Deep in the thick woods of Eastermore, there lived a small community of Grimoirks. Now Grimoirks aren't the prettiest people to look upon, nor are they fast, strong, agile or gregarious. They are wise though, and patient. They are clever as a fox and loyal to their sisterhood.

The youngest Grimoirk had just turned fourteen and her fires of passion were kindling strong. One bright Spring morning, as Aaiyana was out gathering herbs and mushrooms, she spotted a young hunter from the village of Tristan in her woods. She rubbed her neck with vanilla-bean oil, ate a sprig of spearmint, pinched her cheeks and sidled up to the hunter cattishly.

As nature would have it, she and he fanned each other's flames of passion into a frenzy and then consumated the fire in a dazzling dance of unbridled lust. And, when the flames were extinguished, they returned - each one to his and her own business and completed their chores for the day.

The rendezvous encounters continued through the Spring and Summer until one Autumn day the handsome young hunter did not show up. Aaiyana was beside herself in agony, worry, grief and emotional pain. She was five months pregnant and she needed to take care of herself and her unborn. She felt a quickening in her tummy, the first kicks of the young Grimoirk inside her. She knew, she knew then, she'd never see her young hunter again ... not as a lover anyway.

About Drar-Knocht-Rhen

Drar-Knocht-Rhen is a moderately small Holding Sphere compared to others on Khespian. Steely-blue mountains to the North contain prescious gems and hundreds of gold mines dot it's lower flanks. To the East are ancient trees, big around as twenty fat lumberjacks roped together in one. The warm Gulf winds blow from the South-East, spritzing the air with the scent of salt and fish. The Gulf of Aachmore encompasses the entire Southern border of Drar-Knocht-Rhen. The Gulf is occassionaly dotted by small marsh or swampland where rivers attach themselves to the Gulf.

To the West are fog-enshrouded jungles where enormously high plateaus rise nearly to the clouds. The Western flanks of cliffsides North of the jungles drop shearly into the Gulf of Aachmore. East of the cliffs is steppeland, followed by a rough badland-and-desert-mixed area East of the steppes. The Badlands are this Holding Sphere's containment area for criminals. Dragon's-Eye Volcano spews North-East of the badlands, North-West of Eastermore, North of Tristan. The village of Tristan lies in the center of the expansive grazelands between the forest and the Badlands.

The holding is ruled by a greedy, lazy, cruel Dragon Lord who calls himself the King of Fjüllwald. He resides in an obsidian-black castle called "The Black Fist" because it looks like a black dragon's fist. The Black Fist resides on the Western border of the steppes, over-looking the shear cliffs. The city of Hyde laces above and below ground in the steppes and surrounds the Black Fist's landward flanks.

Historically, the founding Dragon Lords were barbaric warlords. Thousands of years later, they are nothing more than the inbred descendants of the founders. Weak in body, mind and spirit - they rule by fear. The only power they have that keeps them enthroned is their ability to call Dragons to do their bidding. Their only concern is for their own well-being and enrichment. The Dragon Lords of Khespian own all, share nothing, and are heartless slave-masters of the common man.

The ruling Dragon is unknown. It is, as always, an advantage to depict themselves with the characteristics of what humans expect. Typically they dwell in the fiery crevices of active volcanoes or upon the high glaciers of mountains, appearing on rare occasions to perpetuate fear among the living and continue the mystery of The Dragon.

The Dragon do not speak but communicate telepathically. Humans fear the eyes of the Dragon. When a Dragon’s eyes connect with a human soul, the soul becomes locked in an hypnotic trance until the exchange is completed. If the soul survives, it is only left with a ‘knowing’ that cannot be explained or shared with others.

Many were chosen but only one has managed to survive...

Aaiyana gave birth to a healthy, baby boy on the first day of Spring. He would be known as Marsten-Aaiyana (Marsten for short) until he reached manhood and earned a name for himself. Marsten grew up with seven village-sisters in his age group. An elder Grimoirk called Pletch-As was his male figurehead. Pletch-As taught Marsten all things manly.

Just before Marsten's sixteenth birthday, Pletch-As took him up to the foothills of the steely-blue mountains. The mountain range was called "Old Blue" and the foothills contained many stone quarries. On their way there, Pletch-As told Marsten the story of Ulir and showed him the canyon where Tristan's hunter fell.

