Long ago, when humans thrived off their ignorance concerning greater things; somewhere far beneath the crust of the world, the Demon King saw his devilish plan come to fruition. In a temple, dedicated to the Gods, the smoke and miasma of Hell began to seep into our world. It formed in dark and deadly clouds, the color of death, it rolled and boiled until it covered the skies. They say the smoke went so high, it breached the golden gates of the holy city and tainted the angels and souls that lived there, leaving the humans defenseless. With the Gods out of the way, with no one left to give aid to the human race, the great door to Hell opened and Hell's demons poured through. The Demon King himself stepped into the light and breathed in the fresh smells of despair and smiled. This land would now be his and no one would stop him.

For years the humans fought, using the ancient arts of magi and priests, but to no avail. The demons were cunning as they were persistent. They would send small groups of demons to die, to weaken the humans, and every third day they would wipe the resisting humans into oblivion. Hope was a lost cause.

When the war ended, the demons cried victorious while standing on the corpses of dead men. The remaining humans were allowed to live only so that they may serve the demons as slaves, either working their food supply, to building their homes. The sun never shined through the thick cloud of Hell's miasma, the world itself almost disappearing entirely within itself.

The time of humans was over. No more would there ever be freedom or peace. This was the life they would know until their very race was brought to extinction, just like with everything else the demons cursed claws touched. As time goes by, the very idea of freedom will no longer have a meaning.

Or would it?

Among the human villages there were those who believed with all of their hearts and souls that they would overcome. They taught this to their sons, to their daughters, fueling the fires of rage within them at a young age so that they would learn to harness it when their time came. So if they might live, they would then teach their own young and and their young would teach theirs and so forth.

These villages were burned to the ground should they ever be found out. Most of the time the humans within would be killed, their souls devoured.

Most of the time.

There is a village that lies deep within the forest where it brews it's hatred within it's young. That prepares itself for the worst while coming with ways to defend themselves. They knew it wouldn't be long until they were discovered, it became clearer each day as the birds stopped singing and as the wind stopped blowing. Their small village would be destroyed and on top of it's warm ashes another village would rise and more slaves would be placed here.

Now this story will have many heroes, so many in fact that they would hardly make a difference. In fact, none of these heroes will live to see the light of day. All of these heroes will simply become forgotten martyrs. Dirt under the demon's feet.

"But why?" You may ask. The answer is simple really. It is because this is not a heroes tale. This is not a bard's song. There will be no happy ending and there will be many that die for a lost cause. Hope is a lost cause. Freedom is a myth. You see, this story, as true as it may be, is about the most innocent of things. In fact, our hero is a child. But let us not call her a hero, for heroes are killed. Let us call her. . .

Bree.