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You stand alone at an empty crossroads. Behind you, and to either side, the dusty trail stretches on as far as your eyes can see, winding into the horizon. How you got here, you cannot recall. Where here is, you also cannot recall. You begin to worry about your lack of remembering these details when you suddenly come upon a much more pertinent question that your scrambled thoughts manage to make you aware of. You have no idea who you are.

What is your name?

After racking your brain for what seems to be hours, something finally clicks in your mind. Marty! That's who you are! Marty....McBlargh? Yes, that's it! You are Marty McBlargh!

You strike up a triumphant jig to celebrate your feats of informational recall, and are presented with a scrap of paper falling out of your pocket, landing conveniently unfurled on the ground.

Taking a look at it, you see it is emblazoned with the the mysterious words: "FAMILY CREST: :frog: "

You appear to be Marty McBlargh of the noble bulge-eyed frog clan. Wonderful!

It suddenly occurs to you that you seem to have no arms. This revelation is immensely startling to you, and you panic appropriately. Where ARE your arms?!

With no small amount of urgency, you set about locating your arms. It takes the better part of an hour, but you finally find them.

They were hanging up on the crossroads sign, on a nail. You retrieve your sword and shield from their strange perch.

You feel much more secure having your arms back in hand. You never know what could be lurking around strange crossroads in the middle of dusty old roads!

You briefly ponder investigating your pockets further. If a scroll fell out of them, who knows what else you might find in them?

You are suddenly overcome with the realization that without arms, it would be impossible to properly investigate your pockets. You breath a sigh of relief, brandishing your sword at the distant sun. There will be no pockets uninvestigated when Marty McBlargh is around!

You rummage around in your pockets, seeking anything that may be lurking within them.

You quickly find your pockets are much deeper than they appear to be. You are intrigued by this.

While rummaging in your pockets, you suddenly pause, something horrible dawning upon you. You slowly turn the shield you bear around to stare at its face and you recoil in horror.

THESE ARMS BEAR THE CREST OF THE PSYCHIC DUCK CLAN. THEY ARE MOST DEFINITELY NOT YOURS.

You fling away the impostor armaments, choking down shame and revulsion, and the intense urge to scream in a very high-pitched voice.

The inability to find your arms is very distressing and depressing, and you sink down into a dejected heap of frustration and self-pity. You wail pitifully to the heavens. They heavens do not seem to pay you any mind.

Something else pays you mind, though. It pays you a lot of mind. It towers over you with all of its mind-paying. It is clearly very dangerous, and you sense its presence with your finely tuned McBlargh Danger Sense. You flail out of the way of being flattened under the hoofed limb of a WILD DANGER BEAST.

You suddenly feel very alone.

In desperation you delve deeper into your pockets, searching for something that could possibly be of any use. You unearth a large handful of miniature swords. They are only about an inch long and are adorable, but the way they poke into your fingers tell you they are not mere toys.

You throw them at the WILD DANGER BEAST. It does not take kindly to having its eyes suddenly bombarded by many tiny sharp things, and roars at you in angry indignation.

It suddenly occurs to you that you have a sword. It is right there, strapped across your back where any good random traveler would keep it.

You draw your mighty blade. It glistens in the sun. The Danger Beast pauses in admiration of your sparkling steel implement of slashy doom.

You stab it into the signpost at about chest-height. This is incredibly dangerous and probably not that smart. But you are a McBlargh! Your family is known for....for....something, you are quite sure. You limbo under your sword.

You don't even cut yourself.

The Danger Beast claps in admiration of your feats of Danger Limbo.

You are now the Danger Beast.

You are highly amused by this strange little human's displays of limbo prowess.It is thoroughly entertaining for reasons you cannot really fathom, as your Danger Beast mind is not equipped for such high levels of reasoning and thought processing.

A rumble in your stomach reminds you with alarming suddenness that you have not eaten in a long while. That just won't do. You are a Danger Beast, and even your simple mind knows that you are the top predator of the....general area. You must solve this accursed hunger problem.

Without much ado about anything really you scarf down the silly little human.

It is not very filling, he was very scrawny. But you no longer feel as if you are starving.

You rear up to your full, imposing Danger Beast height and lumber toward the sword stuck in the signpost. Leaning back at what must be an unnatural angle, you ponderously and slowly limbo under the sword. The sharp, gleaming blade does scrape off a little hair on your underside, but you make it under without further incident.

Take THAT, much smaller and more agile human!

You revel in your feats of limbo prowess.