The first tendrils of a new days warmth found Cheese staring up at the rough-hewn beams of his ceiling already wide awake, the morning mist creeping in through the cracks in the walls. Cheese remembered cutting those beams as a young man of 16. He had done the work with his father, cutting them down with the elder man, and riding them down the river. The faint clucking of his hens, which had been gifts from his parents on his 18th nameday some ten years ago, outside told him it was time to get up. Yet the man lingered a moment longer his vacant vision pointed at the ceiling, eyes fixed on the familiar Skill Window hovering at the edge of his vision.
[Axework: 14]
The number hadn’t changed in over two years. In Timberbrook, a town steeped in the work of lumber and woodcraft, level 14 in Axework was a common bottleneck. Most men stayed at 14 for life, their potential capped as though some invisible hand held them back. Only the few who had the rare combination of endurance, skill, and luck broke through to level 15. At that level, they were considered masters, their names whispered with respect in the workshops and workhouses. Cheese knew his father, years ago, had reached level 15 in Woodcarving, a feat that earned him a place of honor among the townsfolk. He had become a master crafter, and his skill was celebrated by the entire town. And they all wondered if this trait would be passed down to his son Switzler, who everyone called Cheese. His father, while a respected man, had decided to name the boy after his favorite brand of cheese. The nickname had stuck so long that Cheese didn't even question it anymore. He simply referred to himself as Cheese just like everyone else did.
He rolled out of bed, stretching his sore arms. Last night’s sleep had barely taken the edge off the ache in his shoulders, but he was used to that. He worked hard, trained his skills diligently, yet Axework never climbed past that stubborn fourteen. The other skills he’d developed over time—Cooking at 8, Mending at 10, Animal Handling at 7—were varied, but none of them had reached 14.
Outside, the morning was damp and quiet. After stopping to light the fire and putting on the kettle and iron Cheese went over to his small flock of hens, reaching into the nesting boxes to pull out four warm eggs. A low clucking from his favorite hen, a dusty brown girl he called Mags, was his only greeting. He patted her head before heading back inside, cradling the eggs in his calloused hand.
Setting the eggs on the table, he grabbed a hunk of cheese and some sasuage he’d gotten from his friend Ibron, who lived next door. Ibron had a knack for bartering and managed to secure fresh cheese from one of the traders who passed through Timberbrook on occasion, and the sasuage came from the mans brother, a butcher in the town. Ibron always saved a piece or two for Cheese, who paid him back with help repairing tools and stacking lumber. Though he said it was just because he liked to barter, and procuring cheese for the lumberman gave him joy... and a healthy trading skill of 10. It had gown the previous week.
Cheese threw on the sausage as he thought of the morning. The air was nice, He cracked the eggs into a bowl, gave them a quick whisk, and poured them into his worn iron skillet beside the sausage. They sizzled as they hit the pan, filling the air with a warm, savory smell. He took out his hatchet and began cutting some onions he had on the table. As he chopped, he tried not to think too much about his Axe work skill. He tried to focus on his onions. He loved these small additions in his eggs, and cutting them was a joy. But the number seemed to mock him. It was as though no matter how much wood he split or how many hours he spent at the mill, he was destined to stay mediocre. Even his recent addition of cooking with his hatchet was simply a punch at the fates that locked him down so thoroughly.
Cheese added the onions to the eggs, and with a swift series of cuts he began to shop the cheese into quick small squares. He added those squares to the center of the eggs in a pile, and then flipped the omelet closed with a deft twist of the hand.
After a few minutes of waiting, he added the eggs and sausage to a plate, and added his warm water from the kettle to a cup. Cheese loved tea, but he simply didn't have the money to pay anyone to collect the herbs, and he didn't have the time to collect them himself, so he had plain warm water with his meal. It didn't make the flavors any less enjoyable, and he devoured the meal quickly.
Breakfast finished, Cheese rinsed his bowl and skillet in a small basin of water and went outside to start his day properly. He grabbed his two buckets and made his way to the town’s well, where most folks gathered for their daily supply of water. The air was crisp, and thin wisps of mist still clung to the ground. Timberbrook had always had a quiet beauty in the early hours, before the sounds of axes and saws filled the air. It was a small community on the side of a large waterway, the river Tiberio. Timberbrrok boasted a modest population of some 150 families, and some 60 unmarried men ranging from 16 to 35. That was simply the type of comunity it was, there were no single women of marrying age here, and a man who lived in Timberbrook lived for one reason. The art of woodcraft.
