Here's the second possible spread for the back cover. I'll probably do a couple more, and then post a poll for people to vote.

I’m no hero.

It doesn’t matter what the people in my town call me; I despise and distrust most of them anyway. The way that I look at it, what I am is the result of circumstances. I watched my parents die when I was eight, and was mauled by the creature that killed them. Most people stood by and watched while it happened, and if it hadn’t been for the intervention of a local blacksmith I would have died in agony right beside them. Instead of dying, I was infected by the virus.

You can call me Maqui, and its’ an understatement to say that I have absolutely staggering anger issues.

My face was tattooed when I was sixteen to hide the old scars, and I started training under the brutal tutelage of one of the most skilled killers to walk the Rims shortly thereafter. He drilled me for years, teaching me how to kill as quickly and efficiently as possible. Not people, mind you.

No, we trained to kill Ferals;  the white skinned, black eyed monsters that killed my parents.

Some people object to what we do. They think that, since the Ferals used to be human, we owe them some sort of sympathy.

I don’t think that deeply into it. I just kill them, and when the virus, the Blackness, is running through my veins I’m really good at it.

This is my story.

It’s the tale of how I fought the Ferals, became a hero to some and a villain to others, and how I lost everything I held dear. Like all stories, there is only one place I can start: The beginning.

Back when they tried to cut my eyes out. Back when I was still human.