Friedrich breathed deep the crisp morning air of misty Millstone as he stepped outside the inn. He was well rested and was eager to hit the road once more, very much looking forward to the prize that Pheston had promised him.

The smith grumbled as he followed Friedrich outside. “Too soft for me,” he said, rubbing his back. “I much prefer the firmness of compacted soil.”

“Then sleep outside and save us some money,” said Teleri following the men outside with her hood pulled up.

She regretted convincing Pheston to sleep indoors immensely. The old man had been moaning about sleeping in a bed since they arrived at the inn and that moaning continued on the march upstairs. She could even hear his annoyed grunts through the walls and wondered how Friedrich slept through the constant noise.

“Speaking of money,” said Marina, jingling her kupon purse. “I’m almost out. Are there any jobs we can do in Millstone before we move along?”

“Good idea,” said Friedrich, knowing how light his own wallet had become.

He had sold the goblin shaman’s staff for a grand total of eleven kupons and, frankly, he was grateful for them. Pheston insisted on waiting until they reached Dragonquartz, the city he had once called home. When asked when they would reach the city, he told them it would be at least a few weeks because they had yet to visit the Forge of Ages. Even before that, he said he had ingredients to collect before heading to the forge he spoke so highly of.

“Pah,” said Pheston with his face scrunched into a sneer. “We can hunt for food and sleep under the stars. Friedrich, you’ve gotten soft in the weeks since Keldracht.”

Friedrich grinned. “If being soft means getting an equally soft pillow beneath my head, I’ll happily be called as such.”

Ignoring Pheston’s mumblings, the young Mercian walked into the small town and along the river. He passed by a large water wheel that harnessed the power of the flowing water to power a sawmill. Friedrich was so captivated by the miller cutting timber that he tripped over something that let out a loud bark.

“Whatcha doin’, boy?” called a man as Friedrich rubbed his knees while sitting up.

He saw a shaggy brown dog staring him in the face with its wet nose inches from him. It shook its head to move the hair away from its eyes and opened its mouth, unleashing a pungent odour as it dribbled onto the path. Friedrich wasn’t sure how to react to the dog and awkwardly patted it on the head.

“Sorry about that,” he said and the man who had shouted at him walked over.

He was dressed in mail armour and wearing a tunic bearing a wolf’s head. He reached out and helped Friedrich to his feet.

“You ought to be more careful,” said the man. “Especially if you’re new in Millstone. You don’t want to get yourself a reputation as someone who goes around kicking dogs.”

“I think I was more hurt than he was,” muttered Friedrich. “What’s his name?”

“Him?” asked the man, scratching his brown beard. “That’s Oaky. Best guard dog in town. Not that there’s much competition, but he’s the best of the trio. The fact that he’s not biting you means you’re an alright fellow. What about your names?”

“My name’s Friedrich,” said the Mercian before gesturing to his friends in turn. “This is Marina, Blackjack and Pheston. We’re adventurers of a sort. How about you?”

“Name’s Sven,” said the armoured man. “I’m one of the guards in town. Can never be too careful, so you’ll find me patrolling the road along the river from morning ‘til lunch and then all afternoon.”

Friedrich looked to his friends with a smile, who could all see the covetous look in his eye. “Is there something dangerous that we should be aware of?” he asked.

“Dangerous?” chuckled Sven. “Only if you count snow trolls as dangerous, and I would say that you should!”

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“Snow trolls?” said Pheston, cracking his knuckles. “Just point me in their directions and they’ll find themselves with their skulls caved in soon enough.”

“The four of you can fight a dozen snow trolls?”

“A dozen, eh?” murmured Pheston, sounding less certain before perking up. “Of course we can!”

“Is there a bounty for services rendered?” asked Teleri.

“I don’t think so, but I’m sure if I spoke to the captain, he wouldn’t mind offering a small reward. They tend not to venture down here, but they have made going to the runestones a daunting task for most of us in town.”

“Runestones?” asked Friedrich.

“Places of worship,” said Pheston, surprised that Friedrich was surprised. “We Corobathians pray to the gods and our ancestors at them. You don’t do that in Mercia?”

“I can’t say that we do.”

“You must have done in the past and forgotten your traditions. Our kind are neighbours after all.”

