It is a curse of my life; on the average, one in six people just hates me. There is nothing I can do, nothing I can give them, nothing I can say. They don't need an excuse; they just hate me.
So, in a camp of roughly six dozen bandits, there were about twelve people out there just waiting to burn me at the stake. Or torture me. Or... maybe step on me.
Big surprise, Bart and his two friends Dickie and Anton were three of those people. Now in a world where people sometimes have might beyond their size, common sense says don't bother the lizard thing chopping wooden chunks longer than itself. Common sense is less common than I might like.
"Hey you," Anton said. "Our fathers run this wood."
Oh, and there was that. Human entitlement.
"They run this camp, yes." I split another tree limb in half.
"So all of this wood you're chopping?" Dickie said. "We figure that belongs to our dads."
"Firewood belongs to those who chop it." I said. "Did you bring axes?"
