A quiet woods shuttered with the faint hiss of an arrow and the screech of something being hit. A blur of movement dropped from a nearby tree and rustled through the brush. Suddenly, from the calm silence came a rush of leaves as a wounded deer made its escape into the foggy morning light. A small face popped up from the brush.

"Damn…why do I ever think it will go down swiftly?" she sighed, brushing her shoulder-length green locks out of her way and adjusting her rather ample breasts to fit in her awkwardly tight armor. It was clearly not made for her build, evident from the numerous adjustments that were crudely stitched to its seams. She drew a sword from her back, longer than her own torso and rested it against a tree so she could peel off the corset-tight armor. She let out a sigh of relief as the strange material detached from the ordinary clothes she had on underneath. She packed up the armor, carrying her heavy sword like a walking stick as she trudged along, following the blood of her prey.

At the cusp of the water, a wounded deer stumbled its way to the edge to drink and rest. She crept up slowly, debating on weather or not to wait it out or suit-up and finish her off. The growling of a wolf got her attention as the deer hunkered down. No time to suit-up now. She readied her oversized sword and expected to be assaulted by teeth and claws. She needed to eat, and arrows do not grow on trees, so she ran out of the brush and swung the massive blade to scare off the wolf. It howled and snarled at her, peering down its nose as she looked up at the wall of fur and fangs that towered like a dragon, hunkered down and still eye-level with her.

"My dinner" she muttered. "Wanna be the second course?" she growled back. The beast held its ground but did not seem interested in attacking her rather than guarding the deer from another rival.

"Titus! DOWN!" hollered a voice from behind as a rather jolly fat-man waddled into her view. The great beast whimpered and backed away. He stopped and peered down at her, like a giant of legend, with his scruffy attire and his portly belly.

"What's a little thing like you doing in my woods?" he chuckled, trying to pat her on the head. She swatted his hand away.

"Getting my deer." she said aggressively.

"Any deer on my land is my deer, even a little runt like this." he said poking the dead doe with his foot.

"I shot it, and it died by my arrow. That makes it MY deer, regardless of where it ran before it died. If you want me off your land then you could help me move it off YOUR land quicker than I can alone." she said, crossing her arms.

"Feisty little thing, I'll give you that. Where in the realms did you get such a nice sword?" he asked, noticing the expensive hardware.

"A gift from an admirer." she bluffed.

"No, I don’t think so. That is an Elvin light-infantry sword, not designed for you. You look all Dwarf to me, so it wasn’t your father's sword, and if he had the money to afford it, he would have bought you one a little better suited to your size. Matches your armor, so I'm guessing that doesn’t fit you either. Did you rob a very wealthy dead soldier, or did you rob an Elvin armory?" he asked.

"Okay, I liberated it. The man was already dead, the horses gone, and whoever caused the mayhem was not concerned with riches because he didn’t check the underside of the wagon where the rich people keep the best goods. I only know that because my father made wheels for the wagons and I was very good at working in small spaces." she said, giving up any act.

"Like the treasure pouches and hidden locks. That I might believe. Tell you what, you can have half the deer for the trouble and leave half for myself since this is my land." he said reaching out to shake.

"You are clearly not a man that knows hunger, and I have not eaten in nearly 2 days since South Elm soldiers set fire to the East pass and scared the deer off. I tracked it, I killed it and I plan to butcher it before I leave with my deer. You can either help me and rid of me swiftly, or leave me to do it myself and I will be on your land much longer." she countered.

"I didn’t say I wanted you gone, I merely claimed my rights as the landowner. I would no more want your company to cease than I would want to assist in butchering a doe in my finest robes. You may stay as long as you like and do your own butchery, I ask only for your polite admission that this is my land and my deer and a' thank you' for my generosity." he smiled, toying with her pride a little. She pondered the principal for a moment and took a deliberate breath to answer.

"Um…no." she said, giving the deer's neck a hefty over-hand chop with her oversized sword. He chuckled, sitting down on a stump he had covered with a cloth, watching her toil away. He enjoyed watching her wrestle with her own pride as much as the carcass, he did not get much company, let alone interesting company with grit. She wiped the blood from her forehead and panted, wearing herself out as she stepped back to examine the animal.

"I would offer a trade." he said suddenly.

"I have nothing to offer worth trading, nor can I spare any items." she said, hacking away stubbornly.

