“Mr. Canson, Mr. Canson, somethings wrong. A young boy, twelvish, knocked and called on the village head’s door. “Mr. Canson That adventurer group is coming back. They don’t look good sir!” He tried again before he heard movement like a bear rummaging around in the cabin house. Then he hesitated, hoping the Head would come to the door.

“One second boy! I’m coming. I was on the shitter for gods’ sakes.” He heard a rumbling voice from inside

The boy played with his hands nervously. It was before mid-day, another very hot day. The boy squinted to the sky, hoping the reason the adventurers were coming back did not reside there. Danger from the sky was of the worst type.

The cabin door opened with a groan; the large frame of a bearlike man silhouetted beyond the frame. Then a man with pitch black, thick, wild hair that seemed to even grown out of the back of his neck, and just as thick and wild eyebrows to match, stepped into the sun and glared. He was a dark brown skinned man, it was not a tan however, but his natural complexion. The boy knew this man was a cross breed from the darker races in the far southern continents. He had made a name for himself once, and was rewarded with this village, hence, the towns name, Canson’s rest. This man two-meter-tall man was half as wide at the waist. He did not move fast but once he started, you hoped he was not coming at you. The boy had seen this mountain of a man crush a wolfs head in his own massive, almost paw-like, hand. Whispers spoke he was part Brew’aer. A race of bear men. While demi humans and humans could mate, they rarely produced off-spring. Still, it was just a rumor. You did not speak of it in front of the man, he always took it as an afront, and always poorly. He certainly had the temper of a Brew’aer.

“Come show me and give me the details.” The man swung his hand to get the boy moving.

“Yes Mr. Canson. The adventurers that left the day before last are coming back along the road. They looked staggered sir.” The boy related as he led the man to the western road out of town.

The large man’s eye went to the sky, and he looked about as he followed the lad.

The village was not a very large one. There were twenty homes in a large circle around the central hub of the village that held the storage, the inn, and a smithy that Canson poorly made hinges and other bad metal works at. There was not even a store really, just a trade house that a rotational villager worked at. No one came here to trade. It was purely a farm village for the larger town and by way of an even larger Monarchy That spanned about a third of this northern continent.

Canson had designed the place for protection. The outer houses had large wooden gates attached to their walls, that you could swing shut, closing off the town from the outside. A palisade of log homes and log gates. Canson was a decent defensive thinker. He had won some accolades in the war against the West-Sea Theocracy. They were a bunch of sycophants in Canson’s eye. Pushing their doctrine down everyone’s throat that breathed on this continent. The theocracy had tried to invade with influence at first followed by soldiers once they made little headway the prior way. Canson and a small company held against a force three times their size for three weeks at a mining town just east of the theocracy. The Monarchy had thought the place over-run and was sending troops to hopefully retake the town and mine. But to the lieutenant’s surprise, it was still held against the Theocracy by a ragged half dead on their feet force, led by Canson, who had disposed the towns chief for cowardness, as the chief wanted to just hand over the town. The towns Chief was eventually hung as a conspirator of the Theocracy. Canson being an outsider was not given control over that town but allowed to choose his own reward of small means. So, he had chosen this land, and set himself up a village he could relax into retirement in. A simple life of farming. Few monsters, and fewer politicians.

The South-Men Empire just watched the war with interest, hoping to swoop in for post war gains against the two other governments. Which is the only reason the war never really got going too badly. There was a tenuous balance in these northern lands. If only men could get along well enough to work out their differences and create a true nation of greatness for their people. People’s greed always got in the way. The greedy and powerful always wanted more power.

The fourth kingdom if you could call it that, was a large nation of very hardy pale skinned giants with golden hair. They were a fair people, but they were quicker to fight than others. They would not suffer outsider influence into their god granted wilds. Travelers were welcomed. Politicians were beheaded. This north land was untamed, and monster ridden. The Tribesmen kept it this way, for trade, food and to help ward off invasion. The northlands were mountainous, and cooler lands with decent farmland and many mines. It had many rivers and streams for the people to enjoy, fed by the mountain’s snowy peaks as much as the great seas. The large hardy tribes were quick to come together for any incursion. They were even considered blond-haired demons, as they fought like wild demi-immortals. Each tribe was led by a one of twelve brothers, each brother was given to lead other smaller tribes. The subsequent families still held the brothers’ oaths of fealty. It was a magic bond of kinship. There could never be a betrayal. They were all, as one. Even the average people when they came of age, swore to this magic binding oath of brotherhood and oneness. Canson had often wished he was born in that land. He was a wild spirit himself. He idolized the Northman’s way of the bond.

While his mind wandered, and often to thoughts of the north, he came to the road leading west out of town, where saw four people approaching. They wore their base gear, and no traveling aids. You would think they belonged to this village they were so under-equipped. As they came closer, he could see they had no wounds, but they looked like demons had been chasing them. Road ragged, and poor of posture. He saw the large man out front way once at him and the gathering towns folk behind him. They had to see what the hubbub was all about. After all they led mostly boring lives of land farming. With the crops nearing to yield, there had been a lull in work. So many were about.

When the larger man in front was within ear shot, he called out something unintelligible, through a croaking voice. He caught his throat in his hand and did not try again. Canson was worried now. He looked again to search the sky. Had something followed them back, he was not going to go easy on them. Adventurer guild members or not, you never led danger to a small village like this. The man in the back, one of the twins fell face down into the dirt and did not move. All he had was a small shield and mace. He had not spent much time with them and did not recall their names. He just didn’t care about people who passed through once. Though once he saw the man fall, he turned to the people gawking, some looking to the sky, others going pale.

“You seven,” he pointed out seven of the more able villagers, “Go help that man. Lead them to the inn, get them watered and fed if they can eat. Then let them soak in hot tubs. Tell them I will come for them in two hours. Go!” he had to shoo them on.

Canson then turned and headed back to his own cottage. His blood was starting to heat up, fists making groaning noises as the ground even groaned at his passing. He’d kit up, then if they had brought them trouble, they’d be the first to taste his wrath. If they bared a warning, he’d shake their hands in thanks. If he was gearing up for no reason, well it felt good to put his not so worn-out but old war gear on once in a while. While he was coming up on forty, a few grey hairs here and there, he still got a thrill of excitement when he geared up. He wasn’t always a farmer after all.

After an hour Canson exited the cottage swearing to himself. His gear had gotten a size too small just sitting around over the past years. He’d have to re-stretch out the leather straps that held his chest plate on, and the banded armor pants made him look like he was a tight wrapped sausage. At least his two, crescent dual bladed hand axes hadn’t gotten small. For a smaller man, they would almost be too big for one hand, but a bit small for two. They were pushed into handle holsters on a belt, at his sides. They still gleamed with oil and looked sharper than a skinning knife. Even if they did show a few nicks on the blades. Made for a bit of tearing action was Canson’s reasoning for not fixing them. That and nostalgia. They were the scars of fighting he himself didn’t show. A reminder that the world was still wild outside, and even sometimes inside of humanity’s domain.

He was a bit cynical, but you didn’t get his age without leaning to wed that wife. Some people were just plain bad. You needed to remember that to survive. At least monsters came at you straight teeth bared.

‘Well, it’s time to kick someone in the ass for stirring my pot.’ his last thought as he thundered toward the Inn.