This is a little something to test the water. If people read this, I'll continue it. Enjoy.

A column of smoke rose from the outskirts of Grovesdale. The normally peaceful orchard town was disturbed tonight, and the smoke blotted out the full moon. Sparks and ashes drifted on the wind. Small groups of three or four bustled on the main road, many more going into town than out. A crowd that shrank with every few moments gathered about a flaming shack just off the road. Yet, enough villagers remained to menace the two figures sillhouetted against the flames.

One was lithe and slight, cloaked and hooded, standing several paces away from the crowd. The other, lanky in build, stood closer, with a visored mining helmet strapped upon its head, and a shovel slung over its shoulder. Two of the gathered townsfolk carried another away, while yet another lay, motionless at the lanky figure's feet.

"Bastard killed Jory!" The leader of the mob cried, holding a torch high above his head. "That proves it! They're no-good, and if they stay in our town, they'll curse us all!" The gathered peasants howled their approval. They shuffled slightly closer, causing the lanky figure to take a slow step back.

He made sure to put the business end of his shovel between the mob and himself. He had already dropped two of the blighters, knocking one flat on his arse, and stoving in the other's head. But, when it came down to it, there were still a dozen or so villagers, and if they decided to all come at once, all he could do was go down with a fight. He spared a quick glance over his shoulder, at his sister. Her eyes were outlined beneath her head, glowing ever-so-slightly, and her hands gave off a warm glow. He knew she was scared. So was he.

All they had wanted was a peaceful, anonymous existence. But even that was denied to them. Once the villagers had learned of his sister's powers, they had shunned them, but tolerated them. Now, after the harvest was poor, they had blamed her. And he defended her, like he always did.

Broken from his short reverie, he lashed out at a villager armed with a pick who strayed too close. The flat of the shovel slammed against the man's forearm, and he yelped, dropping his pick and falling backwards. His fellows caught him and hauled him away, but he still howled in pain and anger as he was taken to the back of the mob. Another man stepped forward, this one tall and broad. He carried a large axe, and walked with a certain swagger. It simply made the lanky boy angry.

"Got one more chance to get gone, lad," the woodsman told him. "I'd take it if I was you."

Growling, the lanky boy lunged forward, shovel arcing towards the woodsman's head. The big man moved surprisingly quickly, and caught the shovel's blade on the haft of his axe. With a twist, he tore the shovel from the lanky boy's hands. The woodsman's massive fist smashed into the boy's stomach, knocking all the wind from his lungs, and his knee smashed into his helmeted head. The boy toppled backwards, his head ringing from the blow.

The woodsman shook his head and cracked his neck. "You ought to 'ave left, laddy." He hoisted the axe up above his head, and made to bring it back down.

He never did. A bolt of lightning leapt forth, and struck the big man square in the chest. The axe flew from his hands, and he dropped like a poleaxed oxen. Smoke rose from the cloaked girl's hands, and took several slow steps towards her fallen brother. The lanky boy slowly rose to his feet. The crowd closed in again, this time leaving them almost no room. The lanky boy could feel the flames against the back of his neck. Reaching for the nearest tool, his hand found the worn wooden handle of the woodsman's axe. He pulled its head from the earth, and raised it to meet any assault. He didn't need to.

Several of the villagers had suddenly lost their interest, and instead, looked at something coming down the road. Several long moments passed, and the only sound was the light pad of feet in the distance, and the crackle of the fire. Suddenly, the mob began to part, and as it did, a curious sight met the siblings.

A small, weathered creature lead the procession. It was cloaked, and a small, glowing bauble floated over its back, hung on a stick. It made a wide motion with its arms, and several more of the things, tan-skinned and apparently younger, spread out behind him, roughly shoving their way through the crowd. The weathered one smiled knowingly.

"Hello, young ones. A little birdie tells me you have a knack for causing mayhem…" The creature bowed slightly. "I am Gnarl… Allow me to be the first to congratulate you for finally embracing your abilities… Mistress, and Master." Gnarl smiled as the two siblings traded a glance. "We are at your command. Might I suggest…. A touch of mayhem?"

Gnarl saw a certain fire in the boy's eyes. He wasted no time, using the peasants' stunned state to his advantage. He stormed forward, and with a grunt of exertion, backhanded the leader of the mob. Two of the gremlin-like minions bounded to his side, gleefully joining him in mauling the villagers foolish enough to remain. Meanwhile, the girl stared at Gnarl with an intensity he hadn't seen in ages. His smile was almost paternal.

"Yes, I believe you two are destined for great things…. Great, evil, things."