Malt struck the two stones together, breaking them into smaller, more jagged shards.

He lifted one of the larger pieces, roughly the size of his palm, and brought it up to his eye, combing its uneven surface for any impurities. After deeming the piece satisfactory, he handed it over to the man on his left. 

The man in question was old, undoubtedly so. His face was covered in wrinkles and his head, a layer of wispy white hair. He was likely older than even Nasir, making him one of the oldest, and more importantly, wisest people in the village.

According to him, he had been unsatisfied with his given name and had changed it at a very young age, meaning that only a select few individuals in the community knew of his true name. 

Everyone else simply referred to him as Oleg, a nickname of sorts.

Through Malt’s many conversations with this man throughout the past week or so, he came to learn much about this place and its inhabitants.

The village was a place of refuge for beastkin.

Beastkin had apparently existed on the continent for as long as, or even longer than humans had, living in small communities of primarily hunter gatherers. Yet even from the beginning, they were fighting a losing battle.

Beastkin are stronger, more agile, tougher, and all around better than humans in almost every regard. It may be due to this that they never found it necessary to form large communities like the physically inferior humans had.

Throughout many centuries, these little communities of humans grew into towns, then cities, and then eventually, empires. They exchanged ideas and technologies, advancing themselves until one day, they discovered how to manipulate mana.

With the newfound power of magic, humans as a race were unstoppable. Entire species ceased to exist, even ancient civilizations rooted in the very land itself were eradicated, their existence now only remembered through fantastical epics and children’s stories.

The clever races, such as the dwarves and elves, realized humanity’s growing threat and formed alliances with them when they were still in their infancy. All the civilizations that opposed, were wiped out.

The beastkin only managed to survive this purge because of their tendency to not form large communities, therefore passing under humanity’s radar.

But even then, humanity sought to claim their homelands, driven by a desire for natural resources and arable land.

And so they packed their bags and moved far away from human lands. Yet every time they took a step backwards, humans would take two forward, chasing them farther and farther back.

This happened for so long that they were even considered a race of nomads, a legacy that sticks to them to this day.

They were pushed farther and farther into the undesirable lands. Lands that were too dangerous for humanity to utilize. Lands either inhabited by ferocious monsters or by dense, unforgiving forests that made it impossible to grow crops or raise cattle. Or both.

These harsh regions were affectionately named the Deathlands.

To this day, even when humans had advanced so far in their combat prowess, not many dare to step inside these pockets of inhospitable land, scattered throughout the continent.

Yet the beastkin were forced to live here.

That time in beastkin history is referred to as the Age of Hardship. A majority of the population died of famine and sickness. The slower reproductive cycle of beastkin meant that they couldn’t replenish their numbers, and so they were left to die out.

Genocide, whether intentional or not.

Thoroughly beaten and on their last legs, they eventually bowed their heads to their new human lords, swallowed up by the ever expanding human territory.

When they were eventually accepted into human society, they were met with intense disdain.

They couldn’t influence the land like the elves could, nor could they forge awesome weaponry like the dwarves could. Their superior physical prowess meant that some had relatively successful careers in the military or as adventures or mercenaries. But as a whole, they were largely useless.

Many fell to the slums, and then into crime. This happened so often that their image became associated with crime and violence, leading them to either be executed as criminals, or to starve as beggars.

Or they could escape back into the wilderness, like the founders of the village had. The village was surrounded by such a terrible forest after all, so no human settlements dared to interfere. Eventually the village’s very existence had been forgotten.

But that’s all folklore, half taken as truth and half as fiction. A much more relevant event that shaped the beastkin image is the relatively recent demon invasion.

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When the demon’s came, the beastkin were quick to join their side. They offered rights and freedoms to any minority that joined their cause and gave them a reason to use their monstrous strength.

This understandably didn’t help the already terrible public image of beastkin, and so villages like the one they resided in now received an influx of refugees.

Although old Oleg had come far, far before.

He took the shard from the boy’s hand, examining it. After a few seconds, he nodded his head in satisfaction.

“This’ll do.”

He placed the piece to the side and handed Malt the unfinished bundle of cordage he had been working on.

“Let’s move on to this now, I’d like to get this piece done before noon.”

He bagan unfurling the frayed strings, struggling to straighten and braid them whilst Oleg had already begun shaping a wooden handle.

This had been his routine for the past few days.

Wake up at dawn, help prepare breakfast at the apothecary, eat, then go straight to the edges of town in order to learn from Oleg. Although he supplemented this routine by occasionally going out to help the townsfolk with odd jobs, this had become the norm for him.

He wasn’t enough of a fool to think that the villagers would let him leech off of them forever, so he figured he’d need to quickly find a profession to make himself useful.

So when Oleg offered to teach him the art of toolmaking, he gratefully accepted.

The village had blacksmiths, but steel was still a rare commodity. This meant that much of the village still relied on stone and flint tools to go about their daily business, meaning it was stable and necessary work.

He could learn about history from one of the most knowledgeable people around and learn how to make tools, therefore obtaining a profession.

After nearly an hour, he’d finally managed to produce just a few inches of cordage, handing it to his master.

Not taking his eyes away from the handle he was carving, he took the piece of cordage and laid it onto his lap.

“Alright, you’ve met the quota today. Go on and work on your own piece now.”

He was a man of few words, especially when he was engrossed in his work. Where others may see the elder’s speech as crude, Malt had already grown accustomed to his way of expressing his thoughts.

Stepping up from his stool, he made his way into Oleg’s workshop and returned with a bundle containing a carved handle, a shard of flint, and a bundle of cordage, all of which he’d made himself.

It was time to put his newly learned skills to the test, this would be the first piece that he’d create completely on his own and from scratch. A culmination of all he’d learned so far.

As he began assembling the tool, Oleg eyed the piece with mild discontent.

“That’s much too brittle to cut wood. You need a thicker piece or else it’ll break after a couple swings.”

Not batting an eye, Malt continued fastening the pieces together.

“Don’t worry, I won’t be using this to cut wood.”

He raised a brow.

“Hm?”

“...”

Seeing as he wouldn’t get an answer, the old man let a little chuckle escape from his nose.

“Fine then, keep your secrets to yourself then boy.”

What followed was a period of tranquility, a time where he could just soak in the morning sun and dedicate himself entirely to work.

The atmosphere of the village was pleasant, overwhelmingly so. He felt comfortable and at ease as he walked past the townsfolk, exchanging greetings as he did so.

He had become acquainted with many of them, enough so that he’d gained a good amount of trust amongst the villagers.

Most of them were sincere and hardworking, so much so that it made him want to work harder, to contribute more to the community even though he was an outsider.

There was only one thing that ruined the whole image.

The bandits that were preying on the village were still becoming more and more daring. Just the day prior, someone witnessed a man tailing one of the village children as they were foraging for herbs.

Anxiety and paranoia had spread throughout the village, prompting mothers to lock windows at night. The fear was so real that it forced even Nasir to impose a curfew at dusk.

Malt’s hand clenched dangerously on the unfinished axe, threatening to ruin it.

The faraway wringing of a cattle bell brought him from his thoughts.

“Sounds like the noon bell. You’d best get going or else that family of yers’ll start worrying.”

Malt wrapped his unfinished piece in a leather bundle, placing it inside. As he was leaving, he turned around and waved at the man.

“Thanks for today.”

He didn’t wave back, instead keeping all hands occupied on his work.

“Yeah yeah, make sure to come again tomorrow at dawn, y’hear?”

Malt nodded, turning around as he began making his way back to the apothecary. His lips curved into a faint smile.

Like old Oleg had said, there was a family of people waiting for his return after all.