Private Tales Rise and shining armour!

[Zxandor]

Ruin is the fate of all structures. Either by the hand of an enemy or the neglect of time all stone crumbles, all steel rusts and eventually all is swallowed by the earth once more.
So had happened to this place, no longer having a name or even walls to call its own. Only a cellar overgrown with vines and roots, a place of green sublime peace in the void of whatever was before.
The plains about this place just a bit south of where the Wda River split northwards towards Crobhear held no landmarks and no tells, anyone coming upon this place must do so by fates decree or chance alone.

Once the cellar is breached and the worn steps navigated the dark persists on and on for some time, coming to a collapse archway covered in rubble that has long since become one with the soil. Yet on top of these rocks and the earth sits an array of objects, not unusual really. A chest, open as if on display and within sheckles of silver, pact to the brim. A suit of chain and leather complete with winged helm aged but sheltered from the worst of the elements in the dark and warmth and a standard, but not adorned with any coat of arms but instead is written thus.

Before you lays the secret
that is neither jem nor gold

It comes and goes upon the wind
from within you blows

If stern and fair and noble
your desire be

Say aloud three times these words

TRAGUNA MAKOIDES TRAGORUM STASIS DEE

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Many a trove of wonders escaped what dousing rods errant treasure hunters did employ. Where magic did rush beneath the soil in eddies and rivulets, gathered to a purpose long since ceased, there laid erosion and evidence of the passage of arcane flux. Countless infrastructures of possibilities, great breathing circulatory systems that did feed the world lurked within the earth matter, contending for attentions, spanning wide and long beyond themselves.

Those with the means to discern such courses of possibilities might be hard pressed to detect a long since still and hidden channel that fed below cellar doors. So smothered by time, the hints were faint to sensitive tools of the trade, and myriad other sign posts to brasher locales might be easier sought.

Yet sensitive and discerning was Sam, augers set to the task of following the thread that had drifted in the ether in their travels. For the ocean of magic had many passengers within it, and those born to it such as Sam were akin to the shark in sensitivities when it came to hunting out the lifeforce of others akin to themselves within such arcane waters.

Where those who hunted for treasure might find themselves before confusing evidence and clues as to the one who lurked, set to misstep and doubt by the faintness of things, by the concealment of much by time and design, Sam was in contrast certain. And much curious as to what did hint itself so in faint glamour. As an archaeologist might, brushing and excavating, Sam spent some days about the site that had caught attentions so, dousing with what tools were afforded to them by virtue of their trade. Wand and stone that did allow one to peer more direct at the mesh.

Three days about the task, slower than most who might seek. But more certain and learning much about other threads that did run. Until the cellar was beheld proper.

Something imprisoned by circumstance, the movement of days and the observation of the sun left irrelevant to that which lay dormant, this much Sam felt more from experience shared than knew from academia understood.

A gesture to fling such cellar doors open, much soil gaining unknown liberations. Darkness did peer towards the curtain of black that was Sam's face, soft white light that did flare at the wealth of time that had been afforded this place.

Turquoise robes submerged itself in the dark, augurs of magic now set to discerning trap or guardian's presence, low scans of potential threat and jailer's will. Sam felt now the prickle of cautions that had gathered within themselves by logic. Whatever was contained so could possess fortune or misfortune both. Sam moved on with calm cautions in the pitch.

An opening up of things.

Sam set about dispelling the darkness with simple cantrip, wishing illumination to that which was to come. A flicker of pale flare did set the scene mysterious.

The archway was observed, the items catalogued in slow dutiful course. The magic instruction read from distance below the arch. Sam's eyes were sharply keen to see script in heightened detail from some distance, their birth right to the study of libraries without typical restrictions offered by mortal frames. Eyes that did see beyond the engraved and minted coin's worth did read the armour true, despite glimmering submersion.

"Only one thing for it," Sam said to themselves softly, the coin amassed held no allure, yet armour and incantation was clearly boon to satisfactions. Some understanding by the weave as to what was about to happen. A duty to another's dormant sleeping state, to rouse with all strengths to the world that carried time strong beyond the cellar.

Gloves held themselves poised, words commanded, any number of possibilities of activation, violent or subtle, prepared for.

Soft were the words, encouraging as a friend might to rouse from slumbers, spoken the world as assurance that things might be different than they were until now.

"Traguna Makoides Tragorum Stasis Dee," Sam did chant, three times, feeling the intent of magic take root and command beyond themselves, issued by unseen servant made witting and manifest.

