Luckily, it was simple enough work. Finding clean water among the refreshments required asking a couple of the revelers, and after retreating to an open space he was able to rinse the blade without a fuss. The sharpening was another matter, but in a pinch any decently-sized stone would do and there were plenty to be had.
Storytelling was an art form that the red stallion had taken to quite naturally in his youth, and he wondered at times if a different universe might have seen him become a bard rather than a soldier. Certainly for someone of his culture and upbringing, he harbored a surprising reluctance to engage others directly.
So why did he always show up in new places ahead of whispers of war like some brightly-colored storm crow?
He certainly had a knack for picking his paths.
Turning so he might catch a decent view of the stage as he worked and glancing around at the gathered masses for a glimpse of Florentine, who had accompanied him, Raymond began the well-practiced process of whetting his scythe against the stone he had elected for the purpose. The flower-crown still draped over his head swayed rhythmically with every stroke. It was difficult not to hum along to the long, sweeping strokes as he worked, but out of respect for the festival and the presentations of those that followed him he kept silent and sang the whetting song only with his eyes.
Raymond.
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
and at his feet they'll cast their golden crowns
when the man comes around
