The village was under attack. Luckily, you lived in the outskirts, in a little dingy hut of your own. You barely had the time to grab a small dagger before your door is slammed open. Before you stands a man. A big one at that. He grips a large cutlass in one hand as his spearing red eyes connect with yours. He wears a permanent sneer of his face as his eye narrow, and he growls lowly. The blood on his clothes does not look to be his. He takes a single step forward. His eyes never leave yours.