The first cool breezes of November run through the evergreens of the forest, making them dance like the waves in a green ocean. Other than the wind's sound and the few grunts of a bear or two, the forest is quiet... at least, it is now.

A young man sits, quite out of place, on the rocky edge of a mound overlooking the first signs of the manchester suburbs. Looking at the now pink horizon, he sighs, starting to feel the usual weariness. He is not dressed like someone who should be in the forest in the early morning during dear hunting season. His old, ripped, blue jeans, leather jacket and 'White Zombie' T-shirt definitely make him a city person. Nor is he carrying a rifle, like the hunters usually do at this time of the year. However, the sword he is now affectionately polishing seems no small threat.

"So here I am..." he mutters to himself in his native tongue. He then looks down at his t-shirt, which is full of holes and moist with blood. 'Why did they shot at him without a proper challenge? He shrugs in answer. At least he taught them a lesson in humility.' He turns to the two large, mutilated bodies at his feet; their now pale faces show a mixture of surprise and fear, mostly from watching their own intestines falls to the floor of the woods in front of their own eyes. ' I mean, I was a good hundred meters away, not showing any weapons or signs of aggression and they just starting shooting like crazy... Maybe they thought I was a moose or something.' Looks at the two rifles, both now empty, and at the slowly closing wounds on his chest. 'I bet they never met a moose that fought back!' Chuckling to himself , he puts his now clean sword back into its sheath and on his back, picks up the smaller of the two men on his back and makes his way back to his hideout. Still recovering from his last sunrise ritual, he doesn't want to jeopardize his unlife with another proof of his faith. "Today, the stupid hunters, tomorow, Manchester." Merrily humming the American anthem, the young man makes his back to the cave.