Writing

He recognized a new pattern of sounds tonight. Tick found it immensely satisfying, so he made some room for it. He noticed the performer tap her foot in sync with the music, it wasn’t in constant rhythm like drums he had heard here before, irregular yet intentional. At least intentional as far as he could tell. There were less cheers tonight than most other performance nights. Was it that the girl was not singing? That seemed to excite the crowd and bring more attention to whoever found themselves on the stage, especially at the end of a work week. That was not to say that this music was not at all exciting, it created a pleasant and positive aura at the bar, and Tick quite enjoyed that.

Bizzix was many things. He called these things The Matter of Facts, or Facts for short. Bizzix was a goblin as many astute observers would point out. Green, squat, barely up to the waist of the average human and with ears that stretched to twice the width of his torso. Bizzix was a scrapper, he noted that many humans would identify others by their profession: Jance the marketeer, Pantalli the bartender, Vokks the enforcer. Bizzix had one friend, and that was Clunk. Most saw Clunk as a bulging leather backpack, but Clunk could feel as much as anyone else, even though they hardly showed it.

There stood a cabin in the heights of the snow dusted peaks, its hearth still lit in the depths of winter, walls still standing despite the peril of the mountains. In those peaks lurked monsters, mercilessly hunting down anything unlucky enough to cross their path. They were beasts of great power and tainted birth. The greatest of these killers was no such monster. He was born a man, like you and I. Abandoned by human parents, he was raised by great mother bear, Gylda. He was man and beast united. His bond gave him power, beyond that of any man and any beast. His name was Asbjorn.