Every Tale has a Beginning

Soft light filtered through the canopy of gently waving leaves in shafts of pale gold. The columns of light fell upon waves of young, green grass which sprung up around and almost obscured the dirt ruts that carved their way through the forest. The blades of grass which only sprouted mere weeks ago wore caps of frost, against which the early sunlight sparkled. Though the day had hardly begun, some of the frost had begun to melt off the patches which had sat in the light the longest, leaving but drops of dew on the sunward-reaching sprigs. Birds of all colors sang sweetly, flitting from branch to branch high above among the broad leaves. They bumped and jostled the leaves and twigs, making the shadows on the forest floor dance, teasing the blades of grass which sat in the shade with small tastes of sun. Small animals scurried among the underbrush and in the lower limbs, scrounging for breakfast and shaking off sleep, while larger creatures were just beginning to stir, stretching limbs and flexing toes.

For an isolated moment, the bustling of the forest ceased; granules of loose soil within the ruts of the path began to dance. As they bounced, a rumbling in the ground akin to thunder began to build, louder and louder until it became distinct, heavy thuds which occurred in rapid, rhythmic succession of one another.

An enthusiastic, sustained holler streaked through the calm of the forest. The birds which had been so contentedly fluttering about the leaves burst through the upper reaches of the canopy and hurried to a different area of the forest, and the small ground creatures skittered to their burrows and hollows. Down the forest path, so rudely intruding on forest affairs, stormed a great beast of a dog with paws the size of dinner plates and a great muzzle which dripped with stringy saliva. The beast stood as tall as a pony but had the thick musculature of a bear. It wore a saddle, and standing in the irons of the saddle with hands fisted in the fur of the dog was a young man, though barely a man at that. He leaned forward, egging the beast on, with an expression of sheer joy plastered across his lean, lightly stubbled face. He whooped again and this time the dog joined in, baying along with his master. The dog seemed to wear a similar expression to his master of absolute ecstasy. The two were causing quite the ruckus in the quiet of the forest.

They bolted down the path, tearing through the forest in no time at all. Beyond the forest lie countless rolling green hills awash in sunlight; grass grew tall and green and rippled in the light breeze of the morning. The two carved their way through the hills, both master and beast relished the freedom, never thinking to stop and rest or turn back.  carried his master until the sun was high in the sky, enjoying the feeling of the breeze running through his fur and listening to his master’s laughter and repeated outcries of happiness and joining in often.

Hills giving way to hills seemed to stretch forever, until they came across a bright, clear pond. On sight the dog bolted for the water. Having been running for hours, the beast was quite parched and hot. The man, feeling his beast’s intent, attempted to eject himself from the saddle -- but his boot caught on the iron. Both went into the lake with an enormous splash, disrupting the placid, glasslike surface and kicking up silt and mud from the bed.

The water was freezing cold, having thawed only a few weeks ago. The man sat up and coughed up some water  with a yelp of shock. He pushed dripping hair out of his eyes and glared playfully at the hound, who returned an impish open-mouthed grin, tongue lolling to the side as dogs often do. He knew he had sufficiently pranked his master and lowered his haunches to sit in the water with a satisfied splash. The master could not maintain even a facade of unhappiness with his beast; a laugh broke forth from deep within his chest and he splashed at the dog.

“Why you rapscallious-- oof!” his words were cut off by the dog planting his head squarely in his chest and pushing him over. He sat up and spat out more, now murky, water and coughed. “That is cold! You really don’t want your supper, do you?” he threatened, pawing at the dog.

At the mention of supper the dog hung his head to where he could look up at his master with tragic eyes, which was quite difficult from this vantage, his master being chest deep in the water. As his lips drooped to touch the water, the dog whimpered, an out of place sound coming from a beast of this size.