They stayed in the vacated men's settlement of Gravelmore that Winter and tended to the domestic beasts. Most of the menfolk had returned to their homes and family scattered across Fjüllwald, the people's name for Drar-Knocht-Rhen. The oxen in the labour camps were over-worked and underfed. Winter was the only time the camps were closed, giving a bit of respite and breeding time for the oxen before the camps re-opened in late Spring.

Marsten had his sixteenth birthday during this trip. As required by edict, he would have to travel South-West to Hyde to register his citizenship and be assigned his lot-in-life. He would travel alone because Pletch-As had to remain at the camp, tending the oxen until the snows melted and the quarries re-opened.

Legends thrived in Fjüllwald but none was more famous than the story of a young hunter called Ulir who came face to face with a Dragon and lived to tell.

The group of hunters had set out together but eventually became separated by the dense forrest. Ulir called out to his comrades with a distinct whistle. The length of time it would take for a reply would indicate the direction and distance to regroup and sure enough, he heard the reply and followed it.

Ulir tried to push through the thick under-growth as quietly as possible, his throat parched, shins bleeding from the sharp ferns; he wanted to cry out as he stopped to pull out another splinter. He sensed that the group were nearby and was shocked to see them as he emerged out of the under-growth on the other side of the canyon.

Below him were a sheer drop of about 50 metres. He felt bewildered and did not grasp how he had become so disorientated. He was on one side of the Canyon and the others were on the other. He felt overwhelmed at the realisation that he would have to turn back and descend the mountain only to reclimb it using a different path.

As Ulir signalled to the other hunters, the canyon began to shudder. All of the men receded into positions so not to fall and within full view of the group, a huge Dragon swooped down through the canyon. Ulir had lost his balance and slid down onto a small ledge. The men watched in terror as the Dragon hovered at the ledge glaring at Ulir. There was nothing they could do to help Ulir and silently they watched.

Ulir had dropped onto his knees and slowly raised his head to look at what was before him. Surrendering to his imminent death, he closed his eyes in anticipation and waited. After some time, Ulir opened his eyes and caught his breath. The Dragon glared at him and Ulir began to feel a powerful heart beating with his own. He wanted to break free from the glare but felt trapped. Ulir felt the Dragon lift him onto his feet and it was only then did Ulir sense that his being was no longer his own.

The group on the other side of the canyon watched as Ulir's body levitated above the ledge to become suspended in animation. The Dragon drew him out into the middle of the canyon and slowly lowered his body down to the base of the mountain and abruptly flew away.

Ulir fell at least five metres to collapse onto the under-growth. Ulir was unconscious by the time the group reached him. They carried him back to the village of Tristan.

About Tristan

Tristan is a friendly village, where neighbors help neighbors and the hardships are shared. Taxes eat up the majority of the resident's income so they rely on barter for necessities. Ulir's house faces the public square where farmers, crafters and merchants trade wares twice a week.

The village Sheriff, Havard-the-Axe has a lovely hovel at the top of the hill where the main street ends. He's a portly and kindly Sheriff who believes in speak softly but carry a big stick.

There's an apothecary run by Briala in the lower-quarter which sells herbal remedies and potions made by the Grimoirk women in Eastermore.

Last week the village children became ill and Briala ran out of all her month's supplies in a single day. Residents suspect foul-play; but, nobody agrees on where to point the finger.

The men have headed out to their remote work-camps leaving only the young and very old behind in Tristan, except Ulir.

For now, politics was not in Pletch-As mind. He had told of the events he had seen and heard in Tristan to his fellow Grimoirks, and they would have to sort things out by themselves. The index on his chin, he was thinking about plants that once mixed together would exhale invisible fumes that could make anyone sick and weak, without a single thing seemingly able to cure the affliction.

The plants' location was only a few days away, and the trip to get them was as uneventful as calm water on a boring day. When he was back, there were already a few of his friends that were trying to conquer Aaiyana's heart. They were courting her in the usual ways; offerings and support. He was smarter, he thought, and his moves would only be made before delivery of the baby.

So Pletch-As proceeded to have Aaiyana's place to be filled with the toxic fumes, at night, when no one was watching. In a matter of days, the poor lass began having troubles, and the whole community tried to help her. Pletch-As played the game, and brought, like his fellows, ineffective remedies. Adjusting regularly the doses of fumes, Pletch-As could control how much sick Aaiyana was to be.

A few weeks before the expected delivery date, Pletch-As stopped the use of the plants mixture, and presented himself with a twisted tale of an old malediction; sometimes, when Grimoirks and Humans fell for one another, a sickness was transmitted... and such seemed Aaiyana's situation. He gave her a horrible paste of his doing that was to cure her in a few days. And cured she was.

