Dawn had come for Brittlebark, a small village within the Tyny county. The rays flooded over the hills, bringing with them the warmth. Nights were long and harsh to the people of Brittlebark, but they remained joyous fellows indeed.

Within the small village was a shaman of great power. The shaman could bring with him a change in the weather if she so wished, though the villagers made sure she had no reason to fickle with it at her own displeasure.

She was still quite young considering her prowess in calling the spirits, perhaps even being the strongest caster within the entire county of Tyny.

She would never admit it, but she had allowed some of that power to go through her head. The regular tribute usually paid to the shaman had increased, though that was mostly due to the fact her spells required more components than a typical mages as they held greater effects.

Rowa was her name. She had no second name, for why would one have a second name if one had magic? Preposterous indeed. Rowa was short, even for a woman. She barely reached above five feet, and her build was as slender as any cat. She moved like one too, though that was due to the fact she loved to transform into one as she lazed about when she had free time, which was quite often indeed. Her hair was darker than a brown, yet not quite black. Her eyes were slightly almond shaped, but we're the colour of onyx. When one gazed into the abyss of her eyes, they saw power, raw yet tamed. Many men would try to court her, yet when they first exchanged greetings, they would soon realise just how out of their depths they truly were.

Yet, even as the rays of dawn enveloped the village, she felt a cool breeze that caused a shiver down her spine. Trouble was coming.

Trouble came.

Troubles name was Bob.

Bob usually wasn't the name of trouble, a trouble maker perhaps, but not trouble. No, no. Trouble was typically an Arnold, Bruce or even a Wally.

Yet trouble arrived, and Bob was the harbinger.

Bob was a man barely in his thirties. He had joined the war against the orcs and had made a name for himself.

Bob the Fixer he was called, for whenever you had an issue or a problem, he would fix it. Typically he would bash the problem away, or he would say something vague and not at all profound, yet it worked.

Bob wore chain mail and held a spear. He used it like a walking stick. His hair was jet black, short and we'll kept. His eyebrows were the opposite, thick and wild, and they rarely moved.

He kept a shield at his back, covering his pack. If one had taken a peak under his armour and clothing, one could see that he was built like an ox. He dragged the corpse of a giant boar, hand hooked around a tusk. The other had snapped off during the fray. He had called out during the night, and a few moments before dawn he was rudely awoken by the charging of the boat. It took moments before he killed it, and as he dragged it down the side of the hill, he realised that if he had walked another quarter hour, he would have been able to sit in an inn to drink some ale then sleep on a full, luscious, warm bed.

This is a story about an unlikely pair meeting and then saving the land from a terrible threat. This is a story about Rowa and Bob the Fixer.