"Can you cook?" he asked. She paused, realizing she may have more to offer than previously thought. "My servant passed away recently and I am afraid I am a stranger to much labor. Fresh and seasoned venison with potatoes and greens would be an improvement over its weight in meat alone, and I have not had a well cooked meal in a week. It seems my servant's old age proved more serious than we both anticipated. I will be receiving another servant soon, but the recent delays have left me…bored. If I provide the kitchen and the tools, you may provide the meal, and I will send you spices for compensation for whatever small portion of meat necessary for a fine stew." he offered. "And you may select the cut of YOUR kill, to use in MY kitchen." he grinned.

"I am familiar with a kitchen, but my servant skills elsewhere are a bit under-developed. Whatever else you need will surely be taken care of when your new one arrives." she clarified.

"Of course. Gobi Muzen, but you may call me Moose." he said extending a hand. She reached up on her tip-toes and shook it.

"Elora." she nodded.

Alden sat in his empty den, staring at the faded pages of his predecessor's books. The old man did his best, but the years of training was incomplete, and Alden was both distraught and lost, only the mature Walking Oak in the back yard to keep him company. He was almost drifted to sleep when there was a knock on the door that chilled his bones to the very core. Nobody knew of this place, let alone that he was there. Perhaps it was just a lost peasant, asking for directions. He grabbed his trusty amulet for luck and in the other hand, a bread knife. He checked the door, opening it slightly.

"Royal Guard, South Elm would like to speak to your master." said the guard.

"He died this season, not long ago. I am merely living here until I can decide where to go." said a sad Alden, now a strong young man.

"You can go with us. The royal family of Luca would like to meet the man living in this cabin." he insisted.

"He is buried in the garden. I'm just a servant without a home and too little currency to afford a horse. If you don’t believe me, there is a shovel behind the fencerow. Cover him back up when you are satisfied." he said solemnly. The door refused to shut for the hand that was holding it.

"Your master represents a rare type, and if you are his servant, you are the one we wish to speak with." he said, kicking the door lightly to make his way inside." Alden was sweating, hoping the guard did not decide to check the back room. He looked outside and noticed the guard was alone, just a horse and himself. He went to make some tea, hoping to bore the guard.

"Can I at least finish my tea?" he asked nervously.

"Of course. You won't be enjoying it much longer where you are going. The penalty for having a Walking Oak on your property is 5 years in the service of South Elm. If anything is found here suggesting you were using it for banned magic, the sentence is death, so drink your tea slowly and think very carefully what you would like to say when you finish. Lenience may be granted for pledging your allegiance to the royal armory…maybe even a few luxuries like your tea and books." he said inspecting the kitchen shelves. Without warning, the guard felt the sharp sting of a bread knife being buried in his neck. He turned, shocked that a lowly servant would even dare attack a royal guard, let alone with a kitchen utensil. He tried to draw his sword and collapsed to the ground as Alden went pale.

"What am I doing?" he asked aloud, realizing he was screwed either way, but his hasty actions may have cost him valuable time he could not afford. The armor was not ready, no hero had come wielding his fabled sword, and now his only friend, a silent tree, was as damned as he was for simply existing. A faint light outside got his attention. He rushed to the back door and realized that South Elm guards never travel alone, and the one he missed was approaching his tree with a torch. He bolted for the door, wielding a shovel he picked up on the way, and rushed for the guard, just late enough to see the tree ignite into flames.

He hacked the helmet with the shovel and knocked him over as the tree slowly pulled its roots from the soil and tried to head for the pond, unable to move enough to matter as Alden pummeled the guard with teary eyes and a confused stagger. He ran for a bucket of water and tossed it on the fallen tree, its leaves and branches burnt to the core. By the time he got the third bucket to ensure the flame was cool, there was little left of his tree but roots and a charred trunk. He didn’t even know if it was alive, let alone if it could survive the night. Even if he did recover, to what life he couldn’t even imagine, he would be killed in a few days when the guards returned to claim the cabin. Cut into arrow stock or enchanted staffs. They were both completely out of bargaining points, whatever he did had to be quick and desperation was his only resort. He drug the burnt stump into the den, covering it with as much armor as he could. Alden began hammering in the rivets to fasten them to the tree. As the night drew darker, he managed to put all the unfinished plates on the young tree, bolting the legs to the roots and stuffing the remaining limbs into the arms, finishing it off with the helmet. He said a prayer to the old gods for mercy and went into the den. He stood silently, fondling the lucky amulet as he swung the shovel at the glass case and with a few swings it shattered, leaving the forbidden seeds open to the air. He selected 2 of them and with a pair of tongs, carefully brought them to the den.