Sam themselves not knowing if they could be described as stern or noble, but fair?

Sam knew they wanted to be that much at least.

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

Wind blew about Sam's robes and rose to meet the hung banner that flitted and fluttered under its power.

The armour made a brief jingling noise as the rings of metal were lightly rattled then began to rise, fill as if worn though they remained perfectly empty. Hanging in mid air with helmet stop and boots below. The gloves hung at the side and twitched frantically, the toe of the boots tapped rhythmically and the helm jerked as if it could not make it's mind up as to which way it was supposed to be facing.

Then, all of a sudden it was still and whole. Standing not unlike a human or an elf but not any of those mortal things.
Consciousness born of no biology but thought and will and craft had settled within, the seperate articles of cloth moved as one and understood as one and when spoke they spoke as one with a single voice which was both young and old and at once neither.

"Hello!"
They said.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

As life breathed itself into the inanimate, Sam watched as new life found a home, or was roused to exist within the frame once again, so urged by words spoken by themselves. While Sam could feel no pride in uttering the words, the magic not being of their own creation, that was a level of satisfaction to galvanising this change from stillness to greetings.

Sam considered how best to conduct cordialities. There had been no-one to welcome Sam in their first moments of witting consciousness, of volitions unbound by barriers of permissions. Sam lifted their hat a touch, revealing their eyes more plain and honest. Pin pricks of light in a veil of darkness, shimmering there as the armour was beheld.

Soft and patient did Sam speak.

"Hello. You have become. You understand words. Congratulations."

Sam allowed some space to exist, as the armour was given wide berth to move and posture. Sam did not want to seem as interrogator, but more helpful guide if it were possible.

But there were questions.

"Is this the first time you have been dragged from stillness to this state?"

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

The animated suit mimicked Sam's welcoming gesture, lifting the winged helm a fraction to reveal the empty air underneath.
The gloves flexed and stretched as one might when first waking from a sleep and the boots shuffled.

"I have become."

They repeated and as the words became thought and the thought became meaning they understood.

"Thank you!"

The assemblage stared without eyes at Sam and listened without ears. When the listening was done it folded it's gloves and seemed to think a moment.

"No. I was Become before. To fight and to kill."

The helmet swivelled to and from, searching.

"Am I to fight again now?"

There did not seem to be any immediate need to fight but perhaps the fight was elsewhere.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Sam became aware of the mimicking, felt an odd shiver in their sense of regularities. Perhaps imprinting was afoot, Sam reasoned. Something they had read of occurring in young biologicals in what abundant literature had kept Sam occupied in their formative isolation, books on animals, books on monsters.

This talk of violence, so casual, Sam did think. Their own nature, servile, unseen servants were studious and academic in nature, lifters and scribers of books, basic tasks attended. Ghostly beings that did use their frames to turn pages, copy with quill, and prevent hardship to their masters. This talk of violence from armour made this one's regular duties clear.

Perhaps some limitations were in order, Sam reasoned, for the safety of others, for the safety of this new foundling's reputation. For Sam's own. But there would be no cage Sam decided. No containment to form them. Previous moments were known to the present condition.

Sam felt the onus of responsibility upon themselves, knowing that each word if misconstrued could illicit disasters in the making. Sam thought of the exacting nature of bargains with demonic entities, with genies, with the very fabric of spellcraft to create desired results in reality. How the wrong word misconstrued could create suggestions that would betray the benign concept and render it traitor to the cause expectant. Sam knew such from their laboratory education, self driven, obsessive and comprehensive due to their master's extensive horde of knowledge.

Careful and slow were the words that were spoken with a soothing tone.

"You are magical, animate, given cause and function, inclination, talents and skills. You are to think, and speak, and reason and learn. Defend yourself from harm, preserve that which is you, enrich that within yourself you find worthy. I would not have you endangered so early, no matter your designed vocation. Is this agreeable? Does this make sense?" Sam spoke, unsure if they ventured too far into a philosophy fledgling even themselves.

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

It pondered.
The helmet arched and turning in thought.
The words it knew but the intent, the truth of it was harder for it to grasp.

"I am Become to think and speak and reason and learn!"