The man vigorously rubbed the head of the poor beast and then placed his hands on either side of his face, lifting it out of the water. “You know I’m only kidding.” He patted the side of the dog’s face and pushed himself to a stand. He shivered as the breeze hit him. Streams of water poured from his clothes; his buttocks were covered in mud. “Some friend though,” the man grumbled as he slogged toward shore, his arms and legs spread as if he were hung on a pole like a scarecrow and flopped on a grassy knoll a few feet up from the bank.

The dog splashed about and snapped at the water for a while, reveling in the cool pond, and when he was done he happily trotted out of the water. He was drenched and had socks of mud up to his elbows and knees, and shook when he reached the bank. His master, who had been contentedly sunning himself dry, received a fresh dousing of pond water.

He made a noise of disgust and wiped the water off of his face. “Oh come on, really?” The young man readjusted his lounging position on the knoll and put his hands behind his head and stared at the sky. It was the color of the bluebottles which were just beginning to bloom. Fluffy clouds rolled lazily past, casting traveling shadows on the chartreuse fields.

Watching the sun follow its course across the sky produced a knot in the stomach of the man. “Do you think we’ll be missed, Boran?”

The hound turned and plopped his massive head in his master’s lap and looked at him with glum eyes. It was not the first time the young man had taken off with his beast at his side, intending to never return to the village, nor would it likely be the last.

“You’re probably right… we’re as necessary at the shop as a plough and sickle is for a farmer. Cadwell would fall apart without us. We should go back, shouldn’t we?” The man scratched his dog’s ear. Boran seemed reluctant to rise, simply rolling onto his back and reaching above his head with his paws with a displeased groan. “Come now, Boran. Let’s get a move-on. Adventure will have to wait for another day.” his master chided at the dog’s laziness while brushing the dried mud off of his backside.

Slowly, the beast came around, realizing that belly scratches were out of the question, and rolled to his feet. The master ran his fingers through his now-dry hair, and mounted the saddle of his sturdy beast. Boran stood still until his master until urged forward with a gentle nudge, and then began walking at a lazy lope back the way they came, over vibrant green hill after hill, through meadows of tall-growing flowers, and assorted thickets of trees which cropped up as the pair approached the forest.

When they reached the forest path, the young man slowed his steed to a crawling pace. He reached into a pack at the back of the saddle and pulled out three throwing knives. Hearing the metal tools being removed from the leather pack, Boran’s nose went to work, searching the air.

The change in demeanor would have shocked and bewildered any onlooker. An almost immediate shift from carefree and haphazard to serious and intent took place within a matter of seconds. They continued to move down the path as silently as they could, a focused scowl on the young man’s face and the beast’s nose ceaselessly working at the air. Halfway down the path, the beast froze and his master scanned the area, readying his arm. In a sudden burst of motion, Boran dove into the bushes with a howl which shook the very trunks of the thick, unwavering trees. He drove out a group of game birds, at which the man sent the handful of throwing knives sailing. Each knife found its mark and sent several birds tumbling across the forest floor.

The young man dismounted his beastly steed and collected two of the game birds, Boran collecting the third. He strapped the three birds to the saddle and hopped onto his dog’s back.

They continued easily on their way and arrived at the gates of a moderately sized village mid afternoon. Nobody blinked an eye anymore at the sight of the pair riding through the village, and children even ran up to the beast and offered scratches, pats, and table scraps.

“Not today,” the young man told the children firmly, although he laughed as he did so, “we have business to attend to in the market!” Knowing they would be somewhat crestfallen, he leaned down and told them that Boran would appreciate a visit from them at Cadwell’s shop, if they behaved while they were there.

Cottages with small yards became two story structures positioned exactly next to the street, and in turn these homes dissipated and were replaced with dilapidated taverns and small shops with signs hanging above the doors and swaying leisurely in the slight breeze of the afternoon. The young man took this, as he always did, as an indication that the marketplace was only minutes away.