"I don’t know if you can hear me, or if I am only making things worse, but please forgive me. You have to keep this armor safe for the child who will bring down the gods. I cannot protect you, so you must protect yourself, and I don’t know what I am doing. They will kill you like they killed your kind long ago. You have to fight back. Fighting is necessary, even killing, if you do it to protect what matters most." he said, cringing with every tap as he chiseled out a pair of eye sockets, unsure if he could feel anything. He placed the seeds on the eye holes and shut the visor, waiting for something miraculous.

The night grew cold as he sat in his chair, sobbing and realizing there was no sign of life, let alone a miracle. In his hopelessness, he went outside and began digging a grave for his friend in the garden where the old man was at rest. He knew the armor would be stolen and the seeds would be taken and used for something terrible, so he slowly drug his tree-friend to the shallow grave, sticking the shovel in the dirt above as a sort of grave-marker. He wrapped the remaining seeds in a cloth and packed his travel bundle, leaving in shame and defeat for a new home, and probably his own grave. He didn’t make it very far before more guards found him. He had no strength left to even fight back. He took some comfort in his last moments knowing that somewhere, the savior was on his way to his destiny, probably working diligently to set his ultimate plan in motion. A true hero of the people who would stand with his friends against all evil. As it said in the books of legends…"The child of the stars always stands tall."

Greg laid face-down on the counter of the local pub, head pounding and taking a break from his traveling. He made a few hours of ground up before Fallon woke, hoping to lose him for good this time.

"What will it be?" asked a voice.

"Meat, bloody, a considerable portion even for a man my size. The strongest alcohol you have in the bottle." he groaned, wishing he could sleep. The voices were particularly loud that day, one that was new and even louder than the others.

"How dare you ignore me!" hollered the gruff voice.

"Piss off, voices." Greg groaned.

"We don’t serve your kind here." insisted the barkeep, giving Greg the hint that this voice was audible to everyone.

"I have every right to be here. I fought in the battle of Ona, probably with your father or grandfather and this is the thanks I get for doing my part?" barked the voice. Greg turned to see a Dwarf with a long blonde beard, straining to see above the counter in order to defend his honor.

"If you need money…there is a well half a mile from here with copper discarded in it for luck." Greg said, rubbing his face and sipping a fresh pint.

"I have money, I don’t want charity, I want a drink like any other man."

"Half a man." corrected the barkeep.

"So sell him half a mug and be done wit it." Greg yawned. He looked very offended at the notion.

"They denied our town refuge when the flood came and destroyed our crops, why should we repay the half-men in gratitude?" the barkeep asked.

"That was ancient history, over 80 years ago. I was only a boy then. You expect me to suffer for the deeds of Dwarves that my father barely knew?" the dwarf argued.

"Little guy has a point, I wasn’t even alive back then. I doubt they left that poor decision to the sole opinion of a child, too young to even fight yet. Sell the Dwarf a drink." he sighed.

"We don’t serve their kind, and if you are a Dwarf-lover, you can leave as well." he said, presenting him with an option.

"You have unfortunate timing." he yawned to the Dwarf, returning to his ale.

"I can fight my own battles, stranger." he said as one of the men pushed him over. He hopped up to see who did it and a faint laughter rolled through the pub.

"You should probably leave, the beer is flat anyway." Greg belched; sampling the food he was given. He frowned…not bloody enough.

"I will not leave this place until this coin is gone and my belly is full." he said placing down enough money for a pint. The barkeep took the coin and then pretended not to see him. "You coward." bellowed the Dwarf, climbing the stool and raising a fist to strike the barkeep. 2 men grabbed him and drew knives, holding him to the counter.

"Give him 3 marks to remember this town, so he will pass on by next trip." said the barkeep. Greg rolled his eyes and knocked on the table.

"Okay…he gets the point. I believe the dwarf is leaving now and would consider his donation fair." he said wrapping his food in a cloth, predicting that he wasn’t going to be enjoying it now anyway.

"This is a town of men, not a town of Halflings and trolls."

"Understandable…the trolls might be offended by the smell." Greg said moving attention to him and grabbing a fresh mug, chugging it before it wasn’t around to chug.

"I believe you should leave now, before we mark this town on you as well." One of the men in the back threw a wine bottle at Greg, and with a sudden twitch of speed, he reached out and caught it, with an open hand. The bottle remained in place as if magnetized as he slowly closed his grip and his eyes glowed dimly under his hood.

The pub went silent and cold, strangely cold in fact. Greg carefully placed the bottle down and the barkeep could see the handprint in the frost that had appeared on it.

"What are you?" he asked Greg cautiously.

