Aaaand another one!

Date: September 4, 1048 AD

High sunrise | 8:31 AM

Chop. Chop. Chop.

Wood splinters fly from the tree's trunk as I drive my axe deep into it, over and over again. Winter will be here soon, so we need to gather wood to prepare. It's already getting quite cold.

I take a moment to wipe the sweat from my brow. No matter the temperature, hard work will do that to you. The tree just won't give in to the gentle persuasion that I'm giving it. Nope. He doesn't want to fall. The trunk, much thicker than it looks, seems to be laughing at me.

"Make way!" somebody yells out in a different area of the forest. I head the unmistakable creak of a tree slowly tilting.

CRASH. I can't see where it fell, but I could certainly hear it. Joseph's doing a good job. I need to give him a pay raise. I can hear my fellow 'chops bantering and chuckling, interspersed with the sound of axes on wood. Another tree bites the dust. This one must have been large; I can feel the ground shaking from here.

My tree finally splits, bringing down a long strip of the trunk with it. It's an old oak. "Break time!" I call to my employees, staggering to a nearby log and sprawling over it, my forehead covered with sweat.

Now that I'm not working, I can feel the subtle cold of winter creeping into autumn, balanced pleasingly with the heat of the sun. The woodchops - some of the traders who come into the village call them lumberjacks - set down their axes and take seats wherever they can find. Joseph takes out a homemade flute from his pack and plays a nice tune, something that seems familiar to me, but I can't place where from. A warm breeze runs through the forest, throwing my untrimmed hair into my face. I brush it out, ignoring the chuckles of a few of my employees.

I stand and walk around the clearing. Large trees are lying everywhere, perfectly separated from their trunks. I smile with satisfaction at a job well done. "That's enough for today, gentlemen," I call. "Whisper Lane will open soon, we don't want to miss that!"

A group of four laughs with glee and immediately shoots up, taking their bags and running back to the village. All of the others leave in their own time; in a few minutes, Joseph and I are left alone in the clearing. He stops playing his flute and puts it back in its box, which he sticks likewise in his bag. The huge man, with skin the color of rich licorice, smiles and gives a respectful nod. "Have a good day, boss," he says, taking his bag and striking out for the village.

I wave in a friendly way and gather my things before putting all the axes in our shed; it's my turn to do so. Once I've finished, I make my way out of the forest. I look forward to a busy, crowded day at Whisper Lane - the central marketplace - followed by a quiet, peaceful evening in an armchair by the hearth, writing my novels. Or perhaps a few drinks at the Joint Hemlock, the tavern closest to my home. The barmaid's quite pretty. Alexandria, I believe her name is, but everybody calls her Alex. She's friends with everyone and everyone's friends with her.

I slow down when the village comes into view. It never ceases to steal my breath away, what with how quickly it's growing. It's built almost entirely from oak and spruce, with thatched roofs wherever you look. Somebody's hung flowerpots from his upper windowsill, and they sway nicely in the breeze. The path, made from old, cracked cobblestones, is packed with people on their way to Whisper Lane. The settlement is filled with sound, with speech, with laughter, with joy.

Welcome to Gardevale, my childhood and my home.

My face breaks out into a wide grin as I walk jovially down the cobblestone path. Hundreds of people come out here every seven Mondays, which is when Whisper Lane opens for trade. I am greeted by many familiar faces, and many unfamiliar ones as well. "Good morning, Steve!" a woman calls to me from across the rapidly-filling street. I give a wave and take a right at the next crossroads, before backtracking to go to my house - I've forgotten my money and the items I want to trade. There's a market for almost anything at Whisper Lane.

I step quickly up the steps of my front porch and enter the startlingly darkened house. I take my large, heavy satchel from the wall and sprint back out, locking the door behind me in obedience to a years-old habit. Garish banners flutter from people's windows. Whisper Lane is serious business in Gardevale; we're quite big on trading. Our love for it is probably what's caused the growth of the village. It's in our blood, as my father used to say. Good old Markus, bless him.

Tying my simple rope belt as I go and wiping the grime from work in the forest on my trademark cyan shirt, I dodge at least thirty people on my way. Stopping to catch my breath, bent over with my hands on my knees, I listen to the bustling crowd. They're happy, and that makes me happy. I take a swig of water from the flask I keep at my hip, almost spraying it out when I start coughing from breathing so hard. I take a moment to regain my composure and make my way to my first destination, accidentally stepping on the feet of those unfortunate enough to be in my way. "Sorry!" I yell to many.

"Hello, Steve," the owner of the tent I finally reach says, hefting a few large glass sculptures off his table. "What can I do for you today?" He grins, accentuating his gold tooth and his exceptionally hairy chin, although it would probably be overstatement to call it a beard. He's one of the few here that I know personally; he's one of my employees among the woodchops.

"You certainly got here quick, Adam," I say with a smile. "I'm here to sell."

