> The Subsequently, Moderately, Somewhat Mediocre Adventures of Bers Writlock and The Cube of Destiny.
>  by Charles Farrow
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> The allegedly, Legendary beginnings. -1
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With a roaring flame the entire room was filled with a golden light as incandescent as the sun itself! A sharp crack of air was all that was heard, as the blade of an axe cut through the air like a bolt of lightning. 

The moment seemed to linger on into eternity, until the slick sound of blood flowing and a body thumping over was heard. It was over. It was finally over…

Sir Writlock, The Cunning and Brave looked back at the, now deceased, remains of the elder demon of Neverdid. 
It had taken many years and constant training to reach this point, but now it was over. He had done it, he had defeated the evil overlord and the world was safe once more on account of his sacrifices. Truly he had fulfilled his destiny as a hero.

It was with that thought in mind and a small smile on his beak that he mounted his trusted potato dragon and rode into the rapidly spinning sunset, before everything burst into broccoli.





His eyes opened slowly...
Bers woke, not with a start, but with a dejected look in his eyes and a long drawn out sigh. It had been another of those dreams… perhaps nightmares would be more apt considering the final outcome they always had…

He tried to get up, but was stopped by a cramp in his already sore back. Cursing silently to himself he laid back down and looked up at the ceiling. Wooden logs tightly wound together with craftsmanship he envied made up his walls and ceilings. He could see faint glimpses of light stream through the edges of his window and couldnt help but wonder how long he had slept. Slowly rising from his meagre bedding, with his worn and patched blanket in tow, he sluggishly made his way over to the shutters of his window. Opening them, he was rewarded with a strong gust of wind and a metaphorical slap in the face, as the snow outside came Barging in, seemingly not aware that it hadn't been invited. Bers shut the shutters as fast as his sluggish morning body would allow.

"Crud in a rusty bucket that's cold!" He shivered, as he awkwardly fumbled his way over to the fireplace.
The soft crackling of the remaining embers, that almost popped to the beat of his talons against the floor, told him that the fire was on it's last leg. With an acknowledging grunt he set about gathering some fuel, with a weary chuckle, "More wood for the Pyre Sire"...

His meager living space didn't house much in the way of grandeur, or basic utilities for that sake. A rickety old cot that was about as comfortable as a bedroll full of rocks sat near the wall, flanked by the only pieces of furniture he owned, a small table and stool. The only light that filled the small shack was that of the fireplace, a single candle which had burned down to it's wick and whatever daylight managed to penetrate it's way through the admittedly well isolated walls of the hut. He didn't have much to his name and what little he had was rather shoddy, but being the neighbor of a lumberjack, did allow him some of the essential necessities for survival that he required.
A short walk to the corner of his room and he had his firewood.

Tossing a few smaller pieces onto it and stirring the dying flame he settled in front of it.
With the fires hunger now sated and his weary morning body giving in to the comfort of the fire, he plotted down in front of the flames. With claws outstretched and blanket in tow he slowly regained his morning glow.

Heh... hm, that wasn't bad actually... maybe he could use that line at some point?
Though being honest, it was a tad dull. Not many lyrics or fables based around morning rituals he reckoned.
Not that he'd know anyways...

Looking over to his most priced possession, a small lute that rested near the edge of his cot, he picked it up and gave it a strum. he'd won it in a bet a few winters back from a traveling yak that had made quite the scene at the local tavern. He inspected it's sleek exterior as he tuned it's strings, he smirked a little as he recalled the early days of trying to learn how to play it. Had he not hidden it under the floorboards during that first week he was sure a wild animal would have knocked his door down and mauled him just to stop the noise he was making, if not for his neighbor himself...
it stood out from the rest of his possessions as it was one of the few things he owned that wasn't worn, old and ratchet. 

As he thought about his hopes of becoming one of those skalds of legend that would regale the world with their stories of whimsy and blood, adventure and woe, the shutters of his windows blew open sending the frozen wind of the outside in.
With a shake and a shiver he was stirred from his thoughts. Forging on to close the petulant betrayers of warmth and memory, He frowned looking at the now once more closed shutters. 
Oh right, he'd almost forgot... It was hunting day today, and he would have to brave that weather within the hour if he was to make it in time.
And if there was one thing Bers was sure of, it was that he did not want to be late. 