The well sat in the center of Timberbrook, a simple stone structure with a thick rope and sturdy crank. This morning, a few early risers were already gathered—women with baskets slung over their shoulders, young boys carrying empty pails, and older men leaning on staffs and chatting about the day’s work. No one around his own age had bothered to come yet. Cheese was unusual in that way. The man eventually spotted his parents approach on the other side of the well as, his mother chatting with the new smith, and his father examining an axe the man had made with a critical eye.
“Morning boy,” his father greeted him, looking up as Cheese approached. As cheese looked he saw his father’s Skill Window [Axework: 23], a badge of honor that few in Timberbrook could claim. They were a party, and that afforded them to see each others "Badge” skills, those being the primary skill that they selected to show. It was possible to broadcast the skill to all, but it was seen as gaudy and for a man of his fathers skill it would be simple boasting. “Early to the well today.”
“Better to start before the rush,” Cheese replied, lowering his bucket into the cool water. He pulled it up slowly, muscles straining as he hauled the full pail up over the stone lip. “Morning to you, too, Mother.”
She looked away from the merchant who she was in a heated conversation and smiled at him, her eyes warm and lively. “How’s the mill treating you?”
Cheese shrugged, his expression unreadable. “Still the same.” He tried to sound casual, but the frustration was evident in his body language.
His father placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “You’re doing well, son. And were all proud of the man you're becoming”
Cheese’ vision drifted over to old man Gelkrin. He was an elderly man of some 60 years, and above his head floated [Axework: 14] he replied with a noncomittal “Thanks”
His father just nodded, as though he’d read his sons mind. And maybe he had. They finished filling their pails, exchanged a few more words, and Cheese set off back to his small home.
Once back, he grabbed his axe and set off toward the lumberyard nestled in a bend in the river, his boots crunching in the gravel of the path leading through Timberbrook. The town was built on lumber; sawdust and the smell of fresh-cut pine were ever-present. Everyone here worked in woodcraft or supported the lumber trade in some way. The whole town pulsed with the rhythm of axes and saws, from dawn to dusk.
At the yard, the familiar sight of piled logs, wood shavings, and sawdust greeted him. The other workers were already at it, swinging their axes in smooth, practiced arcs. Cheese took his place at his designated log pile, glancing at Maren, his fathers chief foreman, who was supervising a few apprentices on proper splitting technique.
“Cheese! Fir logs today,” Maren shouted over the din. “Try to keep a steady pace; don’t need ‘em all done at once and if you pile on swimmers will loose their minds!”
Cheese gave a brief nod, gripping his axe tightly. The tool was sturdy, though beginning to wear down, and it felt almost like an extension of his arm by now. He took aim at the bark of the first log. And thought about the motions for a moment before he began. He had started as a feller all those years ago. Fellers dropped trees in the nearby woods, and then cartmen brought them here. Men like himself processed the logs in the morning taking any excess branches off them and preparing the magority of them to be pushed off down the river. Then the real work began. But for now he got to it. He began quickly chopping and lopping off the smaller branches that had been missed. He deftly split any conjoined logs, and made them workable for later down the line. Some he took the bark off and pushed them aside for use here in town. Bark a tree, shave a tree, on to the next. Bark a tree shave, a tree, on to the next. In two hours the young man went through 34 of the firs, his arms never stopping. Then he paused, deep breaths going in and out as he leaned back, his arms and face covered in sweat.
[Axework: 14]
The familiar feeling of frustration crept in, though he tried to ignore it. The system was strict, each swing of the axe contributing to experience, yet progress was agonizingly slow. Axework required endurance and precision, and though he’d honed both over years, level 15 remained out of reach. Even though he slaved day in and day out, and each strike was as precise as possible, he was missing something.
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Hed already worked through the mornings due, piling his logs logs and stacking them neatly. So he left his work and joined the team of boys who were nearby doing the pine. The four were grateful for his help and followed his lead. Each strike reverberated through his arms, the rhythm a steady beat that let his mind wander. He remembered tales he’d heard of adventurers passing through Timberbrook. Three poor children with spears following a noble. Only those desperate enough or rich enough could take on such a dangerous path. For the rest, like him, life was steady and unchanging—menial tasks and well-worn routines.
He glanced at the Skill Window again, knowing what he’d see but unable to help himself.
[Axework: 14]
The rest of the morning before lunch passed in much the same way, each log a reminder of his limits. By the time the sun rose high in the sky, his arms were sore, and his hands felt like they’d been torn raw. But the stack of piled logs beside him was high, and his task was done. Maren gave him a shake of the head he passed by.
