Brod of Morgenthal woke up in a stone coffin in the most pitch black of darkness, a swiftly fading feeling of having been awoken by a distant bell nesting at the back of his mind. He knew nothing but his name and that he once had a pet cat named Hobbes. Also, that his favorite soup was fish and onion. And he knew that he had two sisters, he knew how to make rope out of nothing but reeds, he knew how to read, but was aware that he couldn’t write very well. He knew from hearsay that his birth had been difficult, but he also knew that he was born free, and he knew…

Perhaps Brod knew a bit more than nothing. However, knowing all the kings of Morgenthal down to the thirtieth generation and all their exploits, knowing how to seem erudite and philosophical as well as where the fourteen lethal spots on the human body were located wouldn’t help with the predicament he was currently facing.

It was dark, very much so, and he felt something cold made of metal lying on his face.

He tried to take it off but couldn’t move his arms.

He tried to turn his face, but his neck cracked at the slightest movement.

He tried to push it off with his tongue, but even with his prodigious power (that he was totally holding back on purpose and not at all unable to summon), it only wiggled a bit to the side.

“Ah, thou art awake already.” Said a weird voice. It was weird because it seemed unfamiliar, and it was unfamiliar in a way that was decidedly non-human.

“Murp!” said Brod. “Mra!”

It hurt to talk, like pulling reeds out with bare hands except that in this case, the inside of his throat was the bare hands. Still, cuts were something he had grown familiar with from a young age and pain was something that always went hand in hand with growing up where he had.

Brod didn’t let that bother him and instead tried to figure out why exactly it was that he couldn’t talk. It would be embarrassing to answer like a moaning Grug or not at all and while embarrassment was something he felt all too familiar with as well, he preferred physical pain over shame. By a large margin.

“Mru? MmmmmmMMMMMa. Mo. Mi. Mei.”

“Heh. The eloquence of those of Morgenthal truly knows no equal.”

Brod felt slightly mocked as he continued to test the range of sounds he could produce.

“Murrr. Rrrrrr. Brraah. Skrap!”

“There is no need to overexert thyself, giant. Though art frail like a newborn larva. Consider thyself as such and listen close.”

“Skop. Bop. Pop. Sop.”

“Thou art confused, no doubt.”

“Rop. Rrrum. Rubbop.”

“Aftraid, most likely.”

“Rrrah. Rrroh. Skaah. Skiddah.”

The voice dropped its air of politeness, having grown increasingly annoyed with every sound of Brod.

“Will you stop talking for one whole second?”

“Skiddap. Skiddop. Kidd–urgh!”

Brod fell into a nasty coughing fit, at the end of which he could taste copper at the tip of his lips. He decided that now that he found his limit of diction, it was time to be still and maybe let whoever was talking like their unreasonably rich uncle had beat them once too many times get a word or two in. Maybe a few more, Brod’s throat was beginning to really hurt.

“… Worga above, give this fool the strength to live despite shredding his throat and drowning in his own blood.”

… that didn’t sound very reassuring. Brod remained motionless, trying to pin exactly why this voice felt so inexplicably inhuman to him.

“Ugh, I shouldn’t have gone for the giant. A safe pick, mother said. Yes, he’s big, of course he’s strong, but what does it help either of us if his brain is made of mushed moldy maggots?”

Brod felt unfairly stereotyped. Just because one was big and strong and knew how to uproot a tree with one’s bare hands didn’t mean that one also couldn’t be well read and written and have thoughts on things like life and existence and the age-old question of ‘why does cheese make every food better?’.

Brod had many thoughts, none of which he could share right now, sadly. He would have loved to prove the voice wrong with his eloquent retellings of the battle of Caramour (though he only knew that it happened and not how) or the philosophical musings of the great Hippopopates. But, seeing as that wasn’t going to happen, Brod started wiggling the rest of his body in the hopes that it would turn out better than his voice and that he was maybe just stuck a bit.

The voice, meanwhile, continued rambling on about unimportant things and just bemoaning its fate in general. Brod didn’t pay much attention to it. If it belonged to a friend, they would have helped him out of whatever hole he was stuck in already. If it belonged to a foe, they would have run a knife through his guts. Either way, he could worry about that later. First, he had to check what he could and could not move.

