"We were speaking of truth, not fairness," the bard spoke mildly. "And their evils are their own. What was it that they did, Caiside?" He had never heard the tale of the war on his friend's world, and even in his weariness he had to admit to some curiosity. Perhaps, too, a little selfish, petty desire to know that he wasn't the only soul so tarnished by a shadowed past. He still held enough of himself, however, to feel a pang of sorrow at the hard, hollow sound of his friend's voice, even as their bitterness seemed to call to one another.
"Oh?" There was a curious lift to his tone, and a dry note to it at the smith's assertion. "Attacking others or protecting them, it still results in blood in the end. Or did you mean something else?" The redhead was not the only bitter one, and he might notice that the rapier that Jigano always carried was conspicuously absent from his hip.
The basics, at least, Jigano still remembered, the rust already partially knocked off by their summer gift-making venture. As he moved through the first motions again beside Caiside his shaking hands grew more confident, if not any steadier. "My father didn't make swords," he admitted quietly as they began to prime and temper the metal. "So I never learned how, either. He preferred working in silver. There were many, many smiths in Torch who turned their hands to starmetal weapons. For the glory of it, I suppose, the chance to sell them to adventurers who might someday turn out to be heroes; but either way, the result was a market glutted with such things. My father preferred more delicate work when he could get it, making things that were as beautiful as they were functional, but he hammered out his share of horse shoes and plowshares, too."
"Oh?" There was a curious lift to his tone, and a dry note to it at the smith's assertion. "Attacking others or protecting them, it still results in blood in the end. Or did you mean something else?" The redhead was not the only bitter one, and he might notice that the rapier that Jigano always carried was conspicuously absent from his hip.
The basics, at least, Jigano still remembered, the rust already partially knocked off by their summer gift-making venture. As he moved through the first motions again beside Caiside his shaking hands grew more confident, if not any steadier. "My father didn't make swords," he admitted quietly as they began to prime and temper the metal. "So I never learned how, either. He preferred working in silver. There were many, many smiths in Torch who turned their hands to starmetal weapons. For the glory of it, I suppose, the chance to sell them to adventurers who might someday turn out to be heroes; but either way, the result was a market glutted with such things. My father preferred more delicate work when he could get it, making things that were as beautiful as they were functional, but he hammered out his share of horse shoes and plowshares, too."
