His home stood on the very outskirts of an estate belonging to Grand Master Philo, a renowned hermit who spoke one word a year. Treated as a sage, a prophet of sorts, adventurers would travel to the far reaches of Timberkeep to mark down the word of the year, taking it as a sign of victory or bitter defeat. 

John didn’t care about the sage. He didn’t care about the Grand Master, or the Grand Master’s hoard of “luck” money as the adventurers called it. He tended his field, he grew his crops, and he housed those poor souls who -- turned away from the local Inn due to overcapacity -- relied on the good graces of Timberkeeps’ villagers. 

On that fateful evening, he accepted the company of three half-orcs that the Innkeeper Barti had sent up to his hill. The evening was a chilly one, and the travelers -- their grey-green skin shining in the fire that John had stoked up -- were hungry. 

Not a word passed between the three as they ate, clumsy mouths handling the smaller spoon sets that belonged to humans (and in John’s case, halflings). And when they had their fill of carrots and potatoes, they stood and retired to hastily made chambers deep in the winding tunnels of John’s hill. They argued, something heavy sounding (likely his antique candelabra) fell to the ground, and then there was silence. John sat at the fire that evening, agitated, hands protecting a mug of sludgy tea (a delicacy, really, and good for the bowels.) 

His dog brushed against his shoulder, opening its mouth to pant for a moment before settling down -- a mop of auburn hair twisting around at John’s feet like a moving carpet. The halfling dropped his hand to pet the creature, deep in thoughtt. 

He knew in the morning, that whatever valuables he’d furnished the room with would be gone. Stuffed into bulky sacks, the silhouette of them so visible beyond soiled fabric -- a final “fuck you” from his unwanted guests. 

But halflings were sworn to hospitality. Everyone in Timberkeep was. The chance of upsetting a powerful guest was far too high when you lived near the Grant Master -- and though the Evrymans had lived and loved in those frosty hills for far longer -- it had become clear that the large would always beat out the small in Timberkeep.

Any moment now, his neighbor would knock -- asking for another set of candles. And John would oblige because out of his meager wealth, he could find no reason to say no. 

“You are so kind, John, - thank you,” Prunella whispered, tucking the candles in her cloak and disappearing back into the night. Was it kindness when he acted out of a sense of obligation? 

“Is there really an obligation here, Elma?” He asked the air and the dog, his only response a warm reassuring head pressed into his palm and the hot warmth of a tongue licking through his fingers. Always comforting, always present, he looked down into her warm brown eyes and smiled. For Elma, he never felt the need to act out of obligation. 

The night wore on at a gentle pace, the rhythmic thud and squawl of a horse carriage breaking the silence at midnight. John raised his head, dreams dashing as he realized he’d fallen asleep -- his pointed ear flexing ever so slightly at the sound of rustling from one of the rooms. 

So, they’d decided to act at night. At least it was better than the human thieves who came and went in the broad daylight -- so absolutely convinced (and especially after receiving a good singular word from the Grand Master) that they were the chosen ones -- and that any possession that belonged to a peasant like him was for the taking. 

+++

“You should be more forgiving,” Chestnut would chirp when she came over, her wings beating double-time. John sighed -- settling into the oft-repeated reasoning from the fae, “They protect us, John, if we didn’t have them -- who would beat back the goblins? Or even Baba Grochowa?” 

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

“The Pea Mother knows the boundaries, she’d never dare creep past the southern lane.” 

“You say that but just this evening I felt her yellow eyes on my back. Luckily she doesn’t have a taste for fae blood."

(Fae blood is a particularly acidic tasting liquid, reader, suited to the palates of orcs and as an eccentric holiday seasoning for elves.)

“I’ve heard this a million times, Chess, and if you don’t stop lecturing me about those damn adventurers, I’ll start getting a taste for fae blood.” John quipped back, growing more agitated with the even smaller presence that floated opposite him. She crossed her arm and let out a huff, recovering in a matter of minutes to gossip about the new beehive opening across her property. 

+++

“Bruzvraa, would you hurry the fuck up we don’t have all night. The old coot is going to wake up --” 

The voice carried down the hallway, the door to their chambers just slightly ajar. John rose from his seat, whisper-soft steps taking him to a corner out of their sight as his ears perked up. He’d heard the sentiment so often that it no longer surprised him -- nothing really did. Elma continued to sleep, dazed by the warmth of the slowly dying fire. The halfling’s eyes softened looking at the creature, with her winding fur. She was perhaps the only treasure he cared for.

“Thol, grab that silver thing,” The sound of something heavy falling again started Elma from her sleep. She raised her great head, liquid eyes peering through the shadows before alarm set into her jowls and spread to her shoulders. 

“Elma -- no--” John whispered to the dog as she rose from the carpet and edged towards the hallway. He usually kept her in his own chambers -- where he slept through whatever shenanigans the adventurers decided to inflict on his house. But tonight had been different, and he hadn’t accounted for her curiosity. 

A beloved trait. A dangerous one now, his heart rising in his chest as she slipped around the corner. 

What would happen if he revealed himself now? He’d always been aware of the theft, but he’d never thought to stop it. Even pitting himself against a full-grown human would be insane -- add on the ferocity of a half-orc and another two hundred pounds of muscle? Multiply that by three?  

“Ah fuck, the dog is awake --” 

Elma growled, the tone of the offender setting off something protective in her. John crept for the fire tools before retreating once more -- hoping beyond hope that the half-orcs might pass over the creature. 

The sick thud of a kick catching ribs punctuated the air, followed by a surprised yelp and a whine. She barked her outrage, a deep growl ripping from her throat. She was offended at the slight and she had every right to be. 

“Just kill the thing before the halfling wakes up -- Rudru throw me my knife--” 

Panic flooded John’s system as the words met him. Were they serious? Would they really harm one of his creatures and take his belongings? What sort of adventurers would go so far? What kind of protection were he and Chestnut and Prunella so concerned about it -- 

Elma screamed as she was grabbed by the scruff of her neck, vicious growling building in crescendo as she struggled and bit and clawed. John forgot all but the safety of his dog, and he leapt around the corner -- 

Blood splattered on his face as the half-orc pierced her neck with a dagger, pulled back, and then plunged again when the first blow wasn’t enough. Elma’s body went limp. 

And John's vision turned black.

He felt his hands grip the iron poker with new determination, muscles running on absolute adrenaline propelling him forward until he sunk the poker into the stomach of the killer- ripping it out and reveling in the spray of iron-grey blood that rained from the half-orc's wound. 

“Wha--” 

A moment later, he’d bashed that wicked sharp point of the poker through the forehead of the next orc and the last -- who had dropped the bag he’d stuffed with heirlooms and valuables -- stopped and raised his hands, a bemused look creeping up his mouth.

John did not stop. 

That orc fell down too, eye gouged out by the hook of the poker. 

The anger subsided enough for the halfling to realize what lay about him -- but even then, his mind would not allow him to care about anything but his dog. 

Her beautiful golden hair was still now, no life in the blossom of air in her chest, no warm breath escaping her wet nostrils. Ugly red blood stained her fur, turning her from Elma to another pelt to keep. John gathered as much of her as he could into his arms, iron poker clattering to the ground and he wept. 

And wept. 

And wept.