Before Kyle could even manage a noise from his lips, he was thrown from his horse by a force comparable to that of an ogre’s club. All Kyle could see as he was flying backward off his mount was a decrypted figure garbed in torn gray robes and wielding a gnarled staff. The creature’s long and mangled hair and beard matched its garbs.  The brief fiery explosion in front of Kyle’s face was gone, but it left behind a burning sensation all over his body. Had he not been wearing his strongest suit of chain mail and plate helm, he surely would be dead. Lying on his back however was not the ideal position, when surely twelve paces in front of him stood a lich. They were known throughout all of Britannia as deadly magic casters and their cackles were easily heard and recognized from several yards away. Kyle had fought and killed many liches before, but always in accompaniment with his brothers Cody and Paul. This time he was completely alone in the woods of Yew, for the exception of the lich. Still dazed, Kyle pulled himself to his feet and drew his Viking sword. His metal kite shield however laid three paces in front of the lich. This shield was no ordinary metal craft; it was by far the most powerfully enchanted item Kyle has ever come across. At the time of the great and wondrous settlement of Paws, near the farms of Britain, it was a gift from Lord Vanyar himself. Now however he was without this fortification, vulnerable to another magical spell. The lich now raised his right hand and began laughing madly and in an instant a cloud of green mist spewed from it’s hand. Poison. Without his shield, Kyle took the full brunt of it. His eyes began tearing and burning profusely as did his lungs. In a blinded rage Kyle charged with his sword at full force towards his opponent. The brittle and sensitive frame of a lich, an undead being no less, could not easily absorb nearly 250 pounds being thrown at it. The laws of physics still apply in a land of magic. In mere seconds Kyle had clashed into the lich, shoulder first, knocking the frail being to ground. The lich squirmed only for a moment before it again lifted its hand to spew forth more magic. Kyle, a Grandmaster swordsman and anatomist, knew where to land a killing swing. He cleaved the lich’s extended hands clean off and then plunged his sword straight through the lich’s chest into the ground beneath it and twisted. With a blood-curdling scream what little essence of living left the horrid creatures body. Now Kyle slumped next to his slain monster, slowly being overwhelmed by exhaustion and the poison he had been inflicted with. While on his knees he looked up and searched for his horse, but alas it had run off along with his belongings and bandages. And so he thought to himself that this is the end. Fully unable to stand on his own two feet, let alone chase down his horse, he fell to his side and rolled onto his back, next to the already decaying lich. He removed his plate helm and gazed skyward to the clouds. An overwhelming sense of peace filled Kyle as he was beginning to feel light headed. He began hearing whispers coming from his left and his right. “Delightful, more beasts” he thought to himself. As he began being overwhelmed by the urge to sleep he could see two figures hovering over him, mumbling in a strange tongue. “Orcs?” he thought. “No, or else I would already be dead.” Squinting, he could make out only one distinctive physical feature. “They’re too tall and their ears are too long to be an orc.” With those last thoughts, Kyle closed his eyes.