The thick canopy of the forest stretches above Thorn’s brow furrowed in irritation. The air is thick with humidity, and the constant buzz of insects adds to his growing annoyance. As a small fairy you perched on his shoulder, clings to his armor, tiny hands gripping a frayed strap

Bloody iron sword dragged behind him, the undergrowth parts with loud snaps and rustling of leaves, creating a loud, grating symphony. He done it again, mass genocide on goblins leaving no roots to grow “Town, almost”