"May I see your wares? I'm a busy, busy man."

I look behind me. Nobody's in line for the stall. I turn back, an eyebrow rising in skepticism.

We stare at each other, and we burst out laughing.

"I have some a beautiful table set," I reply. "Five plates, five teacups, assorted saucers and silverware, and a few glasses. They're over a century old. Starting price is sixty mires."

"Show me the goods," he says, his grin widening. He isn't a very good conman, which I'm glad for, but he's not a very good haggler either, which might be why he's had such bad business these last several months. He usually gives up a substantial portion of his money for pretty trinkets.

I place the items very carefully on the table, gently removing their protective cloths. He lets out a low whistle at the brightly-colored glass, which seems to shimmer in the high sunrise. He shakes his head and says, "Forty-five."

"Sixty is underpriced as it is, and it's where I'm staying."

"Fifty?"

We argue and discuss for a few minutes more, him slowly drawing his suggested offer closer to sixty. We finally agree on fifty-eight, and shake hands as is our custom before I go on my way. I smile as I hear Adam's calls of what he has for sale or trade. The antique glassware is certainly turning some heads. There's already a group forming for auction.

Hours later, at lower noon, my satchel is bulging with more items and more coins - a copper coin is a harm, a tin coin is a favour and worth twenty-nine harms, and a gold coin is a mire and worth eighteen favours. By low moonrise, most of the people have cleared out of Whisper Lane, aside from a few last-minute traders - such as me - and the booth owners they're buying from or selling to. Eventually, I am satisfied and make my way out. "Any luck?" I ask Adam, but I already know the answer: the grin on his face is joyous.

"Ninety-two mires, boss, and promise of more next Whisperday!" he says, his heart obviously bursting with excitement. I applaud him and we both go to the Joint Hemlock for drinks.

We enter the tavern. The atmosphere is unusually peaceful, although that may be because Joseph's father, just as muscular and bulky as him, is part time bouncer. A small group is playing a delightful melody on drums and lutes at the raised stage to my right. A bell rings above the door and the beautiful barmaid looks up from the glass she's filling with beer. I raise a hand in greeting and smile shyly.

Adam lets out a quiet chuckle and nudges me. I give him a look and step up to the bar to make my order. Alex finishes the mug she's filling and moves on to me. "What can I get for you?" she asks, her face lit up more by her charming smile than by the dim lamp hanging from the ceiling.

"I - uh. . . ." My voice falters as she leans on the bar, further emphasizing her ample, well-known curves.

"He might take a bit to decide," Adam says, covering for me, although Alex's amused expression shows that she already knows why I'm hesitating. "One single-malt whiskey, dear," he orders. "Large."

"You got it," Alex replies, already pouring the drink into a tall mug. I jump slightly when sudden yelling comes from a close table, and the bouncer, Albert, looks up from his post by the door. He seems to decide it's not anything harmful when they all start laughing and quiet down a bit.

"Now, what can I do for you?" She turns to me again. I'm uncomfortably aware that I'm probably blushing profusely.

"Just-a-small-white-wine-please-nothing-more-thank-you!" The words simply tumble out of my mouth, much faster than I would have liked. She lets out a giggle and takes the wine from under the counter, filling a small glass with it. I take the glass and give her a nod, which she returns with a radiant smile.

I sit down at Adam's table, sipping the wine. Adam is eying me, obviously trying not to laugh. I roll my eyes. "Drop it, Adam," I say, gesturing with my hand to add to the request. He gives a short bark of a laugh. "Your 'secret'," he starts, making quotations with his fingers, "is safe with me."

I notice movement in the corner of my eye. Somebody just stood up. Montgomery, somebody I know but I'm not exactly friends with, is walking over to our table. He isn't drunk, which is a bit unusual.

"You heard the rumors?" he inquires, laying his one-eyed stare on Adam and I. Adam narrows his eyes. "Nope," he replies. "What rumors?"

Uninvited, Monty takes a seat. "Friend of a friend showed me to this guy." He points his thumb over his shoulder. In the corner, blending almost perfectly with the dark, is a large man, remarkably similar to Albert except his hair is a light gray color. He is wearing equally dark clothing; an odd shape at his hip could be a flask, or a bag, or even a sword sheathe, although the punishments for taking one of those in here would be severe, not to mention you wouldn't have many teeth after Albert throws you out on the cobblestones.

"What about him?" Adam asks, far more quietly than I've ever heard him before.

"Ask him yourself. Ask him 'bout the zombies."

"Zombies? What's that?" I interrupt.

"Ask him. His name's Nathan Johnson."

Monty takes a sip of Adam's whiskey and walks out of the door. Adam and I exchange glances, and then we turn to Nathan.

"Are we going to do what he says?" he asks, his voice still quiet.

"...Why not?"
We rise from our seats and go over to Johnson's table.

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