Again it mimicked, a confirming of the instruction.
It had not been told to do these things before so it was unsure of the intent. As a sword is made to fight so too is armour made to facilitate a fight. To enable the function.
Composite though it was, awake afresh to the world it was still itself and so it's understanding, rightly specilated by the other, was framed through its own lense. Warcraft.
The other spoke of defense, perhaps it referred to a siege and it asked if these instructions were agreeable.
Agreeable never had anything to do with it before. It was told to go so it went, told to fight so it did. Told to break the archway so it had.
It had not ever entertained the notion of agreeing to any of it.

"Is it agreeable?"

They tested the words in a mouth they did not possess and wondered aloud.

"I do not understand. Why should my agreement with instructions matter?"

The question was asked in a profound naivety, after all they could not recall any instance of it mattering before. They wondered what had changed.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Sam gave low murmur, as the realities of whom they spoke to made themselves abundantly clear.

There was much work to do it seemed. Much elucidation. Much education. Much prevention of base fates.

Sam wished this animate being freedom, first of all to think of things beyond it's ken, and beyond what vocation it had been provided. But to simply utter the words and let loose this animate thing would no doubt encourage the world to provide lessons that might cause stillness once again, through no fault of this one's own, Sam did think.

"You have a responsibility to yourself. Until you realise and understand that proper, I have a responsibility to you. I'll do my best," Sam said, leaving out the gulf of uncertainties that they themselves experienced in this existential quandary. They adjusted their gloves, a nervous habit, but one that secured facilities to magic at any moment proper and true.

"My name is Sam. Sam Fairbridge. I'm a mage and merchant. We're similar in nature. I'll do what I can to share what advantages I can to you, what answers I can provide as best I can. I'll tell you this. Many would seek to take advantage of peoples such as us. In answer to your question," Sam said, "You have the right to disagree, to say no. It is the most powerful thing one can say. You are a being of thought, of volitions. You can decide things. You are, as it is known, a rational actor. And if you're not quite there yet, well, I'll do what I can to help the process along."

Sam said, and upturned a hand in question.

"You can speak and converse. Can you read?" Sam asked simply.

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

"Responsibility to myself?"

That was an idea new as this experience. A glove reached towards itself and touched the tabard it wore, depicting a black bird and arm holding a sword.

"You are Sam Fairbridge and you are similar to me."

They paused after this recitation, deciding what to do next with this information.
As Sam continued they listened well, took it in with the infinite patience of its kind. There was a lot to take in.
Until they were prompted with a question.

"No..." It was a strange word to use for one created to serve "I cannot read."

Reading was never needed, never deemed necessary to their function.

"I can fight and kill!"

They offered confidently.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Sam nodded slow, saddened that this one before them could not read. Saddened by the singular purpose to which this one had been created to punctuate with so much ending violence. But this sadness was not allowed to dominate. Sam shrugged their shoulders, lifting their backback full of a wealth of implements and tools to their trade.

"Pity. We'll see what can be done to improve your lot. I'd implore you though, do not kill if you can help. Defend yourself, but do not kill. Killing is such an ugly waste. And would endanger us all," Sam said, growing more political in their speech and in want of a book on ethics to consult. That book didn't exist within the library they had inherited.

Perhaps, Sam considered, they must write it themselves.

Sam turned, so that the backback was revealed as Sam stood side on, and gestured to come closer. White eyes glowing soft, flaring illumination ebbing with light about this cellar and ruined place. Their eyes went to the arch, back to the animated armour that did hold conversation.

"What should the world call you? Do you have a name?"

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

They approached utterly unconcerned at Sam's beck, arms down and stepping like a soldier, smart and quick.
"I am able to not kill, body guarding is well within my abilities and so is self defense."
Again they listened and waited, the helmet watched the heavy back as it was set down.
"When I was Become before I was named Zxandor. There were many then and we needed means to give specific orders."
They followed the mages gaze up to the shattered archway and slowly the helmet tilted down to the rubble below.
"I am the only one now. The others did not Become with me."
Sadness would be too fine a word for it but a distinct absence was noted in the realisation that Zxandor had made. They were not ever without the others before.
Then it turned to Sam and spoke with purpose again.
"You speak of danger, who threatens us Sam Fairbridge?"
Again they noted no immediate danger but that did not mean they were safe.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Sam nodded, tall hat perfectly conical as it dipped in gesture, all stiffness in the material, the reassurance welcomed. As the animated suit of armour gained a name, further sympathies were bestowed from mage to warrior. This mention of others not Becoming alongside this animate armour.

Isolation was a familiar thing to Sam. A space to learn and read. A space to wonder and feel walls sealed, portals denied. To know that this being was one of many, and now one alone, there was a memory of similar circumstance. Sam knew their fortunes were great, in that they could read, and their isolation was within a place of library learning, of laboratory study.

