"If you don't like this, I got nothing else," bitched the smith. He had showcased many a blade, axe, and hammer, and Ry had handled them all – with ease. But nothing felt quite right. In truth, Ry was scared that he knew nothing about weapons and that it was showing. In truth, the smith was impressed with how natural Ry looked with a weapon in his hand. The boy was dressed like a common laborer, but he carried himself like a soldier. The smith pulled out the last blade, a very long sword with a double edge and two handed hilt. The wide blade reflected the sun shining in from the window onto the wall of the shop.
Ry knew it before he touched it. It felt heavy, but in a good way. He gripped it in both hands glanced at the large testing log splayed between two benches. He brought the sword purposefully above his head and concentrated on the log. There was no shop, there was no smith, there was only Ry, the sword, and the poor log. He thought of George and wounds he had inflicted, the thugs attacking his father, the hellish fiend that did not belong here. His jaw clenched with determined anger. His muscles tensed and the smith flinched. Ry struck the log with such force that it sundered in two, sending splinters of wood across the shop.
"This is a great sword."
"Yes, it is. That will be 50 gold."