Hiya, folks. Had this sitting in my document manager for something like a year and a half, but it didn't feel right to put it out before I put up Ascension. I'm assuming you've read Ascension, and are now following me, the author, because I think there is something like six works in this category. If the name of a weapon or a piece of armor is repeatedly said, e.g. 'blunt dagger,' or 'crusted gladius,' that's probably the name of a weapon in the game.

Without further adieu, enjoy:

A tall young man of years not greater than two and twenty stood over his fields, hoe in hand, looking for any place he could improve upon. It was late summer, and in just a few weeks time, the fall harvest would arrive. After it came, he could sell his produce in Stonebridge, a town only a dozen or so miles' trek from his farm.

This year, he was being even more obsessive over his farm than usual, as he desperately needed any extra money he could earn. It was not least because all his tools were dull and warped, but because he needed to purchase new arms and armor.

Unlike other farmers, he had need of sword and leather because he was the one amongst his neighbors chosen to deal with any threatening 'problems' that arose in their habitations. As an upper farmland resident, bandits and highwaymen posed no threat, as such ne'er-do-wells would far rather steal from the wealthy and the weak, not the near impoverished but labor-forged highland farmers.

No, his enemies were not man, dwarf, elf, goblin, krug, or any of the other peoples of Aranna, but rather starved wolves and the occasional bored bear. Wolves did not attack people unless they had no choice, and bears hardly deigned to bother the evidently not very tasty personage of the highlands. But when these beasts did encroach upon the safety of the farmers, it was his duty to vanquish them. He was paid by the farmers he represented, of course, but they had little to spare, and so it was that he needed extra money to afford his arms and armor.

This handsome man of black hair and short beard would have loved to use a bow to take down his furry foes from afar, but arrows were expensive, and could only be used so many times before they had to be replaced. He would have to train endlessly to hunt effectively, for any animal who posed a threat enough to warrant his attention would certainly not wait patiently for him to kill them from a safe distance. In the case of bears especially, the bows he could possibly afford could never pierce the thick skull of a brown bear, leaving the heart the only option for an instant kill. The chances of this were slim even had he the money to afford the endless practice it would require, and after the missed shot the bear would charge him, and he would come into close combat regardless. So, he had 'purchased' an old and rust-crusted but still relatively sharp gladius from the Black Hammer Forge in Stonebridge. At the time, the proprietor informed him it would take a miracle to slay a bear with a sword like this more than once, as it would surely shatter should it encounter any actual resistance. The man had absolutely refused to take any payment for the weapon he had been about to throw out.

Said he, "It's a crime against the kingdom to rob a man's grave, you know. With that sword in hand and intent to kill a bear, you are a dead man walking. How could I bill you for your own demise?"

The shopkeep had been more than willing, however, to accept payment for the unfinished leather armor the farmer had wanted to buy. Better protection far than decorative leather meant for clothing, but not as effective as true leather armor; it was all the farmer could afford.

That had been three years before this day, and the tanned and mowhawk-ed man had slain countless wolves and a dozen bears with what he'd bought that trip. Despite the shopkeeper's assurance the blade would fail him, with constant cleaning and sharpening, the blade held true for as long as he held it in his hand. The shopkeeper had been so wrong, in fact, that it was stolen before it broke.

About a month earlier, he'd realized his armor and his gladius had vanished in the night. He was furious. He spent the entire day storming through the rocky highlands to meet with each and every one of his neighbors, demanding they tell him if they'd seen anyone suspicious in the past few days. They all said they hadn't, and he'd put aside his anger in favor of fervent farming—rather, fervent messing with his farm. There wasn't all that much he could do in the summer months, but he'd be damned if he didn't try.

The young farmer realized he had begun scowling from his remembrance of the theft, and began to vainly hoe at the ground, desperate to feel he was accomplishing something.

