Location: The Island Kingdom of Gelia

  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 was creeping in through the cracks in the walls, and he could feel the chill teasing at his skin. 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 in the fashion of their people. He had once been proud of the work. yet now it was simply a reminder of how little he had grown over the years.

  The faint clucking of his hens drew him from his melancholy. The hens had been gifts from his parents on his 18th name day some ten years ago. Their sounds 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 Tracker hovering at the edge of his vision.

  [Axe: 14]

  The number hadn’t changed in over two years. In Timberbrook, a rural town steeped in the work of lumber and woodcraft, level 14 in Axe was a common bottleneck. Most men did not even reach these heights, but those who did often stayed at 14 for life, their potential capped as though some invisible force 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. Cheeses’ father had year ago surpassed his own bottleneck, 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. Now he held office, and the people all wondered if this trait would be passed down to his eldest 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 his Axe skill never climbed past that stubborn fourteen. The other skills he’d developed over time—Cooking at 11, 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 sausage 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 sausage came from the man's 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 13. It had grown the previous week.

  Cheese threw on the sausage as he thought of the cool fall morning. The air was nice, and the fog had already begun to lift. 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 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. Timberbrok boasted a modest population of some 150 families, and some 60 unmarried men ranging from 16 to 35. That was simply the type of community 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 their small cluster of homes, a simple stone structure with a thick rope and sturdy crank. This morning, a few early risers were already gathered. There 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 Villa 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 nameplate hovering above his head. [Rook, Axe: 23], a badge of honor that few in Timberbrook could claim. They were a party, and that afforded them to see each other's "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 father's 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 Gelsh. He was an elderly man of some 60 years, and above his head floated [Gelsh, Axe: 14] Cheese replied with a noncommittal “Thanks dad”

  His father just nodded, as though he’d read his sons' mind. Maybe he had read his son's mind. Who knew with Cheeses' father. Rook had always seemed to have an insight that the younger man couldn't understand. They finished filling their pails in a stark silence. Those around them exchanged a few more words, and soon Cheese set off back to his small home with full buckets, his mind already working towards his plans for the day.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Once back, he grabbed his axe, an old tool that was hardly worthy of the name anymore and set off toward the lumberyard. His father's lumberyard, which most simply called the mill was nestled in a bend in the river that pushed out and away from the houses of Timberbrook. Cheeses' boots squelched in the mud of the path leading through Timberbrook. The town was built on lumber; so, sawdust and the smell of fresh-cut pine were ever-present, yet even the sawdust could not stop the wet mud from caking everything so soon after a rain, and the first rain of fall had come not even two days before.

  Rain brought good tidings, so Cheese was heartened by it, however it was early in the year for such a downpour, and the elders of the village worried about the coming of winter. Everyone here worked in woodcraft or supported the lumber trade in some way, yet there were farmers, merchants, and other craftsmen who worked with the three companies that formed the backbone of their community. The worry that the elders expressed was that those people would leave them in the winter if it was to harsh. Timberbrook did not often have harsh winters, yet in years past there had been unnaturally harsh snows that arrived early in the year before the peoples were ready. To that end the Mill was being pushed to produce more. The idea being that an influx of trade and wealth would entice those not attached to the mills by contract to stay over the winter.

  Cheese did not worry on this for himself, but for Ibron and his family. They were craftsmen and tradesmen. If the family which was some 40 people strong if one included all the cousins and uncles decided to leave, then he would miss his friend.

  Soon Cheese had to brush these worries away, for he was finally there. With long strides the young man entered through the large gates that surrounded the Mill. This was the tradition of their people, the mills were large yards, but they were surrounded by high walls. In times of war, not that their kingdom had faced a war in over 50 years, people would come here to the mill for safety.

  As Cheese walked into the yard, the familiar sight and smells of piled great logs, wood shavings, and sawdust greeted him. The other workers had yet to arrive, so Cheese stalked over to the small shed that the men used as a meeting hall and sat on a stump that had long ago been carved into the shape of a chair.

  The Mill had an actual meeting hall, a large gaudy stone structure that was in the shape of a mead hall. Yet they did not often use it, and the structure was mostly abandoned. The only time it was used was once a year when the men of the village gathered to do their duty as the protectors of the realm, and they trained for a week with the elders. When the Milita trained in this manner the hall sheltered ever able-bodied man over 16 for a full week. Any who could not fit in the many rooms were forced to camp in the lumber yard.

  After a time, the men who worked the mill began to filter in. There were over a hundred men in his father's employ, yet only twenty or so worked the yard. Mauren, his father's right-hand man was their foreman, and as such he was the last to arrive. He greeted the group with a grunt and began to regurgitate the days assignments. Nothing was changed from the previous week, yet he still ensured every man knew his role. Eventually Mauren finished his speech and asked if anyone had questions, since no one did he nodded and told them to "Get to it".

