The village of Hinswirth consisted of about 50 wooden houses sandwiched between the foothills of the Aravengali mountains and the forest of Byr. All things considered, it was remote, inaccessible and inhospitable to all but the hardiest folk.

The village center was dominated by the three largest buildings in the village. By far the largest of these was the storehouse where the food needed to survive the winter was kept. The second was the tavern, the only house with a basement and the place almost everyone in the village ended up at some point during the day.

The third was the blacksmith.

The forge itself would not have made it that large, but the original smith had decided to build his house on top of it, making it three floors of hardened old oak that creaked in the strong winds that blew through.

The smith was aging giant, well over six feet tall, arms that would put a bear's to shame and a large, full, black beard with flecks of grey forming in places. His eyes, however, were kind and gentle.

He had been stoking the fire since dawn and it was almost ready to start the day's work.

"Here's the rest of it, Dad," said a young man carrying a pile of wood large enough to block the view of his face, as he entered the forge.

"Good lad," he said, "Is Toland up yet?"

"No idea."

The smith rolled his eyes, got up, and stuck his head through the door to the house.

"TOLAND!" he roared, "You better be up! It's an hour past dawn!"

His son chuckled and stacked the wood on the pile in the corner. He didn't have the beard of his father, but the resemblance was uncanny, the shaggy black hair, the height, and the same, kind eyes.

He was yet to develop the sheer brute might of his father, but his arms and torso were clearly rippled with muscles.

"I'm up!" shouted back Toland, not at all sounding convincing.

"Rin?" came a female voice from inside.

"Yes honey," replied the smith.

"Is Fel back?" she asked, sticking her head round the door to reveal a middle aged woman wearing an apron.

"Hi mum," Fel replied, turning to smile at his mother.

"Have you two had breakfast?"

"No, not yet."

"Well stop messing about with that old thing and come eat."

"Messing about?" Fel replied, aghast.

"Don't argue with your mother," Rin chided, "It's stoked nicely now, let's go eat."

Fel shrugged and stood up, threw one last log into the furnace and went into the house.

Flicking her long, straight, blonde hair out of her eyes, she picked a metal pan off the stove and served two eggs onto wooden plates, followed by a piece of bread each.

"Toland, breakfast!" she called up the stairs, before getting breakfast for herself.

"Is there anything to drink?" asked Fel and pulled the bucket resting on the other side of the table towards him.

"What do you think?" Rin replied and Fel rolled his eyes.

A hail of footsteps heralded Toland's frantic descent, pulling on a shirt as he came. He was shorter than his father by over two heads and would have to jump to look his brother in the eye. His spindly form spoke of him never working the forge and his straight, blonde hair was cut short so that if he didn't flatten it, like it was this morning, it stuck out at crazy angles.

Rin picked up the bucket and handed it to him as he passed by.

"Come on, chores."

"I'm going, Dad."

His mother picked up another piece of bread, placed the last egg on it and handed it to him.

"Thanks Mum," he said and jogged out of the house.

It was a short walk to the well, located at the bottom of the hill the main part of the village rested on.

The well itself was an ancient construction, some saying it was old when the first settlers built the village here. The stone blocks it was made of were almost completely black with age, but they would not break, even when Hudlow the carpenter was fitting the new wooden pulley to its top and he was trying to chisel holes in them. As such, the wooden frame rested on four large wooden beams, driven into the ground around it.

Sat against it was a man so old that his skin and hair were almost transparent, his eyes a milky white and all of his teeth were gone. On his right cheek was a scar that must have been horrific to behold in his youth for it was still clearly visible despite it being distorted by a hundred different wrinkles and folds.

Six paces from the well was a small wooden shack, no larger than a log shed, that housed a straw bed. The man was an outsider, and one that couldn't work, so only entitled to small kindnesses. Toland's mother was the only exception to that rule.

The man didn't look up as Toland approached, but smiled warmly.

"Toland? Late again?"

Toland chuckled then replied in a nasally, high pitched tone, "Nope, silly old man, it's Fergun!"

The old man chuckled and smiled, his wrinkled and sagging face flowing and rippling about to accommodate the new shape of his mouth.

"Shush, Toland, you should not mock."

Toland shook his head and knelt down beside the old man. He tore off half of his breakfast and picked up the man's hand, helping his fingers close around the food.

"Bless you Toland," the man said and set about the rather difficult task of chewing the bread, "Your mother does know how to cook, it has to be said."

Toland nodded absently, then, realizing his mistake, made an affirmative sound and finished up the rest of his bread.

He stood up and tied his bucket to the rope and lowered it into the well.

“Shudlow…” Toland began cautiously.

“Yes?” the old man replied, intrigued by the conversations change in pace.

"The other night, Ir Shan told a story about people who drew runes on their bodies so that they could use magic all the time..."

The man chuckled again, "And you think that's how I know whose coming? That I have some magic squirreled away? I've told you, everyone's footsteps are unique, if you stopped still and listened for once, you'd know."

Toland pulled the bucked up, careful not to splash water on the old man and put it down on the ground. He then walked around the man, picked up his wooden bowl, filled it with water and placed it into his hands.

"Thank you," Shudlow said.

Toland retrieved his bucket and returned to the village.