Suddenly, his lazy sheepdog began barking like mad. Startled, the tattoo-scalped man looked to his animal friend, trying to determine the source of his distress. The dog had not had any sheep to herd his entire life, as the only livestock there was really room for in the wooded, mountainous terrain was chickens, which hardly needed guidance, never really moving more than ten feet in a day. As such, the dog barked perhaps only once a month, normally in response to one of his neighbors crossing the wooden footbridge on his property.

As such, after making sure his dog wasn't in danger, he swung his head to the front of his farm, and saw his very-old old-friend and neighbor, Norrick, limping towards him. Initially he did not see the limp, nor the blood, and was about to shout and wave at his elderly companion. Norrick had been a legionnaire in his youth, before an injury that was never properly healed left him in agony when wearing heavy legion armor. Norrick's tales of valor and glory colored the farmer's childhood, and, as his parents had been killed in an accident when he was still a lad of less than ten years, the bald old farmer filled the role of teacher and guardian for the distraught youngster.

When Norrick weakly yelled, "Atlan! Atlan," before coughing desperately, the farmer, Atlan, dropped his hoe and sprinted toward the only man he thought of as family.

"Norrick!" he shouted as he ran. He saw Norrick clutching his side as he limped. Had he been stabbed? Beaten? Was it an animal, or a person?

"What in the name of Azunai the Defender happened, Norrick?!" Atlan bellowed as he reached his clearly dying friend, who collapsed as they both arrived at the footbridge.

"The krug, are attacking!" Norrick panted. "I couldn't, hold them back."

As Norrick fell into a coughing fit, Atlan frantically thought out loud, "Dear Azunai, you're spurting blood like a fountain! What do we do, what do we do? I ran out of healing potions months ago, and I've never been able to use magic, oh dear Azunai, lend me your strength! What do I do, Norrick?!"

Seemingly nearing a moment of respite in his fit, Norrick's hand shot out with surprising speed and grabbed the much younger farmer's arm. He stopped coughing long enough to calm the boy's—man's—panic, explaining, "You have long been my friend, Atlan, but you can do nothing more for old Norrick."

Atlan, for the first time since his parents died, had fear in his eyes. Not panic, as he'd had up until now, not desperation, not hopelessness, not despair. Fear. Because there was nothing he could do. Norrick's life or death was completely out of his hands; he was afraid. He wanted to speak, opened and closed his mouth, tightened his vocal cords as if he were about to say something, but his mind was blank. The only words he spoke were erratic bits of air escaping as he tried to formulate some comfort for his oldest friend.

The trust in Norrick's eyes did not escape Atlan. Nor did the boundless pride. Nor the hope. He could not understand why there was no sorrow, no anger, no anxiety. Only the love a father had for his child.

"Go to Stonebridge," Norrick gasped. "Find Gyorn."

Atlan wanted to say he would, absolutely, but his throat tightened as tears filled out his eyes, and no words left his lips.

"If the krug have elsewhere betrayed us, your bravery will be needed, by the king!"

What?! This was a job for the legion, not a farmer! This was what Atlan thought in his mind, but his body betrayed him, as he forced out a single shouted word with unintended fervor.

"YES!"

Norrick smiled for the last time. He had wanted to say all manner of things to the man he had come to love as he would've a son, wanted to tell him how proud he was, how much he cared. But he felt his time come, and he knew he would not last through it.

Norrick softened his eyes as he dying cried, "Go!"

Atlan inhaled sharply. Norrick really was going to die.

"Now..." the ex-legionnaire could only whisper his last instruction, before he was gone.

Tears ran red hot down Atlan's cheeks as he struggled to keep from sobbing, his face twisted beyond recognition by the effort. He knelt, defeated, as he closed his beloved friend's eyes. There would not be time for a funeral, or even a burial, it seemed. The krug had caused Norrick to die, and the urgency their betrayal would bring would cause Norrick's corpse to rot until the situation was settled. The man had no kin, like Atlan, so there was no one to pay his burial costs or bury him themselves, save Atlan, who would soon be busy fulfilling Norrick's last request.

