The events of this tale happen a few weeks before the Rites of Spring, on the road towards the border of the Kingdom of Nova Regnus.

Kailos hated the taste of blood. While he couldn't exactly remember much of his past, he assumed this fact had always rung true with him. Maybe it was the odd warmth of it, or maybe the metallic taste? At least it was his own blood, but that didn't really make him feel much better either way.

It had been two months since he had left the hall of the newly founded Council to the King, and he had to say he was not particularly fond of Osterra. Once again his lack of memory dissuaded him from assuming anything of the world from which he had come, but he felt that it hadn't been a world with such brutish and violent creatures as the trolls that had him somewhat surrounded at this particular time. With a wry grin he spat the blood from his mouth, hoping there wasn't any teeth hidden in the sanguine puddle that had landed at the feet of what he could only assume to be the head troll. Damn his bad fortune to stumble across three of these things in one place. He had tried and failed to sneak past them, but the brush had been too thick and he had stumbled over a log which they had noticed and, of course, felt the need to take as an act of war upon their territory.

Changing his stance to a more defensive position, Kailos shook his head slightly and took a breath, calming his nerves and focusing the energy in his body for the fight. It was strange, the way he could sense things better here. It was as if he only had to reach out and grab onto this indescribable power and he could wield it to change the fabric of reality itself. He didn't like that idea, and had very early on in his adventures here in the Northern Wilds that he would not go down the road of the arcane practitioner. At least not if he could help it.

His train of though was broken when the troll on his right lunged forward with out warning, teeth bared in a hideous grimace, equal parts triumphant smile and rage filled roar. They were only about four and a half feet tall, and Kailos guessed that these were either young beasts or simply stunted growth wise. The last tribesmen he had talked to had mentioned that there were several different varieties of these particular monsters in this area, and the smaller ones were relatively stupid and easy to handle. This of course, did not make them any less dangerous. As the muscular arms of the troll nearly reached him, the warrior deftly side stepped, using the butt end of his halberd to trip the now confused beast. Continuing to use the momentum of the movement, he brought the ax head crashing down on the central trolls neck, severing a decent amount of tendons and, hopefully, mortally wounding the beast.

Unfortunately this left him exposed slightly on his front, and he was struck by the full force of the final troll launching itself at his chest. They toppled backwards, the halberd still buried in the neck of the dying leader. With a roar, the beast that had trip ran to it's leader and tried to help prevent it further pain by wrenching the weapon free. This of course only led to spew of blood and a slight gurgle as the wounded beast gave its last breath. Kailos would have felt bad for the troll left standing their, its comrades blood covering the weapon in its hands, but he had more pressing matters to attend to as his assailant brought one of it's meaty arms down on his chest, knocking the wind out of him.

Rolling out of the way to dodge another blow, all the while trying to suck air into his decompressed lungs, Kailos drew his dagger and neatly sliced the inner thigh of the enraged creature, releasing a torrent of blood and a squeal of agony from the monster. It swung wildly at him, and nearly hit him too had it not been for his quick instinct to duck. Now in a squatting position, the warrior took the small blade in both hands and lunged upward into the trolls chest, just below its rib cage. Another, shorter roar left it's fanged mouth as it fell to the ground dead.

Withdrawing the blade from the corpse, Kailos turned to his final foe, just in time to see the monster snap the shaft of the halberd like a twig and throw the metal end at his head. Swearing and dodging, the fighter ruefully thought of how much it would cost him for a new weapon to replace his beloved halberd. Regaining his composure, he faced the beast. They glared at each others equally bloody face then, with a roar, the troll made its final charge towards this troublesome passerby. Without thinking, Kailos pulled back and punched the monstrosity full in it's ugly fanged face.

The troll had not expected this, and to be honest neither had the warrior. The result was another stand off, as the troll seemed to take a moment to understand what had happened, and the wayfarer wondered what had made him think that was a good idea. It was, however, the latter of the pair that decided not to waste so an opportunity, and his blade carved a path across the confused beast's throat. Still with a look of surprise across it's grotesque features, the troll fell in a heap next to it's fellows.

Kailos sat down, breathing hard. As the adrenaline began to subside his body began to ache and the hand with which he had made his penultimate swing began to throb. Spitting some more blood out of his mouth, he glanced down at his hand to see two of the fingers were bent at awkward angles, and were already beginning to bruise. Swearing, he gingerly checked if they were broken. To his immense surprise, it seemed as if they had only been dislocated. Grimacing, he popped them back into place and stood up, surveying the area.

Before the attack he had planned on making camp close by here. Had he succeded in sneaking past the trolls there was a glad on the other side of the nearby creek in which he had camped on his journey here. Now, covered in blood and worried about his hand, he considered his options. He could try and find another, less troll infested part of the wood to make his campsite in, or he could perhaps see if these brutes had had a small cave close by he could spend the night in. Glancing at the remnants of his halberd, he brushed both of those ideas to the side. Without his primary weapon he was next to useless in a straight fight, and while the dagger had served him well in this encounter, he had had the benefits of surprise and luck on his side. He doubted much if he could use the short blade as effectively as he had just done now. Odd, he thought, he had never thought of himself as a particularly skilled knife fighter. Then again, no memories. Grimacing, he collected his pack and the head o the halberd. With any luck he could salvage it at the next town he came across.

For now though, he was in for a long walk. It was about midday now, and if he really pushed himself, he could make it the few extra miles to the small inn on the border which he had been told about by some of the tribesmen he had met. What was it called... The Tired Wanderer? The Dreary Wayfarer? He would just have to see when he got there he supposed.