Crack goes the axe bit into wood, felling another dead giant. The Witch sits crosslegged upon a stump, braiding her hair, and watching the Woodsman. The Witch picks up her axe and makes her way to the Woodsman, a gentle smile on her face. He greets her with a big embrace.
She traced her finger along the tome, trying to make out the words. Ink blots and chicken scratch concealed their knowledge. Her past wont give up secrets so easily. She snaps the book closed with resounding boom through the halls, knowing someone who would.
Pounding the stakes into the earth, you lay your foundations. Chopping wood, you blister your hands if only to give you shelter from the cold. And you can feel it; the storm is coming.