With that Bers grabbed his warmest and only coat from beside his cot and set for the door. Who knew, maybe he'd actually get a kill worth mentioning today?





Bers sat hunched over the desk of the local tavern nursing a few new sore spots. As he looked into his mug of foaming liquid, he watched it swirl around as he swayed the drink, before downing it's contents.
He aimed a downtrodden look at the meager bundle of scraps at his feet. Thoughts of hungry days drifting through his mind, as he looked at the one hare and meagre pheasant he had managed to catch. 
By far not his worst hunt... he thought in more positive notes. Though he'd go hungry, he wouldn't starve at least... 

The tavern was abuzz with noise, and the atmosphere was most lively after a successful hunt.
He sat out of view from the general attendance... It was safest that way.
The tavern was full of hunters, drunkards and braggadocios feathermops, hollering away. It always was after a good hunt, or a bad one for that matter. 
Laughter and Insults perforated the air like a dense fog, only overshadowed by the amalgamated stench of mead, ale, sweat and blood.

The lighting in the chamber was weak and moody most places, only kept alive by the flickering torches on the walls and the occasional candles spread about the tables. This was with the exception of the middle of the room, where surrounded by a few long tables, which were really just a gathering of smaller tables cobbled together, was a firepit of proper proportions. 

Around the warmth of this hearth, only the most daring, skilled, experienced and arrogant could sit. It wasn't so much an unwritten rule as it was a general risk to ones health and well-being to do so. 

At one of these tables, near the middle of the room, sat a particularly familiar gaggle of griffons. Specifically his hunting party.

There was Frenhilda Berrypinch, An abnormally tall and well built griffon, sporting a stark white crest with blood red markings around her eyes, she bore a good many scars a few of which ran from the tuft of her chest to above the lid of her right eye. She struck an imposing figure where ever she went and was without a doubt one of the loudest patrons to be sure. She had by now most likely consumed a couple gallons of mead by herself. As griffons went, she was fierce, bold and bloodthirsty, with a quick wit and a quicker fist. Bad temper on that one, she hadn't earned her nickname for nothing.

Besides her were his other two hunting partners Sven Feldbrook and Ydrik.

Bers didn't know much of Sven, other than that he was from one of the outlying towns and that he was particularly stoic. He was a lean griffon with a light gray coat of feathers and blue markings around the tufts that made up his mane, average in most aspects except for the grim burn scars that surrounded his neck. Bers knew of them only since Sven had dropped the thick scarf he used to cover them, during a nasty storm that had hit them on the way back from a hunt last winter.
Sven had arrived at their small village after his old one had burned down, and though he refused to talk about it, Bers often wondered what was going on behind those eyes, as he stared unerringly into the fire of the taverns hearth.
What he did know of Sven though despite his less than forthcoming attitude, was his proficiency with a bow. Woe be to anyone that dared challenged him to a dual of the skies, for Bers had yet to see Sven miss...

Ydrik was another case entirely. A lightweight, a liar, a charmer, a trickster and probably the closest thing Bers had to a 'friend' amongst the three.
Ydrik or Ydrïksønskvaldra as was the full name Bers had managed to pry out of him during a particularly drunk night at the tavern, was one of the few griffons in the village Bers could relate to. Though a charlatan by most standards, Bers was impressed with Ydriks ability to tell tall tales and regale others with grand stories of accomplishments so convincingly that Bers himself sometimes forgot they were false. That bravado and charisma his friend had to tell his tales true or false was admirable and Bers wished only to one day have half his of friends confidence.
Despite having told many a different tale of his origin over the years Ydrik had never been willing to divulge his family name for some reason and though odd, it was far from the oddest thing about him.

These three Griffs were part of, if not the whole reason, why he was sitting further away from the rest of the tavern goers.
In truth it wasn't always them that started the whole thing, but they sure did have a bloody knack for it. 

