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At first glance, \gls{fenestra} might seem like a paradise.
A world without disease, hunger or war; all of its land lush with forests of every kind, each teeming with animals to hunt and fruit to pick.
Yet, families still swell and shrink same as European peasants of the old.
With the abundance of food, many beasts of the forest grew to enormous sizes and appetites.
Instead of plagues and famines, the population of \gls{fenestra} is ravaged by monsters.
Griffins swoop in from the sky, mouthdiggers burst from the ground, chittincrawlers drop from the canopies, basilisks shoot out from their dens, woodspies hide in plain sight, nowhere is truly safe.
To immerse yourself in this world, you must forget about our gentle Mother Nature.
\Gls{fenestra} eats its young.
On Earth, the humble, docile cow used to be the auroch -- a prehistoric beast with an large muscular frame and even larger horns.
We tamed it, bred the wild out of it, just like we tamed most of the land and everything on it.
On \gls{fenestra}, aurochs still roam.
Humans survive by carving out \glspl{village}, burning and slashing away the woods into a large clearing, with a walled settlement placed in the middle like a nipple.
With the wilderness continually trying to heal the festering wound that is civilisation, the \gls{village} must always hold the line.
Archers defend from inside the \gls{village} walls, while the \gls{guard} is stuck outside.
As the most downtrodden, poor, criminal, stupid, the \gls{guard} act as a first line of defense, a human shield.
They are tasked with maintaining the forest perimeter with fire, and slaying any beast that crosses the treeline.
But most importantly, the \gls{guard} must venture into wild, and mine it for essential resources -- mushrooms and herbs, auroch meat, basilisk hide, griffin's feathers, and so much more.
A poor boy, taking odd jobs to get by, is scrubbing chamber pots.
He is interrupted by a sharp-dressed man forcing a shovel in his hands.
Time to dig a grave, errand boy!
The town has no dedicated grave-digger.
Most people don't leave a corpse.
At small hours of the night, the local pub is still packed and very loud.
Over the crowd, an important debate led by two inebriated gentlemen is heard:
``\ldots can't
see shit with a helmet on!
By the time you see its tentacle, it's scooping out your face like a cantaloupe!''
``Aaaaand that's how you get an arrow to the face, bonehead!
Don't come crying to \emph{me} when those bandits take your eye \emph{and} your horse!''
``Fuck the horse, fuck the money, fuck everything!
You can't bribe a beast!''
``What money??
You don't have a bucket to piss in.
No wonder you have no helmet!
Who would ambush a bum?''
``Yeah, they'll ambush \emph{you} instead cuz you can't see shit!''
Fists start flying, and the pub breaks out in an all-out brawl.
The helmet debate continues.
\end{exampletext}
\begin{exampletext}
A very pregnant and very new recruit arrives to the \gls{templeOfBeasts}.
After enrollment, uniform, tour, and far too much paperwork, it's finally her turn to recieve a weapon from the \gls{guard} \gls{jotter}.
The \gls{jotter} sigh, thinking `We try to be gentlemen, really, despite our rotten reputation.
As much as our ladies are just as nasty as the men, it just seems wrong to send an expecting mother outside the walls.'
`But we did give them plenty of rest and comfy indoor busywork, and what did that get us?
All boys on the field, and all the goddamn good-for-nothing lazy harlots all laughing and doing fuck-all, carrying little hellions in their bellies.'
The \gls{jotter} feels his fury bubbling to the surface all over again.
The little shits, who grew up to be the hardiest bastards in \gls{fenestra}, remain a thorn in his side to this day.
The new recruit shuffles awkwardly on her swollen feet.
``Usually new recruits get short swords and bows.
Here's a spear, you could use something to lean on while keeping guard.''
Relief washes over her face, and the \gls{jotter}'s fury dissipates.
Maybe he can be bit of a gentleman after all.
\end{exampletext}
\begin{exampletext}
Every shepherd loves their flock.
And how could you not?
Sheep are oh-so-soft and oh-so-dumb, following your every step, peering up at you with uthmost devotion.
Perhaps it doesn't seem so from the outside, when you have to pick out a sheep to make lame.
Most shepherds take no pleasure in maiming, but even if they did, nothing can break a flock's singleminded adoration.
In a sheep's eyes, you're their whole world, even as you break their limbs.
After all, sheep spend hours, every day, grazing outside \pgls{village}'s walls.
And sooner or later, something is bound to go wrong.
Perhaps an archer's aim is off that day, or the shepherd was busy thinking of dinner, or the guard was dozing off.
Before you know it, some hungry forest creature is careening towards the herd.
The lame sheep is a sacrifice, an offering to the forest so others are left unharmed.
It's for the good of the flock.
A good shepherd takes care of their flock.
It is also what you whisper to yourself as you break another leg.
\end{exampletext}
\begin{exampletext}
\Glspl{doula} have a duty to facilitate changes and transitions in life, big and small.
So there's always a few in scouting troupes, to hopefully start a new \gls{village} somewhere.
Once a settlement is established, \glspl{doula} resume with their nomadic ways.
When a seafaring scouting troupe washed up on the shores of an island paradise, they were delighted to find it devoid of large predators.
The same strong currents and turbulent weather that caried them, also kept the likes of basilisks and griffins off the island.
Whenever a lesser beast reared its head, troupe leaders ordered a great hunt.
Immolating chittincrawler nests, trapping woodspies, unearthing mouthdiggers\ldots
but they couldn't fully eradicate every monster.
Nonetheless, the island was far safer than anywhere on land.
For the first time in their lives, people were able to walk freely (albeit only in groups of dozen or so, as they were soon to find out).
While other island's occupants were blissfully happy and couldn't imagine leaving, the \glspl{doula} were itching to move on.
Alas, that same weather that made the island safe also made it impossible for them to leave.
After generations of mishaps, elders have decided on no more children.
All who were born on the island, were to live out their days on the island.
\Glspl{doula} had nothing else to do but wait and escort their little paradise community into their final sleep.