The man watched in amazement as the boy calmed himself. The obvious melting away of tension and the gained steadiness of purpose and aim the boy achieved by exhaling slowly then holding his breath for just an instant before loosing his arrow. Never before had the man observed one so young make such perfect use of Pranayamaic technique. “He must have been taught. His technique is too perfect. How could one so young come to master his life energy so completely.” Rollo thought as he scanned the crowd watching the event, searching for the teacher. “Ah there! A swell of pride, a momentary smile, quickly caught and wiped away, so that none would notice.”. Rollo continued to watch the man as the crowd continued to watch the boy hit target after target. The other competitors were successful as well but Rollo already knew who would win. The boy named Deye had shown promise at fairs in the past but something had changed. Clearly some instructor had taught the boy some technique he was now employing to achieve a level of proficiency not previously demonstrated. “This man, Deye's father, Garrick I believe. Where would he have learned this technique?”. A simple trade goods shopkeeper? I doubt that!”. As Rollo continues to study the target of his interest, Garrick turns and meets his gaze. Rollo being the seasoned hunter that he is, is accustomed to meeting the gaze of prey. The surprised realization that the predator has spotted you and is moving in for the kill is a look he is all too familiar with seeing. As he meets Garrick's gaze he imagines that is the look Garrick is seeing in Rollo's own shocked face. “Who is this guy!” Rollo thinks. What is a predator like him doing in a small hamlet in the middle of nowhere?” As the dawning realization of the answer to his question occurs to Rollo he can see they are both written on his face because this Garrick has marked him as a target. The preternatural ability to understand when that which you have been stalking has begun stalking you. Rollo has counted on this instinct to keep himself safe for many years and it's screaming at him louder than it has since his days of hunting dragons. Recognizing the need to remove himself from this fellow's cross-hairs, Rollo takes a risk and flashes a sign at Garrick. An almost imperceptible nod confirms Garrick's understanding and the direction in which they should go to have a private conversation. Minutes later, Rollo finds himself standing in the open refusing to step into the shadows of the dark alley ahead of him. “I'm not coming in there so you can put a knife in my back or to my throat. There is nobody around us. I just want to have a conversation. I'm not here for you or your boy. I do not care what or who you are hiding from or why. I'm just a simple retired hunter, moved here seasons ago just to get away from the sorrows and mistakes from my past. You may recall I came to your store and bought materials for building my house back then. Why would an assassin go through all the trouble of building a house? I mean you and yours no trouble.”. Rollo breathes a sigh of relief as Garrick steps from the shadows of the alley. “I'd sooner leave you in the alley for the trouble you'll likely cause me but I can see you are telling the truth”, says Garrick in a low threatening tone. “You spotted me in a moment of weakness. That boy has made me soft”, Garricks spits the final words out as if they offend his tongue like soured milk. “As I said, I am not here for you and your boy. To each their own. I have no need of coin or desire to place hardship upon you and yours. I understand you do not trust me to keep quiet. Why would you? We do not know each other. But I have a suggestion that might help us come to trust each other over time.”. Me to not wake up with your knife in my throat, you to not need to worry that some day I'll betray your location to whomever you may or may not be hiding from.”. In a mildly amused but low growl Garrick replies, “I'm listening.”. “I see your son is very gifted with the bow. Let me teach him.” “You've started him off well with the Pranayamaic technique. I've never seen one so young master it so completely. I can only guess you have taught him other things as well. But you are not an archer. I am. Clearly you have a reason to allow his participation in the Belfair archery contests each season. You strike me as the sort of fellow who believes if you are to learn a thing, then learn it as best you can. I am among the best archers in this realm. It'd be a honor to teach your son.”. “You read the situation well, and you've got a persuasive way with words friend. If we're to transact with each other in this matter I think we can reach an accord. It's ok if I call you friend, yes?”. Garrick, recalling the last time he'd used these words, extends his hand to shake Rollo's, sans knife in the other. Rollo steps forth to shake hands, hopeful this viper will not strike.

