I do not remember much about my past now. It seems to have been so long ago that it happened, and what I do remember is vague, dreamlike. It has become hard to tell what is reality and what is just a dream.

But what I do remember is a village. A village beside a stream. And that is all. Family, friends, a wife, I know not if I ever had those, or if I was sprung into being there on the banks of the river, fully grown.

The next memory is the blood. The blood and the screams. The stench of death and the ring of steel. The whinnying of horses and the whimpering of children. Death visited the village that fateful night. I was wounded.

What happened next, I cannot recall, and even if I could I would not say. For it changed my life.