A small house within the forest, within it tools of a lumberjack. A series of axes meant for cleaving wood in many a fashion hung on the wall. The man that entered the house was looking at them. He was very pale, alike to someone that had just had his wits scared out of him. He was inhaling deeply, though it seemed to him in a way that his lungs only did half their work. He closed his eyes and calmed himself, awaiting for the beating of his heart to ease. Once it did, which seemed to take forever he glanced at his set again. He knew he was the owner of this place. It was queer however, some of those choppers he had broken or lost in earlier years due his trade or by some accident. He brushed his calloused fingers over them tenderly. A smile appeared on his thickly bearded face.
He looked at the humble state of his home, the same cobwebs clung in the corners of the wooden room, the sun's light fell through the window. Highlighting the floating dust inside. There were a dozen furs stretched around the place to warm his feet in winter or where he slept upon. He did not know however why he was paying such attention to it. It was not anything out of the ordinary. He heard the bubble of stew.. at the center of his house was a small fire, with the usual bronze pot dangling over it. He sat down on one of the stumps he used for chairs, cleft by his own hand and carved with a few animal depictions during the long hours of his largely solitary existence. He took a bowl, not remembering that he had prepared his meal so early in the day. He knew better than to waste food however and he dug in eagerly. It felt like he hadn't eaten decently in days, which .. was not too uncommon. He nearly choked on his first mouthful when he saw two men sitting in front of him. Both were having their eyes down on the floor, hats with wide brims covered their faces. He sat there stunned for a moment, he had not heard them come in at all and a base dread settled in his stomach. He could hear the wind outside getting stronger, whistling and he could swear there was ever so faintly a tune of strung instruments on it. The kind the bards strung with the hair of horses and played with bows of a sort. One of them rose his head up, it appeared like that of an old man. His hair was pale as snow and his face may well have been like the bark of yew.. forgetting to be hospitable this elder spoke, "Do you have a tale to tell?"
The man didn't really know what he had expected, but that question wasn't really it. The dread however ceased and he handed out his bowl of stew. Remembering the sacred tradition of hospitality. The elder took it, bemused he sniffed at it before dipping a fingertip in it which he then sucked off between his lips. Like a toddler would. The one on his side didn't move at all, "Well...my name is Brokk, we-welcome to my house. Just Brokk the lumberer. I uh..", nothing came to his mind, not the stories of ancient kings nor of adventurers, only one and he felt compelled to tell it, "I have lived here all my life, like my father before me and his father before him who first came here. I figure I will be the last one, because my wife is not of this world anymore and we never got around to having children in time I suppose. Still I figure that I would watch her bones and just keep on doing what my pops taught me. Nothing else is there to my life, but that is just fine with me. Rich men grow bored in their comfort and the very poor starve in the streets or in gods' forsaken places. Being right in the middle of that kept me fit and content." He did not know why, but he felt that was enough and the elder seemed to agree. The bowl the elder ate from was empty and he placed a hand on the one sitting next to him.
This one finally showed his face and Brokk his eyes were wide with amazement, this man was the spitting image, if a bit older, than Brokk, the same thick beard, the same blue eyes, the same big nose, "Pops?", Brokk asked. "Yes my boy, been a while hasn't it?" "But you are ..", the last word got stuck in his throat and his father approached him and clenched Brokk's cheeks just as he used to when he was a child. It made a few tears wink out of his eyes, "What a cruel trick is this?", he asked angrily. "No trick son, you have not been fit of late. I have been waiting for you for over a month now even." "What are you talking about pops, I am fine I-.."
The elder rose up a hand and clenched his fist slowly, Brokk was suddenly overcome with a constricting pain in his chest and he slumped forward a little. His father spoke, "Do you feel that son? You should not have been here for all these weeks, .. That fever that took hold of you did you in." The elder unclenched his fist. Brokk felt better instantly, "I am...?" His father nodded. Brokk then looked in his eyes and asked, "What about Matilda's bones and yours and moms..? Who is going to look after them?" His father replied, "No need for those where we are going my boy." "We...?" His father nodded his head. "But.... can I atleast take some of my axes along?" His father smiled, "Now those.. those we maybe might need one day." In the furthest distance the howling of great beasts could be heard beyond the horizon..
Brokk looked at his father and the elder who gave him his most favorite of axes. "Very well then.", Brokk said, accepting the tool of his trade, "Sounds like we best get going."
The hut was silent. The fireplace was ash. Within lay only the body of a man that had not lasted the winter with nobody to bid him proper farewell. Already the earliest plants sprouting from the ground were creeping up on the walls and flies were kissing the man his face with grotesque hunger. However, the place was peaceful. Life was free to grow here.
