It was some hours that before the Warrior could bring himself to uncurl and stand upright. How many times had he been in this position before? It was hard to say. He thought he had gotten used to such abuses; this was worse than his past experiences by far. At last he convinced himself that sitting here to rot was more foolish than trudging on. As he rounded an outcropping of rock in the hills he came upon a scrawny fellow just making camp. In the man’s hand was an axe...

”My axe!” the Warrior growled. He had endured enough, beaten and drained as he was this was something he could understand. With out a second thought he stepped out and reached for the little man.

The Thief made a desperate swing with the axe and the Warrior punched him square in the belly. Gasping the Thief pleaded and groveled...

“Don’t sir...“ the Thief wheezed “I know of...” he could only gasp out portions of sentences at this point “a place...” the Warriors blow had loosened something that wanted coughing up “and a weapon...spare me sir?”

“Very well then...tell your tale...but I will have my axe back!” and he snatched it from the Thief’s quaking grasp.”

The Warrior sat and made himself comfortable, even having a bit of the dry bread that was the Thief’s supper.

“It is in a pile of ruins, the Rune Sword. I saw it but there is a beast there. I can’t do anything with it but a man like you could” The Thief had been in just this predicament all too often, damned annoyingly often. Why can’t these dunderheads just leave him be. If you can’t hold onto your own property it’s your own fault. “You’re a strong one, quick too, if anyone can handle the monster it’s you.” He looked pleadingly up at the Warrior. The face of the Thief looked hopeful and thankful; in his heart he felt contempt for the poor gullible fool. Let this one do the hard work, he would just pilfer his shiny the next time they met...and there would be a next time.

The Warrior, having claimed his forfeit, left the Thief’s camp. He had not yet come in site of the place that the Thief had spoke of. He was taking a round about way, which caused a few days delay, but it kept the Thief at a distance. The path he took would show the blackguard some interesting sights. In his trail blazing he had come across an odd pile of stone and earth. Within it was a tiny and ancient little fellow.

“Oh good sir” the tiny chap started, “spare a crust for a hungry old beggar?”

The Warrior could not help but smile at such humble honesty.

“What do you here little grandfather?” he said as he broke a piece of his hard tack off for the wretched creature.

“I am Bolton,” he stuffed the dry crumbs in his mouth; the Warrior offered him water, “Bolton Notlob. I am a master lock smith and I have much skill in mountain lore.”

“Such a handy fellow and you live under a pile of stone in the wilderness? There must be more to the tale.”

“I am amongst the last of my people. In elder days we were well thought of but now the big folk are everywhere and we have gone into hiding.”

“You seem bold enough.” The response would make the Warriors decision.

“A hungry belly makes the meekest of creatures a lion for a while...”

The Warrior laughed at this, “I think there is more to your tale than you want to say” the Gnome turned red at this accusation, “but no matter, if you have the craft you claim then join with me and fall under my protection.”

“Indeed!” the little old man bounced with glee “permit me a few items, tools of my trade you know, and we can be off!”

The glee of the small man warmed the Warriors heart; he had not had pleasant company for many days.