CRACK. Thunder rolls through the sky, large raindrops falling as if to drown the world. A hum is heard from a wordless song in a world filled with only a patter, patter, patter. A hand reaches out from 'neath a crown of leaves, four fingered and small. The ruddy colour of the skin turns this way and that, that way and this, playing with the drops from the cacophony 'round its roof. Another chuckle from a face and mouth, the owner dashes the rain away with a smile. Eyes the colour of the cleanest moss, mouth as full as a shroom.

This little, wee thing, why, it speaks! Ever so gently, it sings "My, my, my, a fellow ye be, ain't ye? My, my, my, I am from the Woad, and the name shall be Croad! My, my, my, I wish not to give a frown, but shall ye not tread on my crown? My, my, my!" This wee, little man, with rosy cheeks and fingers so deft, it crafts a thing within his hands. A creature appears from under the wood, as if to escape, with his knife the key to its cell of grain and earth.

"My, my, my," states he. "What a wee little creature ye be!" And yet truth, for he speaks, to the figure in his hands, one with floppy ears and strong legs and button nose, little paws wide to scamper lightly through snow. The figure is dry, yet seeming alive, as if to flick its nose and tail. This wee man called Croad, indeed he seems strange, but in a world of myth and legend all strange is normal. Age need not matter, for beings such as he, ah, they are truly without equal. He was a first and a last, a happenstance and inevitability, unfound yet known to all. A gnome, some would say, is his vocation, but he states, and I quote, "My, my, my, I am just old Croad."

With a twist of his knife, the last wood splinter falls, showing the world a figure worth being, thinks Croad. With a content sigh, and a wonder in his eye, alas he breathes a twinkle, just a spark. It enters the figure in his hands, spreads and shapes, pulling energy to complete it. A CRACK and BOOM  from above sounds again, yet the figure, it breathes and twists.

Fur of brown and red, it's tail nothing more than a ball. It shakes itself free, small antlers atop its head waving through the air lazily. This wee man called Croad, he looks into its eyes with a smile and says, "My, my, my, what a wee creature ye be. Now go, ye'r needed away from here. To the desert with ye, to be what ye need be."

The creature in his hands, once wood and not bone, takes a look towards this man, this Croad. It nods to him, then waits to be let down. Another contented sigh escapes from the wee man, this Croad, as he lowers and places the figure-made-creature to the ground. It bounds and leaps through the brush, soon out of sight, though never out of mind. A sigh, a reach to the rain, and this man named Croad picks up new wood again.