The days are long and weary for Markka Driikilainen. Far away from the familiar scents of the sea in his youth, wanderlust has driven him east into dangerous and unfamiliar territory. A cold breeze weaves its way through the forest, chilling him through his tattered clothes fashioned from the fur of an elk he slew far too many seasons ago. He can still taste the rich roasted fat of that kill. For now, he sucks and tears on hard dried meat and dines on mushrooms and berries. He is worried for he only had five days worth of food ten days ago and his body is weak from fruitless hunts and days wasted by river sides. His left arm is bandaged in wrappings made from his cloak, a foolish injury falling from a tree.

Among his meager possessions is a skin of water, some bandages and cords, and a few pounds of dried meat. At his hand is his father's short bow, a memento from an unfortunate hunting accident. On his waist, a broad knife and a handaxe. On his back, a mighty battleaxe.

The last item is a necessity in this land and a trophy from the sixth man he had killed in his life. The njerpez roam in great hunting bands here. In the west, he had seen small camps of these savage raiders. But now he has come upon villages teeming with them. By chance, he had snuck upon a solitary warrior and took the battleaxe from him in exchange for a few arrows.

Now Markka drives back west, seemingly hunted and pursued by parties of these red clad raiders. Daring not to leave a trace for his pursuers to follow, he sleeps in the open without a fire or shelter. For three days he has fled in this manner and frustration and anger grew. In his worst state of mind, he blundered into a njerpez hunter.

Immediately, their bows came up and they fired upon the other. Through the dense forest of trees, the hunters weaved in and out and rained death. Arrows sliced through the air and stuck into trees, bounced off branches, and brushed past the two warriors. But with a mighty yell, the njerpez dropped his bow and brought his scimitar to bear. He charged through the trees and try as he might, Markka could not stick an arrow into him. At the last moment he freed the battleaxe from his back. Before he could bring it to bear, he rolled back to avoid a swing aimed for his side.

Despite being tired, injured, and hungry, the Driikilainen spryly snapped back to his feet and caught the njerpez off guard. In a low position, Markka reeled back and swung his mighty axe upwards to cleave his assailant.



Markka, despite himself, smiled. Soundlessly, the red clad warrior fell into a heap on the ground, his neck presented for another perfect strike. The axe fell once more and separated the grinning head from its body. Availing himself of the fallen warrior's possessions, Markka headed west still further for freedom and safety.