Arms? Fastened together in some way. Chains rattling.

Legs? Nope, no real movement there either.

Hands and feet? Nada.

Toes and fingers? Wiggle-able.

Good. Brod could work with that.

“Woe is me, a poor little froggy, destitute of luck and fortune and no fair rain nor waters neither.”

How dramatic.

While the disembodied voice – henceforth known to Brod as Froggy – continued groaning and whining, Brod closed his eyes and conjured up the image of a mountain. He was the mountain, big and heavy, and his roots were stuck deep in the ground. But every movement he made, no matter how small it was to him, would eventually wear down the dirt that was keeping him lying in the ground.

And so, he wiggled. And twisted and turned. He rolled his hand, flexed his arms, then relaxed them again. He lolled his head from side to side and while it hurt, he noticed it giving way more and more with each round as he went. Almost in a trance, he felt his body heat up, getting warmer and fuller until he heard a sound that should have been there all along.

Dum. Da-dum. Dum. Da-dum.

It was his heart, beating to a lethargic rhythm. He kept calm as feeling returned to his body and a cold sweat followed soon thereafter. Where was he? Why was he here? And why the hell could he distinctly remember that he should not have been alive anymore? Brod died, that he knew. But he knew not how nor when nor why. Not if he died in battle or of sickness or poison or other.

Brod redoubled his efforts to get out of his current restraints that were feeling more and more like a full body entombment. He licked his lips and with one final thrust and a jerk of his neck, he managed to push whatever was on his face off. It fell, clattered to the side making the sound of a heavy metal on rock.

Now he could see. But only just, as the all-encompassing darkness gave way to a rather muted black, focused here and there in an odd grainy tone of gray and grayer. He was lying down, but not at exactly ground level as he could not see the floor while craning his head as far as he could to the left.

However, what he did see was a small frog-like shape sitting on a nearby rock, head buried in hands that ended in big sticky fingers. Judging by the sounds of lament and garbled curses coming from it, it was the voice from before.

The frog looked up at him. If any frog could give the impression of looking surprised, it would have been this one and Brod was somewhat bemused by the idea that a frog of all things was what had been awaiting his awakening. He was expecting a disappointed father, a martial sister or a cat demanding to be fed. But he was evidently not at home nor in any inn he could recognize. His ‘bed’ was made of solid rock and the padding surrounding himself on all sides felt squishy, like sitting in a jar full of mud.

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“Well… that was quick.” It said. “Though, I cannot help but notice you are still somewhat… stuck in the muck, so to say. Someone really did a number on you there. You must have had many enemies in your first life.”

Brod looked down and indeed, a dense, dark and clay-like substance had buried him in some parts. He realized now with some clarity that he was not in a bed, but a sarcophagus, a stone coffin. Which implied many things, but first above all, Brod had to get out and get up.

“Now, it seems not all my hopes were for naught. He lives again, in body and soul. Though I am still somewhat skeptic, whether the tales are overblown or entirely authentic.”

Brod lifted a leg, turned a hip and the black earth before him bulged and cracked. He wheezed and huffed, moving his limbs as far as they would go. The mud around him felt springy and every time he thought he could break the surface, it merely deformed and sunk back again once the strength left him. Yet Brod would not be bested in a contest of strength by mere black dirt.

A shuffle, a moan and a chitter coming from nowhere suddenly had him staring into the dark. He couldn’t see far, maybe five or six feet, but even then, something was telling him that he was not alone out here.

At the edge of darkness, there stood a man. Completely unclothed, but for an old, tattered loincloth and carrying nothing but a crude axe. He was gaunt, impossibly so, yet where he carried his weapon, his arm was bulging grotesquely.

“Uh-oh. Time to hop.” Said the frog and jumped away. “Best of luck to you, giant. Prevail now or perish forever.”

Brod kept completely still. He wasn’t scared, of course. He was of Morgenthal and those of Morgenthal knew neither fear nor pain nor hardship nor death. That is how it went, but evidently, Brod had indeed come to know death at some point and right now, a sliver of fear was not entirely unwarranted at the encroaching unknown.