Norrick believed the matter was urgent enough that he spent his last words on impressing this on Atlan, so Atlan, soon as he could blink the tears from his eyes, stood up, and ran into his house.

He scooped up every last coin he had to his name, hidden in various spots, shoved them in an empty pack, rounded up all his jerky, found his waterskin, and grabbed his knife from the table. He had only ever used it to eat with, but he supposed it was close enough to a sword. He would've used his pitchfork as a weapon, but it barely pierced a bale of hay anymore, and a krug was decidedly tougher than that, even rather flimsy as they were. If only he had his sword and his leather! He had half a mind that the krug had stolen his arms and armor in advance for their attack, but there was no way they do such a thing. Not because they would think it wrong, or think it pointless, but because they could barely think at all. The smartest among them could barely use the simplest of spells—though that was better than him, Atlan supposed. He slung the pack across his back, the weight nothing to him after years in the hot sun, working.

He went next to his sheepdog, still lazing, and knew he had a tough choice to make. His dog was old, nearing the end of his life, and he was not very fast, or very ferocious. He didn't dream of using him in his fight against the krug; he didn't think the dog could even hunt his own food. He felt immense guilt at both options he saw. He could let the poor dog wonder where his master was until he starved to death, unless the business with the krug was less serious than expected, and either he or some other farmer returned for him. Or he could kill the dog now and spare him any suffering, and risk coming to find he could have left him alive. He had no time to think. He had to trust his gut.

He hid the knife behind his right arm, his better arm, as he walked to his dog, who surprised him by actually standing up and bounding to him. Atlan offered his open left hand to the dog, who licked it affectionately. Atlan slid his hand to the dog's head, and scratched behind his ears.

He couldn't do it. What right had he to guess if this dog could survive on his own?

He spoke, "Vrun, you were the finest friend a man could ask for. Where I'm going, you cannot follow. Do not eat the chickens too quickly, and remember to drink water from the stream when you are thirsty. This is goodbye. I'll see you in a while, if I see you again."

Vrun the sheep-less sheepdog barked once before laying back down, and Atlan pretended it was a bark of agreement. It was the only way he could leave without an overly heavy heart.

With that, he set off. He had to walk a few minutes before he saw what Norrick was talking about. He saw a dozen of the grey krug—called scavengers, if his memory served—and he knew why Norrick said he couldn't hold them off. Norrick was an old man, and had an injury that never healed properly. Even against the weakest of the krug, Norrick couldn't fend off a dozen foes.

Luckily, Atlan was stronger, faster, and hardier than Norrick, and krug were as dumb as they were ugly. The grey ones were slow as anything, too. Atlan didn't remember if it was because they were malnourished, being scavengers, or if they just weren't as quick as the others by birth, or what, but he knew as much about the krug as any highlander did. The grey ones are slow, the brown ones are fast. The armored ones are strong, the robed ones are mages. And they're all stupid.

The krug were breaking whatever they saw, trampling on crops, holding torches and bashing the barn with them, not realizing they had already accomplished their fiery intent, continuing to beat an already burning building.

He supposed their eyesight was about as good as their coordination, because he came upon one of them, alone, and it only noticed him after his knife was lodged in its throat.

"Azunai, these things are ugly," Atlan noted quietly to himself as he inspected the creature's weapon. It was a tree branch—and not a very strong or heavy one, at that.

The thing's face was barely even humanoid, more closely resembling a skull than an actual face. Its mouth was more a mismatched collection of large fangs protruding past what would be lips on any other people of Aranna. Its nose was simply two massive nostrils even larger than a human's nose was, and like a skeleton, it just opened parallel to its face. Its ears were not even visible from the front, and Atlan did not feel the need to search for them. Its eyes were red and beady, and it was hairless.

