Southwestern England, the middle ages...in some distant, fantasy world...<br/><br/>Deep within the untamed forests, beyond the rolling, lush farmlands, James rode on the back of his warhorse tiredly; he had been riding for days on end after finishing a lengthy campaign where he served under Count Meltor, a friend of his father's who had been assigned to take out a large rebellion settlement. James had an obligation to fight in the campaign, considering the bond between his father and the count was very close, and the need to keep ties of loyalty and friendship strong was great in such a period of instability. Either way, the long months of preparation, travel and battle had worn down on James, and his weariness was obvious in both his body language and face. Still, he managed to maintain his posture, putting forth an image of self confidence and pride, despite his fatigue. He was dressed in thick chain-mail, his usually plate armor and helm being left at home for more comfort in his travels. He carried a broadsword and shield, both of which he was trained highly in by his father and superiors. His rough exterior, battle-scars and beard made him look as if he was forty, though he was only in his early thirties.<br/><br/>He continued to ride in such a manner for a while, nodding to any traveler he might have seen along the way as he enjoyed the tranquility of nature, though would no doubt keep his wits about him if an ambush were to occur. Still, he admired the green, full color of the leaves and grass, filling his lungs with the clear and life giving air that graced the land during this time of year.<br/><br/>Though many would regard James as a man of war, and accounts of his enemies seem to hint at a love of it, James preferred peace and happiness over the thrill of battle, and was merely born into the business of killing, having come to terms with his place in life rather than fighting it.<br/><br/>Whatever musings consuming James's conscience were soon shatter as a scream resounded in the distance. Out of instinct, he forced his horse into a gallop and raced in the direction of the cry. He had always taken it upon himself to help out those in need when he could...after all, he was a protector, not a raider, and would stand in the defense of any innocent man or woman too weak to repel his or her attacker.