Brod wouldn’t go down without a fight. Though, he wasn’t exactly up yet either and both still being half buried in what he was convinced was some form of wicked tar as well as having metal shackles clinking on his wrists made him think that if it came to one, it would not be a fair fight.

The other man was clearly outmatched. He didn’t know what Brod of Morgenthal was capable of, let him come!

The man took a step forward.

Let him come later! Brod had other things to worry about at the moment. One moment! That was all he needed. If only he could get out of this. Damn. Muck.

The man stood right next to him, staring blankly at Brod’s face.

Shitbaskets.

The axe went up and came down like a heavy cleaver onto Brod’s chest. It cut through the rubber mud, then hit something over his chest that, while made of metal, only prevented the cutting aspect of the strike. The force of the strike itself still carried through and Brod felt something in his chest crack as the impact reverberated through his flesh and bones.

He felt that one.

The arm pulled back, readying above the man’s head to strike anew. Brod had by no means finished excavating his body and the progress he had made was mostly centered around his shackled arms and feet.

The strike came again, yet somehow, it didn’t hit Brod himself. Instead, it smashed into the stone rim of his coffin, sparks flying out before the darkness swallowed them up. Brod struggled with renewed vigor, though a sharp pain in his chest was now added to the general pain in his joints.

Come. On. Come on. One. Two. One. Two. One–

A third time, the strike came.

Brod’s hands broke the earth.

A clang of metal on metal resounded through the air. Brod held his breath before recognizing that he had caught the axe in the chains between his shackled hands.

Just as planned, of course. And now, to turn tables.

Brod breathed in until the dirt above his chest bulged outwards. Then, in one swift motion, he tugged the axe back and over his head, sending the wielder first stumbling, then falling onto him. Brod waited another few split seconds before surging up with his entire upper body to meet the man’s face with his forehead.

A crunch sounded out as Brod felt the distinct sensation of teeth grinding along his skull. Brod rolled the man’s limp body off himself and smashed the assailants face with both his hands to finish him off. He sat there, legs still buried and huffing hard, his heart thump-thump-thumping to a loud, constant rhythm.

On glory’s wings we last forever! A memory shouted inside his mind.

He shook his head andwiggled free of his confines. He tried to stand up and he even succeeded after only five attempts. While he felt unsteady on his feet, he was left standing in the end where his enemy was not. He looked down at the motionless body, the one that had hidden quite an unexpected level of strength within its small frame. Small only when compared to Brod, of course.

The muscles on the bulging arm detached themselves, chittered angrily and jumped away. Brod blinked and after a moment of consideration, resolved to erase it from his memory. He was not crazy. Though on the other hand, he did hear a voice earlier. It belonged to a frog which was already not a good indication that he was in his right mind.

Regardless, the voice had called him a giant and as he stood to his full height, rolled his shoulders and stretched his knees, he truly did feel like one. He wagered himself to be around six and a half feet tall and as he looked down, the ground was indeed a familiarly far distance away. While the weight of his body did not rest comfortably on his legs, he put that down to part of the weirdness that came with his current circumstance. He had just climbed out of a grave after all.

He turned around towards it and seeing the vaguely him-shaped hole in the tar-like ground only confirmed what he feared to have been true. He had died and now he was back from the grave.

To be precise, Brod didn’t fear it much more than fearing an uncertain night at sea. Brod didn’t fear anything, so he claimed, and where he could he backed it up with actions. He backed many things up with actions, as his unfortunate foe had come to know, and while he was not stupid, he preferred not to dwell on things for too long.

Why did he come out of his grave? He had no idea, but he was alive and somewhat well now.

Where was he? Flung back into the mortal realm, in the afterlife or one of its many forms? – It didn’t make much difference if everything was pitch black. Brod would treat every threat as real and make every decision as if he were alive.

Why was he so sure that he was even called Brod of Morgenthal? – Well for one, it stood there, word for word, on a tombstone above his not so final resting place.

Brod leaned down and got a closer look.

Here lyeth,

fallen giant of faraway lands,

Brod of Morgenthal,

may the gods forgiue transgression,

may [Illegible] claim hise soul,

and let it return to rest withinne,

the land above and oure vaunted gods.

Thirteenth herveis moon,

Seuenth century of the ayge of wan.

