Battlefield of the Gods

ring crowd cheering for their own as a rugged man approached.

A man with a patchy mess of facial hair, sandy blonde hair, and blue eyes made his way to Wyll, clapping firmly and loudly as he laughed heartily. He wore a mess of furs and leather armor, standing at a little more than two meters tall and built like a fortress wall. Like a boulder rolling down a mountain, the man crashed into Wyll, scooping him up in his arms and tightly hugging him. The metal helm was quick to come undone as the large man squeezed, a mess of steel blue hair cut short coming into view, the well-defined jaw yet soft cheeks of the victors face welcoming the warmth of the sun. Wyll grunted as the air was forced from his lungs, receiving an infamous hug from Gaemo the Bear as his bones cracked and spine popped.

”Did everyone see that?! Ma boy here, not yet even a Wielder, was able to take out two Commons and an Uncommon! A natural-born fighter, sure to make us all proud! Three cheers for Wyll of the Purple Dragoons! ”

The crowd cheered as Gaemo loosened his grip on Wyll, placing him on the ground; he let out a sigh of relief before handing his sword back to its proper Wielder. The medics dragged his three sparring partners off to be tended to as everyone cheered and congratulated Wyll on his victory. As the sun began to set and the meals were served, everyone happily ate of the feast as good tidings were upon them as Wyll was to undergo an exam with the Church tomorrow in a nearby town. All were excited to learn what the prodigy of the Purple Dragoons would get in terms of a Weapon. Wyll was nervous as he mentally went over what he had learned.

Their rarity rankings spoke for themselves. Common, Uncommon, Rare, and Epic. These four were the ones that most people got though it was only once or twice a year that an Epic made an appearance. After those four, there were what were defined as the Heirloom Rarities, these weapons boasting incredible power that was leaps and bounds stronger than the first four. Each rarity ranking was a gap alone, but the Heirlooms were something hardly seen. Heroic, Legendary, Mythic, and the fabled First-Forged. The First Forged were said to be the original bases for all the current weapons; the scriptures of the Church of the Smiths Forge supposedly talk about when the creator of the Weapons, The Blacksmith, made them in a time of chaos.

The only thing Wyll knew about the Blacksmith was they originally made the Weapons, bestowing them on mortals as a gift of power. The Blacksmith is the only one capable of making weapons. These Weapons turned the tides of wars, made kingdoms, destroyed kingdoms, and turned the world on its head. The catch was that not anyone could pick up a Weapon and use its latent powers; the Weapons chose their Wielder. Wielders were potent even if they held a common weapon, capable of quickly holding their own, but the higher the rarity, the stronger the power of the Wielder.

The Rite of Armament was when the Church would gather promising candidates that they felt were capable of bonding with a Weapon and becoming a Wielder; some years ago, Wyll had impressed a priest of the Church on the field of battle while wielding a Weapon of an ally. Wyll is, after all, a member of a well-known band of mercenaries known as the Purple Dragoons, a fighting force capable of devastating the battlefield as well as some of the best-trained battle medics in Vileres.

Wyll had gotten lost in thought, his food going cold as he nervously gulped and pushed his plate away as his stomach seemed to churn in anticipation for the coming ceremonies. He swiftly took his leave and went to his tent, flopping onto the mess of furs as exhaustion seized him and sleep encompassed his mind.