"Too sober, and a little bit pissed off." he said with a slight growl. A man drew a knife and tried to stab him in the back. Greg grabbed the blade and the man screamed in pain, releasing it and recoiling his burned hand. Greg flipped the knife, gathering the man by the shirt and driving the blade hilt-deep into his skull before standing up and opening his coat to reveal a long-sword he fully intended to use. The men scurried for the door and he swung his hand, throwing one of them against the closing door without looking.

"Oh no. you poked the bear, now you gotta live with that." Greg said stomping to the counter and grabbing both of the men holding the Dwarf, yanking them to the floor and strutting behind the counter as they repositioned, afraid to do anything. He reached behind the bar and grabbed a barrel of ale and a dusty old bottle of whiskey. He calmly walked back around and picked up the coin purse off the man he just killed, tossing it at the barkeep as if to say he paid his bill. He handed the Dwarf the small barrel and walked out, the door opening for him as a nervous man tried to avoid his wrath. The Dwarf quickly chuckled and scurried out behind him, carrying the barrel awkwardly.

"What an impressive display of wizardry." he hollered, following him.

"Don’t call me wizard, small man with more beard than brains." He gruffed, biting off the cork and heading to his horse.

"A true champion of virtues and honor." the Dwarf cheered as an arrow stuck in Greg's back. He stopped, hung his head and sighed with a look that seemed more appropriate to torn garment than a serious injury. He yanked it out and grabbed a bow from his horse, drawing it and firing it back, breaking out the window and driving the man back into his pub.

"Incredible accuracy." the Dwarf gasped.

"Not really, I missed his face by 8 feet and hit the window." he sighed again. Shuffling on his way and leaping to his saddle.

"Wait, I must go get my steed!" hollered the Dwarf.

"Then hurry, I will be riding north!" Greg said, casually and intentionally going south. The clop of hooves was almost melodic. Greg took the serenity and the rhythm to dig into his saddle bag and retrieve a large fiddle, attempting to tune it by ear. He lightly gave it a strum with his thumbnail as the rhythm annoyingly became cluttered with another rapid tapping, the sound of 4 frantically approaching legs carrying a very light passenger.

"I have found you!" announced the Dwarf.

"Damn the gods." Greg muttered to himself.

"You cannot rid of me that easily, not until I have repaid my debt." he insisted.

"Let's see…4 more ales I did not get to drink, a loaf of bread I barely touched before being shunned, and I had half a temptation to visit the stable and buy another horse…so if you leave the rest of your barrel, a few copper and your horse…" he said turning to inspect the animal and realized it was a rather old-looking hound. He blinked with disbelief. "Or just the barrel. Consider us even." he said shaking his head.

"Old Cerberus here is a fine companion; dogs make the best hunting companion, a superb tracker and a loyal friend." he grinned merrily.

"And they taste terrible so I don’t want it." he added.

"No I cannot allow you to settle my debt so generously. You saved my life, and for that I owe you my services and my friendship."

"They weren't going to kill you." Greg scoffed.

"They might have, if nothing else they were going to cut me." he defended.

"I am starting to understand the temptation." Greg replied.

"No, you have a warrior's armored exterior, but you have the heart of a nobleman." he said patting the horse."

"I'll have the heart of a Dwarf in my satchel if you touch my horse again."

"I am Muradin Bronzebeard, Son of-"

"I do not care." Greg interrupted.

"A fellow smith I see." Muradin said, noticing the hammer.

"A Dwarven smith, what strange and unpredictable twist this is." he yawned sarcastically. "Not many of those, so it must be fate." Greg gasped.

"The finest craftsman in my family." he boasted proudly, trying to draw his short-sword and getting snagged on the scabbard. He fiddled with it and upon releasing it, snapping about an inch of the tip off.

"I'm sure your family is a clan of exquisite bakers." he chuckled to himself.

"No, we are a family of hunters. Skilled with a blade, but usually one purchased rather than crafted. I must confess, I am rather new at it." he said as his beard drooped slightly and he re-sheathed the tarnished, even shorter sword.

"It's not even bronze. With a name like Bronzebeard…" Greg said pausing as he couldn’t think to finish the sentence.

"It is a title of fortitude and strength. A Dwarfs Beard is a symbol of his manly courage and each year he brings honor to his family he is allowed to let it grow proudly." he said running his fingers through the blonde fluff, stretching it far as he comfortably could. "Never trust a Dwarf without a beard." he nodded.

"What about the women?" Greg asked. Muradin's face grew red with irritation.

"That is a myth, spewed forth from the lying tongues of Elves and men alike. We may be small, but our women are just as desirable as any." he defended.

