Complete - X. Wheel of Fortune

What was a swordsman without a sword?

Such troubling words! Not any that had been spoken to Rook, of course. After all, no-one (not player or traveler or shopkeeper) would know any differently just from seeing him, apart from his wounded demeanor. At a mere glance, one could almost miss that the empty scabbard at his side was missing a filigree pommel, its hollow shape the barest echo of the rapier.

Such tragedy! Now Rook had not one, but two swords to find!

One was more pressing than the other, though. He could not be expected to do more than defend himself with his dagger, and without its partner the gauche felt lonely and the young man's empty hand felt lonely too. So lonely. Much loneliness. But not for ROOK, who was fine and happy and good as long as he had swords to play with (which he did not.)

…Perhaps he was lonely after all.

He had given up his rapier to save a dead boy. How strange! And it had worked, too, all the stranger. The black-haired youth had hoped to find another sword the way he had the first—beside a sleeping traveler, stuck in a stone that only he could pull out, sitting in a treasure chest that he stumbled upon—but alas, Rook had given up his LUCK as well in that encounter. He’d had to depend on navigation, on resources, on word of mouth (o, the irony!) and walking-walking to get all the way here to this wooden welcome sign.

HONEYHOME VILLAGE.

At last!

Jingling bells as he pushed open the door, the tip of a crude, beak-shaped leather mask eased its way into @Kepler's shop before anything else resembling a person. His head appeared next, beady eyes that blinked as they flickered around, resting on the many pieces of strange bright metal devices inside the comfortable-feeling shop. Cozy and calm, like a library! Not like a department store or a mall with its bright lights and linoleum and—ah, but Rook didn’t know those things.

Pat-pat-pat, in the swordsman (or just the -sman?) came. There were not many items plainly out on display, but Rook was drawn to them nonetheless. He approached with keen interest, tilting his head to the side. He decided he liked shiny things. The brightness of the metal was nice to look at. The glare of sunlight on steel felt... comforting.

Rook reached out impulsively (without thoughts in his head, which—like the sky—held only clouds and pointed-things) to grab the mysterious apparatus.

 

@Rook the Quick

Hearing the jingling of a bell Kepler emerged from the back of her shop to see...

"Oyo~? Welcome to Kepler's~ is there anything you're looking foooooo-----wai-wai-wai-wai-waiiiiiiiiiiit~!"

*SHABOOSH*

Kepler dove behind the counter as a bright light shot forth from the gaps between pieces of the displayed arcane puzzle box. It wasn't for sale, it was simply an archaeology project that had hit an impasse. Kepler should probably get her workshop in order, but just the same, she'd never intended it to be a store, people simply just kept coming in and asking for things. This was why bad things happened to her. She'd just never bothered to take the time to get organized.

And so, for the zillionth time, Kepler's window shattered.

Dang~!

As the sorcerious purple-blue light faded, Kepler peeked over the counter with eyes like saucers, she looked something like a groundhog sniffing out the first vestiges of spring.

"Uhmmmm, are you, like, okay...?" Kepler blinked at the masked stranger. What she saw was a man that you probably didn't want to meet at the corner of a back alley. Some kind of minion who'd go "REEE HEEE HEE, GETTA LOAD OF THIS GUY BOSS!" and like knives a lot or something. But studying his face closer, Kepler noted his kind eyes. They weren't the crazed or cold ones of a killer. They were almost boyish. Kepler giggled.

What Kepler noted next was the floating sword hovering in front of the man she would probably eventually come to know as Rook the Quick. It was a sparkling Chinese Jian, a type of straight sword. Looking from the sword to the man and the man to the sword, Kepler's eyebrows slooooowly rose in realization...

"Get outta town----! No way, no way, no way, no way-----whaddya do? Where? Where did you push?! I've been slaving over that box for WEEEEEEEEKS-----!!!!!"

In a flurry, Kepler ran over to the front door and switched the sign to 'Closed' and promptly locked it. Making eye contact with Rook, she gave the man a knowning nod----a gesture that they definitely hadn't discussed the meaning of-----and rushing over to the window, slammed it shut and locked it as well. Of course, the glass was still broken. Throwing the shades closed, Kepler turned toward Rook while taking a deep breath. As she exhaled, a breeze came through the broken window and blew the curtains right back open. Kepler turned around and stared at them in a daze.

