I grew up on a farm. There was a cute ranch-hand whom I had a crush on. Everything was perfect; I had my own pony, it was peaceful.

Then the tax collections were started again, a problem with funding a war or something like that. We were subsistence farmers; we lived on what we grew. We had no income. As two months drifted by, the ranch-hand left us; we were unable to pay him for his help. We went into wake him one morning and he wasn't there.

Then, the tax collectors came. I was in the hills behind the house and I watched in horror as they set fire to the house and fields. I turned and ran in the opposite direction, instinct, I guess. I ran like the hounds of hell themselves were after me.

I ran across a road, or tried to. I ran smack dab into a coach hitched to four brilliant, gleaming white horses. The coachman leapt down and picked me up, I'd fallen down. He asked where I was headed. I told him that the tax collectors had killed my parents. A man in tailcoats leaned out the window.

"Pick up the pace Will, I have to get home to my daughter's birthday!"

"Sir, this young lady here just lost her parents, are Sophie and Danny wantin' a new maid yet?"

"You bet!! Even if the last hasn't left, she will soon."

As I got in the coach with the man, I never guessed that my future would contain falling off a griffin into a ravine 20 miles deep.

OK, did you guess whose narrative it was before the last sentence???