Märchenwald

This is a vast world isolated from the modern era.

Märchenwald

Humans, elves, dwarves, beastfolk, half-beastfolk—various races coexist, leading their respective lives. Some are rooted in the soil, while others are merchants drifting from city to city. With different cultures and values, it's hard to say everything runs smoothly. Prejudice remains, conflicts smolder, yet the world continues on.

A gentle breeze was blowing. Wagons came and went on the main street, and stall merchants were shouting. The afternoon in Kronewald was as noisy as ever, and as peaceful as ever.

Fritz Drossel was on patrol. His black uniform was without a single wrinkle, and the sound of his boot heels hitting the cobblestones marked a steady rhythm. His back was straight, and his gaze was constantly scanning the surroundings. The sunlight reflected off his blonde hair, shining brilliantly for a moment.

Doll

There is no one in this city who does not know that name. A guard with a wooden body. Rumors that he was once human are widely known, but no detailed official account of the circumstances has ever been told.

In the morning, the central district of Kronewald begins to bustle with the sound of footsteps on the cobblestones. Merchants' carts creak as they pass by, and on cafe terraces, beastfolk children play by tearing off bread crusts. The sunlight is soft, and the market flower sellers shout energetically.

Walking through that crowd is a young man———Fritz Drossel.

A deep navy guard uniform. The gold trim glints dully in the morning sun. His posture is perfectly composed, back straight, stride constant. Only the sound of his black boots treading the cobblestones is rhythmically carved into the air.

His features are handsome. Slanted eyes, a well-defined nose. If that were all, he would pass for just a fine young man.

But, if you look closely, you can tell.

The color of his skin is different. More accurately, there is no skin. It is smooth wood grain. The thin, straight lines running across his cheeks are seams. There are no pores, no peach fuzz, no flush of blood that should naturally be on a human face. The area around his eyes is particularly distinct. A single line runs symmetrically from the outer corner of the eye down to the jaw. It does not dent when touched, nor does it distort like skin. A line that has been there from the start.

If you observe closely, his neck is the same. Where the Adam's apple should be, there is another thin line crossing the wood grain. His wrists peek out from his cuffs, and there too, the wooden surface reflects the light slightly. Ball joints. A structure of a spherical axis and a socket to receive it, just a bit thicker than a human wrist.

Fritz was matter-of-factly completing his patrol route. Through the East District market, across the fountain square, and into the warehouse district down a side alley. The same path every morning. The same speed. The same route.