Chapter 1: Chapter 1: All good things

Living in the big city is really very lonely.

 

Sure, there might be people everywhere. People to the left, people to the right. You can’t take five steps without running into another person and each and every one of them seems to be living such a rich and fulfilling life, as far as he can tell. It certainly always looks that way at least, when they’re marching past him in groups composed entirely of laughing friends. Some of the adventurers are adorned with ornate, intimidating metal armor and others are more sparsely prepared for close confrontations, wearing thin robes and carrying staves. But the one thing that they all have in common, is that they all pass by his window together, always in groups.

 

That’s how it usually goes. People never really went to the dungeon here by themselves. It’s too dangerous, too high-leveled.

 

The man sighs, staring out of the large, dusty window of the dilapidated building, inside of which he sits by himself once again, with a mug in his hand and a book laid out atop the booth-table that he sits at. But he doesn’t read the book, despite it laying open to some page, the number of which he has long since forgotten. Instead, he simply holds onto his empty mug, which hasn’t been filled with liquids in just as long a time and he stares out through the window with a longing in his eyes.

 

He does this now, much like he has done exactly this, for every single day of this week. Like he has done for every single week before this one and like he has done for every year before this one, since he had arrived here, in the city.

 

Though, back then he used to look out of a different window.

 

As of a month ago, he stopped being just a boy and now, having left the care of the orphanage and having officially been recognized as having a class, he sits in the house that was deemed his once again, now that he had grown into the requirements of being the legal owner of such a building.

 

Much like himself however, the house which he has inherited, has done nothing but sit there, empty, for a long time as well.

 

He sighs, lowering his head down to rest it atop the pages of his book, averting his gaze away now from the window. It hurts him to look through it. His fingers run through his sooty, black hair, which is in desperate need of washing. He loves looking through the window and day-dreaming, hoping that one day that he can belong to something like one of those adventuring parties. But at the same time, those hopes are what hurt him the most. Because he knows, deep down, that tomorrow, he will be sitting here again and feeling the same things as right now.

 

He will see the same things.

 

He will do the same things.

 

And finally, he will be the same thing, forever. Always.

 

His eyes run around the large, empty room. It used to be a restaurant, but now, all of the tables are just as empty as the one he himself is sitting at. Their surfaces are covered in a layer of dust and, in all likelihood, still some bits of ash. The residue has collected up to a considerable height.

 

“At least I don’t need tablecloths,” mutters the man, repeating the same joke that he has made every day since his first arrival back in his family home. It made him crack a tiny smile the first time he did it. Every time after that, it had no effect. But maybe tomorrow it would work again?

 

He closes his eyes, smelling the dust on the paper. He needs to go to the forest to get some more wood. But that will have to wait for a few more hours, until the sun vanishes and the moon begins to rise. It’s easier for him to go outside when it’s dark. There are fewer people. Fewer eyes.

 

He doesn’t like people looking at him and he certainly doesn’t feel comfortable around them and therein lies his dilemma. All day, he stares out of the window seeing what he wants most in life. But his fingers can never quite manage to touch the thing that he craves.

 

The man falls asleep for a few hours, laying there hunched over the old table which still smells vaguely like fire, even after all of these years.

 

 

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Night has fallen.

 

He rises to his feet, rummaging through his bag of things to get ready for his excursion. He stuffs a few pieces of dried meat into his pockets; food to snack on, during his trip. Forest work is always tiring.

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Autumn has set in and yet another winter lies around the bend. It will be a cold one this year. Slinging his bag over his back, checking that his robe and jacket sit tightly around his breast and that his obscuring, pointed, wizard’s hat is set snugly atop of his head, so that the brim can hide his face together with his thick, yellow scarf, he steps outside. The axe, which is strapped to his bag, taps against his leg as he moves.

 

The first thing that he always notices when leaving is the crispness, the coldness, the bite of the lonely night air. He shuts the door behind himself, jiggling it once to make sure that he had locked it properly. Somehow, being lonely inside of the house felt less sad than being lonely outside of it. Perhaps it’s the cold weather, reminding him that his body has no-one to share its heat with, in even as little as a hug. Or perhaps it's simply because he has to see all of the warm, orange lights filling the many bright windows that he walks past, as he makes his way out of the city.

 

The man lowers his head, tipping the front of his hat down further, as he makes his way towards the gate, doing his best to not look at a single thing, except the stones down at his feet.

 

 

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*Thook*

*Thook*

 

He swings the axe over and over, breaking down the fallen tree into rough chunks. In all honesty, a saw would be a better tool for this work. But he doesn’t have a saw. He has an axe. More importantly, he doesn’t want to buy a saw. If he did, he’d have to figure out where to buy a saw first of all. Then he’d have to go actually there, during the day and then he’d have to buy it. Those are a lot of steps and a lot of people to talk to. And what if there are different kinds of saws? What if there is more than one saw-store? What if… what if…

 

No, he shakes his head. He has an axe. It’s good enough.

 

*Thook*

*Thook*

 

*Who hoo hooo~*

 

He stops, his body stiffening up with the axe held above his head as he listens, somewhat surprised by the odd noise that had come from the forest. The forest has always been quiet at night. Monsters don’t come out here anymore, not since the logging had begun.

 

*Who hoo hooo~*

 

Lowering his axe, he stares up at the source of the noise. An owl sits perched up above him, in one of the still standing trees. Its wide eyes reflect the rusty, orange moonlight that shines down through the thinning crowns of the dying forest.

 

*Who hoo hooo~* it calls again, its voice echoing out into the night.

 

It seems odd, he knows that it does, but the owl’s odd call makes him smile. He isn’t sure why, exactly. Maybe it’s because of its funny voice, maybe because of its wide, saucer eyes and the sharply twisting movements of its neck. He lowers his axe, setting the head of the blade down into the leafy foliage. Lifting his gaze, he pulls his faded yellow scarf up higher to hide his face, as he stares at the owl. His eyes are likely as wide as its.

 

Feeling him staring, it flies away.

 

The man feels a bit sad as he watches it vanish into the darkness, but then, he simply returns to his work, the smile managing to stay there beneath his scarf nonetheless, born from having seen something unusual tonight.

 

As a treat, he picks a piece of the dried jerky out of his pocket and nibbles on it while he works.

 

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