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Knight By Oath By John Shorten Chapter 1 Reaching a hand down, a man grabbed at a small burlap sack he had tied to the top of his bedraggled pants. He could hear the coins jingling. Though he wished for the strained sound of a bag stretched thin from a copious amount of these coins, he knew fully well there were only a few. Three copper was all he had in that bag and to his name. He had to think deeply about the concept of “owning something to one’s name” longer than he’d like to admit. It had been years since he actually went by a name, this made him take several seconds to remember what it actually was. But right now, that didn’t matter. Trotting down the dirt path, the man held the small bag of coins in his palms. He smiled confidently as he could see the small brown sack, given to him from working in a nearby field, placed betweens his finger... or his claws. He clenched his fists feeling his blackened claws press into the pads on his hands. Growing used to who he had become years ago, the man had almost forgotten the word for what he was – a werewolf. He focused his gaze on the cream-colored snout that was blatantly plastered to his face. Aside from his hands and feet, the werewolf had only seen what he looked like once in a pond one rainy day. Though memory of his own name had hazed over the years, the reflection he had seen in a small pond burned into his memory. A set of clover-green eyes stared back at him. The cream coloration on its muzzle also surrounded its eyes as a set of brown, pointed ears lay atop its head. Anywhere there weren’t the brown or cream colors were blotches of grey fur that muted the overall appearance of its fur coat. At first, the werewolf was horrified to see the colored array of fur covering his face instead of the pale pink coloration of a human’s skin, but over time the shock dissipated. Now all he could remember was that simple reflection. Right now, however, the werewolf assumed he didn’t look anything like that reflection. His fur was probably dirty and browned from all the dust that had whirled around him while grabbing potatoes from the earth. He knew his clothes were no better. They had been torn and stained through years of use. He could feel the tear at the back of his pants where his tail was. The frayed fabric fluttering in the gentle breeze only made only made the werewolf feel more mortified with his disheveled appearance. He could only think he looked like a beggar at best. He needed a distraction to take his mind off himself while he walked toward his destination. The simplest way to do this that he could think of was paying attention to his steps and how they walked in a rhythmical pattern. He heard the bag jingling to that very same rhythm. It started sounding like the makings of a song. His song. The song of his triumph of hard work to get the copper coins he needed to pay for a sword. Smoke appeared over the horizon, letting the werewolf know he was close to his destination now. The swordsmith’s shop! As the stone building came into view, he took a deep breath, readying himself for an interaction with an actual person. He had very few moments of socializing ever since he became a werewolf. Having been ostracized by the town he lived in, the werewolf found a home for himself under a tree just behind the town’s butcher shop. It wasn’t much, but it’s the best protection from the elements he could get with no money and no one willing to take him in. Finally reaching the building, he opened the door and stepped inside. While his eyes adjusted, he began to clear his throat and called out with a smooth, and gentle voice that betrayed his appearance. “Blacksmith, are you here?” He looked around the room, there was a furnace in the far corner with an anvil and a trough of water nearby it. Many swords were hung on the wall, some showing beautiful embellishments while others showed nothing more than a plain steel blade. The craftsmanship of each blade varied from sword to sword. “Swordsmith,” a gravelly voice corrected from nearby the furnace. “Blacksmith does it all. I just make swords for knights an’ stuff.” A man stepped out of the shadows and into the light of the furnace. His features were a bit darkened, but he was well-built in both the upper and lower body. His face was covered with a thick beard and dark, matted hair. “Whatcha lookin’ to buy, werewolf? Tooth an’ claw ain’t enough for ya?” The werewolf frowned, holding a hand up to his chest indignantly. “I wouldn’t dream of tearing someone’s throat out! That’s barbaric!” “Aaaaand… cutting