The lizard freezes, and with her one good eye, looks down at the sword embedded in her lung, then back up to Fekkri, silently pleading. In Fekkri's hand - now twelve years old - the wooden sword has become a weary falchion, just the right size for his small hands, and trickling down the length of its tired blade is the blood of a young lizardfolk woman with a false eye made of ivory that might fetch a few silver at market. With an overzealous lunge, he thrusts his wooden sword towards his brother, but with a crash of lightning and the sound of steel sinking into flesh, the sunny blue sky snaps into a dark, stormy midnight, the tall grass becomes a muddy, swampy field filled with ragged willows and meager cabins, and the distant crashing of waves is replaced by the clashing of steel, the crying of children, and the crackling of fire. "Afraid of all the cool things we might found out there, if we were just free." "If we were pirates," Fekkri says between slashes and stabs - "maybe we wouldn't have to be so afraid all the time." He swings the sword towards his brother, who catches his balance and parries.
"And besides, what's wrong with being a pirate, anyway?" The golden boy frowns and leans over to Fekkri.īut Fekkri calls back, "we're just playing, dad." But the look on their father's face makes it clear that he's already seen it. "Sssshit," Fekkri whispers, frantically removing the eyepatch and hiding it behind his back. The golden boy elbows Fekkri in the ribs, and signals to the eyepatch. Even with the peg leg, he outpaces Fekkri with ease, and leaps onto the rope behind him with a strike of his sword.įor a few moments, they clash atop the bridge, their swashbuckling punctuated by crass insults and piratey laughter - but the battle is interrupted when a stern voice yells from a platform below:īoth of the cats freeze in place and turn to look downwards at their father. Not far behind him, another young tabaxi with golden fur hobbles in pursuit, with a pretend peg leg, a pirate's bandana, and a wooden sword of his own. Over his eye, he wears a tattered leather eyepatch, much too big for his face, and in one hand, he holds a crude hook made from bone.
#Balance and composure merch free#
There's a rustling from one of the tent towers, and suddenly, a much younger Fekkri - eight years old - bursts free of the colorful canvas and hurriedly tiptoes across a narrow rope bridge, trying his best not to look down at the long drop that awaits him if he misses a step.
Laughter soon follows, and the sound of wooden swords clacking against each other. The cliffs are speckled with colorful tents and kite towers resembling the sails of tall ships that stretch towards the sky. Color and daylight begin to bleed into the edges of a dream - the brilliant greens of rolling grasslands, the rich, dark blue of a nearby coast, and the glistening white of tall, chalky cliffs that tower over the sea.
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