“Come around people, Come around!”  The Old Bard called out while setting close to evening fire.  “What shall it be tonight” He asked

“Let’s hear about Murts Axethrower, the Salty Dwarf!”  Someone from the group called.  “That again, Young sire?!”  replied the storyteller in feigned amazement.  For it was a favorite, both in the telling and the listening.

“Yes!” the mass cried out.  “Then let us start at the beginning…”  The Bard said.

                “Murts was like any other of his tough race.  Bound for feats of strength and to out weather the very hills themselves.  But at a young age, Murts’ feet had a mind of their own.  He left Family and Clan like his older brother and set out for a Life of adventure.”               

                “He was already highly skilled at the use of axe and fist, which helped him greatly in his first trials and feats of strength.  With every new challenge, he seemed to grow more careless.  For it seemed he moved through his enemies like they were unmoving pillars of salt.  Then he came upon a challenge that he no hope of overcoming.  His path happen to cross with an green dragon of an unknown name.”

                The listening throng gasped in unison, like they always did at this part of the story. The Old One continued with a small smile “Yes!  Imagine!  Murts, The Salted Ones himself took on a Green and lived to tell the tell!  The fight went on longer than any would of dared.  But let’s be frank here people.  You think you can take on a dragon by yourself and win?!” In which the Storyteller got a splattering of boos.

“See how long you survive against a dragon of any size you dolts!” He shot back, which seemed to silence the hecklers for the time being.  The Old Bard nodded, continued after a moment “The Great Dragon left Murts for dead in a secluded Vale, miles away from any city, or a decent road or path.  He managed to make his battered body crawl to a cave nearby, in which he passed out from his wounds.”

“After what seemed like an eternity of pain induced sleep, our Hero woke up to something sniffing him.  Still hazy from the effects of sleep, Murts thought for a moment it was the Dragon coming to finish him off. He jerked awake (or as best he could in the state he was in) and tried moving away.  But then the creature growled, which made Murts stiffen where he was.  Murts thought ‘That’s no dragon, but a bear!’”  The Crowd gasped again.

The bard waved them down and saying “Yes, He thought he was trapped too.  But after the growling stopped, the bear start licking him” several children started giggling, which got quieted by an up turned eyebrow “and cleaning his wounds.  He once again passed out from the pain.  Over the next month, this bear helped Murts heal by bringing food and such to the cave.  Then He never came again.”

“Murts, by this time, was healed enough to make it to Fallcrest.  His brother, Murgeddin Axethrower, was a smithy there.  He still needed some help.   Then 2 Weeks to the day Murts arrived in Fallcrest, a shaggy assortment of people walked into the inn…”

So together, they left walking into the distance.

Being of one, but separated by paths walked before.

Going forth into new wonder and experiences.

Being blind, but no longer in darkness, now seeing

through the parted mists that covers his white, sightless eyes.

From the darkest dungeons were light is but a myth,

to keeps on high that scratched at the very sky itself,

the misfit vagabonds roamed, doing great works.

Liberating both people and treasure alike.

Upon the vast ocean they moved,

doing battle with creatures of the watery world.

Wisps of light that could enthrall your sight,

and serpents the size of their air born cousins.

Driven by the wandering wind, to port they came.

Like a wide crevasse, a smile cracked upon Kumanos face,

for one such as he is made of the earth itself,

and on earth is where he belonged.

Overland the group of heroes trod,

being forged by experience through trial.

Going from a group of separate pieces,

They were forged into a collective whole.

Dark mutterings upon the wind they heard,

of an evil that dwelt upon the top of a great crag.

Old One Eye he was called, The Great Harbinger.

and the Blind Mountain Priest knew.

The one great beast, slayer of his people,

was upon the great Demons Back cliff.

Driven was he, like the warmth before the storm.

To be so close, to be able to end the nightmares.

He ran like the very hounds of hell themselves,

To answer the call that was challenged so long ago.