"....Ah... right... I should probably calm down.... It's just... hey bring the sword and let's take a step into my main workspace, okay~? I'll serve us some tea."

Gesturing with her thumb to the back of the shop, Kepler winked. Now in the backroom, Kepler pulled Rook up her reading chair, poured them both tea, and sat on her work-stool on the opposite side of the table.

"Right then...! As I said, my name's Kepler, the proprietor of this workshop. Nice to meet you. Who might you be~?"

...Oyo...?

Following the man's eyes, Kepler saw that he was looking at a pen resting upon a stack of paper. Slowly passing them over to him, Kepler nodded and waited.

 

It was a perfect cube (like a gift-box) just for him, and when Rook grabbed it, it exploded.

Not with fragment-grenade-fire! No shrapnel, no pain! It burst with magic like a water-balloon pierced from both sides. Rook felt the magic detonate, felt the shock go through him like a wave of force. How could he not? Magic-attuned or not, he was holding it. And since Rook was holding it, he felt something else too. He felt the hard lines—the geometric grooves and inlaid corners—SHIFT, as if amid the torrent of energy something finally clicked.

After the blast the black-haired man simply stood, dumbfounded, ears ringing. He was still holding the puzzle-box—but there was something else between it and him. Something cross-shaped and sharp. Something with a point and a pommel and a narrow guard.

Rook grabbed it (because he grabbed things! And never learned!) and clutched it to his chest.

It can not be this easy. Rook had given up luck itself to save a life: this apparition had to be a trick, or else it was fate.

(He hoped it was fate.)

He stood dumbly, not knowing what-to-say (as if he said things!) to the craftsman, the keeper, the person whose cube-trap he'd set off with his cluelessness and carelessness. I didn’t push. I just held, he thought dazedly, turning to watch her flipping signs and closing curtains with pure confusion. His eyes grew round at the invitation and he teetered obediently after her, still holding the Jian-blade gingerly in both hands as if firmly assuring himself it was someone else’s property.

Once they were seated, Rook seemed to have regained some of his senses. At the offer of tea he seemed to brighten. He had grown quite parched during his journey! The dark-haired man picked up the steaming teacup but almost immediately encountered his beak-mask. He hesitated, swallowing, but the lure of drink—and perhaps the comfortable surroundings in the workshop— seemed to win him over.

Fumbling behind his head, Rook let the mask come loose and covered his nose and mouth with the other hand instead. Carefully cupping the mug, he took a drink and closed his eyes in satisfaction. Ah! Good tea.

Attentive to the owner of the workshop, Rook took the pen and paper she’d passed him. A silence lasted for a moment as he wrote before Rook straightened up and passed the cursive-covered parchment towards her, one hand still masking his face.

Hello, @Kepler

I am Rook the Quick. I am a swordsman. Thank you for the tea. I was thirsty. I am sorry about your windows.

Is this your sword?

 

...my sword?

For a moment Kepler thought, and she thought deeply as she regarded the young man from head to toe and with a smile....

Kepler shook her head. Gently, she took the paper and the pen.

No.

Kepler seemed to laugh in silence.

It is not.

Tapping the pen to her chin, she started at the ceiling above her. Suddenly she was quickly scribbling away.

Would you like it?

Passing back the paper and pen, Kepler smiled and awaited Rook's decision. Receiving his answer, the girl held out an open palm face up to Rook and tilted her head.

[May I?] And like that, she requested to see Rook's new sword.

As she regarded the blade, Kepler did not hold the sword like a swordsman, but rather like a smith. Gently, almost as if she were afraid to break it, she regarded its craftsmanship. The fine hew of its blade that seemed to give off waves, the inlaid jade in the handle... just like the short tassel extending from the hilt---it's counter balance---everything about the weapon was as pristine in look as it was in function.

Kepler carefully handed the weapon back with both hands.

"------Sadaksari. Or, because nobody could pronounce that, Six."

Steepling her fingers, Kepler closed one eye in apology. This was something that would require her voice to explicate. Leaning forward, she rested her chin on that steeple and spoke in a low, quiet voice.

"An honest to goodness modern day ronin, and yet a player just like me or you. Game to game he'd wander, seek out the meek under dog, and singlehandedly turn the tide. And always, with six ideal swords."

Kepler grinned.

"Or so they say~ he's something of an old acquaintance of mine actually, but I've lost contact with him. Apparently he was here, or maybe he still is I wonder..."

Just what the heck are you up to old guy...? Kepler chuckled.