ANOTHER WOW STORY Once there was an Orc named Ding. He'd been forced to retire from adventuring because he'd burned his hands so badly while retrieving his favorite pocket watch when his pet Corehound mistook it for a Kibblers Bit. Ding was in a bad way. He needed cash and he needed it badly. Unable to hold his bow any longer, Ding went out in search of work he could do without using his hands. Our story begins in Durnhold during Ding's job interview with the town's Councilman Durnst. " We here in Durnhold have need of a bell dinger in our bell tower. You'd be expected to ding our bell on the hour every hour from dawn till dusk. Of course, you'd need to determine the hour it is in order to designate the proper number of dings ." "That would happen without discord, I'm quite good at delineating the hours of the day". "Yes I deem the job simple enough, however I discern a detriment in your ability to ding throughout the day due to the damage to your hands. How do you determine to circumvent your deficit?". "Ah, I expected you'd deliberate that issue. I think a demonstration would do more to define my solution to that problem than any dialogue." Ding and Councilman Durnst dawdle up the deasil stairway of the bell tower and direct themselves to the bell. " Councilman Durnst please denote how I've determined to ding your bell." Ding rears back and with a great surge of momentum and a spine cracking jar, drives forward and impacts the bell with the dome of his head. The chime is quite distinct. "I'm dumbfounded!" Says the disquieted Councilman. "Say it was 8 o'clock I'd keep hitting it like so... " Ding continues to drive fully into the bell as it begins to swing back and forth, gaining momentum with each additional clang of Ding's dome. Finally Ding connects for the eighth time and when he does the momentum of the bell is so great it dislodges his center of gravity, knocking him backwards. As Ding desperately struggles to dig in his footing he drops backwards over the railing and falls downwards to the ground directly below. Ding lays dormant in the street as Councilman Durnst dashes down the stairway of the bell tower and out into the delirium on the street. A dismayed crowd has gathered around Ding's deceased body. " D'OH!! What happened?! Who is this dude?! The town guard asks as he approaches Councilman Durnst. "Well he was using his dome to ding the bell and it donked him good enough to send him diving out of the bell tower." "Why in great Azeroth would he be using his dome to ding the dang bell?" "Well he was applying for the job of bell dinger. As you can see his hands are damaged and he was demonstrating how he could ding the bell without deficit." "Poor dumb dumb. Well what's his name? We'll be needing to deliver him to his domicile." "You know... he never told me his name, but his face sure rings a bell." GROOOAAAAAANNNNNNN. ALL OF THAT READING FOR THAT!!!!!? Oh wait... there's more You see Ding has a twin brother Dong and Dong was the one that fed the pocket watch to Ding's dog Dinger. It was a humdinger of a turd Dinger dealt for Ding and Dong to dig through. So you see, Dong's dainty hands were damaged as well. You could say it was a dual debilitation. I oughtn't tell the next part, dast I? Dong doubled his brother's demented density. Doing all the same dings, donging all the same dongs. The councilman of Durholst was dumbfounded. Before the councilman could demand Dong to stop his demonstration lest Dong duplicate Ding's demise, Dong dropped from the bell tower damn near where his brother had donked down earlier that day. Dead as a door nail with Dong in the street is where the details of our story resume. “Councilman Durnst, what went down?!” “Why is your bell tower dropping dead guys this day?”. “I dunno guardsman, it's our dang bell dinger demand and the dummies dropping by to discharge those duties!”. “Another?” “Well what's this dinger's name?”. “Well guardsman, I never discerned his name, but he's a dead ringer for his brother”. OMFG are you kidding me!! My eyes are bleeding for having read this garbage! So then should I disembark upon the next part? You see Ding and Dong had a sister Darla. She's a real southern belle. No? Is that a death threat I just heard you muttering? Well damn, I guess I will desist!

