A boat floated gently through a crystal clear lake in the center of a calm ordinary village. Suddenly you hear the woosh of an arrow being released from it's bow. The boat catches fire and smoke begins to rise in big billows. The canables cloaked in black solemnly began the low, sad, traditional cannibal death song. The following day there was a excited buzz around the town because the new chief would be chosen. Every person left in the village put there name in the massive clay jar in the Chief's palace. Four thick palace guards carried it onto the tiny wooden platform that had been raised in the center of the village. The chief's second in command Smogemere. Smogemere was a handsome fellow, he had squid ink tattoos covering his body and short black hair. He jumped on the platform and smashed a cheap clay cup to get the crowds attention. Are beloved Cheif Van Baston just bit the dust so we must draw a new one. Two guards lifted the short Smogemere so he could hopped inside the jar. A few moments later he climbed out with a small slip of parchment. He carfully unfolded it and looked at the name. His brow furrowed with frustration.