"But that's neither here nor there. This is your day, yes? And your new sword, so it stands to reason that this should be your new legend."

Kepler grinned a little wickedly.

"And so I will not tell you the name of Sadaksari's sword."

Kepler held up two fingers.

"---Instead I'll offer you a choice, because this weapon has two natures... Yin and Yang~"

Waiting for it all to sink in, Kepler's lecture continued, she was clearly enjoying the lesson. Raising her two pinkies, she tilted her head left and right.

"Mhm, two natures... Yin and Yang... but for our purposes, let's just call them introverted and extroverted~ It's kind of the same thing really~ Because the nature of this sword is Sound."

Nodding in satisfaction, she smiled. Next, her quiet tone changed from that of lecturer's to something more along the lines of a middle-school girl reading her circle of friends a personality quiz from a magazine.

"The sword's spirit, or its mana I suppose, is currently in a state of flux. So, while what you're holding isn't dangerous or anything~ well it is dangerous because it's a sharp piece of metal~ but you know what I mean~ to really eke out its potential we'll---or rather you'll---have to decide how we're going to direct that flow.

Option 1: We introvert the flow and unlock the sword's first property, which I'll call Mute. Pushing the sword toward Mute will erase its sound. Unsheathe it, ping it on something, tickle it, no matter what----The sword won't utter a peep. Anything related to the sword at all will simply be silence. It's a property that will never betray its master, and that's more or less it.

And then we have...

Option 2: We extrovert the flow and unlock the sword's second property, which I'll call Hush. Rather than be silent itself, Hush's effect will silence others. Namely, it'll rob others of their sound. Ideally, the unjust I suppose~ a counter against liars~ and of course a terror against mages... because to speak is to assert your own view over others."

Taking a deep breath Kepler thought it over.

"There's no right or wrong answer. A person needs to breathe in to establish the self and in turn breathe out to exert that self over the world. That's life, at least, according to the sword's original owner. Neither option can exist without the other, because either way, they're both properties of the same sword----Yin and Yang if you will.

...With that in mind----One day, I imagine you'll have access to both properties. It may be cheating on my part to say that, but we can consider that the price Sadaksari is going to pay for playing such an awful prank. Seriously~ who leaves their stuff in ancient priceless artifacts... was he waiting for someone to find it...? He would've been in for a bad turn if I'd figured the puzzle out only a day sooner, I mean, it was only a matter of time after all~"

Kepler laughed.

"The choice is yours Rook. Yours and no one else's. If you need time to think it over just let me know. It's not a decision to be made lightly."

Having said her considerable piece, Kepler at last sipped her tea.

 

If he had been a real bird (and not just a shy boy in a bird-mask) he would have swelled, every feather puffing and ruffling until he doubled in size from sheer elation. If he had been in a Ghibli movie, the hair on Rook’s head would be rising, buffeted by an invisible breeze as dark locks spread out like grasping fingers. But because this was real life (a real life, one real life) neither of these things happened, and at Kepler’s offer—one line written on a notepad: Would you like it?—the human man grew very still. He did not move, he did not speak.

Perhaps his eyes alone conveyed his joy.

A story. He loved stories. The Quick leaned in and listened to the legend spin, a spool of words unwinding seam-by-seam. And it became clear to Rook—with shock, and jubilation—this tasseled blade, this Jian, was not his teacher’s sword.

It was Rook’s.

“S-Six,” he said, the word—the name, the number—hesitant on his tongue. Six games, six swords. One for each sense, perhaps! A sword for sight, a sword for smell— oh, but a sword for SOUND! (Rook liked the sound of that.)

As gingerly as @Kepler had taken it from him, the man received it back. It was more of a sword than he’d ever seen in his life. More beautiful. More real. As for its dual natures, Rook understood them implicitly. Where Kepler’s explanation might have gone over the head of someone without the capability of abstract thought, Rook took it in as naturally as breath.

Two sides to the same sword, an anima and animus behind one person— yin was dark and yielding-passive, mute and introverted (Sisplau, Miquel—) and then there was yang, so bright-imposing, acting, never-thinking. To silence others? (Perhaps he was not ready... how could he exert such strength when he could not even speak?) or to hide again, to fade away, to disappear from sound itself?

There was no question.

As Kepler finished speaking, waiting for his answer, the HUSH itself was his reply. With this he filled the void of silence, with the rests between songbars and the spaces between paragraphs.