The market consisted of a modest conglomeration of inns, stands, and shops which bustled with people - mostly humans with the glimpse of an elegant elf here and there, and the stocky spectacle that is a dwarf pushing his or her way though a crowd. These buildings were better maintained than the crumbling, lopsided structures which existed beyond it, and were frequented by much more savory characters. Even the carts and stands which stood in the weather all the time still held the same allure that they had when he was younger.

All people made room for Boran as they went along, even offering tips of the hat and nods of the head to the pair; both he and the young man being well known within the town as being good-natured and hard working. Travel for the bulky steed slowed due to the crowd, but they managed to make it to Cadwell’s shop just in the nick of time.

Cadwell owned the general goods store, to which everyone in the town flocked for the everyday essentials. Rope, barley flour, soap, beeswax, spoons, salt, brandy -- if someone in the town had a need, chances were it could be filled by a good which could be purchased from Cadwell, and the young man and his loyal canine beast aided the man who aided the town. Both were afforded a modest salary; Boran for guarding the door to the shop and stopping those who aimed to steal before they walked out with merchandise, although with him at the door there hadn’t been an attempted theft in years, and the young man for doing whatsoever Cadwell asked of him. The young man had swept and scrubbed the floors, stocked the shelves, retrieved items for customers, and accepted payments and shipments. For years the two had worked at the shop to make their livings, Boran earning his food and the young man earning a tidy sack of coin each week, which was just enough to pay for a place to sleep at the boardinghouse and a bit of bread, cheese, dried meat, and a flask of mead each day.

The young man dismounted his beast and removed the birds from the saddle before meandering into the shop. At the sound of their entry, a sharp bark came from behind the counter at the front of the store, “you’re late!” Cadwell’s hoarse voice, deep and wavering with age, was still the sharpest the young man had heard in his lifetime.

Without responding he walked to the counter, the game birds swinging back and forth with the way he moved, and Boran took his usual post at the door, laying down with an exhausted huff. Mid-afternoon light came in through the dusty windows of the shop, illuminating motes which swirled through the air. The man made a note to pay special attention to cleaning the windows and dusting the shelves this day. Sacks and boxes and bundles lined the rickety wooden shelves which had stood within the shop for years, which were always well stocked. Everybody knew that Cadwell’s shop was the best place in town to purchase essentials, and as such Cadwell had plenty of coin to keep his shelves full.

When he reached the counter, the young man placed the game birds upon it. “I would hope that these would more than make up for any grievance I have caused,” the young man’s carefree voice drifted over the counter at the old man. Cadwell looked at the birds and weighed them each in his hands, mumbling to himself as he did so.

“Yes… yes I think these will do just nicely. And add an extra… oh… say two sterling and ten pence to your wages this week.” Cadwell may have been sharp of tongue, but he was a generous man. “Take these to the butcher later; tell him to carve them up and dry the breasts, but only the breasts. They should make some nice rations to sell. You can tell him I will pay for the carving the next time I visit him.

“Right now I need you to watch the counter; I have to meet with an Orc at the Frothing Flagon. If Miss Galbraith comes calling, tell her I’ll have her cuckoo eggs within the week,” he spouted as he pulled on an old duster and topped his head with a worn but fine hat and swept from the shop. He walked through the door as the young man was moving to stand behind the counter, and briefly stuck his head back into the shop. “Oh and Fenwick," he continued, "wipe down the counters for me, if you would. They're getting terribly dusty."began once more, “do wipe down the counters for me, would you?”

“The entire shop will sparkle upon your return.” Fenwick returned with a smile and a slight bow.

Cadwell grinned back at him and tipped his hat before leaving the shop and letting the door fall shut behind him.

Boran looked up, head still resting on his paws, and sighed at Fenwick.

“I know,” Fenwick sighed as he reached beneath the counters for a rag. “This isn’t much fun but we have to eat. You know that.”

The dog returned a begrudging grunt.

Fenwick started wiping down the counters, kicking dust into the air. He waved a callused hand at the swirling particles and grimaced. He had just dusted not two days prior. The shop seemed to be caked in an always encroaching layer of grime. Slightly frustrated he tossed the rag into a heap on the counter.

