Day of the Undead, Part 1.

Jensine didn’t want to wake up. Why did the chores have to start so early? As far as the fifteen year old girl was concerned, waking up before the sun was a crime against the crown of Lordaeron. She rolled over to get more comfortable. Just a few more minutes, then she’d get up.

Fate had other plans. The boy’s aim was true, and the thrown pillow hit the side of her head. She sat up, greatly annoyed. “Mom, Malles is picking on me again!”

“Not!” Malles shouted. “Jenny Jen needed some help waking up. I’m just being the good example!”

Their mother walked in. Laura Mikkal was a middle-aged woman with short, curly black hair and tan skin from working in the sun all day. “Malles, leave your sister alone and eat your oatmeal. Jensine, you get out of that bed and wash up, I want to see you downstairs in ten minutes.

Jen stuck her tongue out at her older brother. “You look like an orc.”

Malles just laughed. “Well, you smell like one. Go take a bath, Jenny, and use some soap this time.”

Malles always had a comeback, and she never did. Jen hated that.

Ten minutes later, she was downstairs, letting her mother brush her long black hair. Malles and her father were nowhere to be seen. “Where are Papa and Malles?”

“They went to hunt our dinner, dear.” Laura replied. “Finish your breakfast, then you can help me with the laundry.”

Jensine sighed. Work, work, work…

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Malles lifted the rifle and fired. The kickback was strong, though, and he wasn’t all that burly. He fell backwards and the shot went wide. The wild pig took off into the brush. Malles watched his family’s dinner go, humiliated once again.

Here it comes, Malles thought to himself. Sure enough, the familiar sound of dwarven laughter filled his ears.

“Damn, boy, yer eighteen already!” Banak Ironbeard cried. “There are dwarves half yer age that can shoot that popgun ye got!”

The “popgun” he was referring to was a dwarven-made flintlock rifle, and being dwarven-made, it was made for dwarves. Malles was big for his age, over six and a half feet and still growing, with muscles to spare, and he could barely hold the blasted thing, let alone shoot it. But, he had promised himself he was going to shoot this rifle and score a kill with it. So, every hunt he and his dad went on, his dad’s friend Banak came along, just so he could keep his prized rifle in sight. And he found it mysterious and hilarious that neither Malles or his dad could shoot it.

“Ye got te set yer feet right,” Banak said. “That’s yer problem.”

“The problem is it’s too heavy.” Malles told him.

“Bah,” Banak said. “It’s only a measly sixty pounds!”

Malles’ father walked up just then, a bow in his hand and a quiver on his back. Jacob was a giant of a man, seven feet of solid muscle. “I’d found your pig,” he told Malles. “Since I shot it, you get to clean it.”

“Hold on there, Jacob,” Banak said. “Ye clean it yerself, fair punishment fer not teaching yer boy how to operate fine dwarven weapons. C’mere, boy, I’ll show ya what’s what.”

Malles did not desire another Banak shooting lesson in the slightest. He spent a week patching the hole in Mrs. Bonnet’s rooftop. He pulled out his skinning knife and ran off to find the pig. Banak just laughed and retrieved his rifle. “Humans astound me, sometimes, they do.”

Jacob smiled. “Yeah, he does that to me, too.”

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The carriage from Andorhal arrived right on schedule. The guards let him through the city gates and the driver made his way to the warehouse. The supervisor met him by the loading bay. “Andorhal?” he asked.

The supervisor looked up at the driver. The driver was wearing a long black robe covered with purple runes. “Yes, sir,” the driver said. “The monthly shipment of grain.” He handed the supervisor a piece of paper stuck to a board. “I just need you to sign this paper saying you received the shipment.”

Still staring at the driver’s robes, the supervisor took the paper and wood and signed his name. Andorhal must have some crazy fashions. “Before you leave, you mind helping unload it? Not like you can go anywhere ‘till it’s done.”

“Already taken care of,” the driver said. The supervisor finally noticed the two other robed men unloading the carriage. “Apologies, sir. My comrades and I have pressing business elsewhere.”

Yep, definitely some weird fad going on. “Er, thanks,” the supervisor said. “We’ll take it from here.”
As he watched the carriage speed off, the supervisor made a note to talk to his son about joining weird cult groups. “Nutters.”