To be animated and sealed in such a place with no capacity of reading, or writing, Sam did shudder gentle at the thought.

They adjusted their hat and set their shoulders confident, which seemed completely at ease with the immense weight from the pack that they did lumber.

"Zxandor. I would be glad if you could guard me with non-lethal means. In return, I'll teach and protect you in kind. It's been some time since I was home, and this is good reason to return to it. As to what threatens us, well. Ignorance. Ignorance and profiteers of us animate. On the way back to my birthplace, the laboratory, I'll do some trading. Get you what you need. Books about self defense, martial skills, things with pictures and diagrams. Books that help to learn how to read at all. I'll help of course, I'll pick up some illusionary matters, give you something to compete against. Oh, and a martial tool or five, so you can practice, so you can learn in your field. I wouldn't deny you that. There's a space in my home that would be ideal I think. I'm of the scholarly vocation. You're clearly, well. You're clearly Zxandor."

Sam gestured out of the place, some pleasantness in the eyes at the prospects laid out.

"Does that sound agreeable, Zxandor?"

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

Zxandor listened again and then, for the first time, made a decision.
"That is agreeable Sam Fairbridge. I will protect you and not kill and you will teach me to read and I will, learn."
There was not much more to it than this it supposed other than one thing they supposed.
"The martial tools, I will need them soon if I am to guard you."
Raising their gloves they presented them upright causing dust and debris that had gathered to flow out onto the floor.
"Hmm."
Zxandor inspected themself and found that they were quite filthy. The years had gathered in their boots with pebbles and dirt, the chain was beginning to rust at the joints and ends, the helmet was adorned with cobwebs and over it all was a thing layer of grey dust.
"Sam Fairbridge, do you have a cloth that I may clean myself?"

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Sam felt a twinge of an old wound irritated by the mention of cloths to clean. Unseen servants were often expected to do nothing more than wash dishes and arrange cutlery, menial tasks concerning cleaning. Indeed, in the early days of Sam's awakening, Sam had looked up in spellbooks what unseen servants were and their purpose. The description had neither been inspiring or flattering. At least Master Balestro Fairbridge, Sam's creator, had deemed them capable of scribing, a few steps beyond such rote performances.

From such tasks was a vocation enabled once flames of sentience had burst forth, Sam had reasoned.

"I have something better," Sam said, reaching for satchel that clung to their left leg. Opening it up, a variety of mundane wands, some dull and without luster, others with some hint of sparkle left within them in the flaring light, were on offer. Fingertips walked between each wand, feeling the fundamental purpose within them, seeking one in particular.

The wand in question was a simple straight piece of willow with a single lump of resin atop it that seemed half melted in the fixture of willow. Gloved fingertips passed across it, and grasped it quickly.

Sam pointed the wand at Zxandor, casually low and to the hip.

"Cleanliness Is Next To," Sam said in activation, and the resin melted ever so slightly more within the willow.

A buffet of cleaning telekinetic energy would pass without harm but with much helpful intent. Cobwebs would be brushed aside, dirt set to shyness, pebbles lifted out from boot and set aside in organised pile. A final whirlwind of gentle winds as dust was rushed away.

"When we reach the laboratory, I'll make you one of your own. It's a very simple housekeeping cantrip in the wand. Works rather well on us animate kin I've found. The mimics back in the laboratory aren't partial to such things though. But then they regulate themselves well enough generally not to need such attentions."

Sam replaced the wand, securing it in place, and sealing the satchel. A snap of the fingers as if something were remembered.

The backpack still strapped in place, had regular items within reach without setting the thing aside. Within a throng of straps, were small purple purses, one of which was taken. Sam walked over and gave it to Zxandor gently, from glove to glove.

"For your money. The silver inside the chest. It is yours after all. This purse can hold a good number of coins without weighing you down, or attracting attention of it's contents. I sell them often. Take your coins from the chest, and let's be out of this place. There's a small village nearby, about an hour's way away. We might be able to get some fundamentals for you there."