The small, black-haired man sipped his tea again, covered his mouth, and began to write.

Your words inspire me. I will accept the gift of Six. It is different than what I am used to. It will be a challenge. But I gladly take it on.

I have hidden long enough. To fight is to live. It is all I know, and all I can give. Please extrovert the blade. I will work hard, so that my heart is heard.

 

Reading Rook's answer, Kepler's eyebrows slowly rose and crested at the peak of surprise---before falling much more rapidly until they settled into a warm smile.

"Roger."

Rising from her seat, Kepler approached a worktable behind her and began rifling through supplies. Moving a few stacks around she stopped... and produced what appeared to be a kind of thick parchment paper. Removing something that looked like a special quill from a wooden holder, the young girl began to sketch some sort of diagram upon the parchment as the quill's tip glowed a faint blue. She spoke over her shoulder as she worked.

"At first I wondered, but now I feel certain----Six is up to something. You were meant to find that sword. He must be out there somewhere laughing his butt off, I just know it."

Kepler quietly chuckled. She hadn't noticed, but she was scribbling ever so slightly faster, Kepler had become excited with the scenario. The parchment's etched runes gained flourishes, serifs, character, as she imagined the kind of story Rook would tell with it.

This is it, this is my finest work. Kepler came to realize. The first of many magnum opuses... And to think I owe it all to that doddering old man----no----Kepler shook her head, This is thanks to Rook. I owe this guy right here my sincerest thanks...

Kepler's quill stopped as she studied her own work.

It's perfect...

Rising from her station, Kepler returned to where she'd left Rook, she was carrying the parchment in both hands. Sitting on her stool once more, Kepler slowly slid the paper over across the table to her new friend.

"The choice is always hard, but the process typically winds up being pretty simple."

Kepler nodded with a smile.

"Polish your new partner with this parchment, and as you do so, think of a name from your heart of hearts."

Closing one eye, Kepler raised her pointer finger, she was back in lecturer mode:

"Think of it along the lines of a sacred act, 'he who justly tenders---he who justly names---know that man as steward.'"

Kepler smiled.

"Or something like that~"

 

Did Rook believe in Fate? He believed in luck, he believed in chance, but that gift of his he’d left at the bedside of a child on the brink of death. No, the easy road was closed to Rook, but a sword... a weapon of this caliber... It must be more than luck.

When Kepler turned back towards him, Rook had a response waiting for her. He pushed it across the desk towards her, trading paper-for-paper, one with written words for one with singing magics.

If this is fate, then all of this was fated. You are part of this destiny as much as I. My deeds are yours to share. For better or worse.​

If Six had meant for him—for Rook, for Rook the Quick—to find the sound-jian, he must have meant @Kepler to forge their bond—to tell the tale, to set the enchantment, to sit and pour him tea (steaming, soulwarming) with neither expectation nor reward.

So with this blade (this tasseled blade!) he’d carry her, too— for she had given it to him in FAITH, and Rook could not ignore that. For he was a Quick of honor, a Quick of wandering-feet, and a Quick who knew how to recognize a crossroads when he saw one. And he was not afraid to choose a path.

…But he’d never named a sword!

A sword which turns sound to soundlessness. A sword which exerts its will to silence others, speaks, shows its strength. But also a blade of being-quiet! A blade of standing back, thinking-and-hiding and don’t-notice-me, I’m not important! A blade of stealth, and secrets!

Two sides. Dual natures. In and out, inhale and exhale. He was not just naming one side, he was naming one whole, one cycle. One name.

Rook thought the name (in his heart of hearts) and polished the Jian, lingering over the way the fine steel edge turned in thirds from thick to thin (a sacred act, and justly tendered) until he peeked into it and saw his own reflection, mirror-bright (and justly named it—)

...

He finished and set the parchment back down on the table, its purpose spent and the sword’s edge bright. He sensed the magic was gone from it now— and the blade felt... different. Lighter.

“R-Respiro.”

The word surprised him as it slipped from his tongue. He’d half-expected it to be translated to the lingua franca of the game-world, but it came out whole and clear and unaltered. This name, it seemed, crossed the boundaries of language.

A little color rising in his cheeks, Rook grabbed the paper again and wrote:

Respiro. It means— a space to breathe.​

It meant more than that. Breathing space, the hush, a moment of breath. Respite, what swordsmen took before a match. Rest like the rest between music-bars, the silence of songlessness, and of anticipation. It was an airy word, but masculine as well— he had not forgotten which nature he had chosen to express, after all.

