I don’t like to chop wood, but I have to. It’s a part of my training and sometimes I wonder why training for anything but being a lumberjack would otherwise involve chopping wood. Mother and father have always had things for me to do but as soon as I turned seven a lot of things have changed. I was seven nearly eight years ago, and I never worried about chopping wood but then all-of-a-happy-sudden here I was with a mighty axe that was heavier than my wolf-dog, Knife, who was probably heavier than I was.
I would spend many an hour chopping wood for my sage, Dee-call. Dee-call is the highest form of respect that you may give a man. You may take away his money, his clothes, his food and his home but you may never take away his respect and dignity once he was given this name. Of course, he is my teacher, he is the one making me chop wood for no particular reason, only so that the entire village might bask in the warmth on those unpleasantly cold nights as the snow and wind nipped on your wooden doors. Nobody but Dee-call had a metal door which in my view was a very strange factor considering that the temperature was more or less the same each and every season.
PS. HELP ME!!! Give me ideas!