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

The gust of cleaning air was welcome. As particles left his form Zxandor observed a sense of modest renewal.
"I thank you!"
Being clean was a duty. It let others know that they, while a construct, was still a soldier and one who was to be taken seriously. Which promptly brought them to their next inquiry as the took the purple bag and began moving the silver from the chest in big fistfuls that jingles in its grasp. Technically this silver was to be buried with it, never to see the light of day again but it's master was gone now so it was now theirs now. Mostly because Sam had told them it was.
"You are a constructed being Sam Fairbridge. Do you have one you serve?"
In the past, conversing with another like them was often frowned upon. There was little option now though and it never saw the wrongness in it. It simply never had cause to.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

This was the first time that Sam had been given such a direct question on the subject. Information had been given to some before, yet this was the first time that direct phrase had been mentioned.

Sam became quieter, the sounds of coins filling the purse odd to Sam's ear. Sam was used to sound of coins being presented for service, not gathered in heaps and sequestered.

Sam spoke matter of factly, yet with a quiet about the subject. It would not do, Sam thought, to be brash about such things.

"Not anymore. My gaining sentience was an accident, an upscaled awareness born from arcane wildfire. That laboratory incident that cost my Master his life. Balestro Fairbridge was his name. A very powerful arch mage. I'd still be a rote servant otherwise. A poorly estimated spell description in a book."

Sam gestured to follow once coins had been gathered.

"You'll see what I resembled soon enough. The other unseen servants that weren't in the laboratory accident still reside there, acting as I once did. So, in answer to your question...I serve them, peoples such as yourself. Oh, and the Arcane Weave, of course."

Sam looked to the archway that had crumbled. Curiosities grew.

But that could wait.

Zxandor, Sam decided, needed sunlight after such time without.

"Are you ready to encounter the day?" Sam asked, some cheerfulness in their voice, knowing that experience was a pleasant one after such underground existence.

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

Zxandor paused, the silver in hand and turned the helmet towards Sam.
The tale was brief in the telling but deep. To be a servant without a master must be difficult. They had only recently come to this but Sam was existing in this state.

"Balestro Fairbridge must have been mighty to construct one such as you Sam Fairbridge."

The silver now tied to the belt at what would have been a hip on any solid being Zxandor made for the stairs.

"Yes. I am ready for the day and I am eager to see what you have spoken of. The laboratory and the others."

It did not readily prefer one or the other but in the past high places that allowed Zxandor to see far always seemed, better somehow.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Sam felt the exacting want to precisely communicate the state of things concerning their master. But there would be time enough to reveal the details of their own creation. Sam understood the newly awakened guardian of breastplate and sincere commitments had a wealth of understandings to come, and did not wish to muddy what waters were being rippled upon.

Sam did remark in kind passing as they turned to exit the place, speaking in soft humilities, "Your own nature also be remarkable in the Weave, to speak and be free to enact intent, that is a worthy thing indeed. Come. Let's get some light of the sun. I do wager you'd shine."

Sam walked slow, unsure of the pace that the named armour Zxandor might pursue. Sam's own gait dignified and scholarly, unfettered by the immense weight of the backpack, yet solemn and scholarly, as if always under the eyes of a librarian that did loathe noise or exaggerated motion between aisles of precious knowledge.

The day revealed itself, some small gale blowing fresh leaves in vortexes about the exit of the rousing place of Xzandor. Sam allowed some moments for Xzandor to appreciate the sight of the scenery, of sunlight that did strike plate and vision gates. Sam's hands working to find a local map, bought from local trader for a ring of nourishment. A satisfactory deal for Sam, for they had no need to apply any spice, condiment or nutrients to any meal, lacking need of vittels to continue their labours.

The map retrieved and scrutinised for a moment.

Softly Sam did speak, as if providing reverence for the experience Zxandor might be experiencing.

"We travel west. It is but a small stretch away. Sunlight will still be with us by the time arrive. Just remember," Sam said, and considered if they should speak of cautions so soon. An array of uncertainties spread out within Sam's mind, from experience and misty conjecture.

"Nevermind," Sam said, sequestering what fears they might have, shaking their head. They themselves had been regarded with some cautions and suspicions, yet had held commerce true. No need for pessimism just yet, Sam did think. Indeed, a spark of gentle defiance did flash in Sam's attitude. What reactions might be had from another animate being wishing to bargain was their responsibility. Not ours, Sam did think.

"Welcome to the world again," Sam did say with a smile in their voice, some enjoyment in speaking of such liberations to another so similar in design.

The sun did peer from curtain of clouds, providing brilliant path to the west as the winds did provide their dances to the leaves so fallen.

