A long time ago, I was but a farmer's child. My mornings began with the lark and my nights ended with a bath in the river to wash off the field's muck. My father with a giant's heart, he raised many children, some his own, and some orphans. I was amongst those many, not his blood, but would've laid my life down to save the gray hair on that old man's skull.
I wish I had, for past his death to a plague that festered from an undead's flesh, all that he had garnered through his life was turned to cinder by the servants of the demon lord. His land was poisoned, his children all dead, and the plague left me alone as a sick child–as well as the only living proof that the farmer ever lived.