He wasn't sure why the krug were given the distinction of being called people. The other beings called people, he understood, even if he'd never met any. Elves, dwarves, droog, dryads, half giants, and even goblins, as he believed it, were all possessed of an intelligence roughly equal to each other and humans. This was what he felt made them people. These krug, however, did not seem to possess more intelligence than his dog. They barely understood fire-just because a few could speak a few words did not make them as a species intelligent. He had heard of birds that could mimic speech. If those birds were to lose their wings and walk upon two legs, would they be declared people as well?

He then wondered, quite briefly, if these thoughts made him racist. He decided it didn't particularly matter, since he would have to kill them either way.

None of the other krug had noticed their compatriot fall. Perhaps this would be easier than he thought.

Atlan walked furtively towards another one, who had just broken a gate with surprising strength. He walked towards it from behind, but it stopped and turned around for no real reason he could see. It saw him, and instead of raising any sort of alarm, it tried to attack the human in front of it.

While it may have been strong, its swing wasn't very fast, and Atlan easily dodged the... Was that a chair leg?

Before the krug could recover from the missed strike, Atlan kicked it in the stomach, sending it hard to the ground. With a fury, he leapt on the creature, stabbing it until it made no more noise.

In eliminating the rest of the krug, each encounter went much the same, until the last two could not be separated, and he had to take them both down at once. Even this was not very difficult, as he could easily out run them. They knew of no way to use their numbers to their advantage, merely advancing towards him as fast as possible, which was quite slow, indeed. This allowed him to run in, strike one, and run away before they could retaliate. A few more strikes and they were done.

Once again, Atlan wished he had his gladius and his leather. Either one, really. With a real weapon he could have easily cleaved the flimsy grey krug in twain, with his armor he would not fear their swings.

Alas, none had been wearing armor, and none of their weapons were better than his knife. One of them had actually tried to bash him with a bow that could only have been made by one of his neighbors as a joke. It was little more than a stick and twine, and there were no arrows. Even were it a viable weapon, the krug had accidentally smashed it to pieces upon the ground when Atlan dodged the attack.

Atlan sighed in remembrance of the incredible stupidity of the krug, before looking back at his farm one last time.

Wordlessly, he sauntered forth down the rocky path, focusing only on what lay ahead. He needed to cross the small bridge connecting his area on the mountain to that of his neighbors, see who yet lived, and eventually make it to the bridge to Stonebridge-although that bridge, and indeed all bridges near Stonebridge, was made of wood. The town was named after Etan Stonebridge, an extremely rich merchant who lived long ago, and not after any actual bridge that he'd ever seen.

What lay ahead was a few more grey krug hiding in a bush with worthless weapons, and a skrubb. He annihilated the krug as he had the others, before turning his attention to the weird many-legged burrowing animal. Luckily, it was just the farm variety, and its acid spit was easily dodged. It did not attack the krug, for some reason. Atlan had seen quite a few skrubbs, and they tended to attack the first thing they saw, regardless of their ability to kill it. So why had it not attacked the krug? Was it on their side? Did they bring it there? But how could the idiot krug do something so complicated?

His pondering was short-lived, as a couple more grey krug slowly charged across the bridge. Instead of fighting them, Atlan simply kicked them right off the sides. They were too stupid to understand they could fall, and so when he kicked them, they didn't even attempt to stay on the bridge. They probably didn't understand that the bridge was different from solid ground, and assumed they could just get back up. They obviously couldn't, and the extended length of time it took for Atlan to hear their bodies smash against the rocks below reminded him just how high up he was.

He gulped.

After crossing the bridge, he trekked through the forest path, fighting off several more krug, before a brown krug charged at him. This krug used a blunt dagger, and was much more human in its speed. Atlan defeated it, sidestepping and stabbing it through where he assumed its heart was. With the blunt dagger as his new weapon, he tucked his knife in his boot and continued on.

He encountered one of his dead neighbors' corpses, and helped himself to the man's extremely tattered leather armor. Most of the key areas were unprotected, but it was better than nothing. It only fit because it was mostly non-existent. He wondered if the armor was originally at least somewhat destroyed, or if its current condition was due entirely to the krug.