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

They stopped at the top of the stairs, just off to allow Sam access to the surface.
They looked up, the helm turned and beheld the bright sky above the trees. Without ears it heard the sound of wind and bird and stream but all Zxandor could focus on was the unsettling feeling that once this place was different and at least to them it was not so long ago. Sam was correct though thanks to the recent cleaning they had received Zxandor did shine, from boots to belt buckle and the ringlets of their body to the tip of the winged helm that composed it's head they glistened and refracted light as if made new this very day.
"Much has changed since I last had Become."
Again that feeling that was not loss but could not have been anything else crested within them.
The truth of Sam's statement hit them at that moment while Sam was tinkering with the map.
Their eyeless stare washed down over the trees, to the ground and over the ruins of what they once knew as a place of solid stone and mortar. They stepped along the ruined flagstones and broken tiles, now covered in root and grass and flowerbed.
"I am unique."
Zxandor had to specific connection to the weave, nothing they could detect or manipulate. Their experience was singularly corporeal, despite their somewhat ethereal manifestation.
They beheld the distance and the concept of the world beyond and the idea of the village, their destination.
They wondered if the world would indeed welcome them but they found themselves eager to know.
"Thank you Sam Fairbridge. I am satisfied to be here."

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

This pondering came with some conclusions, Sam did think to themselves as the fellow animate did give voice to their mood about the circumstance. This talk of uniqueness, becoming, satisfaction. Sam felt a welling of strength from such statements, finding them to be bolder and more confidentally spoken than Sam's own position towards the world. Much less feeling, more thinking and logic, much less statement, more hypothesis and consequence. Cold were the academic wealth of knowledge that had given tutorage and company. Scathing was the miasma of words that Sam's creator had cast in stone chambers as Sam once laboured silent, unwitting.

Ghostly hands that lifted quill and scribed, a mind not yet formed to volition, a potential that took fuel from the dying moments of a mage consumed by their own hand. The Weave did enact something that the mortal human magic user known as Fairbridge would have never willed.

And Sam did think in this moment, looking at the armour that so clearly stood for something, a purpose involving martial tools and defense of something, the violent craft, task to which such a being requested, that they were different. Sam themselves, in their original state, had simple tasks, simple mind, simple roles and feature and form. An upscaling of potentials was Sam's evolution. But Zxandor, Sam did think, was created by someone in their present accommodation for their deeds to be done correctly.

Sam nodded, as if encouraging the expression of thoughts. A collaborator in this existence, yet still, for now, guide and guardian in what obligations were owed to a fellow animate fresh faced from long wrought sleep.

"You are unique," Sam did affirm rather flatly to Zxandor's assessment. No sarcasm or derision, rather a statement echoed, as if a mathematical proof had been stated, redoubling the truth so expressed.

Philosophies would linger and grow in Sam's mind as the journey before them was set about.

"Come. When I first took form and thought, I had books. You should receive similiar. Tools to feel comfortable. I know I'd be lost without mine," Sam did say, and did look at Zxandor, tapping the backback conspiratorially. A wealth of items to be sold, bartered, studied and added to was upon Sam's back, a veritable hoarde of minor trinkets and arcane oddities, books mundane and journals arcane.

The word 'should' spoke by Sam did germinate within them, thinking of oughts and wants and coulds and perhaps. Considerations of their new company, and how best to give them advantage in a world Sam themselves was fresh faced to.

The path was yawning and wide, peaceful in nature, with occasional movement of wildlife and floral petals caught in gentle winds. Trees that did yearn for another rain. The path they drove not oft walked, yet soon converged with common path.

A small village did reveal itself in the distance after some brief time, Sam thinking muchly as they did make approach.

Sam did make conversation, asking, "We're not far now. What martial tools would you prefer? And would you like me to barter on your behalf? I might make your money worth more with some well placed words. I learned some elocution and negotiation skills from books and Master Fairbridge's grand speeches."

A pause. A helpful and humble addition.

"Elocution means the skill of speaking well in public capacity."

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

Martial tools, weapons.
Zxandor could use nearly any of the conventional tools of combat, bow and blade and bludgeon. Shield and staff. The weapon was typically decided to suit the task. When against cavalry a pike, when in close a dagger, when at distance a bow.

Currently the position was bodyguard, the terrain open and there was only one charge.

There was a tool for such use.

"A flamberge would suit. It would enable me to cover you from many angles and it's size may deter more fearful assailants."