A woman approached the counter with a basket full of goods procured from the shelves and lifted the basket with some effort to sit on the counter. Fenwick reached over and helped her lift it, greeting her as he did so.

“Hello Missus Alberith. Find everything alright?” He flashed a charming grin.

The woman, patting down her flyaway hair and adjusting her shawl laughed. “Of course, Fen, my dear, of course! I always do! Cadwell certainly makes it easy on me!”

“That he does, Missus Alberith.” Fen replied as he began unloading the basket. Flour, sugar, spices… “doing some baking today?”

“Actually yes!” She seemed surprised that he recognized the combination of ingredients. “Is there any butter in stock? Eggs?”

Fenwick stopped unloading the basket and browsed through the shelves behind the counter where more expensive items were kept, like dairy. He found it in short order and held up a small brick of butter wrapped in parchment. “Fresh from Vetris farms today,” he said as he looked at a date scrawled on the parchment wrapping. “How much would you like?”

Missus Alberith thought for a moment, twisting a loose bunch of threads at the edge of her shawl as she did so. “How much per pound?” A crease appeared between her eyebrows as they gathered together.

“One sterling-blue fox and fifteen red pence per pound of butter,” Fenwick bobbed his head as he looked from shelf to shelf, “and one sterling per egg.”

She thought for a moment longer. “A half-pound of butter and…” her lips mouthed some calculations as she figured how many eggs she would need. “and three eggs… no, better make it four.”

Fenwick picked up the brick of butter and cut off a slab that looked to be a half a pound, then weighed it. His measurement was spot-on. He brought it to the counter and went back for the eggs, holding two in each hand. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you making, ma’am?”

“A butter cake!” Missus Alberith crowed in delight. “My daughter is visiting from Esterion with her husband and I wanted to make something special! I haven’t seen either of them since they were wed, and I haven’t made a butter cake since before then! So I figured, well, now’s as good a time as any.”

Fenwick smiled as he began writing down each item and the price on a narrow roll of parchment. “Sounds like quite a good time. I hope they like it.” He did not remember much of the daughter of the Alberiths, other than that she was relatively pretty.

The woman smiled slyly and Fenwick and narrowed her eyes. “I’ll be sure to save you a piece.”

He grinned at the parchment and continued tallying for a few minutes. “Alright, Missus Alberith, your total is five sterling and twelve pence.”

“Alright,” she said mutedly as she fumbled through her coinpurse and counted out the amount. She came back with six sterling coins, blue-gray in color, each about an inch in diameter with a small stamp of a fox looking over its shoulder in the center and of its weight on the edge.

He counted out eight coppery pence, which were smaller than the sterlings, and handed them back to her. Fenwick then loaded all of her goods back into her basket for her.

Missus Alberith smiled at him and once again smoothed her flyaway hair which seemed to defy gravity, adjusted her shawl, and picked up the basket before leaving the shop.

Fenwick sighed and went back to wiping down the counters, then moved to dusting the shelves and windows. Boran’s eyes followed him around the room as he moved from shelf to shelf, one end of the shop to the other. Tedium permeated the task from the outset for Fenwick, not to mention irritating to his throat and nose, but Boran derived some enjoyment from watching the young man pace and attempt to shoo every particle of dust from the surfaces which they clung to.

The young man coughed and sneezed several times before propping open the shop door. He shook out the rag in the open air, shielding his nose and mouth with his sleeve, and dust clouded around it. Returning to the shop, he loped back up to the counter and retrieved a small container of varnish and began rubbing it on the counters. Once he finished the counters, he looked at the shelves with disdain. If he were to polish the shelves, he would have to unload each shelf and polish them individually. It would take hours -- perhaps the rest of the day.

