Once in Madrin's tenth year during an unusually barren time, he asked his mother a question. "Why does old man Richardson always yell at me for chasing away those pesky foxes, their nothing more than pest who rob our village of chickens."

"My son what methods do you use to chase them off." those gray eyes of hers always feel like they can peer into his heart. She was waiting expectantly for Madrin's answer.

"A swift kick and some solid hits with some thrown stones will make sure they leave you be." The confidence of a boy that thinks he knows everything filled his voice.

Crunch!; Pain suddenly bloomed in the ruined bridge of his nose as the fragile bones broke. Madrin's mother was never one for subtlety, she was a honed weapon from the top of her shoulder length auburn hair to her disciplined strides.

"Boy!, tell me how you feel now that you're on the other side of this cruel game."

"Angry, dazed and a little fearful." he stated with shame in his heart.

"What If a wasn't your mother, but a huge lumbering ape that only knew how to cause you pain." The disappointment in her tone was unmistakable.

"I would fear for my life greatly, and if I ever come across another such beast I would know my only options were run or attack. Realization hit him like a sack of flour.

"Exactly, I guess some lessons require physical demonstration in order to stay in that block of wood you call a head. Remember boy that wasting your strength on something that has done you no harm will leave you more vulnerable to real threats. Also, don't make enemies without cause or you will never find true allies. Well now that we have fed your mind how about we get our afternoon training out of the way."

No matter how many times he goes thru the weapon forms his mother always defeats him without even breathing hard. Madrin however, sounds like an idling airship caught in a tornado.

"Madrin, don't drop your guard ever if I was your real enemy that is when you die. Battle is forty percent skill, ten percent luck, and fifty percent stamina. In short the first to tire is the first to die."

Next is a hearty lunch, composed of thick goat stew with a mix of carrots, peas and a half loaf of rye bread. This is definitely the highlight of his day. Then they go on a five mile jog through the mountains, and admire the green trees as they pass them at a brisk pace. Nights are lectures on practical battle tactics and proper use of terrain. On alternating days his night time excursions include proper use of stealth techniques and lock picking.

The next morning old man Richardson's entire chicken coop was in shambles. The floor was littered with feathers and dead chickens. His entire stock was either missing or slaughtered and the smell was not helped by all the fox urine.

"Madrin, remember cruelty always does more harm than good."