Forge joked. “Besides, your head is so big I doubt if anyone will even notice the lump.” They laughed as Forge helped him over to the shade where they plopped down to relax under the shade of a giant oak.

 

From that point on, Forge’s weapon classes were exercises into the unknown, much like his current trip. The dry river bed, and Forge’s life, led off toward where the Creator only knew.