“Dammit, Cheese,” Maren said. “You’re the steadiest journeyman we have but those boys wiull never learn if you keep babying them.”
Cheese mumbled an apology as the new hires tried to hide their shame and defend him. To them he was a powerhouse, and without his help they would have fallen behind. But neither Cheese or Maren cared for that. If one fell behind then one fell behind. Another man would always be there to pick up the slack. Cheese had never fallen behind in such work, even as a child. It was the work of two men, the four failed at it as a group, cheese outworked them all as a lone Axe man. Perhaps he shouldn't have helped them. But he didn't do it for their benefit, he did it for his own.
As he made his way back home, cheese couldn’t shake the feeling of dissatisfaction. Level 14—enough to make a living but not enough to advance, to achieve anything of real worth in Timber brook. His thoughts returned to the tales of adventurers, those who threw caution to the wind for a chance at something greater. He knew his path was set, that this life was secure and dependable. But he couldn’t shake the nagging thought that maybe, somewhere out there, something more awaited him. Not adventure; he was to simple a man to yearn for that. But a man can desire greatness many ways, and for cheese it was the desire for greatness in this. The axe. In the chopping and wielding of a blade in his hands. As he walked home to eat he had a suprise. For many it would be a happy suprise but for him it was only a reminder, as for a moment he had actually thought that he had done it.
Skill up [Athletics: 14]
The sight of another skill stalled at fourteen felt like a mockery. No matter how hard he worked, it seemed he was always pushing against some invisible wall, a barrier that allowed only a rare few to pass. His father had often spoken of the bottleneck and how it held many of Timberbrook’s working folk back. But Cheese had always thought he’d somehow find a way to break through.
He opened the door to his small house, letting it swing shut behind him. The room felt emptier than usual, as if it too shared in his exhaustion. Setting down his battered axe, he collapsed onto the wooden stool near the table and slumped forward, rubbing his sore shoulders.
The sight of his meal—some bread he’d saved from breakfast, a leftover chunk of cheese from Ibron—sat on the table. Cheese gave it a weary look, but even hunger was a weak motivator with the weight of his frustration pressing him down. He dropped his head into his hands, feeling the rough callouses scrape his face, and sighed. Fourteen. No matter what he did, the number stayed the same.
He thought of his friend Ibron, who always seemed to carry himself with an easy confidence, finding ways to trade, barter, and strike deals that others only dreamed of. Cheese had long envied his resourcefulness. Ibron’s skills might not be glamorous, but they let him get by without fighting for every scrap. And the man was content. Why could Cheese not be happy. Why could he not press through and get what he chased after.
“Fourteen,” he muttered to himself. It was a wall he couldn’t climb, a ceiling that kept pressing him down.
What was the point? He had no chance of finding a way past the skill limits—no chance of advancing in life, either, it seemed. He’d tried everything: extra shifts, side work, even grueling exercises he’d picked up from the local priest of Dal. Nothing moved the needle. And here he was, years later, still stuck.
A knock on the door roused him from his thoughts. Cheese willed the invader to leave, but still he straightened, blinking, before he heard Ibron’s familiar voice on the other side. “Cheese? You in there?”
Cheese opened the door to see his friend’s grinning face. “A bit early for the end of the day, isn’t it?” Ibron asked, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “You look like you could use a drink.”
“More than one, if I’m honest,” Cheese muttered, sinking back onto his stool. He didn’t have to explain his frustration; Ibron had heard it all before.
Ibron looked around, taking in the meager spread on the table, and shook his head with a soft chuckle. “You know, if you’d just let yourself take a break every once in a while, maybe you’d make some progress.”
Cheese sighed, folding his arms. “A break won’t change my level in Axework, or Athletics, or anything else. I’ve tried all that.”
Ibron shrugged. “Maybe. But you’re also as stubborn as the day is long. You put yourself through the wringer, day after day, and then wonder why things stay the same. You’re not a machine, Cheese. You’re just… Cheese.”
The words stung, but they had a ring of truth to them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done anything but work or strain himself in some attempt to reach level fifteen. “I just… I need to be better, Ibron. I need to reach the next level. For once, I’d like to see my skills mean something.”
Ibron studied him thoughtfully, then leaned back against the table. “You know, there’s something to be said for being satisfied with what you’ve got. Not everyone’s meant to be a master. Plenty of folks live good lives here in Timberbrook without breaking past the bottleneck.”
