text: Childhood
  
  
  A fist thuds into your face, knocking you to the ground. Gruzub stands over you, laughing.
  
  
  "Mazkil! You are as weak as a Shepard!" He laughs, as you leap to you feet.
  > You punch him
  You swing your fist, but Gruzub quickly ducks and elbows you in the stomach, knocking the wind from your lungs. He gets two more punches in before you manage to roll away and get back into a fighting stance. As you prepare to charge him, you hear a deep voice.
  
  
  "CHILDREN! Your mother struggles to soothe the little one while your brother hunts sheep. This is no time for playing. There is work to be done! Inside!" Your father bellows.
  > You go inside
  You quickly hurry inside, followed by your twin brother. You live in a small village of small huts. Luckily enough, you father is Chieftain Magrash, which entitles you to sleep in the Chieftain's Hut, the largest hut. As you enter, you see your father sitting in a rough woolen tunic, sharpening his greatsword. In front of him is his heavy steel plate armor, as well as several trophies from his battles.
  
  
  "Mazkil, Gruzub, you fight too much. Mama is trying to put Dagden to sleep."
  
  
  "Yes, papa." You both reply.
  
  
  "Who won the fight?" He asks.
  
  
  "I did!" You both say, before glaring at each other.
  
  
  "You don't know? Perhaps you're not fighting enough. Gruzub, go down to the river and fetch water for the stew. Mazkil, sharpen my sword. I need light the hearth."
  
  
  You go over to the sword, and begin to sharpen it against the whet stone, while looking over your father's trophies: An Elven Dagger, a Shrunken head, a battered golden shield, a shattered battleaxe, a studded mace, a series of Tribal Necklaces and a Dragon Skull.
  
  
  "Papa?"
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "Can you tell me about your trophies?" You ask.
  
  
  "I've told you many times about my trophies."
  
  
  "Tell me again."
  
  
  Papa chuckles, a harsh sound you've come to love.
  
  
  "Which would you like to know about?"
  > You elven Dagger (Elves)
  "Ah, the dagger. One of my favorite. The Elves are a race of "beautiful" and "perfect" creatures who don't know a battleaxe from a wood-axe. Death to them all. They're stupid in things like how to start a fire and how to hunt, yet seem to love philosophy and reading. Death should take them. Still, they're fast with a blade and good with a bow, which I found out while hunting a party of them that came into my territory. That knife nearly went into my throat before I impaled the little bastard wielding it."