Eon couldn’t eat, he knew that if he tried, the food would never settle and he would throw it back up. Tomorrow was choosing day. Where he and his ward mates would be chosen for one of the six distinct guilds. The cooks, the builders, scribes warriors, farmers, craftsmen including the blacksmith and carpentry, and finally the Kings Corps. Within each guild were many craftmasters and one person who organized it, called the guildmaster. The craftsmen guild, being a sum of many crafts that had a similar theme. Almost since he had known about them, he had wanted desperately to be a warrior. Despite his request and obvious disinterest in other areas, there was still a high chance he would be chosen as a farmer and be sent off to work the field for the rest of his life. That was where those whom a guild could not be assigned were sent. “How could a twig like you ever get into battle school,” Horace scoffed. Eon bit back a retort. Horace was right, he knew as well as everyone that he had almost no chance of going to battle school. He had no arm muscle and no natural talent with a blade. Rare as it was, Horace sensed he had a verbal advantage and pushed it. “You’ve got nothing but a shrunken head that won’t fit in a jar.” “And you’ve got a rock that …show more content…
Seemingly paltry in wit, the jest had some other meanings that not many know. Even so it seemed to do the trick. Horace’s ears became red as his other ward mates failed to keep from bursting with laughter. As far as insults went, he had told Horace that, in fact, he had a thick skull, a rock for a head, and was a pig, with some other things, that best not be told, thrown in for good measure. Eon made a hasty getaway as Horace made to stand from the table and confront him. For all of his verbal prowess, Eon was frequently bested in the many fights that had occurred between them. Save for the few times he could land a blow and escape the onslaught of attacks that would undoubtedly