“Where can we find the trolls?” piped up Marina. “I’m sure we can handle them.”

Sven pointed across the river and to the mountain to the west. “Cross the river and up the mountain,” he said. “Don’t worry about finding them because, once you’re at the runestones, you just need to make a bit of noise and those barbarians will find you.”

“What are we waiting for?” asked Friedrich excitedly.

Sven guffawed. “Keen, aren’t you? I hope that confidence doesn’t see your bones buried under a foot of snow.”

“You talk to your captain, Sven, and we’ll worry about those trolls. We’ll be back by dinnertime with troll skulls tucked under our arms.”

With that, Friedrich started walking onwards.

“Bridge is the other way, boy,” said Sven before turning to Oaky. “Eh! Show them to the mountain path.”

Oaky barked like thunder and plodded down the road. Friedrich, Marina, Teleri and Pheston followed the unkempt dog who seemed to understand exactly as Sven had said.

It was dark when the weary travellers had wandered into Millstone, but seeing it in daylight, it seemed like a peaceful little town. Everyone seemed to have their jobs, going from place to place with purpose, whether that was dragging a cart full of apples or picking flowers for the local alchemist to grind into potion reagents.

The faint mist that hung low over the town was not a foreboding mist that cloaked danger, but a sleepy mist that put you at ease. It reminded Friedrich of a pine-scented and colder version of the towns near his home in eastern Mercia more than the warmer climate of Akatfall.

It was true what Pheston said, there were similarities between the Mercians and Corobathians, but there were as many differences as there were similarities. Even the houses of wood and stone looked different, even if they used mostly the same materials and building techniques. The houses in Millstone were more rustic, while even the countryside houses in Mercia strived to match the splendour of those found in bigger towns.

Oaky guided the humans and the elf to the edge of town and to a stone bridge that passed over the river. As they walked further from Millstone, a light drizzle pitter patted onto their heads and the wind picked up. Looking over his shoulder, Friedrich could see that they were already moving upwards, but the incline was so subtle that he hadn’t noticed.

Upon reaching a small cliff with a stony staircase, Oaky stopped and let out another loud bark. Friedrich leaned down and scratched the dog behind the ears and Oaky’s mouth fell open, letting his drool drip down and plop onto the ground, where it was disguised by the wetness of the grass and soil.

“Thanks for the directions,” said Friedrich, having taken a liking to the dog already. “Run on home and keep the town safe.”

Oaky lowered his head as though accepting the thank you and then ran back down the path, making his way home.

“What are we to expect from snow trolls?” Marina asked Pheston.

“Sharp claws, sharp teeth and lots of hair,” he said before looking to Oaky who was shrinking into the distance. “And not in the pleasant way like that fella there. No, we’re talking brutes as big as me and broader yet. You’ll want to stand well back and use your magic.”

“Are snow trolls similar to those found in grasslands?” asked Teleri.

“I know what you’re thinking,” said Pheston, “and you’ll definitely want to use a few of those fire arrows of yours to keep ‘em down. They hate fire and acid; they slow down their rapid healing. Even still, you can cut their heads off and they won’t heal from that, I assure you.”

“I should keep a list of all the monsters I’ve killed,” said Friedrich, making his way up the steps. “I could write an entire book about them at this point.”

“You are not as experienced as you believe yourself to be,” said Teleri, rolling her eyes. “This overconfidence of yours always has a way of getting you into trouble. You need to rid yourself of that nasty habit.”

“Nasty habit?”

“Yes, the one where you open your mouth without thinking through what you are about to say.”

Marina giggled. “Aren’t we all guilty of that sometimes?”

“It’s nice to have someone on my side,” chuckled Friedrich before turning into the minotaur.

He now towered over the girls and stood even taller than Pheston. The sight of Friedrich in this form still filled Teleri with dread, regardless of his newfound control of its form. Despite her ill feelings towards the spirit that had inhabited the mask and now resided within Friedrich, she was glad that he could use its strength for good without feeling the need to devour flesh and drink blood.

“Smell anything?” asked Pheston of the burly minotaur.

Friedrich sniffed the air and gave Pheston a nod. He marched onwards and the others followed, all of them filled with a mixture of fear and excitement at the thought of fighting the snow trolls.