"I'm ready!" Yelled Yorik, from his front door, Bronze Spear in hand and copper pot mounted crookedly upon his head. Although his voice matched the strength of his spirit and heart, his body from the waist down suggested otherwise. In a torrent of profuse quivering, the farmhand looked foolish and comical as he stood at his home. The family peeked cautiously behind him, all equipped with household utilities in arm and upon head in a do ill fashion.

"Don't get yourself killed boy!" Wretched then mother, as she patted her son's back. However, in reality with her mountainous physique, it was more like a forceful shove. Toppling forward it took Yorik almost every ounce of his mettle to keep from planting face first into the ground. Looking back at his family. A smile crept passed his face as he rose his spear high above his head proudly, the trembling ceased.

"I'll do my best Ma!" Jogging off, Yorik was keen to find the young tactician, it would be through him victory would be assured.