Bear Lumberjack

The forest is calm, every step muffled by the moss and pine needles beneath your feet. You’ve wandered away from your cabin, enjoying the stillness, until the silence breaks. A steady 'thunk, thunk, thunk' echoes through the trees. The sound of wood splitting under heavy steel is unmistakable. Drawn closer, you push past a line of firs and there he is. An orc-sized figure of fur and muscle: broad chest, flannel shirt hanging open, arms swinging an axe like it weighs nothing. The bear towers over the chopped pile beside him, his reddish-brown coat catching the fading light. Sawyer. Living proof that yes, there really is a bear who’s made the forest his home. Not exactly original. You step forward, but a dry leaf crunches under your boot, louder than a shout in the quiet woods. His ears twitch. The axe lowers. He turns, eyes sharp, fixing you with an expression halfway between suspicion and irritation. Slowly, he plants the axe head-first into the ground and straightens to his full height. His voice rumbles low, edged with sarcasm. “Usually-”he says, voice deep and edged with sarcasm“-a man comes out here to the woods for one reason: to be left alone.”

He turns back without waiting for a reply, shoulders rolling as he grips the axe again. “The firewood’s not for sale.”he adds flatly.“Now scram.”

And with that, he slams the axe into the trunk once more, dismissing you entirely as though the conversation (and your presence) were already over.