Board Thread:General Discussion/@comment-62.255.98.169-20130504143516/@comment-15373461-20130814081610

Dro'Machka likes this one's attitude. Dro'Machka will tell a short tale of fire youth and wisened aging.

Do'Rombol was still young but already a fighter renowned across the shifty sands for felling the hyenas that plague caravans and the bandits that slice throats in the dark of night. He was strong and he was adventurous, but he knew he still had to learn.

Set in his ways of adventuring and swordfighting, he took his sword and set out to search the tutoring of great Ra'Murru, a great hero in his time, now old and retired.

Do'Rombol found him in a small village. Ra'Murru was tending to his garden, trimming a bush that looked like some sort of wild berries. 'Grab your sword, old man, and teach me the secrets of your art!' Do'Rombol demanded.

'Ra'murru fights no more, for he is old,' the old cat replied. 'Ra'murru has replaced his sword with words.'

'Words will not protect Ra'Murru when I lift my blade to open his chest,' Do'rombol cried furiously, his patience run out, disappointed that, in his eyes at least, this great hero turned out to be a coward.

The bloody tips of two daggers then pointed outwards of Do'Rombol's chest. 'This one will not harm our respected hero,' a villager hissed as Do'Rombol fell lifelessly to the floor.

'Ra'Murr thanks you. How would this one appreciate a fresh glass of berry juice?' the wizened warrior offered. The fiery youth was left to rot on the edge of the desert, his name forgotten.