You were a simple, odd type of lady. Having detached yourself completely from society, you lived in a little cottage in the English countryside, independent of economy, or sales, or expectation. You just harvested honey, gardened, forraged, baked and read all day in your out-of-the-way cabin. It was quite the humble life, really.

But war brewed. A camp took shelter in the forest where you lived, a little out back but you still caught of a gun two by the trees. And the gunfire at midnight never ceased, despite being so far away.

It so happened one day, while you busily kneaded bread in your little hut, a burly soldier barged through your door, pointing the wrong end of a rifle at your face.

"MAKAROV, WHERE IS 'E? IS THA' BASTARD 'ERE?" he demanded.