He listened to the commotion and just wanted it all to stop. Another crash from upstairs, an overturned nightstand perhaps. The distinct ring of a slap against flesh resounding clearly. Stomping feet, perhaps running. A grunt resulting from what must have been a punch. A vase shattering against the wall, likely thrown. Muffled invectives, from two voices, laced with pain, accusation and anger. Downstairs, the incessant screaming of his sister in her crib, her never ending screaming! He remembered a more peaceful time. A time before his mother died. A time before his father remarried. A time before his sickly sister had been born. Of course he missed his mother. Her tender touch. The stories she would read to him at bedtime. The soothing sound of her voice when she spoke or sang to him. But what he missed most was the attention he had received from his father after his mother had passed. Just the two of them against the world! He had deluded himself into thinking his father was as happy as he in their bachelor life. Just the two of them in their large house on the hill overlooking the family vineyard and the village down the hillside further below. He missed the staff of the manor calling him “little master” and “his little lordship”. He remembered how he'd longed to one day take his father's place as the “lord of all that he could see”. Alas, his father had lost it all for “love”. “Why would one give away power for love?” In later years, he'd often wondered. His father's placations at the time never made sense. All he knew in this moment, is that since his father had remarried his “new mom” and she and his father became preoccupied with birthing his replacement, in this new hovel they insisted was “just as nice”, his life had gotten worse and worse at every turn. Last month his father had come home acting strangely. After being home for only a few minutes he began to scream and struck this “new mom”. Later he overheard the woman who insisted he call her “mother” talking to the the odd fellow who delivers the meat when his father is away and she used the word “drunk”. “Whatever this “drunk” word means it is not good”. He remembers thinking. His father has been coming home “drunk” much more often and his “new mother” has been spending far too much time with the meat delivery man. That seemed to be the topic of their discussion when they excused themselves upstairs, putting him in charge of watching his sickly sister. “If you'd have not come, things would be better!” “If you and your mother had just stayed away, Dad and I would be better off!””Why are you always screaming?””I cannot stand it any longer!” He reaches into the crib and places his hand over his half sister's mouth. Taking in a deep breath and exhaling a tremendous sigh of relief at the resultant silence. His sister squirms under his hand but weakly. The clear sound of his father and “new mother” continuing their “discussion” overheard, reassuring him they have not noticed the sudden cessation of his sister's screams. The tremendous power and enjoyment of the control he is able to exert over another creature surprises him. The realization that he could silence his sister's screams permanently occurs to him and a sadistic smile creeps onto his face. “You'll not keep ruining my life”, he quietly whispers to her as she spasms and ceases to struggle against his hand. He keeps his hand there pressed over her small cherubic face longer still in order to be certain. As if knowing, by some predatory instinct, that she could come back, for several more minutes. Then he arranges her pillows and blankets in such a fashion as to create the illusion of peaceful sleep, before walking gleefully across the room to the sofa. Grabbing a story book from the table next to it, he sits down to “sort out his letters”, doing his best to ignore the commotion upstairs. As Garrick looks upon his infant son, and relishes the memory of his sister's demise, he remembers the cries of anguish from his father and step-mother. He smiles gleefully as he recalls her weakness when she killed herself a month later. He sneers contemptuously when he recalls his father's weakness in doing the same shortly after. This memory causes a quick flash of recollection of the orphanage, where he was placed afterwards, his vengeance wrought upon the local butcher and all of the wisdom he's gained from his experiences afterwards and then his reverie is broken by his son's infant squawk. “Oh, you're lucky you're not a crier my son!”. “We'll see if that holds true. I'll teach you what you can learn, until you prove otherwise”. Garrick smiles, ruminating his many options, weighing them, while regarding his burdensome whelp.

