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A lone warrior walks down a trodden down dirt path, used by travelers, traders, and soldiers going from one place to another. The sun beams down from on high, illuminated and warming everything with it's touch. The warrior sees the brown of the dirt, the green of the grass, the sway in the trees from a soft breeze that has yet to grace him with it's touch, and the black, smoldering smoke in the distance.

He had been tracking and chasing a group of bandits for days, a ruthless band of women who take what they want, with the arts of seduction, force, or even domination. The few men they did take with them were never heard from again, something the warrior needed to find out for himself. Wars were over, and women now overwhelm any male population by a staggering six to one ratio, or at least, that's what was predicted.

This warrior didn't care for that, he cared about bringing people back home safely. And if the women of the struck towns were more than happy to thank him, that's all he would accept from them, their gratitude, no physical action necessary. He didn't need it really, he had survived the last war fought, but at a major price for him. He didn't dare think about that horrible time, he had to catch up to these bandits and save the men they did take.

Nonetheless, when he came upon the top of the next hill, he saw that the smoke that marked his next location wasn't even destroyed, just looked like ghost town. He knew more than anyone that it was the perfect place to spring a trap. He'd fought his way out of several traps during the war, but who knows what these bandits had up their sleeve. He only wore remnants of pants, no shirt, and some worn out old boots. The scabbard of his claymore looked worse for wear, since he had often resorted to using it as a meager type of shield to protect himself from several, mortal-causing wounds.

Sighing softly to himself, he made his way down the path towards this seemingly ghost town, following the tracks that indicated that they had passed through this way not maybe half a day ago. He had been gaining on them for awhile, since lugging men around for some purposes caused them to slow down. Travel light and few, and the destination is not far, travel heavy and in many, it will take much longer to reach a place, his golden rule of thumb. Probably why he worked best alone in any case, not even staying with his regiment at all. His commander had allowed it during the war, since he could get far up ahead and scout out the opposing army encampment and bring back the news.

But that didn't mean he wasn't capable in a battle. Even for a scout, he was one of the most prostigous fighters his regiment had, and now that the war was over, very few were still alive. His commander, a few lucky greenhorns, and two lieutenants, plus himself, were all that were left of the original fifty of the regiment. And not all succumbed to the battlefield, some died of illness, infection, and poor management of their items. He even saw that a greenhorn who didn't take proper care for his weapon lost his life to his weapon breaking, and the fragmented shards bore themselves deep into his face and skull.

Sighing softly, he lifted his head and saw he was at the gaping entrance to the town, shuddering at how eerily quiet it was. It was disturbing, the still quiet of a normal bustling town. People going and doing menial tasks just to make a profit from their market stalls, or buying supplies and food to live another day. Kids playing on the streets to pass the time, dreaming of being heros, princesses, rulers, or follow in their parents' footsteps. He remembered that time, but what he gazed upon looked as if that kind of activity was robbed from it.

He slowly drew his claymore, well taken cared off and shimmering softly in the light, and slowly moved inward, always casting a cautious eye for anything that would be out of place, even for a place as odd and lonely as this. He knew that the bandits had a base, but he didn't know what it even was. It could be this place, or it could be a cave or an abandoned fort, he didn't know which. He just followed his instincts, staying on guard and moving slowly, keeping his eyes open for anything that might cause him to suspect a trap.

He managed to make his way to the town square, a fountain that would normal show a fantastical view of water with spewed ceasing to work, and a few unattended market stalls with nothing on the shelves. The busiest part of any town and not a soul in sight, but this is where the tracks stopped, and after a cautious investigation of the area, there were no tracks leaving the area. The warrior wondered if he missed something, anything, when he spotted it.

A small shimmer of a reflection, just before an arrow whizzed by his face, grazing his right cheek. After recovering from the slight sting, he saw the bandits, dressed in black and revealing of their legs, a cloth covering each of their mouths and noses, giving them a mystical air about them, but he felt something else strange beginning to happen.

"Good work, the poison works great, as always." One of the bandits stated.

"How well do you think he can resist it? We've only tested it on a few merchants and farmers."

"That's why we had to be sure of the strength of the concoction. With those other men, it worked immediately, so why not have a survivor from the Last War see how long he could resist the poison."

He knew they were talking about some sort of poison, but he wasn't flushed, he wasn't immobilised, what kind of poison were they talking about? He didn't even feel weakened, he just felt... strangly warm. He stayed there, in a defensive position, ready to beat them back. He soon realized all they had were whips and several shackles. What kind of bandits were these women?

"It seems he's able to resist the initial time span. You two, go restrain him!" The leader, or so he thought, barked out. Two women with shackles came forward, calm and unsuspecting, holding the restraints as if it were another ordinary day to do such a thing. Even as he felt strange, he swung his claymore in an upward vertical slash, quickly bringing it back down in front of the second bandit.

Stunned, they both looked at the chains connecting the restraints to find them cleaved almost perfectly, and he was ready for more as he got back in his stance, wondering just what this was all about. The leader of the bandits laughed loudly, as if she had won already, causing him to think hard. The poison wasn't causing him any harm, not immobilizing him, not making him cough up his lungs, not even slowing him down at all, it just made him feel... He quickly realized what the 'poison' might have been.

There was talk amongst scientists that there was a type of powder or liquid that could have men standing at attention for any amount of time, allowing them to ensure that repopulation was possible and complete, but it was never proven. If this poison is that, it's no wonder the merchants and farmers succumbed so easily, while he could withstand the effects for even this amount of time. He had witnessed his family murdered by the opposing army, by the enemy high general no less.