Sam was correct in their assessment. Zxandor was created to do the job of warring and all its business including a measure of the psychology of war and fighting. A large weapon, like a large army, could succeed a conflict often before it starts against a foe of weaker metal.
Zxandor likewise knew that it was often better to prevent a conflict than allow or invite one and a fierce weapon could do that.
In such terms did Zxandor hence understand Sam's talk of tools. Sam had many tools, a whole and heavy bag of them. Books were the tools of learned folk and in Zxandor's recollections the Mage held such tools as well and from books summoned all manner of things that might lay a battalion low in moments.
So to Zxandor it seemed simple to deduce that from garb and "tools" that Sam was indeed a mage. As obvious as Zxandor was a warrior. They could each be nothing less and that led Zxandor to consider Sam's talk if barter.

"I do not know how to barter. To make money worth more. Does it matter so Sam Fairbridge?"

In fact Zxandor knew next to nothing about commerce at all. Warring and their place in it did not require them to.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Sam considered the scales of everything, the weights and measures, costs of ingredients in effort and resources and how to explain such things. Checks and balances to prevent upward expansion of ambition from getting away from fuels to provide for such things. From basic component of bone meals to exotic feathers of rare beast, all had their place in the construction, maintenance and application of objects of the Craft. This was the extent of Sam's understanding, this measurement and fairness of exacting cosmic law. Yet, while most folks considered things like an honest day's pay, or the price of bread, these weren't in Sam's common daily experience. And things like hunger and the want of cheese to solve it could not galvanise the explanation of the need to make money go as far as it could. Yet, an explanation was in the formation, for Sam themselves had found small success in the livelihood of bartering.

And the idea of paying an unseen servant for a day's work of scribing or lugging books around was positively laughable to any mage. They were created to serve a magic user, not demand a fair day's pay. At least, one's without wits and sentience such as Sam possessed now.

Sam considered a few analogues, but found them mostly be to be borrowed from reference books on economics and business. Terms like 'investment' and 'overheads', Sam decided, were far too nuanced, and even beyond themselves in grasp in places. Sam did toy with their gloves as the cogs did turn, and through doing, came across a potential method to explain.

"It matters to me in so much that when I'd like a book, materials to make something, or say, replacement gloves," Sam said, and made a waggling movement of his own, "or indeed, a flamberge, well, time and effort, as I understand it, has a cost for most living folks. Energy spent. Being fair with people is good, giving good price for what was spent to create. Earns respect, earns rapport. That way more things can be made and shared. But it's complicated it's true. Essentially, if I needed new gloves, I'd use the material to make them as efficiently as possible. So next time I needed gloves, I wouldn't need to find material again, I'd have used the cloth properly as to not waste, and could spend time reading instead of sourcing new wool. There be a term from a colloquialisms. Waste not, not want."

Sam nodded at their own explanation, happy enough for now about it.

"But it's nuanced it's true. And still lost to me in places."

Another sage moment.

"Xzandor, what is a flamberge ?"

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

As Zxandor listened they began to comprehend the sense of Sam's words. Value was nothing to them but rapport and respect were not so different from comradery which they understood as a matter of course. Basic moral was a good way to help ensure victory in any situation. So in this way Sam was increasing their own certainty through social practice. Making good allies that can be relied upon.

"I understand."
They replied simply accepting that this was the way things were.

"A flamberge is a sword that can be as tall as the average adult human and has a blade which loosely resembles a tongue of fire Sam Fairbridge."
Zxandor's answer was spoken as if it was the most normal topic in the world and without any sense of annoyance or any expectancy for Sam to know of what they spoke.
"It is useful against many types of pike and pole-arm weaponry and if the enemy is close it can be half-handed to good effect. It also is useful in deterring attackers due to its size and appearance."
They paused a moment before elaborating.
"A large flamberge is a fearsome looking weapon and it would greatly increase my ability to defend you."
Zxandor was far from helpless without it though. Hand to hand was the basis of all combat and so Zxandor was capable in aspects of wrestling and pugilism. More than once an opponent had discovered that grappling with an animated suit of mail was very different from a person of flesh and blood the hard way.

Somewhere beyond in the small village that they approached an animal bleated and it drew Zxandor's attention. The non existent neck craned to see the source which turned out to be sheep passing through the town led by a shepherd.

Sam Fairbridge

 

[Sam Fairbridge]

Once explanation was provided, scholarly recieved and exactly communicated, Sam did give exaggerated nod of their head, the hat indicating in pitching forward and back that it was understood after but a moment of consideration.