It was apparent to everyone, then, that Pletch-As was behind all of Aaiyana's illnesses. Upon learning that fact, Aaiyana was instantly seduced by Pletch-As. If he could go to such length and troubles, without ever getting caught, in the last months, it meant he really desired her. And that he would be a caring partner. To be clever, to a Grimoirk, was the ultimate quality to display. And Pletch-As was full of clever plans, some secretly involving young Aaiyana's little bastard...

But to everyone, including Marsten-Aaiyana, Pletch-As was to be considered a good care taker in the following years.

Marsten passed through the Badlands on his journey to Hyde. While in the badlands, he spoke with many of the shunned 'criminals' who had been sentenced to life in the bleak and hostile environment. Some were obviously deserving of the lifetime sentence; but, most were as decent a people as any other citizen in Fjüllwald, the King excepted. In fact, most were political prisoners or prisoners of conscience, and potential threats to the crown.

Unlike most Grimoirks, Marsten was gregarious, strong, swift and agile. Aaiyana had told him he looks like his Father. Marsten had a strong feeling his Destiny would be found in the Badlands.

Marsten continued on to Hyde, registered as an adult with the local magistrate and suggested he might be a suitable "Over-Seer" in the Badlands. He didn't let on that he empathized with most of the wrongly convicted criminals, nor did he mention them.

The magistrate was impressed with the proposition that an "Over-Seer" might extract additional work from the "useless swine" sentenced to the Badlands. And so it was, Marsten's Destiny was to over-see the shunned, the criminals of Fjüllwald. Marsten was now Thane of the Badlands, "Marsten-the-Press".

He was appointed a hovel in the center of the Badlands, with a splendid view of all the work-camps and shanty-tents of the dregs of society.

Aaiyana was thirty by now, and Pletch-As was nearly twice her age. He had made a nice male-figure for her son; but, she never had the fires burning brightly in her heart for him. He was more of a Father-figure to the village, a brother Grimoirk. Pletch-As would soon be returning from the quarries.

A young messenger, a bare-footed child from the village of Tristan dashed into the camp and told Aaiyana and the other herbalist women of the need for more healing potions and cures in the village. The women set-to-task and doubled their work load hours. They scurried here and there, thither and yon, gathering all the herbs and minerals required to make more batches of the famous Grimoirk Cures.

Katajola (prounounced Cat-ah-yola) was the elder potion-maker. All of the cauldrons in the camp were watered and fired up, awaiting and processing the materials as soon as they arrived. The fires would burn all night, and they did. Women were mixing and mashing, mortars and pestles were twirling, grinders were grinding and mashers were mashing. By sunrise, the women had produced an extra two-weeks worth of medications to send back to Tristan with the messenger.

Aaiyana was dead tired; but, volunteered to escort the bare-footed child "Troykin-Lean" to Tristan. She gathered her backpacks and off they went to Tristan to make the delivery.

Ulir woke up in the village of Tristan and had no memory of falling. He remembered clearly the Dragon and the feeling that surged through his body. He felt altered, slightly different but could not describe adequately what this new feeling was.

His fellow men surrounded him and when he woke, it startled him to have so many people staring at him in silence, even when he smiled and acknowledged their prescence...they did not respond in the usual way.

One of the Elders ushered the group of men away from his bedside, shaking his head as he walked. Once outside, the Elder brought them in closer to him and spoke very quietly so Ulir would not hear,
"This is very bad for our village! Do not speak of this event to anyone!" Pointing and shaking his finger, "If the Dragon-Lord learns of this event, Ulir will be killed and if Ulir understands the meaning of this, he may become a tyrant over our village and we do not need another Dragon - Lord! There are too many as it is!"

It has been sixteen years since Ulir woke up from his fall which was accompanied by partial amnesia. His memory of his deepwoods affair with Aaiyana was cleanly shaved from his memory. Whether or not his memory returns, only time will tell.

On the other hand, Aaiyana will never forget that youthful hunter of her deepwoods triste. The first true love is the one that never leaves the heart.

Aaiyana's trip to Tristan with Troykin-Lean afforded her first glimpse of her long-lost lover. As she entered the apothecary shop with Troykin to deliver the potions and elixirs, she saw Ulir and recognized him immediately. Her mouth dropped open and her heart fluttered like a thousand butterflies swarming across a flowered meadow.

