The great forest was surrounded on all sides by a quiet serenity. Nothing but the sea of tree tips brushing against one another and the crackle of a murder of crows wove through the thick block of woodland and an untroubled fog seeped it's way through the bark and dry grass, filling the forest with a blank hue. There were hundreds of trees that called that forest their home but it was only one oak that found itself face to face with the large figure that would soon see its end. The figure had hazel eyes not so different in colour to the brown grass beneath his feet and they burned firmly into the oak as he took a knee and placed large hesitant hands against the old bark. His breath seeped from his mouth much like the fog in the chill of dawn and as the figure exhaled the tree breathed in its last few breaths with vigour as it knew them to be its last. His creased eyelids shut like weights and with a gentle thud and a frown that suited the figures aging face he placed his hairless head against the white bark. The murder of crows stopped cracking, the trees stopped their sea of serenity - even the fog appeared to stop frozen still at the tremor that flowed through each and every lifeform of the forest. Then the figure exhaled, his eyelids flew open, his hazel stones upturned with a sight of fury. He released the tree slowly, calmly, his face a fortuitous statue. The axe at his feet came up with him, silently gliding over his shoulder into the appropriate stance. The figure huffed, the tree gasped, and then with a muted grunt he thrust his axe deep into the trunk.
Then again.
And again.
Until the figure rose his axe for the last time and roared a gutteral, earthy sound like that of a bear driving his axe all the way through the white mammoth and ripping its final breath away, leaving nothing but a simple stump against the white snow and a quiet memory against the great forest. There was a grave cry as the tree fell from its feet leaving only the large dark figure to assess his work. As he leaned down to pick the log his arm wrappings uncoiled themselves, falling silently down into the snow. He stared down at what was left on his arm, in solemn shock and grief. Yet closing his eyes once more he composed himself with a long breath and began to wrap them once more around his arm - tighter and firmer than before.
The man's name was said to be Murloc. He was apparently seventy years old though really he was much younger as something besides years had taken a hand in his aging. His full beard was patterned with large threads of white hair, his small, lusterless eyes sunken, his face troubled with wrinkles and scars from times long ago. In figure he was bulky and tall, with a stoop of the shoulders you'd only find belonging to that of a burden bearer. In more ways than one he was like an old bear, a lifetime of scars and memories lost - painted obvious against his bare skin. No one had ever known him to smile or speak a needless word.
"I found some." Said a young voice that in no world could belong to the man but a small boy who approached from the side clutching a small handful of berries. The man turned to avoid the boy's hopeful gaze, occupying himself with tightening the wrappings around his arm.
"Get in the boat boy." The boy retreated, frowning with a look of frustration that hinted that the scenario was a common one.
"After…" The boy muttered. "We're to carry her ashes to the mountain?" He said kicking at loose twigs.
The man grunted.