Master Forborn trained me hard. If I trained well I was rewarded with praise and nourishment. But when I disappointed him, Master Forborn starved me for a few days, only prividing water, in a small cell. I was never to call him anything but Master Forborn. The rum on his breath returned from time to time, and when that happened I tended to disappoint him easily.

He trained me first with a wooden sword and a small stump of a tree not far from his house on a small manor. Then on my twelfth birth rite, he threw a short blade at me. "Here, boy," he said in a tone much different and harsher than the one he used to draw me in when I was younger. "Boy" was the only thing he ever called me, for I was never given a name. "You are ready for a real weapon."

I didn't know what to do with this sword. Its' blade was a bit rusted and the hilt was rapped in a rope that felt rough in my hand and chaffed often when I used it. It needed to be sharpened desperatley, it would bounce off the stump if you didn't hit it at the right angle.

Three years later, Master Forborn approached me while I was training on the stump. I had acceled through all the moves he taught me and had reduced the stump to half its original size. The rum scent was not present on his breath, and I was grateful for that, but the smoky stench I came to know was present. "You have done well, boy. I suppose I should call you something other than 'boy.'" Master Forborn thought for a few minutes while I stood there staring at him. His elongated elven brows furrowed. "I give you a name of power, my father's name. You are Faratan from now on."

Master Forborn turned and left me to my training. "Faratan." I ran the the word over my tongue. A name of power, he had called it. My hopes of becoming someone great now felt nore real than ever. I trained harder and long into the night after dark. My new name had given me a new energy and it felt wonderful.