The story about the gloves

"Who knows how the gloves were created." The old dwarf said as swigged his drink. "All I know is that they were a very popular item amongst traders. They say it ended up here when the last person died trying to obtain them."

"Where are they now?" Mane said already ready to leave.

"Slow down, slow down. I do know… they are in a large family house. Hung up like a sword above the fireplace. Their prized possession. Even if they don't know the danger it brings they still have kept it for many years."

"How do you know this?" Mane asked as something switched in his head about the situation. His fighter instincts were warning him.

"I used to work for them." The old dwarf easily replied.

"Where is this house?"

"At the centre of the dwarven land, not far from the land we are in now."

Mane and the old dwarf stared at each other with strained eyes. Mane didn't want to believe him and had no reason to trust him. As he stood up to go leave, his large body was toppled by the others that were drinking.

"Come on big guy!" They all said. "Let's get back to drinking."

Mane couldn't help but smile at the group in front of him. They all cheered him on for the rest of the night as he downed drinks as if it were breathing in air. He believed that everyone was equal. He believed that happiness came from friendship and equality. Mane possessed a cursed past, but he was happy to wear that if it meant others wouldn't have to feel sadness or shame.

By the time morning came, Mane had already squirmed his way off the sticky wet floor. He stood surrounded by the bodies of all the hungover dwarfs, smiling and hugging their drinks that were only recently topped back up.

"Sorry, guy." He whispered to not wake them. "I'll be back later."

# # #

The path was rocky, but for someone like Mane, whose steps cracked the ground he walked on, it only took a day to arrive at the house. Isolated in the mountains a house perfectly crafted from dark oak. Mane stared at it from afar and only saw how big it truly was as he approached a front door that was bigger than him. He looked up to the roof and couldn't even count how many windows were staring at him.

Knock knock.

The door quickly opened at the sound of the door knocking. A middle-aged man in his 30s rushed to the door. His hair was wet and sweat poured down his face. His tight chin and moustache would make anyone think he was a con artist turned millionaire. His suit was fancy enough to make it seem as if he owned the place.

"Are you the owner?" Mane asked.

"Y-yeah?" The guy said reluctantly to the giant in front of him.

"I need to borrow something." Mane held the dragon crest which was quickly inspected by the man. He checked every corner of it but couldn't find a reason to reject Mane.

"C-come in…"

The man took Mane to the centre room without speaking. The room looked as if it belonged to a trophy hunter with a large fireplace in the centre. The whole room was too large to furnish. A large rug was spread out and a couple of royal red cushioned sofas were facing each other, but nothing else, apart from the pictures of random strangers, seemed to interest Mane.

Above the fireplace, sat a pair of crossed silver gloves.

"This is what I need," Mane said as he attempted to take them off.

"Don't touch them!" The man screamed charging at Mane with a sword. Ever since Mane entered he was prepared to kill. Mane wasn't the first person to come for the gloves, the rest were all in the basement, decayed or dying.

Snap!

The iron sword that tried to cut Mane broke into several pieces as soon as it touched his body. No mark appeared anywhere on him but even if they did, it looked as if they wouldn't be damaged for long.

"W-what the hell?" The man said lowering back, collapsing to the ground in fear. "Please don't eat me!" The paranoid man screamed, running out the door.

# # #

"So these are the gloves?" Mane said holding them in his arms as he started walking back. "Although they look silver they bend and fold as if they were normal cotton. Perhaps this is part of the magic."

The journey back was easier than the way there. He didn't need to travel uphill and he knew where he was going as he remembered the simple path.

He came to the point where he would turn off to return home. The cliffs that crushed his height reminded him of orcish territory. The thoughts of returning to the Demon Realm flooded his mind. He was aware of his job and what he had to do. But his recent memories of yesterday were stronger.

Perhaps it was a stroke of luck for someone.

Perhaps it was a good thing he went back. Because when he did, he found them all dead. Spread across the floor, covered in each other's blood. All the dwarfs that spoke to him and spent the night with him. Layed apart from each other in the middle of the street. And in the centre, stood a man with no way to speak from his sewn-up mouth. A man that was just as tall as Mane.

A man called Wrath.