It was a cold winters night. A Cristal clear sky and wolves howling at a bloody full moon. A night when the cold drove even the hardiest man inside. A night ruled by those that no-one speaks off and fewer have seen. A night when even the ice craved heat and the fish dove to the deepest parts of the lakes.
Simply put; it was a really, very cold night.
But inside the tavern, everyone was in heat. In one way ore another. Either rubbing it in from the buring fireplase or feeling it from the strong drinks. In the inn songs were sung, pirchers were drained and bottoms were pinched. Not just by the men.
There was a feeling of merryment and joy. For this was midwinternight. After this night, things would start too look brighter. The days would get longer and the cold wouldn´t be quite as unbearing. And as very few could do any work during the present conditions, people did the best they could to keep themselves entertained.
One of the men sitting in the tavern, draining pitchers and quite guilty of a few pinched bottoms is the hero of our story. That is, if the story is to have a hero. Which actually may not be necessary, concidering all the facts.
But he doesn´t know that, not now and maybe not ever. Because this isn´t your average cast hero; well built with swell muscles, brandishing a two-handed sword single-handedly, cutting of wicked mens heads while kissing the princess.
Not at all. This man, our hero, is actually quite average. Not very tall, not very small and he probably would have a really tough time brandishing a two-handed sword, even with two hands. As for kissing princesses, there weren´t really that many available in the small village of Dung, located just a days walk from Big Fort, which was right on the border to Wilderness.
As for brains, he couldn´t really compete with the higher echelon there either. He never could figure out how that chess thing worked and reading and writing, well that it just plain stupid to consider.
Before I forget, his name is Emerick Weaver. And that´s what he is – a weaver. Not the most intruiging job for a hero, eh. But Emerick actually likes what he does, he rather likes what he is. If he could just find himself a suitable wife, then things would be just smack perfect. All things considered.
Because what else could a man really want? A nice job, a nice home, a nice wife and some nice children. All quite nice, simple and ready to go. The kind of life most of us settle for.
So the question remains. How is Emerick to be a hero? What makes him so special, apart from his total lack of specialities, which quite often is the trade-mark of the Jack-Of-All-Trades. But in this case it´s rather a Lack-Of-All-Traits.
Well, he can do one thing quite better than most. Actually better than anyone he has ever met. And that thing is qutie extraordinary - if you don´t know how to do it yourself.
Emerick knows how to wistle very loud. Truly very loud. So loud that everyone stopped what they were doing just to look at the idio whistling.
Not a very useful ability if that´s your only special ability. And not very handy for wife-hunting or regular hero-business. But it has to count for something, hasn´t it?
Well, let´s get back to the story shall we.
Let´s do that in the next chapter instead.