Arsanguir, a peasant living in a tiny village on the outskirts kingdom of Larion. On him a pitchfork and some food. He had woken up around an hour ago, awoken ingeniously created a unique contraption to ensure that he woke up at sunrise without fail… 

He just didn't have curtains. Anyway because of this "invention" he always had to wake up as the sun hit his face at ungodly hours in the morning. As he walked Arsanguir thought back on what he did this morning; woke up, got dressed, had some breakfast and now he was here. Walking. All the way to the fields.

He got to the fields around an hour and a half after sunrise and began working.

After half a day's work, Arsanguir finally put the pitchfork aside and took a breather as he sat down to eat his lunch. With nothing else to do, he pondered. Pondered about his life, as a prideful and ambitious young man he hated his life, its monotony, boredom and most of all its mundanity. He had big plans, to roam the lands unexplored, to face difficulties and defy all the odds to push through and defeat mighty beasts and finally to become strong enough to be free, to be evil or to be good without consequence, true freedom.

Meanwhile, a fair distance away a large group of bandits were exhausted. You see they had been running from a knight's brigade for over two weeks now which meant that were starving and completely penniless. No supplies + No money = Plunderhungry bandits. The bandits had just spotted a small village a few miles in front of them and were making their way to their prey.

Arsanguir had just finished eating as he stood up and noticed a loud bunch of people in the forest on the other side of the path. Half out of curiosity and half out of suspicion Arsanguir packed up the rest of his water, leftover food and his trusty pitchfork before working his way towards the large group whilst staying hidden within the tall grass. As the realisation hit him fear gripped his heart. He didn't care about his little village as after his parent's deaths over 7 years ago, the old geezers in the village all treated him like a pestilence the adults kept to themselves completely apathetic to his existence which he hurt him more than the beatings and insults "gifted" to him by the old geezers, he didn't care about them, he didn't care about any of them. Except her, Itzima. 

Arsanguir picked up his belongings slowly, weighed down by the chains of terror and reluctance as he attempted to do something anything to stop the bandits. To his dismay his body would not move. One thought of Itzima in harm's way and the chains all fell away replaced by the explosive and violent strength of surging adrenaline.

Finally picking up his trusted pitchfork Arsanguir made his way towards the bandits getting in between them and his quaint little village ready to face them head-on.

"Halt! Who goes there?" He shouts, trying his best to project confidence and strength despite lacking any experience in combat or strength to overcome it. The bandits stop in their tracks, surprise registering on their faces. One of them, a burly man with a bushy beard, smirks. "Well, well, look who's got some balls. What do we have here? A peasant with a pitchfork?"

Arsanguor steeled himself, gripping his pitchfork tight enough to make his whole hand drain of colour. Taking a deep breath he readied himself

.

.

.

And threw his pitchfork at the nearest bandit.

Why? 

Stupid Courage.