Part 2

The block of wood in Elijah's calloused hands started to take shape. Originally rough cut edges were smoothed out into flowing curves and nicks were blended into definition across the surface. He held up the piece and closed one eye to check a detail of work, measuring where the finished cut was needed.

The storm cut off the old ranch hand from everyone he knew and left him stranded without family, friends or horse. He had no idea where he was. Sure city folk would lament that all the trees and fields looked the same. But he knew they were different. Each wooded trail had its own character. Each field had its own personality. Elijah knew the trails he rode. He knew the fields he tended. These trails and fields were not ones he knew. All the storm left the fellow was the clothes on his back, the strength in his hands and his wits.

Elijah spent the next days walking the trail and finding work where he could. Sometimes he'd get lucky and find an innkeep that had a stable that needed tending. For the most part, the old ranch hand found himself odd and end piece work wherever he could find it. Work came in waves and it was a matter of feast or famine for Elijah. It didn't matter to him, how the work came, or what the task was, so long as it was an honest day's labor and he was working.

Part 4 The lines about the man's weathered face deepened, particularly around his eyes as they narrowed for another close check of his handiwork. One eye closed as he made careful inspection of a small flaw in detail. The old ranch hand brought the piece back down to the waiting knife and worked over the flaw, using only his calloused touch and the feel of the blade against the wood grain as his only guides. Yes there was quite a strange mix of folk around these parts. And although he had kept mostly to himself, a few kind strangers had extended themselves to greet the hirsute fellow. But it wasn't his curiosity nor the few kind strangers that drew him back to town. Elijah held up the carving at eye level and closed one eye to inspect the detail he reworked. The lines about the man's weathered face deepened with a smile this time.

Something else drew the old ranch hand back into town. He'd been struck by lightning again.

Part 6

Calloused fingers brushed over the newly finished edges of wood. What was once a medium-sized wooden block was slowly taking shape in the old cowboy's hands, with once-hard edges of wood grain now formed into fluid curves of muscle. The sharp blade turned the cherry wood into flesh and fabric. Elijah filled in more detail with a skillful turn and tuck of the knife, weathered fingers guiding each pass of the metal edge.

The clear night brought many out that evening, including the old ranch hand. The tavern was filled to overflowing and had many patrons taking to the tavern porch; folks preferring the open air to fighting the crowds inside. He was greeted outside by one he'd met before and he was introduced to the gathering of friends and acquaintances. Among them was the Seafarer.

As the evening wore on he didn't order a drink and he didn't contribute to the different discussions that took place. Yet he remained, in a crowd of people he didn't know, standing quietly against the porch railing. He stayed there and listened without hearing, and found himself stealing glances to the tall Norse lady time and time again. Elijah hadn't realized it at the time, but lightning had struck again. And the significance of it went far deeper.

Part 7 The old ranch hand removed the stetson from his head, long enough to wipe a sleeve over his brow. He set the stetson back on his head and picked up his carving once again. He turned the knife blade to its point and patiently worked the details into the wooden surface. The lines about his weathered face deepened about his eyes as he guided the sharp metal edge along the hard surface under his thumb. Elijah didn't look up from his work as a couple young lads went running by. Folk around these parts always seemed in a rush, much like the city folk from where he came. Things happened quickly and still the people moved restlessly. There was an uncomfortable undercurrent that seemed to keep folks on edge. Even when things seemed calm. The old ranch hand learned quickly, things around these parts never seemed as they were. It was into this fast paced world, that the old ranch hand had been thrown. An old ranch hand who didn't rush. Who spoke rarely and quietly when he did. Who was content to work an honest day's labor on a ranch and seek nothing more out of the life. He was content enough with that.

But that changed. His desire changed. Ranch life was no longer enough. It wasn't enough for him to go from one trail ride to another. And even after he found regular work at a thriving ranch outside of the city's rush, he found himself returning to it, time and again, to the point of growing distraction.

One pleasurable pastime of Shylah's is to observe others while relaxing at a drinking establishment. Not just because of her warrior's training, but because she has always enjoyed watching people and creatures. It seems as though most are intrigued by the more unusual of living beings. However, it is in the daily rituals, the habits, the hobbies of the ordinary that draws her attention, and holds it for a longer period of time.

When she first noticed the old cowboy whittling one night at the Red Dragon Inn, it pulled her gaze his way, as well as her curiosity. By the looks of it, he was just beginning on the carving. What shall that piece of wood become as he chips away at it so earnestly' Only time will tell.

And it did tell ....much later, after she had returned from a particularly long and taxing voyage.

Tired to the point of exhaustion. Stinking of sweat, fish, and the Sea, and wanting nought more than to bathe, wash her hair, then crawl into bed for a good night's sleep, the female Viking-Warrior slowly approached her darkened cabin. At first everything seemed to be as she had left it. Yet something was definitely different. Keen eyes of light blue quickly scanned the surrounding area before landing upon her log home. There, on the porch rail. What sat there, in the waiting"

As she closed the distance, Shy saw it to be a carving of two wolves.

Gloved hand reached out and plucked up the wooden design from its perch. After inspecting it closely for any sign of its maker, to nei avail, she centered in on the craftsmanship. Indeed, it was a fine piece. Made by a skilled hand. Only two, did the Seafarer know of, that could produce such quality of work, who also knew about her love of the Wild; both dead and gone from the land.

So who could it be that had the time and patience to make such a beautiful sculpture" Who could it be that knew about her connection to that of lupines" Was someone trying to tell her something" Warn her" Or was it a gift"

Eventually, the answers to those questions came to Shylah. Came in the form of a man she met years ago. A man by the name of Elijah T. Thorpe.