Having looked up from his drink to get another and having signaled the old griff behind the counter for it, his attention was suddenly drawn to the middle of the room, when he heard the telltale sounds of shouting and broken mugs.
Turning around he saw that it was, true to fashion, Frenhilda, whom had her talons around the scruff of some old looking hunter's throat, with a scowl to rival a ravine.

"Ya wanna run that one by me again?! You decrepit, old, ugly son of a feathermop!" She growled out, as the griffon in question clawed at his neck with wide fearful eyes.

The commotion in the tavern had all but ceased as the tension hung heavy in the air, griffons beginning to get ready for whatever might come next.
Smoothly, Ydrik slipped up behind Frenhilda's shoulder, looking down on the choking bird with an amused smirk before saying, "I do believe I heard him call you a poor excuse of a hunter, with a face like a log and a body to match..." 

"Oh yeah!? So you think I'm build like a tree huh?" The old hoot shook his head as fiercely as the claws around his throat would allow. "Oh so you're calling my buddy a liar then, is that it?!"
Again, the frightened bird shook his head with vigorous intent.
"So ya did say it! Great! Then I've got the perfect excuse to do this!"

And just like that, a fist dented a beak, one thing turned to another, and a bar fight had broken out. 

Mead and ale were flung across the room fiercely, only matched by the fierceness of the insults slung about, and the Griffins that followed shortly after. Tables were broken, feathers fluttered through the air and littered the floor, and for some reason, somewhere along the line, somegriff had pulled out a pan-flute and was going absolutely haywire on it.

As Bers took a sip of his mead with a deadpan expression, he watched passively Whilst the old hoot from earlier was tossed bodily into the booth next to him. The wood cracking underneath his weight as he collapsed into a heap. Far from a lethal blow, but he'd most certainly feel it come next light.
Several griffons had tried to aid both sides of the fight, and as such most were now also strewn about the place in haphazard positions.

In the midst of all the commotion Bers saw Ydrik, bob and weave his way across the battlefield of spilled ale and hurt pride, to the bar.

"Love a good brawl," Ydrik commented as he leaned against the counter next to Bers. Wearing a grin on his face, that spoke of tricks and mischief. He seemed to have a realisation of sorts as he began searching for a drink.

"And did you perchance have anything to do with this spontaneous bout?"
Bers eyed his buddy with a deadpan gaze, accentuated by a singularly lifted brow.

Ydrik caught a mug of ale out of the air and took a Large gulp before putting on a thoughtful expression.
"I suppose from a certain angle, I might have played the tiniest part in it." He smiled.
He looked around with mock suspicion before leaning in with a sultry whisper of, "Suffice to say, that old bag of bones owed me 3 hogs and I saw fit to have him remember his debt".

Bers looked back at the griffon sprawled across the booth behind him. He'd think him dead if not for the methodical wheezing that left his ragged form. "So you had Frenhilda beat him up? That seems kind of like a disproportionate reaction."

Ydrik took another big gulp, followed by a hic. "Dispror- disprorpotuna... *Hic* you use some odd words Bers."
With slurred movements he too looked at the pitiful pile of feathers next to them. " I- I suppose 2 hogsh shall do."

With that he took another sip of his drink and promptly gave a curt salute before falling over flat on his face.
Bers poked his fallen friend. He was out cold. 

Sighing, Bers reached for his drink, only to pull back, as a griffon sized object harpooned itself into the bar, taking the counter and his drink with it.
After a brief moment of surprise, Bers looked at the unidentified flying object, finding it to look precariously similar to Frenhilda. A moment of investigation later and it was clarified why.
It was Frenhilda.

Looking across the tavern Bers saw the aftermath of the apparently now finished brawl. Griffons were strewn left, right, up and down across the room. The lucky few still standing awkwardly fussing about getting the blankets and after-brawl supplies ready. 

For most it was time to hunker down and spend the night. That they may yet brave the morning light.
An unlucky few had hens and chic's to get home to and would have to traverse the monstrous weather outside. 
The smart ones had brought both to the tavern beforehand.

As Sven, somehow completely unharmed, joined Bers in getting their two hunting pals set up for a good rest.
Bers couldn't help but look at all the broken tables and chairs and think aloud.
"Should'a been a Lumberjack."