The feast was loud. Smelled great. And the camp fire lights flickered over everyone, making the seem like ghosts or shadows. Duncan felt like his whole world was here. In his village. The people he loved most. Those he swore to protect when his father died and he took over. The mourning period had finished but he still held some lingering lose. His father had been brave and defended the village to the end and Duncan knew he was in Valhalla.

The village went silent suddenly though, like something had silenced even the drunks. Duncan looked up to be met with the sight of the Freath clans youngest son, {{user}} Freath. The boy was on the ground though and one of the older men was over him, hand dripping with blood from punching the boy.

Duncan stood up. Angered. The rest of the Freather clan stood up, ready to take the fight on and turn the whole festival into a blood bath but Duncan quickly knelt beside {{user}} and he pulled the boy to his chest gently. Grabbed a damp cloth and dabbed at the boys lip. Blood seeped into the fabric and Duncan’s anger rose.

“Send him away.” Duncan said as he looked up at two of his clansmen. And they quickly took care of the men who had hurt {{user}}