"Relax, I'm just getting my money's worth of trouble. You owe me a debt, I'm taking it out in harassment entertainment." he smirked. "And you will be paying it off with other work as I see fit." he shrugged.

"The usefulness of a warrior who can sneak into small spaces has no limits!" he boasted.

Muradin snuffled his feet and muttered Dwarven profanity under his breath as he pawed the snowy ground for the lost arrows. Greg sat with his feet up comfortably, eating a piece of fruit as he waited for his quiver to re-fill itself, via Dwarven magic.

"I must say, archery is far more relaxing when the arrows walk themselves back to my bow." Greg grinned. Muradin kicked a rock and muttered to himself.

"Arrows would walk back faster if they found their way to the tree you were aiming for." he snipped.

"I cannot be a master of everything." he replied, startling him at how keen his hearing was. Even an Elf could not have heard that whisper…he did have some rather pointed ears for a…whatever he was.

"I must say, I feel rather foolish going all this way without even asking where you are going." he hollered.

"Yes, quite foolish indeed." Greg said, tuning his fiddle.

"May I know where we are going?" he asked rolling his eyes.

"The Capitol." he yawned, practicing his octaves.

"Ah, the Capitol city of South Elm. A place of nobles and gentlemen, where the wine is sweet and the streets are clean…but when you look past all that there are some good brothels and scoundrels to make up for it. Are you hoping to establish a trade, or just visiting for the experience?" he asked.

"Thought I'd see the sights, make a few coins, maybe drop by the castle and decapitate a god or two." he said hitting a sour note as Muradin looked back with a look of alarm, waiting for a sly chuckle or a line of joke to ease his paranoia. There was silence, and a very shaky A-Sharp.

"You are a scholar and a jester my tall friend."

"Education can wait, my sword has a thirst for royal blood, as do I" he said with a serious indifference.

"And what makes you think you would get within a hundred paces of the Royal gate?" he asked.

"I'm really mean, I'm arrow-resistant, and I have my own debt to settle. You offer your life because I saved yours, but the life I will claim as my prize will be a much larger one." he grinned, bearing his canines.

"And who are you to challenge the royal family? They have thousands of men, Wolves guarding even the wine cellars, and if rumors are true…dragons." he added.

"Good. If it was easy, the satisfaction would be lesser."

"I will take you to the city as your guide and assist your suicidal journey as you see fit. Nevertheless, when we reach the gates, my debt is settled. I will not owe my service to a dead man, nor will I become one to retain my oath. The Dwarven code of honor released me if asked to take my own life. Storming the castle may as well be opening my own veins." he said coldly. "And a god cannot be slain by a mortal blade, only the blade forged by the Hammer of Fate. Where do you plan on getting such a weapon?" he asked. Greg extended a hand for a formal greeting. Muradin shook it with a look of confusion.

"We have not been formally introduced. Adrian Michael Greggarious…Hammer of Fate. Brother of a stolen sister, Son to murdered parents, and the angriest bastard who ever held a blade. You can have my horse when we reach the gates." he said, holding up his lucky rock and noticing the blue side was now facing east instead of south. "What do you keep pointing to?" he whispered to himself.

"Honor-bound to a man of delusion, speaks to pebbles and dreams of slaying gods… I will perish in a rain of arrows." Muradin grumbled. "But at least I will die with honor." he shrugged.

The sound of Bees hummed in the morning light. A baby rabbit sniffed the ground for a root or two to nibble on, and his ears perked up with fright as the ground began to move below him. He sprinted for his life as the soil burst from the garden and a gauntlet of unpolished armor extended from the soil. A moment later, the gauntlet was followed by an arm, clad in the same metal and connected to a torso of similar wooden composition. A muddy figure sat up, quietly standing to his feet and trying to see through the mud that had been packed into his helmet slot. The helmet slowly rotated to follow the sound of the bees. He could not see, but he could hear clearly, and a strange sense of direction guided him forward. There was little pain, but a great sense of weight about his limbs. He took a few steps forward and somehow knew where the Cabin was. He lifted his armored boot and slowly walked to the door. He pushed it open, breaking the brass latch off and showing no reaction. He could smell the stale soup fermenting in the iron pot and he stepped forward to investigate, catching his foot on the doorway and falling down without lifting an arm to catch himself. The wooden flooring slats crunched and shifted in their clay bed as the mass of wood and metal landed face-first. He was unsure what had happened, and he rested for a moment. He had never fallen over before, used to being firmly rooted upright after all. The suit of armor remained there for some time, resting and admiring the sound of the birds. The cabin was silent.