A polished flake of porous stone, stained a deep, rusted brown, this once-hallowed knife contains traces of the eldest of magics.
Maddoc sat amid a pile of unrecognizable corpses. Men, Dwarves, Orcs, you couldn't tell. He periodically took a stab at one with his new knife and screamed, "STOP LAUGHING AT ME!"
(Post zombie apocalypse)-a tribe of humans
Culture: Drumming circles daily around an arena for their bravest brutes to slaughter their accepted foe, the zombie. Feasts of overcooked zombie flesh (to kill all of the zombie virus present). Wooden fortress that make this tribe in the far future look several millennium behind in technology. Instead of becoming a troublesome and unnatural foe that they seek to cure, this tribe has accepted that Zombies will continue to roam their land and, if the undead were to perish (be cured), this tribe would suffer as well.