He even encountered hostile phraks, giant flying insects that normally didn't attack people.

Stabbing a phrak through the eyes wasn't too difficult, as its proboscis was unwieldy, and easily warded off with his new blunt dagger.

About halfway to his closest neighbor's house, he came across two brown krug, who charged him. This was his toughest battle yet, but he won by using his 'armor' to deflect one krug's cudgel while he killed the other, then taking care of the cudgel wielder.

Krug continually assaulted him, but he was getting better and better at fighting the little buggers. Even three brown krug at once were not his match any longer.

After half an hour, Atlan finally made it to the first house on the path to Stonebridge. Just before he arrived, he discovered a strange dog, with a mouth filled with incisors, which was faster and stronger than the krug, but its reach meant he could kick it away before it got to him.

The owner of the house was dead, and his house was filled with krug, but one significant gain was to be had: a shield.

One of the krug had used both hands to bash with a rust-covered metal buckler, and when the krug was killed, Atlan found that although the face was rusted, the leather straps still worked.

"Thank Azunai," he remarked.

With a shield, his fights became a lot easier. This was because krug were too stupid to avoid the shield, simply attacking directly in front of them. The rusted metal buckler was still more than strong enough to defend the attacks of the krug, and when they bounced off it, they were wide open to Atlan's assault.

Mowing his way through the farm, killing krug and krug dogs, all similar to the first dog he had come across. Had the krug domesticated these dogs?

At the other end of the farm, Atlan spotted a phrak that shot magic spikes. There were others like it, but this one was enormous. It would have been a tough fight earlier, but with his shield, it was simple.

As he was about to leave the farm, he spotted something that made him smile.

A sharp pitchfork.

It was next to the owner of the farm, who had died wielding it. That meant it was his for the taking.

Makeshift spear in one hand, shield on the other, he began on the path to Edgaar's house, toward Stonebridge.

But then he saw something.

A track.

A bear track.

He knew he shouldn't tangle with it. There was no point. He knew, but still... He followed the track. Back through the farm, through a bit of woods, and into a cave. He crept in the entrance, and saw a sleeping brown bear.

He had one shot.

He took a blunt dagger from his not, and stepped as lightly as he could toward the bear.

He stabbed at its head... and the dagger bounced off.

"Defender, take you!" he cursed, as the bear roared.

He grabbed his pitchfork, and jumped back, putting a little distance between himself and the bear. The bear rushed towards him with surprising speed, and he thrust his pitchfork at the same time.

The result was that the bear practically impaled itself on the spear, the long tines burrowing through its fatty neck, piercing its windpipe and a major artery. It was dead in seconds.

An exhausted laugh later, the victor removed his weapon from the loser's body.

Atlan was about to leave when he noticed what the bear had been sleeping on.

"My armor!" he cried.

The tanned young man walked over to his armor and put it on. There was no doubt it was his, as it bore the familiar gashes and small tears on its well oiled surface. A bite from a wolf on the left leg, four marks from a bear swat on the left side.

"A bear stole my armor? That... That doesn't make any sense!" he lamented.

"Did he steal my sword, too?" he added, hopefully.

He went all the way to the back of the cave and back, looking carefully, but there was only bones. No gladius.

"Azunai preserve me," he curse-prayed.

Still, the farmer was grateful for his armor. It was several layers of thick leather, stitched together, torso and legs. It would protect from the slash of a sword-or the bite of a wolf. Now, with the betrayal of the krug, it would protect from whatever 'weapons' they managed to find.

Once again he found himself walking down the path to his neighbor Edgaar's house, which was on the way to Stonebridge.

More of the same foes filled the well trod path, but with his armor back, he disposed of them without the slightest difficulty. Krug, grey and brown, krug dogs, phraks, and a few skrubbs. Nothing he couldn't handle. He made his way to Edgar's door, which he was surprised to find locked. Edgaar was still alive?