“Huh” he thought and committed the inscription to memory. The word ‘transgression’ chafed uncomfortably in his mind, but at the mention of gods, a memory rang forth. He closed his eyes and thanked Ubrus, his patron god, also known as he who knew victory even in defeat, for giving him the chance to prove that he could as well.

He paused for a minute, looking at the body on the ground, and before he could think any further, he knew what needed to be done. He took the axe in both hands, chained together as they still were, and cut deeply into the neck of his former assailant, separating it fully. Then, he took the head and buried it where he had lain.

“I” he thought “dedicate this victory to Worga, goddess of conquest. May I live long enough to bring glory to your name and may the blood wash away my shame.”

He blinked, confused at the last part. ‘Wash away his shame’, was it? What did Brod have to be ashamed of? Nothing, as far as he knew. And yet the feeling itself persisted, of having done something wrong, some invisible mistake hiding behind the veil of his spotty memories. He didn’t like it one bit.

“Woah.” A familiar voice rang out from far below.

Brod looked around, confused as he didn’t see where the voice was coming from. He looked to the floor and realized that the small frog was back again. It was an odd creature, completely devoid of any hint of animalistic dullness, composed almost as if it were a person. Brod knew that if it was talking to him, he might as well consider it one. Albeit having beaten an early retreat didn’t engender much sympathy for the creature.

Then again, it was just a frog. It could talk, but that was the extent of its capabilities. And Brod didn’t remember anyone slaying an enemy with but words and spit. Besides the great scholar Hippopopates, maybe, though he was not a frog.

“So. It seems this might work out after all.” The frog said, hesitation in its voice. “That is, if you would be willing to listen to a suggestion of mine.”

Brod didn’t see why he shouldn’t listen to a frog. It was small and it could do him no real harm. He was smarter than it, most likely. The mind is stored in the heart and his was loud and mighty.

The creature waited patiently for some form of answer. Brod gave it a nod as he breathed in and smelled the smell of iron and dirt pervading his senses. The frog smiled, as if it had somehow picked up on the slight feeling of happiness creeping through Brod’s body.

“Well, that is good then. I may have been overly hasty in meting out judgement. For that, I ask your forgiveness.” It closed its eyes and gave a short bow to Brod.

Brod thought back to when the frog had in effect called him dense. He weighed the insult against how he felt nothing in particular about it and found that it didn’t move the scales much at all. He shrugged and squatted down until he could touch the frog. He put a single finger to its head and gave it a gentle pat.

“I” The frog said and moved its head to the side. “… shall take that as you forgiving me. But in the future, please do not touch me of your own accord. It is uncomfortable and irritates my slime glands.”

Brod noted it down and gave the frog a big smile. The frog cleared its throat, as far as that was possible for a frog, and seated itself back into an upright, almost regal position. Brod suppressed a chuckle at the frog trying to play at being human, trying to remain polite despite the amusing picture it painted in front of him.

“So. As you may have noticed, you woke up in your own grave.”

Brod nodded.

“And you may also have seen that there are others out here, others with downright villainous intent.”

Brod double nodded.

“And lastly, you may have noticed that it is dark and that your body isn’t exactly in peak condition and possibly a few other things I will glance over for the sake of brevity for now.”

Brod gave a look like the frog was saying cheese is delicious.

“Well, what if I said that I could change that? Not in a ‘snap your fingers’ manner, but by giving you, well… a chance?”

Brod still didn’t really understand what the frog was getting at. Was it a magical frog, if those even existed? Well, if it was offering help, Brod was willing to at least listen. He didn’t need help but getting some light would be nice. A torch, a lantern, or something similar. Also, something to eat and drink. Brod was starving and he felt he could use a drink or four to start the day. Night. Whatever.

After a moment, Brod motioned the frog to continue on.

“You are a giant, tall, strong, and equipped with sense enough. I am a frog, small, weak, yet with more wisdom of this world than you could imagine and who has lived through these dark times, doubtlessly to live longer yet. Together, we could be more than alone, could we not?”

Brod raised an eyebrow, but the frog continued regardless, bearing an uncannily human smile lined with fat, glistening, white molars.

“I offer thee a concord, ‘thaler.”