A Special Set of Skills- A Tera Story

Note: The following story is an origin tale for a character set in the world of Tera.

Several months ago, outskirts of the Oblivion Woods.

The inside of the wayside tavern was a welcome sight to Captain Jonathan Silde. After traveling for many miles through the twisting paths within the woods the day was drawing to a close and he felt bone weary. The tavern itself was small, if comfortable looking on the inside with a large hearth set off to one side of the common room, a bar, and a doorway leading into what he presumed was a kitchen in the rear. A set of stairs outside lead to several rooms on the structure's second floor that one could rent for the evening.

As he pushed through the doorway and shut out the deepening night behind him, Jonathan searched the room for a place to sit. The tavern was obviously a popular stopping point for travelers and all of the tables had at least one or two people sitting in quiet and sometimes not-so-quiet conversation. As he looked around, Jonathan made eye contact with a grizzled looking old man with graying hair. The older man nodded at him, beckoning him over.

“Come have a seat, lad,” the man said with a smile. “The name's Ben Greenhand and I'm always one to welcome a weary traveler to my table.”

Sinking into the seat with some degree of relief, Jonathan smiled and extended his hand, “Jonathan Silde, sir. I thank you for the kindness.”

“Oh think nothing of it,” Ben said with a grin as he returned the handshake. “Besides, a weary soldier ain't doing any of us no good, now is he? Sit and drink and you can repay sharing my table with a few tales from the world out there.”

Jonathan blinked once and grinned, “That obvious eh? I was trying not to wear any rank insignia on my armor until I got to my new posting at Lumbertown.”

The old man laughed, slapping a hand down on the table, “Takes an old soldier to spot a soldier, friend. Was a time when I used to carry a sword instead of an ax to fell trees. Good to see some fresh blood coming into these parts though, what with the troubles going on. Don't take that the wrong way though, you'll like it here just fine I'm thinking. We got lots of positives out here on the edge of civilization.”

Jonathan laughed, setting his travel pack down beside him along with his twin swords, sighing with relief as the weight was removed, “Positives eh? What do you have out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Ben grinned and brought his hands up to his mouth, issuing a sharp whistle from between his lips and fingers. Jonathan blinked once in curiosity before he realized the man was calling the barmaid over. He turned, figuring that the place must have great food, and stopped, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

To say the barmaid was beautiful was an understatement. Jet black hair hung long around her face and he presumed down the middle of her back, swaying with the movements of her perfectly hourglass figure as she deftly made her way through the throng within the tavern, somehow avoiding the grasping hands that reached out to touch her as if by instinct. The light pink skin and metal horns jutting from the top of the Castanic woman's head did little to detract from the sight of the skin-tight leather pants and low cut vest she wore; in fact they gave her more of an exotic appearance and added to her beauty.

As she came closer, she smiled down at Ben, a somewhat vapid look on her face as she tilted her head, “You need something, Ben?”

“Yes my dear, my new friend here needs some ale and a bit of some of that roast you were serving earlier,” Ben replied with a grin. “I could use some more ale myself as well.”

The Castanic woman's red eyes blinked once and then she reached down to a small pocket on her pants. Her eyes widened a bit and she began to pat her other pockets, shaking her head in disappointment, “Oh gods, I forgot my notepad again. Hold on just one second sweetie! I'll be back in a flash!”

With that the dull-witted creature darted back into the crowd, heading towards the bar. Jonathan managed to tear his gaze away from her swaying hips long enough to see the older man grinning at him before they both laughed.

“She's a sweetheart, but if there's more than a spring breeze between her pointed ears I'd be surprised,” Ben said with a grin. “Still, she treats everyone kindly and she's a welcome sight to see walking around here. Like I said, this place has a lot of positives going for it.”

Jonathan nodded and grinned, watching in appreciation as the air-headed barmaid wound her way back through the crowd, notepad clutched triumphantly in her hands and a gorgeous smile plastered on her face.

Positives indeed..

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It was getting late in the evening, and Jonathan had pushed his plate and his now-empty mug of ale away from him as he reclined in the chair. He'd been exchanging stories with the old lumberjack for hours and was starting to feel the weariness from his travels set in. The rest of the tavern had wound down to a dull murmur as well, few of the patrons as rowdy as they'd been when the evening began.

Across the tavern the barmaid, whom Jonathan had come to know was named Bellesta or Bell for short, was leaning against the edge of the bar, watching the patrons and cleaning her hands with a rag. The bartender behind her had begun to doze off where he sat, leaning against his own bar with his head down on the wooden plank that made up its top, light snores issuing from him.

