A rock is a rock, right?

Gerrod wasn’t even sure it was the right kind of rock. He’d seen the swordsmen sharpen their blades with a stone, but he’d never held one himself, much less an actual blade. Never felt the texture or hefted the weight. So he just found a rock that looked about the same size. A rock is a rock, right?

As clueless as he was about the rock, Gerrod was even more lost when it came to the sword he was trying to sharpen. He’d found it in an alley, among the refuse. Obviously worthless to whomever had dropped it there, in a pile of scrap wood and…other things. He’d cleaned it up the best he could, trying to rub off the rust. But it seemed to adhere to the metal somehow; he didn’t really understand. Washing it in the stream didn’t seem to help.

Gerrod also didn’t know what to do about the nicks and chips in the blade. He thought maybe a blacksmith could help, but he couldn’t afford to pay one. Maybe after he did something grand, something meaningful…but he’d need a good sword for that. He’d also need to learn how to use it.

Feeling the weight of all he didn’t know, Gerrod slumped back against the tree and fought the urge to cry.

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