Ulir noticed Aaiyana starring at him and gave a disapproving glance as if to say, "Why are you starring at me." He went on to finish reading the apothecary notice and then hurried out the door.

An iron anvil dropped in Aaiyana's heart. She didn't know how to interpret the reaction. Dazed, happy to have found her lover, crushed and heart-broken that he didn't recognize her, and extrememly saddened ... she completed the delivery and packed the empty vials, jars and containers for her return to the woods of Eastermore.

When she got home, she busied herself to help calm her nerves, her confused emotions and her riled hormones. Since Pletch-As was getting on in age, having reached his fifty-ninth or sixtieth Summer, it would be best to transfer his belongings to the downstairs bedroom so that he wouldn't have to climb the rickety stairs anymore. She cozied it up the best she could, then returned to her normal chores.

Dragon was furious...the chosen one may have survived but had not understood why he was spared.

Dragon did not have a name, at least not among his kind. Identity was based on size only in particular to wing span. Dragon's wing span was the widest of all other Dragon's in Drar-Knocht-Rhen. The Morsel's had referred to Dragon as Monolithic. When Dragon heard the description of him, he would from then on, answer to it.

Monolithic Dragon had spared the Morsel for his own needs and yet...the Morsel did not give to him what he expected! The arrangement was a practical one. Most Morsels were happy to provide regular food in return for their own surivival. Some of them had become wealthy and powerful.

Monolithic Dragon, hungry for more than a morsel set off to find a blood feast. This time, he would not simply scorch the Morsels' with his wrath, he would devour them one by one until he had had his fill.

'All the Morsel had to do was give over the weakest of his village and he has disobeyed me!'... Monolithic Dragon took flight towards the Gulf of Aachmore...'Pity them Morsel! It is because of your disobediance I will devour all that I find...and you will live with the guilt of their deaths!'

Ulir woke from a period of rest anxious and deeply troubled. He felt a dread and an urgency throughout his being but did not understand what the feelings signalled. He rushed to his Protector and shook him violently from his sleep. The Protector woke to see and hear Ulir calling out frantically, desperately..."the Dragon...the Dragon...the Dragon will kill all in Aachmore!"

The Protector had been warned prior to his shift that Ulir was prone to bouts of hysteria and sat with him throughout the night to comfort and calm him. When the Sun eventually appeared, Ulir had passed out from exhaustion.

About Bravenport

Bravenport was the largest of the seaside towns and was centrally located on the coastal borderline.

It contained a small boatyard with two drydocks which supplied most of the hold's fishing boats. The cut timbers were floated down the Gaping Gator River to the run-down old lumbermill which lie conveniently North-West and next to the boatyard. A small marsh lie on the Eastern side of the Gaping Gator's mouth.

Mah 'n Pah Tack 'n' Bait was owned by several specialty merchants, housed in one salt-licked grey, wooden building which had more extensions than an octopus has appendages. Legend held that the large Yekivah tree in front of the chaotically assembled shack was a sea serpent which had been rooted to the spot in ages past. It did resemble a sea serpent - especially on nights of the new moon. A smokehouse out back was almost always brimming with fish large and small, from Redgut Shark to Greenfin. Mah 'n' Pah had long passed away and left the shop to their eight grown children to run which they did well. The Schnellerin boys ran the main retail shop up front, while the sisters ran the smokehouse and guest kitchen at the back. Many grandchildren and great-grandchildren worked, learned and played at this conglomerate.

Five acres worth or warehouses lie behind the tackle shop. It was strongly fenced and well guarded - most say by a criminal syndicate. The Boyten-Buster Brothers were a mixed lot of either oddball or tactless brutes who specialized in trade and 'protection'. Their women-folk made the deals and were better suited to the false-nicities of negotiation.

Caravans from all across Fjüllwald unloaded and reloaded at the warehouses and the lumbermill.

Whores and Dragon Slayers thrived in Bravenport. Transients came from all over the Holding Sphere, most became Whores rather than Dragon-Slayers but it was a minor detail; essentially, they were one in the same.

They both endured the same public fate. Dragon-Slayers had unpredictable futures and Whores had unpredictable fortunes. Both would lie, cheat and steal to survive and both socialised together in lewd hovels. The Transient moral code was 'survival of the opportunist'...and they did survive however they had to.

A Dragon-Slayer might slay a Dragon and become a Hero; whilst the Whore who kills a Dragon-Lord with a venerial disease would be granted a notary mention, even if it were not honorable. There was more than one way to skin a cat or so they all jested. Many Dragon-Lords had been struck down with syphilis and died of insanity.