"Edgaar!" he shouted as he banged on the door with his fist. "Edgaar, it's me! Atlan!"

After a few seconds, he heard the bolt click, and the door swung inwards, revealing a very exhausted Edgaar, bleeding from a gash on the left of his ribcage, awfully close to his heart. The aging man none-the-less showed a weak smile to his younger neighbor.

He motioned Atlan to come in, before he closed the door and locked it. Atlan had to step over two brown krug corpses just to make it to the center of the room.

"Edgaar, I'm headed to town," the younger man informed the older. "I'm glad you're alright."

Edgaar laughed once, without humor, and said, "I should've guessed the Highland Drake would be cleaving his way to Stonebridge. I hope you find out what's got the krug all stirred up. They may need your help."

'The Highland Drake,' or just 'Drake,' was a nickname given to Atlan by his neighbors. There were several types of drakes, but Atlan didn't know any of them. However, his neighbors had seen fit to name him after the mythical beasts, likely to make themselves feel safer. Who would not feel better being protected by a lesser dragon? He did not think he deserved the nickname, and it bothered him originally, but he had heard it so much that it no longer fazed him when he heard it.

"If you have a few minutes to help an old neighbor," Edgaar began to ask, "then I have a favor to ask, Drake."

Without thinking, Drake answered, "Yes? What is it?"

Edgaar laughed again without emotion, before explaining, "When I realized the krug were actually attacking us, I tried to get to the safety of my cellar, but they had a little welcome-party waiting for me."

He looked Drake in the eyes and suggested, "If you need supplies for the trek to Stonebridge, and wouldn't mind clearing out the rest of the krug downstairs, you can help yourself to whatever you need from my stores."

Drake thought to himself before asking, "Have you got any health potions?"

Edgaar grinned deprecatingly and gestured to his wound.

"What do you think?"

Drake shook his head in realization of his foolishness. After a few seconds, he asked, "Are you alright?"

Edgaar sat down on his bed and put his head in his hands for a few moments.

"I didn't think they had it in them to raise a hand against us," he mused out loud, before shaking his head and laughing hopelessly. "I guess I was wrong."

He looked to Drake and told him, "Don't worry about me, Drake. Once you've cleared the krug from my basement, I should be able to stay safe until this whole thing passes."

"Alright then," Drake accepted, before heading out the door.

He made his way towards the cellar as he heard the lock being reset on the front door.

Without giving himself time to question his actions, the Drake of the Highlands opened the twin doors leading down into the cellar, favoring his shield as he tried to let his eyes readjust to the growing darkness. Torches had been lit, but it was still darker than optimal.

Drake had enough time to wonder if krug could see in the dark before two brown ones charged at him, one with a bone of some animal, the other with another chair leg.

Drake offered up a quick prayer for his deceased neighbor for keeping his pitchfork sharpened.

Looking around the room, Drake saw a few shelves, but the krug had destroyed most of what was in there. He did, however, find a pair of durable gloves. He hadn't thought he would need gloves when he left his farm, as it would have made wielding his knife much harder. Now that he was using a larger weapon, however, he could easily trade more protection for a little dexterity.

He'd begin to blister soon, anyways.

There was another, smaller room off the left of this one, and a group of three grey krug occupied it briefly, before a pitchfork entered each of them in succession. This room had several boxes within it, but the only notable find was another pair of leather gloves, which Drake stowed in his pack for when his current gloves needed to be replaced.

He almost turned around and left the cellar to notify Edgaar, but he noticed a metal grate on the floor.

"Hmm?" he sounded aloud.

"Aha!" he declared, as he stood on the grate, and pushed an easy to miss stone button on the wall with the back of his pitchfork.

The grate turned out to be an elevator of sorts, and it began to descend. How it worked, Atlan, the Highland Drake, had no idea.

He looked down, and wanted to strangle Edgaar.

He was about to descend into a crowd of more than five krug at once.

And one of them was twice as big as any krug he'd ever seen.