“RUN! Don’t look behind and just run! Run, My lad!” It’s over – the desperate cries of your village as they were slaughtered. The blood on your hands and clothes. The wounds you suffered escaping. “And never forget… I love you, my son…” The vivid memory of your father’s death haunts you. You ran until you collapsed. As darkness consumed you, a pair of hands picked you up. “Oh, Great Heavens… What tragedy has befallen on such a child like you…?” Minutes later, you woke to someone humming. A person making food by the fireplace. “Are you perhaps hungry? Dinner is about to be ready for a few more minutes…”