There were no herbs or special tintures to cure the pox. There was one major difference between Whores and Dragon-Slayers and that was the success rate: Whores killed more with the pox. Dragon-Slayers more often than not, died whilst attempting to kill a Dragon and this is perhaps why, their lifesyles became entwined. Their futures were uncertain, live each day as is it were the last...and they did.

When they awoke the next morning and regretted that the day before was not their last, they drank and laughed even about that....

Marsten-the-Press never intended to live up to his moniker. It was actually a convenient cover. There were too many good people, innocent victims of the corrupt Draconocracy, and prisoners of conscience to let this human resource go to waste. Marsten had a plan.

He gathered the respectable prisoners and divided them into specialty teams. Some would build a better living standard in the rock caves that housed the more hardened criminals. Some would build a perimeter wall and towers, not to keep prisoners in, but to keep certain other elements out. If it looked like a prisoner containment wall to outsiders, that would be even better. He had plans of course, short-range and long-range. Some would train in archery, some melee, and others in healing and other magickal sciences. Half of the people would man the silver and turquoise mines that kept the King off their backs and would produce more than usual because of stream-lining and the better efficiency of organized labor. The people agreed and chose the teams they felt better suited thier natural skills.

First though, he needed to oust the real riff-raff and lowlifes hoarding the expansive cave networks. For that, he'd need to utilize the cunning and wiles of the Grimoirk.

He travelled to the Eastermore with a caravan and the housing team to see his Mum and get her counsel. Aaiyana counseled him of the dangers and possible pitfalls he faced. Marsten was willing to take the risk. The wagons were loaded with a 'special brew' and set off for Bravenport on the Gulf of Aachmore where they loaded five wagons with drunken whores and a dozen wagons with smoked fish and lumber, then they returned to the Badlands.

The trip took two weeks and the perimeter walls and towers were already underway. The Badlands militia was training and the miners were mining. The hardcore criminals were tucked in their caves reveling in their own egos and avoiding any responsibility as usual.

Marsten called for a festival and tables were set with fresh lizard cracklings and wine, music was being played by skilled volunteers. The whores stood behind each chair to attend to their charges. As was predictable, the hardened criminals pushed their way to the feasting area and gobbled up the goodies, drank the wines and retired to their caves with their women for a night of lust.

The next morning, the caves were quiet. DEAD quiet.

It was time to remove the bodies and start restoring the caves to decent abodes.

She opened her eyes slowly. They were large eyes, red and yellow, with an unpleasant intelligence to them.

She slowly raised her head toward the ceiling of her lair, shaking off the dust and rock that had gathered on her blue-black scales during The Season of Quiescence. She spread her thick, black and blue wings in a languid manner until they reached the walls of her lair and began to slowly move them in all directions to bring the life back into them.

She stood up on her hind legs and stretched her wings over her head and in front of her eyes. She began to groom the dark blue webbing of her wings, looking for small wrinkles and tears in the soft, supple skin.

She froze.

Her lips began to move back over her long, sharp, teeth in a gruesome and rapacious smile.

She sensed them. They were there, moving about in the caverns far above her head.

How kind of them to have arrived in time.

She decided this was an occasion to celebrate - she must prepare.

She picked up a long, jagged stick of polished metal some marauder had so thoughtfully dropped just before she'd devoured him. She chuffed delightedly at the memory and set to sharpening her longest teeth.

Dragon was comfortably resting on the hot ashes of Aachmore's principal temple, one baby impaled on each of his nails, having them slowly roasted over the fire made from a pile of dead soldiers. Dragon loved to feel the babies head pop when he crushed them with his teeth, feeling the liquid filling it roll on his tongue before swallowing it all.
Babies heads were much more tender than a grown human's one.

He was looking at the mothers of the babies, frozen by his will. They were all crying silently, unable to utter a sound, making their pain even more unbearable to watch, as it distorted their faces with demands of vengeance and desperately expecting death.

Half of the port and town destroyed, the survivors were not trying to hide anymore. That would be futile as the King seemed to know where everyone was. And the King was now resting... and eating...

Taking advantage of this moment of apparent peace, a religious leader is sent to ask the King the reason of his attack on the town of Aachmore.

Raising on two legs, the king, now standing very high, surrounded by smoke smelling of charred bodies and burned wood, looked down on the priest, and projected: -"I had decided to spare the remaining of your town."
-"However, your questioning me needs to be disciplined!!!"

