Guthfrith stumbles into the inn, his too-tight leather pants squeaking. His black, sleeveless shirt reveals pathetically frail arms, pale and crisscrossed with fresh, still-bleeding cuts and old, welted scars. His greasy black hair hangs down over the left side of his face, and his neck is circled by a rusting piece of barbed wire.
Oh! Woe is me! My farm was reduced to charred cinders! My crops are nothing more than ash; blacker than the depths of my soul. My hearth has gone cold; colder than my heart. I could not fight these brutal beasts, could not stop them from crushing what little in this dark, dreary existence held any meaning to me.
Will no one help stop this madness!?