This, he decided, was an arduous task for another day. He returned the container to the underside of the counter, along with the soiled rag. He uprighted himself behind the counter and drummed his fingers on the freshly polished wood. There were no customers browsing the racks, and the streets were fairly quiet outside.

Fenwick slipped into thought as he waited for something for him to do to crop up. He thought of the meadows and the trees they had run through this morning, and how he desperately wished he were still with them. He wished he could feel the sun on his face once more, laying on that grassy knoll. His mind wandered beyond the forest and the pond, wondering what was beyond. Perhaps a cave with a dragon sleeping on a heap of treasure -- or a vast maze at the end of which existed a gnome with a secret. He did not know.

Though, he wished, from the very deepest reaches of his soul, to know.

Boran’s deep, booming bark snapped him from his daydreams. He shook his head and in front of him stood a stocky dwarf, glaring at him from beneath bushy red brows. The broad wall of a man could barely see above the counter, but when he spoke his voice was as sharp as a finely forged dagger, and cut through the air at Fenwick.

“BOY!” He shouted, clearly angry at Fenwick not realizing he was there. “ARE YOU DEAF?!”

Fenwick straightened out of his leaning pose against the counter with a snap. “I apologize sir. Is there something I can help you with?” He asked the dwarf with a slight shake to his voice, though he tried with all his might to keep his composure.

By this the dwarf was slightly taken aback. He was quiet for a moment, stroking his long beard. “Hrmph. Yes. I suppose there is. I need tallow.”

“Of course sir. Let me show you where it is.”

Just as Fenwick was about to move the dwarf barked, “STUPID BOY I KNOW WHERE THE TALLOW IS.” He paused and added more quietly, “I can’t reach it.”

Fenwick restrained the urge to laugh and replied as straight facedly as he could, “Of course, sir. Let me fetch it for you.”

This time the dwarf allowed Fenwick to leave his position behind the counter. He went right to the shelf which the tallow was kept on -- in the back of the store on the uppermost shelf -- and grabbed a container of it. He brought it back to the counter and took care to set it within reach of the dwarf.

“That will be five sterling, sir.”

The dwarf slammed the coins onto the counter, took his tallow, and walked away.

As soon as the dwarf strutted from the shop, hearty laughter burst forth from Fenwick’s gullet with such force his sides hurt. Boran chuffed and laid his head back on his paws -- a rather sarcastic gesture for a dog to make.

Wiping a tear from his eye, Fenwick told the beast, “oh come off it. You know that was hilarious.”

Boran simply looked at him.

The young man’s laughter tapered off in the next few moments as he returned to his daydreams and resumed his posture leaning against the counter with one elbow. Before he got too deep within his fancies, however, Cadwell walked into the shop with an armload of packages. “That orc knew how to drive a hard bargain!” He exclaimed as a package fell off the top of the stack.

Fenwick rushed over to help the old man as he stooped over to pick up the package and several more fell off. Whatever was in the brown paper wrapping was extremely dense; each was hefty and hard, and similar to a book in shape and size, though more akin to metal ingots with their weight.

“What’s in the packages?” he asked, turning one over in his hands.

The old man laughed. “Ahh Fenwick, you’re going to be quite amazed.” There was a light in his eyes, almost a possessive glint which Fenwick had only seen in Cadwell on rare occasions. Whatever it was, he was clearly proud of his procurement. “Come, come. Lock the door and bring those to the back room.”

Fenwick locked the shop door and followed Cadwell behind the counter and between the shelves to the furthest corner, and squeezed between the rack and the wall which obscured an archway. This archway led to the room in which Cadwell did his bookkeeping and excess merchandise which had yet to be placed on the shelves was stored. It was a room with no windows, dimly lit by an oil lamp on Cadwell’s desk.

They both set the packages down on the desk with a dull thunk. Cadwell picked up one of the packages and gingerly pulled the string from around it. As he pushed aside the wrapping, Fenwick held his breath with eyes alight with anticipation.

Cadwell revealed a slab of metal, in which was intricately carved in relief an interlacing design and rows of orcish script. Truly the work of a master smith.