He didn't think about having another family, he just wanted to keep doing good and bring people back, no matter what. But if these women were testing this drug on men, they surely didn't expect this. The leader motioned for a few more women to try and restrain him, to which he grabbed his sheath, and in one single swing, knocked them back several feet unconscious, his face telling them that he wasn't going down without a fight.

He remained like that, his body coiled to snap at a moment's notice and his face hard like a well trained soldier he used to be. One of the bandits whispered into the leader's ear, and he knew that something was surprising her as her eyes widened in shock or surprise. Whatever it was, the silent air was split by her high-pitched laughter, eerily and somewhat shocking.

"Well ladies, it seems we have the most ideal test subject for this. I was just informed that this was the lone scout who ended the Last War by slaying the enemy's high general. This is he, John Farenhorn. Oh don't worry John, I know what happened. You don't think us women lost something too? We lost husbands, fathers, brothers, lovers, friends. We lost-"

"Shut up..." was all he said, his soft red hair covering his eyes.

"What did you tell Mistress!?" one of the bandits shouted.

"I said... shut up..." he stated again, lifting his head, showing anger in his eyes, the memory of what happened fresh again at the front of his mind. At the sight, the leader knew that the concoction wouldn't work fast enough and balked, showing fear at her massive mistake.

"Girls... get him! Restrain him, hurt him, kill him, I don't care, just stop him!" she yelled, and the whole band launched out after him. In any normal case, John knew he would be considerably done for, so heavily outnumbered in this kind of trap. But with that memory burning fresh in his mind, he didn't care, and his body acted on it's own accord, snapping out and pushing back the front of the assault.

His weapon broke the restraints and slashed the whips that came forth, his scabbard knocking down the riled bandits as he remained like a staunch defender, fighting back a tide of enemies as he had done back in the war. The only difference was he was not spilling blood, using his scabbard as the weapon instead. The tide kept coming, unrelentless, unyielding, and seemingly unstoppable, but so was John.

He fought mindlessly, his weapon and scabbard swinging out and knocking out more of the female bandits, only taking a few steps back so that the unconscious bodies wouldn't pile up and crush the ones underneath into oblivion. When he saw that only a few of the bandits remained, they scattered, only to be stopped and whipped by the leader, who he kept his gaze on through the entire fight.

"Worthless sods! I'll beat you all!!!" was all she screamed as she whipped the few bandits who tried to flee but couldn't.

"I said... SHUT UP!!!" he roared at he threw his scabbard, hitting the leader smartly on her back, causing her to fall onto her knees.

"You... stupid... man..." she scowled as she stood up, only to find he had covered the distance between them quickly, causing her to flinch. His gaze showed his rage, his pain, his loss. The loss no single person should ever have to go through, but he had to witness it, breaking his heart and leaving him a raging warrior who was bent on revenge. He had his revenge, blood, tears, and dirt caking his body after he had finished off the general who murdered his family.

She saw all of this in his gaze and realized why now the concoction had little, if any, effect on him. Love and lust are connected to one another, but when one's heart is utterly destroyed, neither of them exist for that person. He was that person, the strong warrior holding the tip of his sword to her throat, but that was just a miserable shell who found no reprieve from that everlasting nightmare.

In John Farenhorn's arms, the bandit leader fainted, laying limp in his grip as he dropped his sword. One of the bandits crawled over, her back torn open by the whip the leader used, concern on this bandit's face. He looked over, his hair masking his eyes as he held the leader.

"I-Is Mistress okay?" the injured bandit asked softly.

"Just passed out is all. Where are the men that you kidnapped?" John asked softly, eerily calm no less.

"They were released two days ago. They are probably giving their wives the time of their lives."

"Then the only thing that is left is you girls. What will you do if you no longer have a leader?"

"We... we'll make this town an actual town is all I can think of. What are you going to do to Mistress?"

He remained silent for sometime before picking up his blade and scabbard, placing them back on his raggedy belt before picking her up in his arms. He gently pulled down the makeshift cowl and found that she, too, suffered impressive tragedy in the Last War, only she was in a certain kind of prison camp. One that brutally abused and raped women. Survivors couldn't even think about returning to their friends and families due to the scarring they now bore. And not just the physical scarring it seems, but mental injuries too.

"I... I'll take care of her. Just try and remember to be good, and do kind things for others. That's all I would ask of you." John finally answered and started walking back the way he came, carrying the scarred woman in his arms. He didn't know whether or not she would accept his proposal to live with him, just to feel accepted or anything, but he did know that his current job was done, and he will face his nightmare later on. He didn't know when or where, or in what situation, but he would have to face that memory once more, he was certain of it.

Gazing down at her, John realized that maybe the drug did affect him, but he didn't care about those feelings because he put duty above anything else. He knew the value of duty, duty to an army, a nation, even duty to a family, and he had a duty then when he faced off against fifty or so women bandits, bring home the men who were kidnapped. They didn't say on what to do with the bandits themselves, but if they could reform themselves, that would bring a bit more light into this crumbled world. All he cared about now was a duty he took upon himself, accept this woman for everything she is, the scars, the issues she carried, and provide her a place to stay, food, water. Whether he fell in love with her or not would be up to time he figured, but at least that possibility was left up to chance and fate.