My father is slain. His house is broken. His sword is shattered, and his axe has been rent apart. But his blood lives on.
The restless shade of a terrible demon of an age long since dust.
It is rumoured that a sort of little people living deep in the green woods have magic acorns. If they throw and hit someone with by one of these acorns the victim will experience temporary madness for a small duration of time, making the babbling victim easy to capture of kill.