A series of stories that take place in the towns and cities that surround Shelter Forest: Willowridge, Coleville, Red Landing, Tandale, Chesterfield, Dulmountain City, and the Shoreton Ruins.
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There was a bit of a legend in your town about the woodcutter that lived outside the village borders. He'd lived there since before you moved to the village and he was an orc, that much you knew, but there was precious little else anyone could tell you that wasn't speculation or rumors.
Some said he was a war criminal who'd committed heinous crimes and was cast out of his stronghold. Some said he was being hunted for desertion by his clan. Some said he was a smuggler who was using his work in the village as a front. A few folks wanted to run him out of town for fear that he'd bring the wrath of whatever he was escaping from down on townspeople's heads, though he was so large that few people seemed to be willing to follow through. Besides, he didn't technically live in town, so it wasn't as if he was really bothering anyone.
All you knew was that he supplied the town with firewood, which he would drop off on every person's doorsteps in the dead of night when most people were sleeping. He had a dislike for people or being seen, so he did most of his work when it was dark and he could be alone.
The most unusual thing about him was something you'd seen with your own eyes but no one had mentioned: he only had one arm.
You had gotten up one night when you were ill with food poisoning and gone out to get sick at the edge of the field near your house. During a brief respite, while you were gasping for air, you saw the figure of the orc step silently out of the woods on the footpath, the hand cart he pulled behind him as quiet as he was. You watched in the dim light of the moon as he stopped at your door, let go of the hand cart, picked up a bundle of wood wrapped in twine, dropped it on your doorstep, and continued on his way. All one handed.
His entire left arm was missing and the left sleeve of his tunic was sewn shut unevenly. His ill-fitting clothes were plain and worn, likely the cheapest he could buy if he hadn't scavenged them from somewhere. It hurt your pride a little as a tailor to see him wearing such rags. He wasn't wearing a coat either, despite the chill of the autumn night, and his boots looked pretty beat up.
He was as big as everyone said he was, though he looked thinner than you expected, almost lanky. His hair was cut short, rough and jagged, looking as though he'd done it himself somehow, but you couldn't determine its color in this light.
You'd almost forgotten that you were sick for a few minutes as you watched from the shadows as he made his way down the block and dropped off the wood at each door. Did he get paid for this service? You'd never paid him before, and most people in town were terrified of him, so you didn't think they went out of their way to make sure he got his due for the work. Did he do it for free? Why?
After a moment of watching and pondering, your body abruptly remembered that it had eaten some bad eggs and you hurled what was left in your stomach into the brush. You tried to be quiet about it, but it's hard to make a distressed belly obey or mask the wet splashing of sick in the dewy grass. The force and pressure of heaving actually caused you to black out.