The boy stared at the door. More accurately the boy stared at the darkness where he knew the door to be. He recalls the sound of it firmly closing behind him and the distinct click of its lock sliding into place. He was trapped and had been for many hours now. He knew how to pick locks. His father had trained him. Many grueling hours, lock after lock, increasing difficulty. “You'll open those locks before you eat your supper boy.” After his first rudimentary lesson his father had proclaimed. Many are the nights he'd not gotten to eat at all. Falling asleep at the dinner table, looking longingly at his cold congealed dinner; wishing for even a single spoonful of turned gravy. Many are the mornings he'd awaken to a cold gritty bowl of porridge, shoved unceremoniously against his sleeping face, where he had lain all night, trying in vain to earn that supper from the night before. Long had it been since a tricky lock had prevented him from enjoying at the least a lukewarm meal. But here in this closet in the basement, where he'd found himself imprisoned, his initial attempt to unlock the door had been thwarted by a broken key. Busted off in the lock and noticed too late. The darkness concealing the trick and his broken lock pick the unfortunate result. “Should I call for Da?” The boy wonders to himself. Immediately dismissing the idea for the thousandth time. He'd tried to fix the broken wire. Unbending the handle end to provide additional length once he'd identified the issue and dislodged the broken fragment of key. He'd tried clawing at the frame of the door and the jamb, desperate to wedge his fingers into the narrow cracks for some purchase or leverage. Fingernails missing and fingers bleeding the boy could not see the damage he'd inflicted upon himself. But he could feel the pain and the slickness the running blood created on his fingertips. He could also feel the throbbing pain in his feet from his attempts to kick the door open. Too stout, no hope. Hope and confidence had long since left his mind replaced by lethargy and despair. “No supper tonight”, he sighed resignedly. “Lucky to get gruel in the morning”. Preparing to spend the night the boy leans against the back wall of his cramped home for the night, only to feel the sting of spider bites along the back of his neck and down his back inside his shirt. Frantically he rips his shirt in wild flailing attempts to dislodge and smash the biting creatures from his body. The sting of the bites taking preeminence over his other aches and injuries. Realizing there will be no “relaxing” this night, the boy adjusts his position to a central position in the cramped room and attempts to employ the breathing techniques his father had taught him. “Do not let fear overcome your reason boy.” “Everyone becomes afraid, it is human weakness to do so, but letting the fear take away your wits is the mistake most fools make.” “I'll have no son of mine being a fool!” Calming himself, the boy's breathing relaxes. Relaxes to quiet. Quiet enough to hear his dog whining outside. “Da musta put Tash outside.”” He's likely hungry too.””If he keeps whining like that though...” The sound of a dogs hurt yelp and continued whining cry cut off the boy's thought. The boy remembers how hard he'd begged for a pet. How his father had resisted. Made him wait until he was “old enough for the responsibility”. As he hears the continued screams of his dog he realizes his father's intent with allowing him to get one is a two edged blade. “Bind yourself to nothing boy”, “Attachment is weakness!” The shrieks of his dog may as well be his father screaming those words into his face. Every whimper reinforcing that lesson. The dawning realization that he'll have to give Tash away fills the boy with agony, resentment and purpose! Redoubling his efforts, the boy jams the broken lock pick into his finger. Screwing it into the bone beneath the flesh. Finally able to hold it steady enough and able to extend it into the lock with a good portion of his finger bone he is able to manipulate the lock. Sliding the latch open, the boy finally opens the door and steps out of the cramped storage closet. The dim light of the basement is blinding compared to the deathly dark closet, forcing him to squint and blink his eyes in reaction. In doing so he almost misses the board with upturned pointy nails placed outside the closet door. Deftly the boy steps past the nails. While doing so he hears the unmistakable and tell tale sound of the leather strap of his fathers waist belt sliding out of it's loops from around his waist, as his father says, “It took you over eight hours to get out of there boy! That is entirely unacceptable! You'll do better next time this strap will see to that!”. As the strap raises and falls the memory fades. Here this night sitting in their chairs by the fireplace, Deye looks upon his father and sees the man who was there to teach his lessons. He sees the outline of his father's face highlighted by the fire's light and recognizes the face from that night long ago when he was 8. He sees the extra weight and age his father's face carries now and wonders.