You've always had a fear of drowning. When you were a boy, not more than five or six winters, your father took you to bathe in the broad river that lies near to where your people encamped. The waters were very cold, and the shock of being suddenly half-submerged caused a panic in you you have never quite been able to shake. Bathing in the river now, many days distant from the original spot, you remember that fear. The water is the same whereever it is, the cold, the stones, the rushing roar. If they seem any different now, it is not because they have changed, but because you have changed. Your father used to say that the days are measured differently the more winters that pass; they seem to get shorter. How short then are the days of the river and the water? Can it understand any difference between that boy and this man? And perhaps that is what lies at the heart of your fear: the indifference of eternity.

Climbing out of the river and sitting down on a flat stone, you stop yourself from weeping. You are the last of your people. Everyone else of your family is dead, taken for food and plunder by the cannibals of the caves. You alone remain. The river carried you away from the carnage to this (perhaps worse) fate. You have nothing with you but what was on your person: some furs to clothe you, a stone knife, and a waterskin. With these you must survive, rebuild your clan, and one day avenge yourself on the cannibals who took everything from you.

Among your people you were:
>A hunter
>A gatherer
>A craftsman
>Write-in

Note: This will determine your starting skills.