Smoke and ash billowed into the air. The old man watched in both horror and fascination. Gone were the

houses, the quaint little shops, gone were his beloved horses. All that was left was fire. Well, that wasn't all

that was left. A faint cry was heard among the smoldering ruins. Wincing, the old man crawled towards it,

doing the best he could with his broken leg, now bleeding everywhere. Finally, under a wooden shield, the

man discovered the source of the cries. It was a child, a baby, no more than a year old. Tenderly the man

picked it up, cradling it until it ceased it's tears. He felt a pang of sadness for the child. What would it do,

growing up in a world so cold and cruel as this one? Well, it would learn to fight, the man thought bitterly.

It would learn to defend itself against monsters like the ones who had destroyed the village. Sighing, the

man crawled away from the burning death, child in hand.