Woody chopped down yet another tree.  The adrenaline rush he felt upon experience flowing into his body never failed to excite him. He started to summon a new tree. As a seed emerged from the soil and quickly grew into a small sapling, he started to chant. A melodic sound burst from his lips, physical manifestatons of his spell itself, and melded into the growing tree. As he continued to spew forth symbols into the tree, it quickly reached new heights and grew a huge, luscious canopy. He marched a fair ways out and shielded his eyes as he admired his work. Dazzling beams of sunlight burst through the canopy as it swayed in the wind. 

"I 'magine tha durned long ears couldn't grow a tree butta tenth the size uh that!"

Once again, whistling sounds split the air much as Woody's axe split the tree into pieces. Wiping sweat from his brow, he eyed the area around him, searching for the wagoneer. Wagon wheels creaked in the distance, increasing in intensity as it drew closer. Woody had already begun summoning a new tree by the time the wagoneer dropped his brakes into place. 

"Mornin' Burt. Running behind a bit today I see."

Burt belched and said, "Ah, but yer ole pal Burt found a spot of food and ale and had to take a break.

Woody had been swinging as Burt's words reached his ears. His grasp on the axe went slack and the handle slipped from his hands, hitting the tree at an awkward, ineffective angle. 

"Only place ta find ale is the field Marshall's tent..."

Burt grinned broadly, "Aye, 'tis true. Bastard be oweing me a drink or two after what he did ta me boy."

"What the hell was ya thinkin' Burt? Marshall will tan your hide and then some!"

"Oh, he can try. And I'll see iffin I can't get me a hide o my own to tan. Maybe a nice soft, elf hide."

Woody smacked Burt on the back of the head. "You know you can't fight the Marshall. C'mon Burt, don' be stupid."

Burt shot his own hand out and caught Woody's head just the same. "Bah, I'll be gettin' what's owed ta me from the Marshall."

"And what, pray tell, might it be that I am oweing you, dear Burt?"

Both of them turn slowly, facing the elf that had silently approached them.

Woody respectfully replied, "Hello, Lord Marshall sir, how may we be of assistance to you?"

The field Marshall's ears twitched with irritation at the dwarf's brusque usage of proper language. 

"Woodcutter Woody, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do shut up. I'm addressing Wagoneer Burt at the moment."

Woody clamped his mouth shut and averted his gaze. His eyes fixated on Burt's feet as his did so. They were rough. The callouses had thickened so greatly as to provide the same protection a good shoe might, were Burt ever allowed to find a pair somewhere that didn't already have holes in them.

"Ohhhh, and I'm addressing you, your Royal Highness..." Burt trailed off into a murmur.

"What was that Wagoneer? I'm afraid I didn't catch that under your disgusting breath."

Clearing his throat for emphasis, Burt responded, "I said, I'm addressing you, your Royal Go Fuck Yourself You Piece Of Shit Prick."

Color flooded the elf's ears, making it so his ears appeared almost as if to glow a cherry red. 

"Why, you insolent..." The Marshall grabbed at his hip, drawing a whip, but was stopped as Burt bullrushed into his midsection. The dwarf was shorter than most of his race, only nineteen and a quarter hands tall. But he still could pump his stubby legs with much power. It was the main reason he'd been turned into a wagoneer. 

Woody watched in horror as the two rolled over and over, throwing punches and even biting one another. Eventually, the field Marshall ended up on top with a dagger biting into Burt's flesh. Blood welled up around the blade, its reflective image shining red onto the Marshall's face. The elf's face seemed truly sinister bathed in the blood projection as he uttered the words, "I knew I should have slaughtered you and your pig wife the moment you had that spoiled little shit instead of a properly strong child."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

His long ears responded to some noise, but he was fully in a blood rage. 

As the axe cleaved his face in two, the elf's final thought passed through his mind in an instant of sheer pain, "What is that whistling noise?"

Brain and blood spewed forth onto Burt, catching in his beard and causing him to splutter through it as he breathed. He tossed the corpse off of him and got up. He looked over at Woody who had a blank expression on his face. If Burt wasn't drunk, he would have sworn that Woody was exuding the glow of an elf gaining an Evolution point. 

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Woody found himself standing in a clearing, not able to see anything past a thick row of dark firs. He began looking around, trying to understand where he was and how he'd gotten there.

"Where tha hell am I" flitted through his brain as he began running for the firs. Smashing into the wall of needles, he bounced back and fell onto his back. A hand came into view, he took it, and it lifted him to his feet without effort.

"Finally. I've been expecting you. You have no idea how bored I've been." The deep, sonorous voice penetrated far enough that Woody could feel it in his heart, vibrating every part of his being. 

"Who... Who are ya? And where am I?"

"Ahhhhh, I am your ancestor. Rathrak I was called a long time ago. What year is it exactly?"

Woody blinked in confusion, but said, "1648, Year of the Fir."

Rathrak looked to be in great shock, pain even. It was a long time before he spoke, and he spoke with great sadness in his voice.

"Why has it been so long my child?"

"What do ye mean?"

"If your words are true, then more than a millenia has passed since I walked the land."

Woody's face scrunched in confusion. "A millenia? What're ya talkin about? Where are we?"

"Ah, of course. You don't have an inkling of what's going on. We are in your mind. Well, more like your mind has entered your soul, where I reside."

"What, and I cannot stress this enough, IN THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!"

Rathrak chuckled a little before he began, "I can see much has changed and been forgotten. This is how our people have always accepted Evolution points. We enter our soul's, seeking out the wisdom of our elders. I am here to guide you through your choices, to lessen the burden of your decision."

Woody started pacing as he talked. "I've gone crazy. Burt went crazy and stole the Marshall's ale, then the Marshall went crazy, and now the both of them made the crazy spread to me. That has GOT to be it. No other explanation."

"Why can there be no other explanation?"

"Many reasons, but the biggest of all is probably that dwarves don't get EP's."

Now it was Rathrak's turn to scrunch his face in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Dwarves don't get EP's. That's elf shit. Everyone knows that only elves get EP's."

"I will borrow one of your phrases and ask you... what in the fuck is a dwarf or an elf?"

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