The King violently clapped his wings, making the sound of thunder look like a murmur in comparison, and sending waves of compressed air towards the still motionless mothers, and the priest. In a second, they were flying in the direction of the only remaining wall of the temple, exploding upon impact, covering everything in blood and mutilated organs.

The survivors ran, cried and yelled, but the King imposed is destructive will on everything that ever was in Aachmore, that soon enough, was no more.

About the Seaside Village of Aachmore

Aachmore used to be the major coastal village. Primely situated at the apex where the black walls of the Black Fist castle meets the Westernmost corner of Hyde. It was the King's naval port. The navy, long since sunk by territorial sea monsters, lies at the bottom of the Gulf of Aachmore which got its name from this old village.

The temple of Aachmore was shaped like a ship's anchor. The gulf was a friend and a foe to the villagers. It provided food; but, it also plagued them with fierce storms in the Autumn. The temple was their symbolic anchor, and their spiritual anchor.

Now, the temple was gone, as was the only shipyard large enough and capable of making a Naval Fleet for the King. All gone, in a moment of spontaneous anger or reckless boredom - we'll probably never know which. The oyster and clam beds were fried to a crisp in the dragon attack. The largest species of crabs, the King Crabs, were instantly toasted. Species extinction would soon be felt as these favored royal treats are no longer available.

The people huddled together in shock and mourning after the attack. Many gave up, a life not worth living is not a life at all. Others gathered the friends, family and necessities they could and relocated elsewhere in the realm. A few stout souls, stayed behind to survey the ruins, bury the dead who had not already been hastily buried, and vowed to rebuild.

Marsten was relaxing, eyes closed, leaning on his back, on a pole in front of his hovel.
The hot air of the day was caressing his face, making him think of days past, with his mentor and friend, Pletch-As. In the distance, the sound of the workers with their tools made him remember one hot summer day.

The summer had been cooler in general, but the last week had been hotter than usual, as if all the forgotten heat of summer was compressed in those few days. Everybody was on edge, particularly the children, who wanted to play nonetheless.

But to play a game of Haj-Tah' in such a heat could only be done by children. The rules were simple; One is designed to be the "Dragon", and he must catch at least three "Seers" in order to keep on reigning. If he fails to do so, another is elected as Dragon, and the cycle continues, until the kids tire out, or they need to go eat and drink.

It was Marsten's turn to be the Dragon, and one of the boys was never recognizing to have been touched by Marsten, stalling the game, and annoying everyone. Particularly Marsten who was getting a little bit into his character of the Dragon. Angered, he raised a fist, and started to bring it down when Pletch-As grabbed it firmly, stopping the arm in its course to violence.

Pletch-As was looking serious and stared at Marsten for a few seconds, then kneeled while telling the kids to gather around him. He was talking to everyone, Marsten first, and said; -"You are strong, Marsten... And so are a few of you."
Pausing to let his words resonate inside the children, he continued; -"You all know where we are, and what the surrounding world looks like, how it works. Instead of hitting each other, protect each other."

Marsten pleaded that the other boy was annoying, as if it was an excuse to his aborted action. Pletch-As explained that if they really became Dragons in their games, they would act like ones in real life, and everybody knew Dragons were despicable, to any races, if anything at all.
"Friendship and solidarity are the real and only treasures to be found in this sad land we are.", said Pletch-As. Then smiling, he said; -"But its OUR sad land, and somehow, that makes me proud!" "So next time a friend is annoying, take a break until he or she calms down, understood, little bloxies?"

"Ha!Ha!, You're a bloxy!", said a boy, starting to run, followed by others who were calling others bloxies, too. A bloxy was a common milking furry insect in the region. But it ranked!!! Marsten went to his mother's side to drink some cold water.

Looking at the scene from a distance, Aaiyana told a friend working beside her; -"I'm glad Pletch-As has entered both our lives. Marsten really likes him, and I admit I do, too..." "But never like I loved Marsten's real father, even if too briefly..." Aaiyana's friend told her to keep that idea to herself.
"Not many companions would have been this good with you and your labor. He may have seen more summers than you can count, but he has always been there for you, for us all in fact. Don't break him, please.", said in a semi plaintive voice the friend.

As if hearing them, Pletch-As turned around, and waved after a few seconds, before resuming his tool repairing activities.

A push on the shoulder took Marsten out of his rêverie. His assistant was pointing in the direction of a beginning fight between workers. Marsten looked at his assistant, then sighed. He went in the direction of the fight, resolute to press some brotherly attitude into their minds.