It was the drowsy, torpid energy in the room that made the sudden attack so devastating. One moment Jonathan was preparing to rise and saying his good-nights to old Ben, and the next moment there was a thunderous roar as explosives were detonated in front of the windows and doors of the tavern.

The blasts blew in the glass and sent splinters of wood from the shattered barrier flying into the room. A half dozen of the patrons nearest to the exterior wall of the structure fell instantly, pierced by flying projectiles. Through the choking smoke and flaming holes in the walls, the stunned patrons could see people running frantically outside of the structure and the small wall that guarded the inn engulfed in flames beyond.

That was all the time that those within had to come to terms with the situation before a number of horned figures dashed through the holes in the sides of the structure, weapons glinting in the light of the flames.

“Devas! We're under attack!” one of the patrons shouted. That was the only warning those within had before the twisted, evil Castanic cultists began their assault, weapons flashing as they began to cut down the patrons within the tavern.

Pandemonium erupted as patrons scrambled out of their chairs. Those few who had weapons like Jonathan did snatched them up, desperately trying to ward off blows in their drunken states. Most of those within the tavern were local lumberjacks or townsfolk traveling from Lumbertown to Crescentia, and few were able to defend themselves for any length of time as the brutal cultists made their way through the tavern.

For his part, Jonathan found himself almost instantly in a heated battle as the foes realized he was armed. His twin blades spun as he parried and dodged the blows from the cultists, desperately trying to clear some space to defend himself. The enemies were brutal in their assault, their faces covered in dark leather that had been ritually stained with the blood of their sacrifices and their blades moving almost faster than the eye could track. As he parried another blow, Jonathan knew they were in dire straits.

One of the Devas leaped past his guard, a blade traveling towards his heart. He braced himself, prepared to die only to see the attacker gasp and fall, a knife protruding from her side. With a snarl Old Ben was beside Jonathan, another blade in his hand as he cleared some space near the soldier and bought them both some time. Even with his valiant efforts, the two and a few other patrons were trapped with the hearth behind them and no route out of the tavern.

As he took in the situation, Jonathan looked across the bar, his heart sinking as he saw the Devas leaping towards those who were further within the structure. Unable to look away, he watched in horror as one of the attackers jumped on a table and brought his wicked looking two-handed blade down, right towards the barmaid Bellesta's head. Jonathan screamed, knowing he could not save the poor woman.

To his surprise, the dull-witted Castanic woman jumped backwards, her hands instinctively snatching at the bar behind her. She grabbed a platter that was normally used to bring roast pigs to the tables. It was a heavy metal disc with two metal handles along its rim to allow servers to carry the heavier roasts out. As Jonathan watched, Bellesta brought the platter up just in time to intersect the second swing of the sword, the metal of the blade sparking as it connected with the platter, nearly jarring the weapon from the Deva's hand.

As if this was not surprising enough, Bellesta then stepped towards her attacker, her eyes wide as if she had no idea why she was doing what she was doing. She brought the heavy metal platter up and down, right on the attacker's face, the sound of the metal striking flesh carrying over the battle and enough to almost make Jonathan wince if hadn't had more pressing concerns.

In front Jonathan more of the Devas pushed forward, intent on slaying the patrons sheltering behind the soldier and his old companion. Jonathan responded in kind, his blades flashing as he attempted to block the attacks of the faster moving Devas, Old Ben fighting alongside him until a wound to his arm made him fall back.

Across the tavern, several of the other patrons had rallied behind Bellesta as she began to systematically bludgeon people unconscious with her serving platter. If not for the dire danger they were in the sight might almost have been comical, with the dark-haired Castanic having looped her arm through the handles on the rim of the platter as if it were a shield.

Unfortunately the Devas were intent on destroying the tavern, and flames had already begun to lick up the outer edges of the structure. Jonathan knew they were running out of time even as a renewed attack by the cultists forced him back and closer to the hearth behind him. Across the tavern, he saw a wave of enemies push Bellesta back, the tide of battle sweeping her and those few who had stood behind her towards the kitchen doorway at the back of the tavern. He lamented that she would probably die there, cut down as she bravely fought alongside the patrons to defend the tavern.

He was given little time to think after that, the final push of the Devas forcing him back further and further, condensing the small mass of survivors behind him together as they tried to avoid being pushed into the hearth. It was clear that the cultists were going to either cut them down or force them into the fire where they would burn, and it looked like there was little he could do to stop them.