“What are they?” Fenwick asked in awe, stricken by the immaculate craftsmanship of the tablets.

The old man flashed a sly grin at Fenwick. “These, my boy, are the Tablets of Ulkar Durat -- a series of ancient tablets created by the Orcs, though their meaning is not entirely clear to me. The Orc I bought them off of seemed to think they… held some secret to a long lost treasure. Perhaps they merely tell of the history of ancient Orcs… whatever the case may be, they’re valuable beyond belief, even just for the amount of steel they contain.”

Fenwick was flabberghasted. As far as he knew, Cadwell had never acquired something of such great value. “What are you going to do with them?” He inquired eyes growing wide with wonder.

Scratching his chin, stubbled with gray hair, the old shop keeper thought. His brow furrowed low over his eye as he weighed his answer carefully. “Now that’s a question for the ages, isn’t it?” he thought some more. “I suppose I could hire a translator… but of course how can I trust anyone with something that may lead to a vast fortune…”

There were a few minutes of silence as the two thought. Fenwick then let out a sharp gasp, startling the old man. “The library in Eldruhn! It must have some sort of text on the orcish language. What if we took rubbings of the tablets and translated the text there? Then we would have no need of an expert,”

Cadwell broke into a grin and grasped his forearm firmly, shaking it. “Your cleverness never ceases to amaze me. Fetch the charcoal from the shelf!” He exclaimed as he thrust his hand into a desk drawer and rummaged for parchment.

Fenwick launched himself into action, pushing off the jamb of the door and into the shop, over the counter, and skidded to a halt in front of the shelf which had boxes of charcoal on it. Boran picked up his head off his paws and cocked one ear to the side seeing his master in such a rush, but did not move from his post by the door. He sprinted back toward the office, vaulting over the counter once more, and found cadwell laying tablets end to end. He then laid a long segment of parchment over them and motioned for the box of charcoal.

He hastily ripped open the box and pulled out a long, thin piece of the black, transformed wood. With hands shaking in anticipation, he carefully rubbed it along the parchment. Where the text and designs were raised, such is the case with relief carvings, the charcoal was darker. The charcoal transcribed a perfect image of the tablets which lie underneath, though they would have to take care not to smear it. Cadwell repeated the process with this same set of tablets, and then twice more for a second set. He handed each one to Fenwick to roll and tie with lengths of twine.

Cadwell sighed as he looked at the stack of tablets before him. “We’ll have to do something to keep them secure while we’re gone. Eldruhn is… what, three days’ ride away?”

The young man nodded and made a noise in his throat of affirmation.

Cadwell thought for a moment, and puzzled, and scratched his stubbled chin. “I will have to give it some thought. Take the rest of the day off; I think I’m going to close the shop to think this through… Don’t breathe a word of this to anybody.” In his not so humble opinion, Cadwell fancied himself a master planner, and this would be one of his greatest, yet most arduous plan yet.

“Should I still take the birds to the butcher?” Fenwick asked, wondering how soon he should begin his celebration at having the day to himself.

Cadwell’s response sank the young man’s heart. “I do believe so. Otherwise they’ll surely rot.” Fenwick abhorred visits to the butcher, largely because of the butcher himself, but nodded and left both the back room and Cadwell puzzling to himself.

How puzzling, indeed. Adventure, it seemed, had come calling on his doorstep. The thing he so longed for was finally within his grasp. What sort of adventure, he had no idea, but the tablets simply had an adventurous air about them, something mysterious and fanciful.

Fenwick picked up the game birds and set out a closed sign in the window. He motioned to Boran, still sitting by the door, who rose, stretched, and yawned. He shook his massive head and slurped his master’s hand. Fenwick returned a hearty scratch to his nose and left the shop, being sure to lock the door behind him.

Author's Note

I feel like some parts are rushed. Would you mind pointing out the areas you thought were rushed and explain why?