[@Drifting Pollen]

[i]The Autumn-gold light of daybreak filled the streets, flooding between shuttered windows and casting its blood orange glint on the gently rocking waves of the sea, breathing fresh vitality into the sleepy village, promising a brisk start to a particularly lovely day. A child trounced over a road puddle left by the night's light shower, a dog could be seen stretching its way out of an alley. Before long the smithy would be up and hammering out his wares, and the warm scent of coffee and fresh baked bread and cooking meat would slowly but insistently permeate the streets as housewives prepared breakfast. Before long doors would creak open and the villagers would emerge, relishing the cool, dawn-charged air as horse drawn carriages began their comforting rattle, passing two and fro on errands unknown.

The child stopped playing abruptly, and stared with wide eyes as the rind of sun rising from the sea was eclipsed by the broad silhouette of an uncommonly large man, cradling a lean two-handed sword in the crook of his left elbow, a spiked targe strapped to his right forearm, and an assortment of other brutal implements hanging at his waist. The puddle had only just regained its serene reflection of the life of the village, a glimpse of a blue sky tinged red framed by roughshod, but comfortable dwellings, when the man's boot unceremoniously plowed into it as he trod along his way, heedless of the tranquility, his presence disturbing drowsy villagers back behind their doors, windows slamming shut. Catskull's eyes, unlike the puddle, mirrored only the dull cold of his heart, baleful in their regard. He was passing through this peasant village only because it was unbefitting for a Maclung to walk around lower creatures. As much as these hovels and their wretched inhabitants disgusted him, he'd not allow himself the dishonor of being inconvenienced. 
Before Catskull stood the stunned boy, unable to help himself at the sight of this strange, dark man. Catskull did not stop. He paced directly into the child and felled him with a curt knee to the face, trodding over the unfortunate like a doormat and continuing on his way, leaving the injured to scream and cry. Nobody emerged to help. One such as Catskull was not without repute, and the telltale black garb and wanton cruelty of the Maclungs was infamous even in the far countries. This particular morning, however, there was something more substantial than a mere peasant child standing between Catskull and his ambitions...[/i]