Saronim awoke to the sound of thunder and the smell of rain. The outcrop that he'd thought would provide him protection from the rain did nothing of the sort. In fact, it seemed to only make the rain fall on him harder. He sat up, stretched, and moved back towards the worn-smooth rock wall where it was drier. Saronim looked at his satchel. There were a few things in there that weren't supposed to get wet, so he opened the musty sack of leather and rummaged around. Then his finger ran along something cold and hard. He retracted his hand to find a thin line of blood running from a cut about two inches long.
     Saronim looked down and saw that his dagger had come out of its sheath. It was an interesting blade, on one side of it there was the blade, while on the reverse edge there was a crimson line that went from handle to tip. The dagger was one of a set of two, thinking of this Saronim instinctively reached for the handle of his sword. He then drew the beautiful blade out from it's hilt, the sound of metal on metal was like a lullaby to him, his sword and dagger had saved his life more times than he'd care to remember. They had chosen him, and he had to always remember that. The sword's hilt was something in itself, upon its black ebony surface were the words, "Strength is made perfect in weakness", written in the ancient language of the Shagona Mai, a race that prided itself on the fact of their obvious superiority in ability with a blade. Saronim grinned at this as he looked upon the black and silver blade of his sword. His grandfather was the greatest swordsman of all the Shagona Mai, if not the world, after all, his kind had only been rivaled by the humans. The slightest thought of humans made his skin crawl, they were always so conceited, obnoxious, and overall unworthy to walk the ground the gods created for them.
     Saronim shook the scowl off his face, such thoughts had damned his father, and he couldn't follow in his footsteps. He then returned the sword and dagger to their rightful places, and he realized just how far away from home he really was, and seeing as how he was the last of the Shagona Mai in this world. He knew that its legacy would die with him. Saronim's face took on a somber tone as he found the bombs in his satchel and placed them in his hood, hoping that they weren't wet. His hood was thick enough to cushion the hard round lumps that were now his pillow. He then curled up around his satchel and noticed that he didn't know if it was the rain making his face wet, or his tears, nor did he care at this moment. Saronim closed his eyes and knew that sleep wouldn't return soon.