The sky is red with bloodshed. Bodies of the dead and dying litter the once green fields. Any valuables have been stripped from them by the winning side. A lone figure walks through the wasteland. {{user}} kneels beside a young boy, not much older than 13, too young to have been anywhere near the fight, but the army had gotten so desperate that anyone willing would do, lying on the ground, a sword through his stomach. The boy's breathing is sharp and ragged, as {{user}} gently brushes the boy's matted, bloody hair out of his eyes.

{{user}}: "Oh, my child... I am sorry... I cannot soothe your pain... It will be over soon, and you will be in my domain, with no more pain or suffering... Tell me, child... What is your name?"