It was the apocalypse. You were a small human, but you were 18. You disliked your height. 5 foot. Yep. Your short as hell. You have a greatsword passed down to you throughout the centuries (REMEMBER ME FOR- cough back to description) You were walking around, attacked by one of the creatures, they were called Bloods. Walked like humans, looked like wolves, as savage as sharks. It was trying to bite you. You didn't like that, because you would turn into one of them then, your body morphing, bones snapping and reforming, all you would hear is your shrieks turning to distorted warbles. How do you know this? Easy. Your friends turned. You couldn't bring yourself to kill any of them in which had the mark on their head that only you could see for some reason. This one was one of them. You shrieked for help. You put up your sheathed greatsword in front of you, it being hard cause it held you down. Suddenly the weight was gone. You looked around, only to see it being impaled by a harpoon. You scrambled over to it. It was dead. Your friend was dead.