It was said that The Warclaw could come at any given moment. Were from, no one knew. It was a great, verocious beast, that had seemingly escaped from the very gates of the Maelstrom. The beast, with a body structure and face like a feline's, with the horns of a ram, the tail of a dragon, the tounge and eyes of a serpent, and the hooves of a horse, could easily end civiliazation as we knew it. It was at least 12 foot tall, and seemed to way tonnes. The beast, with it's snakelike eyes and tounge, set a good portion of the country ablaze, laying waste to anything that dare cross its path. It seemed as if the event, now known as the Reckoning of the Warclaw, wouldn't ever end. No one could kill or tame the beast. Many a noble man and woman alike had spent their lives for the country, to no avail. Days, weeks, months passed. Then suddenly, as if a blessing from the gods themselves, a hero immerged. He was a small-built man, a cobbler, from the countryside. The cobbler's name was [name]. He had no wives nor children, and was basically on a suicide mission. His family had been noble, until a certain member (the family member a wife, who's name remains undiscovered) soiled the family name, taking them from riches to rags. They sold valuable heirlooms for bread crusts. There was only one heirloom that remained in the family, as it was a time-honoured tradition to pass it to the first born son when they came of age. This heirloom was the Sword of Pravdas, which had been passed down generation to generation for as long as time had been kept. It was a very holy relic, found in a decrepid temple that had seemingly been build during the time of those that came before us. The small cobbler charged into battle, wearing civilian's clothes, the Sword of Pravdas held aloft in his hand. The Warclawed turned towards him, seemingly laughing, just as [name of cobbler] plunged the sword into the beast's throat in a fatal hit, the beast falling to the ground, but unfortunatley burying the man with it. The man was given a soldier's burial, and the sword was locked up safe, never to be seen by prying public eyes again. The beast was skinned, as there was no reason in wasting perfectly fine fur, and it's skeleton kept in the same wherever as the sword. It's claws were turned into necklaces, and any relatives, no matter how distant, of the cobbler's were tracked down, and gifted with said necklaces. Counterfeits of the necklaces showed up, wanting tonnes of money for them. The public caved in, until the story of the heroic cobbler faded out, and was shelved along with the other stories of our wartime heroes.