Minutes went by, precious time that they didn't have, and Jonathan felt his arms growing weary from the endless attacks. He began to take wounds, here a blade striking his hip, there a backstroke nicking his arm and making him bleed. With each cut, each wound his strength began to fade, until one of the Devas finally got through his guard, delivering a kick to his chest that threw him to the floor.

As he looked up through bleary eyes, he could see one of the Devas grinning down at him, blade raised to deliver a killing blow. In that moment, a battle-shout rolled out over the tavern, and he turned his head, looking away from his would-be killer and across the blood-spattered floor of the tavern.

The shout had come from the doorway of the kitchen, and to Jonathan's ever-lasting surprise the Devas that had been fighting there were hurled back as a pack of tavern-goers and cooks emerged from the doorway, butcher knives and pots in hand and wielded as weapons. Leading them was Bellesta, her red eyes flashing as she battered one of the attackers out of the way with her platter-shield. In her other hand she held a broom handle, the end of it having been snapped off into a sharpened point which she plunged into the neck of one of the Devas that tried to stand in the group's way.

In an instant the tide of the battle turned, cultists falling back and away from the enraged defenders, Bellesta's charge forcing them away from the group and negating their agile movements as she bodily slammed into them and then slammed them into one another. Another warcry burst from her mouth as her make-shift spear plunged forward, stabbing into the guts of one of the Devas and dropping him to the floor.

Jonathan smiled, closing his eyes as he prepared to die, the knowledge that even the least-likely person could rise up as a hero in an emergency giving him comfort. He braced himself for the killing blow he knew was coming, only opening his eyes again when a heavy object thudded to the floor beside him.

When his eyes opened, he was staring into the dead eyes of a Deva, the Castanic's neck a bloody mess from where he'd been stabbed. Jonathan rolled his head, looking up to see Bellesta standing over him now, her platter-shield bashing the senses out of another Deva and deflecting a blade that would have struck her in the heart.

Behind her the cooks rushed in, their cleavers swinging and their enraged attack forcing the cultists back further. Realizing that their attack was about to bog down, the crafty foes withdrew as if they had all heard a signal, a few of them exchanging blows with the tavern defenders before darting back out through the flaming opening they'd used to enter the establishment.

Just like that, the battle was over, the tavern falling silent for a moment with only the crackle of the flames and the heavy breathing of those who had survived to be heard. Those who had lived through the attack paused, looking at each other and sharing a moment of camaraderie that would stay with them for the rest of their lives.

Above Jonathan, Bellesta stirred, stepping forward and turning to look at those who had fought with her, her eyes wide in surprise at what they had all done. Jonathan's experienced eyes could see that she had never been in a battle before, never wielded weapons in her life. The surprise that she'd lived, that she'd triumphed, was genuine and spoke of a natural skill with weapons that, if nurtured, would grow to make a mighty champion one day. He knew he had to act fast to preserve it and to encourage it to grow, for the Federation needed people like the barmaid to fight for it, especially if the cultists had grown so bold.

He sat up, coughing once and speaking into the shocked silence, his words carrying weight in the stunned minds of the survivors, “We've faced darkness today friends. We've faced those who would lay us low and burn our towns and take our lands in the name of vile gods. But instead of running in fear, we took up weapons and defended our homes, our nation against that darkness. We stood firm in the face of defeat, and gave it our all.”

He rose slowly and painfully from the floor, grunting as his wounds cried out for rest. Instead he forced himself to stand, looking each of the defenders in the eye, lingering when he came to Bellesta, speaking as if he was speaking to her, “Not everyone would do what you have all done here tonight. Many would flee in terror. It is champions like you who will shape the future. It is heroes like you who will decide what kind of place the Federation will be in the future. You should all be proud of yourselves, of what you have accomplished, of your bravery.”

He spoke now directly to her, a smile on his lips as she stared wide-eyed at him, knowing that he would plant the seeds for the future in her mind, “I am Captain Jonathan Silde and part of the Federation's army, and I say that the deeds I have seen this night are tales to be told for years to come. You have done the Federation a great service this night, and we are all in your debt. Never forget your strength, for it can take you so much further. Thank you, hero.”

The rest of the survivors cheered when he finished, their joyous cries rolling over Bellesta and echoing out into the night. In the noise she made no sound, but he saw her blush and look down at her own hands in wonder. He saw her studying the broken broom handle that she'd used to slay her enemies, knew she was reliving the battle again in her head, the long handle of the splintered wood grasped firmly in her hands.

Hands that would one day grip a lance. A lance that would be used not by a barmaid, but by a champion of the Federation who had only just discovered just what it was she could do if she tried.