An old man sits with his back to a fire. In his hand is a guitar almost as old as him. He beckons to all the children in the room. "Gather round children, for the story of Euphaleric." He strums a few deep resounding notes that echo within the chests of everyone present. "There he was, a pinnacle of Warrior-hood and masculinity.. In his hands he bore a mighty hammer and a great axe.." The men in the room nod their heads as one to the rhythm of the old man's guitar. "His well spirited but ultimately inferior friends where sprawled helpless around him.." "..but not our hero."