A cruel and disgusting creature has ravaged your village, killing all that you love. It looked at you with it’s wide, dripping jaw, and sneered. It spoke to you and said it would not kill something so pathetic and weak, that it would let you live to carry on the shame of your village’s defeat. Fury and rage boiled in your blood as you watched it carry it’s hulking form over the hills and to the beyond you’ve never dared to see. The pain of your weakness made you feel even smaller, younger, than you already are. But then you remember what your people, your family, believe; that strength does not come from the size of your body, nor the sharpness of your blade, but your courage to fight even when you know you can not win. You take up your Father’s sword, your Mother’s shield, and your paint your face with the blood of your people. You may be but a child, but born of war you are, and the one born to kill the beast you shall become.