[ WP ] Write a story in a fantasy or science fiction world in which the characters do n't do very much at all but we learn a lot about the world

Bahron awoke to the sound of a bird fluttering up underneath his thatched roof. It was early, still. Normally he would sleep until the ringing of Papa's anvil echoed off the hill, but it was very dark outside, with dawn still hours away. Bahron pulled on his trousers and ran up the hill, only noticing his missing boots after finding a sharp stone with his heel. 
 
 `` Shit.'' 
 
 Bahron held a hand over his mouth and tried to ignore the pain. He did n't want to disturb Papa. The old man liked to practice his maneuvers in silence. Peeking over the crest of the hill, Bahron saw Papa standing in the sand on the edge of the lake. He was a tall, solid man as thick and as heavy as the anvil he hammered on. But he moved deftly, and with such grace that you would think he was a scarf in the wind. He flung his arm up, palm extending towards the sky, and swung it down towards the lake, while bringing right leg up and slamming it down, shoveling his foot into the sand. A wave of steam billowed across the surface of the water and was quickly fanned away by the breeze. 
 
 Papa had tried to teach Bahron the magics, but they did n't take. The movements had to be precise and fluid, and Bahron was a clumsy child; he could hardly make a warm breeze, whereas Papa could redden steel if he really wanted to. The magics were mostly for show anyway, Bahron thought. Papa still had to use a furnace to forge his weapons, although he swore that the magics made his steel the hardest and the sharpest. Maybe. His swords were the most expensive in the province, and Bahron had heard no complaints of poor quality. 
 
 Of the Kindred, those who control fire were uncommon, only those that summoned lightning were rarer. The gifts that nature bestowed were usually more subtle: fertility - wielded mainly by the farmers and midwives, persuasion and seduction - used by the charlatans and the prostitutes. Along with a hodgepodge of other useless magics, each with it's own unique style of movements to wield them. 
 
 Papa reached his arms forward and began to rhythmically move his fingers. He hung his head and began to massage the palm of his right hand, pressing his thumb in, and rolling it around. Bahron remembered how his father had been able to send sparks flying from his fingertips when he was little, but now his hands were knotted with arthritis and could no longer dance with his fingers the way that he used to. 
 
 Papa suddenly stopped his maneuvers. A second later Bahron heard the horses as well. Cresting the far hill were three men with white cloaks riding toward Papa. The Provenance. Bahron had never seen more than one in the same place before. They were not like the Kindred, sharing the gift of magics from nature with anyone who would listen. They claimed their `` God'' was the giver of the power, and only those who are chosen should be taught. They hold a monopoly on the healing magics, and use this fact to their great monetary gain. The healers of the Kindred died out long ago without passing their knowledge on, and now their dances are lost forever. 
 
 The riders approached Papa and began arguing. The words echoed around the rocky walls surrounding the lake and tumbled into incomprehensibility. Bahron could hear the anger in the voices, but not the words themselves. Although The Provenance have planted themselves in places of power within the kingdom, and made their religion official, they have had no quarrel with those who believe otherwise, save of course for The Order of the Gods. One of the riders, the foremost and the loudest, drew a sword and raised it above his head. Before the rider could swing it down, Papa slapped his hands together and thrust his arms forward. The blade turned white-hot, and the rider dropped it into the sand. The other two men in white cloaks had already dismounted and were charging the old man. Papa balled up his large calloused hand and connected it firmly to one man's jaw, sending him falling backwards into the lake. 
 
 But he had lost sight of the third man. 
 
 Bahron stood from his place behind the crest of the hill. `` Papa! Behind you!'' 
 
 Papa spun around and saw the third man, but was not wearing his cloak. He looked down to see that he had taken it off, and wrapped it around the still white-hot blade so that he could hold it. Papa made no sound other than his searing flesh as the blade pierced his stomach, and fell to the ground. 
 
 `` No!'' Bahron cried as he ran toward the lake. He crashed into the sand and held his father, sobbing into his cheek. 
 
 The man no longer wearing his cloak turned to the other. 
 
 `` Is this the boy?'' 
 
 `` Yes. Take him.''