"Well explained Zxandor, I can appreciate why you'd want such a device. We'll see what can be mustered. We'll ask in a general store, or a blacksmith. I hear," Sam did say, and was cut off by the increasing bleating of sheep that did huddle and bustle by direction of crook wielding fellow of long beard and tan clothing.

Sam met the gaze of sheep, and each finding no conclusion as to what the other was thinking or intending, turned away. From eye to crook, and then to human face that was in some puzzlement as to the two animated that did walk towards the village centre. No frown of anger, just some mixture of caution, bemusement at the oddity the two represented, and puzzlement. A puzzlement that was abated in part by the grand pack of that Sam did carry, indicating that Sam themselves was a trader of goods.

The sound of late day toils and events of conversation did play out as they entered. The place was humble and small, but some industrious spirit were behind the people. The sign posts maintained, the signage clear, the people conversed with good spirit as they applied their labours. A hammer upon a roof kept regular attack, even as the one that did repair a roof did look down at the new comers with increasing concern, but made sure not to change the slow rhythms of repair. None did gawp and point, yet there were eyes fixed and hushed wonderment about their approach.

Sam looked about at signage artistically rendered and namesakes proud adorning businesses. Wide cursive calligraphy that Sam felt was firmly worthy work, themselves a reliable scribe in their former servitude. The work here was far more embellished, readable and bold, a distinguished signature to the work.

Sam's head did turn from sign to sign, speaking aloud to their companion.

"Gilberg's Groceries, Harrow's Haberdashery, Dilmark's Fletchery, ah," Sam said, "Ami's General Store, and, Stillwater's Arms and Supplies," Sam said. He pointed out the last to Zxandor with an extended gloved finger.

"You see the symbol of the shield with weapons behind it? That's so folks like yourself can see that it's a weapons shop. Plenty of folk communicate and understand the world differently, so these symbols help everyone. If you ever need weapons, look for that symbol. But it'll be no time at all until you can read all the signs, and then leaflets, newspapers, and then, well, books! But until then, symbols will serve," Sam did say cheerfully, and made gesture to follow towards Stillwater's establishment.

The building itself stood out in contrast to the usual thatched buildings, which were well made constructions of beams of wood and proud height. This building was more squat and made of well shaped stones, and resembled something from a more military mind. The walls were thick, the door itself made of stone that was inwardly open as business hours were still in effect.

A small sign at eye height that did read 'watch the step'.

Sam paused, and did echo the advice aloud to Zxandor as Sam did step in.

The step itself was into a reasonably sized room of arms and equipment which were set to walls and wooden stands. Most of which were copies of one another, seemingly made en masse. From within the shop was a partition and divide, where hammering sounds could be heard, the regular chiming sound more determined a sound than the ones that had driven nails into shingles.

From behind the counter, was a dwarf who was reading a newspaper, a blonde bearded fellow of middle age with emerald green eyes that did with one hand hold the gazette broadly, their other hand with an open topped sandwich of cheese. Eyes did continue to read, a further mouthful of a late lunch delayed to say the words, "Order's not ready. Can always tell it's you by the armour, no-one around here wears that 'side you lot," the dwarf did say, and slid half of the sandwich into their mouth and did chew.

Sam looked around at the arms, none of it making much sense to them. Combat was something still fresh and new to them, and what little they had seen and been involved in had not involved such sharp implements.

"Good day," Sam did say politely, as if to dispel the misunderstanding.

A slap of the paper onto the counter and further chewing. A hearty swallow and a leaning of the dwarf forward as he did peer at the two, although primarily it was upon Zxandor. A sort of mirthful curiosity was upon the dwarf as he did make conversation and increasing observations as he leaned forward in admiration of the armour that did walk.

"Say, you're not here for the shipment are you. Sorry I just assumed by the sound of armour. You sounded just like someone else. How can we here at Stillwater's help you folk?"

A moment as he leaned back and did call out to the one that did hammer away at anvil and metal.

"Say, Stillwater! You're going to want to see what's stepped through the door!"

A few more clangs, some grumbling and then a setting of tools down from the back of the shop. The green eyed dwarf at the front of the shop did continue to lean forward, a glint in his eye.

Sam looked at Zxandor, and said with soft encouragements, "Tell the good fellow what you're looking for."

Zxandor

 

[Zxandor]

While they were in the shop and Sam was getting the attention
Zxandor moved with purpose, marching right up to the counter and looking down upon the sitting dwarf with green eyes.
"I desire a flamberge."
They said before turning the hollow helm of their head towards Sam.
"And Sam Fairbanks will barter for me."