“I know,” Cheese said, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I want more than just to get by. I want to be able to give something better, start something—like a family. I can’t do that while I’m stuck where I am.”
The words hung in the air for a moment before Ibron sighed. “Well, then, let’s take a walk. The fresh air might do you some good. Who knows—maybe inspiration will strike on the way.”
Cheese shook his head saying “I cant, Im scheduled to join the swimmers in this afternoons run to fairhaven.”
His friend smiled and replied “No you Arn`t, I talked to the boss. We have the day off” Then he grabbed his friend and pulled him into a walk out the door. Cheese grabbed his water skin as he went.
The midday sun was soft and golden as it his their faces, casting a warm glow over Timberbrook as they set off down the familiar, well-worn path. With a few steps they were out in the countryside. Their houses were only a single row away from the wilds and the town held no walls. Fields of swaying grasses stretched out along the edges of town, dotted with wildflowers and the occasional sturdy, towering tree that would never under the weight of an axe. Birds chirped lazily, weaving through the air as though the day itself were as slow and reluctant as Cheese felt.
They walked in silence for a while, letting the sounds of the countryside fill the spaces between them. Farmers worked in distant fields, bent over their tasks, occasionally straightening up to wave or nod as Cheese and Ibron passed. A couple of children dashed past them, chasing each other with peals of laughter and leaving a trail of dust in their wake. Cheese’s gaze lingered on them, envying their boundless energy.
“You don’t look too bad for a guy who’s got nothing left in him,” Ibron teased, nudging Cheese with his elbow. “Just like old times, right? Remember when we’d run through these fields, trying to race each other all the way to the river?”
Cheese gave a faint grin. “Yeah, I remember. Though I was a bit faster back then.” He glanced sideways at Ibron, feeling a bit of that old warmth stir. “Athletics got to fourteen today. Hit it on the walk back from the yard.”
“Another fourteen, huh?” Ibron’s face softened, his usual teasing slipping away. “It’s rough, mate. That wall… it’s like we’re all trying to claw through a stone wall with our bare hands. There’s no shame in being tired of it.”
Cheese nodded, kicking a stray pebble on the path. “It feels like everything I try to get better at just… stops. Everyone keeps saying level fifteen means mastery, but it might as well be some magic trick. I’ve been busting my back just to get by, and for what? I’ll never get anywhere, let alone impress someone enough to marry.”
Ibron’s mouth curled into a smirk. “Ahh, so there’s a bit of romance behind all this ambition. Got someone in mind, then?”
Heat crept into Cheese’s face, and he shook his head quickly. “Not really. I mean, no one specific. It’s just… at my age, I should be able to start a family if I want. But look at me—what have I got to offer?”
Ibron shrugged, kicking a clump of dirt as they walked. “Plenty of lads in Timberbrook feel the same way. But I don’t know, Cheese. There’s something about ambition in a man. And you’ve got that in spades, even if it doesn’t always come with all the skill points. Plus, you’ve got some charm to spare.”
Cheese snorted. “Charm means nothing they’re all looking at you instead!” he gave his friend a well-meaning wallop on the shoulder. It actually looked like it had hurt a bit but his friend shrugged it off with a laugh. “Nah, mate, they’re looking for someone who’ll stick by them, not chase the next flashy opportunity,” Ibron said, shaking his head. “Honestly, they’re more likely to go for someone like you. But you’ve got to see yourself that way, first.”
They passed a copse of trees, their tall, sturdy trunks casting long shadows across the path. Beyond the trees lay a vast field, dotted with wildflowers in shades of yellow and blue. Cheese let himself enjoy the view for a moment, feeling the tightness in his chest begin to ease.
As they turned a bend in the path, Cheese let out a sigh. “If only it were easier to believe that.“
After a moment of silence Ibron said “You heard about the adventurers?”
Cheese shook his head and his friend continued. “They.... They came back this morning. The nobles in bad shape. They said that they found something out there. They killed it, but he looked like hed had his face eaten off. It was pretty bad.”
Cheese shivered and made a sign to the gods. The two of them fell silent, walking side by side along the path. The air was filled with the scent of wild grass and pine, a comforting reminder of the countryside they both knew by heart. As they walked, they occasionally passed other villagers: a hunched old man, leaning heavily on a cane, gave them a nod; a pair of young sisters in simple dresses hurried by, their laughter carrying on the breeze. They had long ago turned back to the town, and eventually the two young men reentered their home.
But then, just as they were about to go indoors, a distant scream split the air.