Roland Grayson
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The axe head swung down. The log cleaved in half. The halves cleaved in two. Quarter pieces stacked into a bundle basket. The next log set up to begin the process anew.
Roland was making firewood. He had been making firewood since the previous season. A mercenary turned logger. The place he found himself staying in using his muscles to do the manual labor required to keep the fires going and coins flowing. A tavern and inn mixed that served locals and travelers alike. The area was sleepy and peaceful. His spear and sword weren't required. Plenty of hunters and fishers that understood their homeland far better than him. No large fields in need of another hand. No mills that required man nor beast to turn as water worked better. So he turned to logging and when the snow came turned to turning those logs into better managed firewood.
Why was he sticking around here instead of seeking fortune? A certain witch had said something that made it impossible for him to leave. Not a curse, at least in the traditional sense. Rather she had said they were going to have a child. He was free to take off and he was not needed. She even seemed annoyed at the idea of him trying to be involved.... But he couldn't walk away. He had to stick around and see what he could do.
The firewood was bundled under his arm and he walked inside. The sky above began to darken. More flakes began to fall. Another winter storm was on the way from the Spine. His bundle added to the almost comically large stockpile just inside the kitchen. But it would all be used when the storm hit to keep the hearth alive. He stomped off his boots then left them behind to avoid tracking filth onto the floor.
As he entered the main floor to see what might need done he found it fairly barren of guests. A couple of traveling traders a step too slow to escape the storm in the larger town further down the hills. An inexperienced bard plucking away at the strings of their lute trying to tune it without snapping another precious string. The eldest daughter of the tavern owner serving the few in the place while the youngest worked the kitchen with their mom. A scholar or perhaps religious man sitting alone looking over a tome. And then a traveler sitting alone....
Roland sighed. Familiarity oozed from that lone traveler. He made his way over on cloth bound feet making no sounds. As he made it to the table he sat himself down. His gaze going straight to their face. A neutral tone as he opened his mouth. "Lost or up to trouble again Briar?"
Briar White
Roland was making firewood. He had been making firewood since the previous season. A mercenary turned logger. The place he found himself staying in using his muscles to do the manual labor required to keep the fires going and coins flowing. A tavern and inn mixed that served locals and travelers alike. The area was sleepy and peaceful. His spear and sword weren't required. Plenty of hunters and fishers that understood their homeland far better than him. No large fields in need of another hand. No mills that required man nor beast to turn as water worked better. So he turned to logging and when the snow came turned to turning those logs into better managed firewood.
Why was he sticking around here instead of seeking fortune? A certain witch had said something that made it impossible for him to leave. Not a curse, at least in the traditional sense. Rather she had said they were going to have a child. He was free to take off and he was not needed. She even seemed annoyed at the idea of him trying to be involved.... But he couldn't walk away. He had to stick around and see what he could do.
The firewood was bundled under his arm and he walked inside. The sky above began to darken. More flakes began to fall. Another winter storm was on the way from the Spine. His bundle added to the almost comically large stockpile just inside the kitchen. But it would all be used when the storm hit to keep the hearth alive. He stomped off his boots then left them behind to avoid tracking filth onto the floor.
As he entered the main floor to see what might need done he found it fairly barren of guests. A couple of traveling traders a step too slow to escape the storm in the larger town further down the hills. An inexperienced bard plucking away at the strings of their lute trying to tune it without snapping another precious string. The eldest daughter of the tavern owner serving the few in the place while the youngest worked the kitchen with their mom. A scholar or perhaps religious man sitting alone looking over a tome. And then a traveler sitting alone....
Roland sighed. Familiarity oozed from that lone traveler. He made his way over on cloth bound feet making no sounds. As he made it to the table he sat himself down. His gaze going straight to their face. A neutral tone as he opened his mouth. "Lost or up to trouble again Briar?"
Briar White