Shyly, he looked at Kepler—story-spinner, swordspeller—for approval.

 

Had Rook The Quick already mastered the chosen nature of his new sword? It had been a single word he had spoken----a precious word----that had left Kepler at a momentary loss for words...

-----Respirio------

The word hung in the air like a one word poem, looping the anticipation of a beginning with the powerful feeling of an end until it went back around anew.

Glancing down, Kepler read the parchment.

That's right----I had assumed that's what it meant, but because I'm not a native speaker----such a world'll always carry a certain intangibility for me, I suppose. But I like that feeling, something unknowable makes me want to learn about it all the more~!

Kepler smiled.

"-----Respiro... is a fine name. I love it actually~"

-----And pretty close to the original, 'Om'... but with a character that's all its own.

"...It doesn't just fit, it resonates. And so justly named, and so justly tended, I Kepler, hereby pronounce you Resprio's steward. Take care of it, and I'm sure it'll return the favor."

Kepler nodded, her sharp eyes on the sword.

"...I guarantee it. People always make this face when I say this, but I think objects have a certain soul to them, I can feel it. So I'm sure."

Saying that, Kepler took a deep breath and dispelled her serious mood.

"Now! Lets discuss my payment shall we~~~~?"

Placing a paper down on the table, Kepler grinned like the devil as she wrote. Every now and then she'd pause, give a small plotting laugh "Mu~Hu~Hu~" and resume.

This process continued for about two minutes.

Finishing, Kepler scrolled up the receipt, sealed it with a wax (K) from a nearby stamp and sloooooowly passed it across the table to Rook with the most innocent of smiles...

And so it read...

Hidden: (K)

I, the recipient of services rendered do hearby swear to place all major future servicings, maintenance, and repair of one [Respiro] in the hands of the sole proprietorship of Kepler and Kepler's.

In return for signing this agreement, I ________, will agree to provide the fee of zero gold for today's purchase.

(Name)___________ (Date) _____

When she was sure Rook had finished reading the document, Kepler giggled and explained:

"If we really are bound by fate, then it wouldn't do to leave me hanging~ right~?"

Kepler grinned.

"I'd like to see this destiny of ours~ and maybe a little more than that~ I'd like to keep iterating until Respirio is complete."

Saying that, Kepler took a long sip of her tea to finish it.

"Will that work for you~?"

 

Anticipation, fresh and smelling new-clean as spring and sharpened steel!

Rook—steward, swordsman with a sword once again— signed the paper with the same clean cursive as his written word, quietly and without complaint. One might think he’d only skimmed the contract like an internet agreement, that he hadn’t even had to think before he wrote his name.

He had read it, however. Once the parchment had been given to him and he'd pried open the warm wax, burning his fingertips, he blinked at the "cost" the craftsman had set. The price could have been anything—a thousand gold, a life sentence—so selfless (so careless, so thoughtless!) was Rook with his fortune that he wore it on his sleeve.

At the same time, some part of Rook knew implicitly (despite her evil chuckles!) that it would not be. Call it intuition. Call it FAITH. And indeed, in lieu of gold, Kepler had written the unwritten promise held between them.

To follow through until completion! To double back, now that their paths had crossed, until the blade was whole!

Rook was not a loyal man. He was not bound by chains of fame or fear or friendship. He stood by no unspoken agreements. He was not afraid to walk away to chase his whims, his wills, his purpose.

But I would not walk away from her, he realized, surprised. No— he would not walk away from @Kepler. And he would not walk away from Respiro. Resolve firmed, Rook wrote his way along each line and letter until it was complete, each space and silence filled by ROOK THE QUICK.

He nodded to her question and added a last, simple note to the contract below his final signature.

My sword is yours.​

(To which did a sword owe more: the hand which gripped it, or the whetstone which sharpened it? The wielder, or the forger? As a songwriter writes melodies and poems for one who sings?)

He finished his tea, and quietly slid his mask back on over his head. He inhaled deeply, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of leather. He felt his chest still, and his heart calm. ...And then out.

Inhale, exhale. The cycle was eternal.

And so as Rook the Quick had first crossed the threshold of the workshop, he waved goodbye and left again with new joys and burdens, already certain that—like breath!— he would return.

END THREAD
( AND BEGIN AGAIN )​