  Cheese turned and walked across the yard to his station for the day. He was quite senior here in the yard, as men aged, they tended to either take up a more serious role in management like Mauren had or take a position in a less strenuous role. Yet Cheese had no taste for management, and he was not one to shirk work. Cheese enjoyed his position in the yard, so here he stayed.

  As such he was in charge of a station. The flow of the yard was simple, logs entered either from the gates to the west of Timberbrook, or from the river. They were separated by the size of the Logs and the grade of the wood. Some were already bare once they arrived, but when they came on carts, they were often untouched, their branches still on them.

  The men would process these logs. If they were to remain here, then they would be stripped of branches and bark and chopped to a workable size. If they were to be sent downriver, they were simply stripped of branches and sent on their way. A station consisted of three to four men depending on their assignment. Cheese worked his station alone. That was by request, he did not enjoy competing for work with less skilled men.

  Cheese gave a brief nod, as he stood beside his pile, and then gripping his axe tightly he sunk it into the base of a medium sized tree. He was processing Fir trees today, and he had many to work through. HIs only worry was that his Axe would not hold up. The tool was sturdy, but it was wearing down. Cheese often felt like it was an extension of his body, and like when a body was breaking down from over exertion Cheese knew his axe was not long for this world. As Cheese pulled the large fir down and processed it he thought of how he had spent months saving for an adequate replacement, but no amount of scrimping had worked. In his mind a tool was a tool for life or no tool at all, to that end he had consulted a merchant on a design for an axe that would last him, unlike the many that had worn down over the years. 20 gold was the price for what he wanted, an absurd price Ibron had told him. A worker on the Yard made a paltry 10 silver a month. That was a higher amount than many men, and they were even allowed to own their own plots which was unheard of in many places, but 10 silver was only enough to feed a man, and perhaps a family if one saved. That was the reason the Main Hall here in the yard was not entirely abandoned. Many men lived with their families well into adulthood. Cheese had left his parents' house at 18, but that was because of the size of their family. Ibron had remained in his mothers and fathers' home until he was 25, and even that was considered early. If a man who worked for the mill was thrown out of their home and lacked funds for their own, they were put up here in the mill. Yet Cheese had his own house to fund, and that cost money. Money, he didn't have because of the price of replacing axes every month. An axe was an expensive tool, he had to get it from one of Timberbrooks two blacksmiths and the price was 3 silvers. 3 Silver every month for a new tool due to wear on the head. It would not do.

  This attrition was not due to a lack of skill, but the opposite. Cheeses` father had a custom axe. All the other masters did as well. Owning such a tool was not a sign of wealth but a requirement of it. The skills of a master simply destroyed lesser tools, and in spite of his frustration Cheese understood he was knocking on the doors of mastery. He could almost taste it, which was why it was so frustrating.

  Cheese took aim at the bark of the first log and began shaving it. He thought about the motions for a moment before he began. He had started as a feller all those years ago. Those were the men who dropped trees in the nearby woods to then be sent here. The man who had sent this log had done a decent job, and Cheese felt he knew the swings that had stripped the many branched. It was the work of his brother Waff. The giant of a man had a particular pattern when he worked a tree. The branches had all been taken in one swing, even the largest ones.

  Forgetting his thoughts Cheese began quickly moving across the length of the Fir. He deftly split the log into workable lengths for later down the line. then moved onto the next tree.

  Shave a tree, on to the next. Shave, a tree, on to the next. That was the flow of his morning. 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.

  [Axe: 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. The Axe skill 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.

  Hed already worked through the mornings due, piling his logs and stacking them neatly. So, he left his work and joined the team of boys who were nearby doing the larger oaks. 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.

  As he worked Cheese listened to the younger men. One of them was talking of adventurers he`d seen the day before.

  "Four of em" said the gruff worker. "Three boys and a man, a noble by the look of him."

  "No way" replied the other as he sipped his water. "Four adventurers here in Timberbrook? Why? And three of them no older than us."

  "Skills" Cheese interrupted.

  He felt the men's eyes on him as he moved his axe in a small shaving pattern. "We see them from time to time. Young nobles will come searching for things in the wild, to fight and increase their skills."

  The men shared a look, and then one asked "Does that work?"

  Cheese shrugged. "For those that live it does, but most die. To be an adventurer only three things are required."

  The men looked on intently as he continued "One must have a desire to learn, a willingness to risk their life, and a written license from the king.”

  The men deflated as he said the last part, as he knew they would. The license could be gained by anyone who wanted it, provided they had the gold to submit the paperwork. Cheese had often considered this path, but like these men he simply didn't have the money.

  Cheese glanced at the Skill Window again, knowing what he’d see but unable to help himself.

  [Axe: 14]