A'ton could hear the pots bang on the counter all morning. His wonderful wife was in a foul mood, and he knew why.

His employer, Ta'rak, had been in a melancholy mood since his best friend went on a hunt alone. The argument they had was one to remember, as each insult struck that massive chest like a mace.

“Leave it be, Colli!” A'ton cringed inside as he caught the look on his wife's face.

His wife, Colli, continued to watch Ta'rak sit on the front porch, while she muttered under her breath, and banged the metal pots around in the basin to wash. She spun towards him, fairly growling.

“Don't you tell me what to leave be! You see him out there? He's been miserable for too long!” Colli lifted her arms up and down as she vented her frustration. She hated to see Ta'rak look so defeated. “He hasn't been like this since his wife died!”

“That doesn't mean its your job to fix it. If the Ancient wills it, then Ta'rak will find another wife.” He spoke gently, and hoped not to get her too angry.

“He should have another wife by now! He should be hoisting his son over his shoulder, or be protective of his little girl. Instead, there he sits, day after day,” She looked sadly out the window again, “drinking his tea, hardly moving until someone comes along to prod him.” She spoke quietly, and A'ton could hear the concern in his wife's voice.

“I see him too, armaani, but he is Kalpa Mestari. Out of respect, there is nothing I can do that won't appear to be interference.” Kalpa Mestari, a sword master, and an existence that all around revered, but few knew his master held that distinction.

“I don't like to see him just wasting his life like that. He is just...waiting.”

“Let him wait. Someone will come along that will make him live again, so until then, leave him to his pain. Would you want me moving on before I thought it was time? Um, should you go to your Final Rest before me that is.” He added in quickly as he watched her flare up.

“You know how much I love you.” His thick arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulled her close, and kissed the side of her neck. She laughed as his thin beard tickled.

“Alright! I give in!” She sighed and turned away. She wasn't willing to admit how much it hurt to hear him even consider that he might move on one day, even if she had gone to her rest. She was a big woman, and childless, which was not a good thing for someone her age. It cast doubt on her ability to be a mother. There was also the fear that her handsome husband might put her aside for someone else.

That thought made her turn her head toward A'ton, and her eyes began to spit fire. She put a hand on her hip, and lifted her wooden spoon.

He tried not to laugh as he retreated from the kitchen. It's better to run then be beaten with a stirring spoon. If she heard his laughter, she might chase him down.

* * * * *

The mug of hot tea in his hands brought Ta'rak back from his memories. He could still see his wife's eyes sparkle with mischief just before she jumped into his arms with the intention of knocking him to the floor.

The road called to him and urged the fighter within him to rise up. He longed to shed the melancholy that bound him to his home here in Harm's End. Sitting around and waiting for old age to take him to his Final Rest was not his way. He wanted to fight for every breath of life and to go down to his Final Rest in defiance of those who tried to send him there.

This sadness claimed his life, and chained his will. When the Jakt Agor stole his young and vibrant wife, it took the most precious person from him. There were days that he wanted to put his sword on his belt and walk to the bridge. On those days, if he had been on a hunt near the border, he would have crossed the bridge, and tried to kill anything that got in his way. He would have died only a few feet inside that cursed land, but what else did he have to live for?

The chair beneath Ta'rak's two hundred and fifty plus pound frame creaked as he shifted his weight. The wood of the chair was old and worn, yet well preserved and sealed with wax. The fine carpentry skills that were needed to build this chair could be found in every village he visited over the years, but this chair was special. Every person that had been important in his life, his father, mother, and his wife, Jaana, sat in it at some time in the past.

The village of Harm's End had been here for centuries, and held stubbornly onto this piece of the Wild Lands in spite of the dangers they faced with the Jakt Agor only a couple of days ride to the northeast. The palisade, made of the strong hardwoods that grew in the forests around the village, protected them from raiders, bandits, and wild animals. He didn't think it was enough though.

“Damned council. Polkkypaas, the lot of 'em.” Ta'rak sighed. His head ached from the constant arguments in the council chamber, petty bickering about improvements that he thought they should have.

Wood burned, rotted away, and eventually turned to nothing but another expense for repairs.

The Elder's Manor was stone, but the knowledge of how the Fallen built it was lost to the centuries since they disappeared from the land. Its stone was the speckled granite that dotted the countryside, cut square and smooth, stacked with no mortar, yet held together so firmly that no battering ram could move a single block. It would be the place everyone ran to in case of a siege.

The Manor had exquisitely carved corbels and buttresses, while the doorposts were carved with symbols no living person could translate. The building's architecture was second only to the king's castle in Arouna Dell, the most heavily populated community in the Wild Lands, and the only real remaining city since the time of the Fallen.

His house, and the mausoleum, were the only other buildings that were constructed in stone. The mausoleum used limestone, while he had the masons build using stone the farmers needed to get out of their fields. It was solid, did not groan in the wind, and would stand for many centuries.

The surrounding houses haven't changed in his lifetime, nor his father's before him. The shops that lined the market square were the traditional homes for each of the artisans who occupied them.

The baker's shop was directly in front of Ta'rak's home and the baker's living residence was above the bakery. The general goods merchant, the tanner's shop, the butcher, and even the smith all had shops around the square with their homes above them. The thing that bothered Ta'rak was that they were built with wood.

“One good fire is all it would take.” Ta'rak grumbled quietly. In the long centuries that Harm's End had existed, no one had rebuilt their home with stone. The structures were simple and humble, clean, and meticulously maintained over the decades that each family occupied them. In spite of his irritation, he could still see the pride each person took in their homes.

Every morning, he would sit, drink his tea, and watch the people in the village go about their daily lives. His house was the largest in his village but he did not take pride in that fact as other people might. Children did not fill its massive bedrooms with laughter, or its halls with delighted shouts as they raced about.

He took another swallow of his tea, enjoyed the sweetness, and tried not to face his memories. He didn't want to see his wife's face in his dreams. He tried to block out how his wife tried to bowl him over so she could kiss him until he begged for mercy.

It was no use though. His large hands ached to hold her one last time, to feel her arms wrap around his neck, or her hands reach and grab hold of his beard when she was angry at him. She had him wrapped around her little finger and he did as she asked so he could see her smile.

Ta'rak smoothed his thick beard before taking another swallow of his favored blend of tea. It was one of the few luxuries he allowed himself. The tea plants did not grow well in their colder climate, so he was forced to have a shipment brought in three or four times a year. He could drink a local brew of berries, herbs, and barks, but this was one thing that he considered essential.

Life in Harm's End was simple, and marked with tradition. Every piece of their lives had some tradition built into it, from the ceremony of Final Rest, to naming the first born son. Ta'rak's father's name was Tahvo, while his grandfather's name was Raktin. The combination of those names was a way to honor their family.

Ta'rak watched the kids as they dashed about between the houses and shops, played games and worked off all the excess energy kids seemed to have. His desire to see children run up and down the stairs of his home would not go away. After all these years, his hopes held in check, he couldn't keep the lines of sorrow off his face. His home stood practically empty, other then his trusted servants, and occasional friends that dropped by.

“Maybe someday, Furlon and Akeena will have children. Maybe A'ton and Colli too.” With him as a benefactor, he could only imagine the trouble a child might get into. His friends were all he had left as he had no living blood relatives. They were his only hope for a family.

Ta'rak sighed heavily. Death comes to everyone, and some people so much earlier then others.

The kirosi of the Jakt Agor made sure of that.