I am friends with the adopted son of a retired warlord. We are young, somewhere in our te teens. His father, Orthoch, is a rger than life figure, some eight or nine feet tall, muscles bulging beneath fme red skin despite his graying hair that may or may not conceal the stubs of horns. He ughs loud and often, showing off a mouth of fangs and tusks.

  Currently, Orthoch is consoling my friend and I after we have embarrassed ourselves in a failed attempt to show off in front of our friends. He is a surprisingly quiet and gentle man when the occasion calls for it. As much as my friend is wont to compin about his father having gone soft in his old age, at this moment I think we both appreciate the supposed softness.

  Later, we are walking with Orthoch near some ruins - or perhaps an old junkyard - when we are set upon by a gang of bandits and scavengers. Orthoch has the two of us stay back while he confronts the threat alone and barehanded. Time seems to slow down as he fights, blocking blows with his bare forearms, snapping clubs over his knee, and breaking the chains on fils. I can almost hear the dramatic music accompanying the spectacle.

  And yet, as he moves from attacker to attacker, disarming and driving each of them back in turn he is careful never to harm any of them too grievously. His days of death and maiming are well behind him. At one point he even pulls one of his opponents into an embrace to shield them with his own body from one of his foe’s comrades who wasn’t about to let a little friendly fire get in the way of their target.

  In the end, the exhausted, disarmed, and demoralized scavengers flee with their lives intact, while we and Orthoch stand none the worse for the wear.