A barbarian whose luck has finally worn thin. Hacking, chopping, and impaling his way to notoriety brought him few friends and many foes. A dead man, who, for far too long, stumbled from fight to fight in a bellicose stupor. A gambler that ascended the highest peak of prodigality, and took the fall, all the way down... There was once the son of Rex of Lonmar, but no more. His head ringing from the night before--partially from alcohol, partially from the blow to his head--Rían awakens to find his pockets, once filled with the coins earned from heated barfights and bloody duels, are completely empty. He is strong like his father, and drunkenly furious like his mother. And for a while, he was lucky. He fought and lived like a savage: untrained, and uncivilized, recklessly riding on the wave of his spell of good fortune without thinking once, acting on impulse. But such a crude approach to living and fighting can only work for so long. Now, with the only possession of worth being his name and blood, he is a barbarian. Whose luck has finally worn thin.