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Sir Galeren the Tenacious. Emmyth could recall thinking how imposing the man appeared to him when he was a child. His hands were so large, and whenever he rolled up his sleeves, scars from battles with demons could be seem decorating his arms. Galeren claimed he saw tenacity in Emmyth as a child and, ‘Tenacious is my middle name, so we might as well be family’. How many times had Emmyth been jostled about as the man introduced him to the coaches of fellow competitors with such a line? Rough but warm hand slapping down on his shoulder while Galeren burst with laughter at the not-so-clever introduction. Emmyth couldn’t recall ever being able to make eye contact with competition outside of in the fighting ring… it had always been perceived as being aloof, but it was actually shy embarrassment.

Not that Emmyth would have traded those embarrassing moment for anything in the world.

When had Galeren become old and gray? Twenty six years had passed since Emmyth had become the Knight’s student… twenty six years… sometimes it felt surreal. Emmyth wasn’t sure what his life would be like now if his Uncle hadn’t asked Galeran to train him. He’d probably be dead on the streets… just like how his mother had died…

In any case, these days Galeran was retired. The quiet half-elf, with no classes to teach on campus, and not having returned Aeston so long ago, had set out to meet in the city with one of the only people he was close to. One of two father-like figures he had in his life. He’d found out that Sir Galeren had retired, the old knight had even put on weight. He seemed so much smaller now… not that Emmyth’s respect for him was at all diminished but… he didn’t want to think about the day Galeren would be no more. At least he was a pretty healthy old man, who was welcoming into the world a great-grandson, than he talked to Emmyth about at length. The retired knight was happy with his family, Emmyth couldn’t help but wonder what he himself would do when he was too old to fight any longer… would he have nothing left in life at that point?

After leaving Galeren’s estate, Emmyth wandered into the city center, feeling… complicated. The old knight hadn’t held back from expressing his usual concerned that Emmyth ‘didn’t have any friends’, a complaint he’d thought wouldn’t be relevant anymore now that he wasn’t a child but… actually his Uncle would probably tell him the same thing. The half-elf wandered into the potion shop with a heavy sigh. He wasn’t here for any particular reason he… was just wandering. Crimson eyes flickered across the various magical product, but his mind was on other things.

A lady or a guy he had his eyes on. Crimson eyes had fallen to the worker, rigid frown drawn from uncertainty, but it could have been construed as difficult to interpret. At least the man didn’t seem offended by either option. Emmyth had no care of male versus female but more to the point… someone he had his eyes on? He hadn’t built any personal relationships, let alone…

Crimsons flickered to one of the charms meant to be given as a request to date, mind balking at the idea of just how to answer the store worker. Luckily, he didn’t have too. The arrival of the next… customer(?) was more than enough distraction. What with her loud entrance and easy flow into conversation with the boy behind the counter. Meanwhile, her swords were a pleasant distraction for Emmyth, whose eyes had settled on them almost immediately. To the point he hadn’t taken in the rest of the female… almost at all. His back now facing the trinkets which had given him such consternation, the half-elf’s eyes followed the hilts of the various blades.

It was an interesting collection of older blades which, curiously, appeared siblings to each other. Curious as the nodachi, generally speaking, predated the katana. However, a katana being siblings with wakizashi, or for that matter, a tantō, was much more understandable. To have all three was truly a statement of adoration for that which they represented. A time, place, and style. They had no doubt been crafted by the same artisan, or at least workshop, and carried a unified presence all on their own. Emmyth, odd one that he was, considered that the swords, as siblings, must love each other yet vie to distinguish themselves. Which of them had found themselves favored by their artisan? By their wielder?

Most likely, the nodachi and wakizashi played second fiddle to the Katana, but undoubtedly, they would do their job well if they were allowed. Their hilts were not wrapped as was normal for the northern swords, but rather of an exotic white wood, inlayed with gold. A nod to drappon? Of course the elf took in the aspects of the guards, of an aoi gata shape, a couple inches thick and quiet large. If he had to guess, the blade collar was gold to match the clouds on the handle.

These sword were quiet old, and there were only a couple of historic artisans, well to the north, that a weapon’s enthusiast such as Emmyth was likely to attribute them to. If he could see the cold steel of the blades, set eyes on the hamon, he was reasonably confident he could identify the weapons smith who made them. Excitement and respect settled into the man’s chest. It wasn’t every day one saw such historic swords, especially considering modern day steel working practices created stronger blades. The work put into working the impurities out in older swords was just so much more personable. A part of the artisan’s soul surely dwelled within. He wished he had a chance to see the process of creating the hamon first hand, as the artisan applied their own methods of tsuchioki, a process which differentiated them from every other artisan, a unique stamp.

It was the knights crest, on the sheaths, that caught Emmyth’s attention last. The man, hand on one hip, frowned deeply as he tilted his head to the side, having zero consideration that he was still just staring. The symbol of the knights just bothered him. Nothing against the knights, to his mind, the symbol didn’t suit the regal northern swords. It did remind him, however, that he was looking towards a person. Blinking, Emmyth’s eyes finally tore away from the weapons, in time to accidentally meet the eyes of the woman as she smirked. Crimson orbs quickly flickered away towards the door, arms crossing over his chest.

The man didn’t move from his spot though, no. He wanted to ask to see the blades, but he had no desire to cut into the current conversation. Waiting for the shop boy and the woman to talk at least gave him a moment to consider who this knight was. There weren’t many knights using three of such blade. The demon of Rhime Wreath was fist to mind, though since Emmyth paid little mind to idle talk and gossip, he was on vaguely away of her being described as monstrous herself. If she’d carried those blades all the way through, Emmyth was not included to think of her as beastly. A katana was a fragile blade. To be so hardened was also to be inflexible and brittle. It’s impressively razor sharp edge came with drawbacks, especially for an older blade. It’s curved back did allow it the flexibility to bend rather than crack all the way through, but a bent katana remained bent unless repaired by an expert artisan. Even then, ever time this happened, the sword was being compromised. Becoming weaker and weaker. There was a certain way in which the katana was meant to be used, and even in storage it required pampering to stay in prime condition. Being oiled and powdered so that it did not rust, kept facing up so that it did not rest on its blade.

If this woman could take an old sword through ten years of battles and care for it enough that it came out the other end in tact… well Emmyth could never have anything but respect for a person that treated their weapons so.