them open with a sword isn’t?” The swordsmith scratched his head. “Well, anyway, whatcha wantin’? Seems you finally got a bit o’ coin on you since the last time you came in askin’ for a sword.” “Offered my services for a sword.” The werewolf lifted up a finger, frowning. “I don’t ask for free things. I ask to do services for them!” “Riiiight.” The man grabbed a cloth from the anvil and wiped his hands. “Well, how much coin ya got? Most o’ this stuff costs a silver or more, but I’m up for hagglin’ if yer’ willin to help around the place.” “Iiiii….” The werewolf uncapped his hands and stared tentatively at the sack within them. “I got three copper coins and, as you said, I offer my services for one of your cheaper blades!” The swordsmith blinked. “Pardon? Three copper? Last time I told ya you needed more and you brought only three copper?” The werewolf’s ears tilted backward as he looked down at the ground, disheartened. “Yeah…. Three days of workin’ in the fields.” “Three days? That’d be at least five copper a day, and they only gave ya one?” The swordsmith grimaced as he looked the werewolf up and down. “Well, your hands and body look dirtied up, I’ll believe ya there… but why only a copper a day? Did they….” The swordsmith stopped speaking as he dropped the rag on the anvil. “They cheated ya out didn’t they?” The werewolf nodded. “I’ve gotta have a word with that man, cheatin’ ya out of wage just cuz yer a werewolf!” Huffing, the swordsmith bit his lip. “Mmmm….” He looked the werewolf up and down again. “Where’re ya stayin’?” “Field, under that large oak tree near the butcher’s shop.” The werewolf’s eyes lit up as he patted his midriff. “Hearty meals of table scraps when cooked on a fire, y’know? Butcher doesn’t like me in or near the building, but they appreciate that I clean up the throw-away meat!” “Table scraps?” The swordsmith gave a sad smile as he noticed the werewolf’s midriff was looking rounded out. “Pretty good helpings if ya managed to grow yer own gut.” “It’s steadily getting back to normal, I suppose.” The werewolf rubbed his belly. “Used to be bigger. Natural state requires it’s larger. Helps with regeneration stuff.” The swordsmith shook his head. “Don’t need to tell me again. I know your weird janky abilities… Just….” He scratched his arm. “Listen, I got a warm bath goin’. I was gonna use it for myself, but why not get yerself cleaned up?” The werewolf’s eyes widened as he looked taken aback. “I do not wish to impose! I’ll have ta decline that offer. Afterall,” he looked over his shoulder, looking ashamed, “I am an animal.” “Animal my backside!” The swordsmith snarled. “Yer as much a human as the rest o’ us.” He pointed a hand to a nearby door. “Now you go get yerself cleaned up. Yer sleepin’ here tonight.” The werewolf tilted his head in confusion. “But… why?” The swordsmith winced. Closing his eyes, he realized that he wasn’t truly sure why he suddenly decided this. Was it pity? He assumed it was pity, but he didn’t want to say that. “Cuz ya need a refresher, that’s what. Now, no more questions. Watch my shop, I’m gonna go show that darn brat a thing or two about cheatin’ people outa their wages. If I don’t come back with twelve more copper, then you are free ta take any sword off the wall and have it as yer own.” “But that isn’t fair to you! You worked hard on these. I will only pay for it with money or services!” The werewolf frowned. “And you haven’t?” The swordsmith glanced back at the werewolf. “A sword can take anywhere from two to five hours for me. That ain’t nothin’ compared to workin three straight days in the field and not getting’ enough money to live by.” The werewolf was speechless. He didn’t quite understand the swordsmith’s intention, but he didn’t really want to question it either. Yet this swordsmith’s kindness was unprecedented. Neither of them knew the other’s name. The werewolf bit his lip. He wasn’t too keen on being left alone in someone else’s home while they were away, but if this was a part of offering his services for a sword, the werewolf was going to take the opportunity. “I can watch your shop for ya if you need to go out,” the werewolf smiled a toothy grin, “but what should I say when someone comes in?” The swordsmith scratch his head. “Tell ‘em… ‘Hello! Richard will be back within the hour! I’m watching his shop while he’s gone!’” “Your name is Richard?” The werewolf cocked his head to the side. “Yeah,” Richard nodded. Folding his arms, he made an audible grunt. “And what’s yer name? If I’m gonna tell the people who hired you that ya need more wages, I feel I gotta know yer name