A wagon lays overturned on the forest road, bodies savaged by tooth and claw lay strewn about it, their weapons clean of blood, seemingly unused.
A lone man runs from an unseen threat, deeper into the forest, away from the grisly scene in the road. He stumbles, his foot having caught on a root. He lands hard, his lungs feel like lead. Panting, he comes to his knees. Two eyes of emerald light meet his, a low growl emanates from the beast, and his death is swift.
"The Cetemi have a most curious custom that in their celebrations must all men don the garb of women and women... the garb of men, to the aim that none shall... know another." -An Account of Barbarian Lands, Lord Shakthur