Diablo® III

Would-Be Hero

this is a work in progress, chapter by chapter, length is determined by its receptiveness :)

-Chapter ONE-

My Father was a grisly stout of a man, barring six foot six, strong arms, and welding a bushman's beard of fifteen or so years. A blacksmith by trade, and writer by love. He was as eloquent as he was strong. I never knew my mother, and my father would not talk about her. It is only by his teachings to me from an early age that I am even able to write you an account of the would be hero.

How I remember, the ageless remnants of my long ago memories as a child, the grueling work that had to completed before nightfall, cutting wood with always freshly sharpened hatchets by sunlight, picking mushrooms and various edible fauna, only achievable during the day. I was not allowed to play with the other children.

"you are needed for something greater than lolly gagging about like an idiot child!", He would always say to me, as I was the eldest of the children in our small, spread apart village.

But what was he referring to I always wondered; who, or what, needed me? He would never say. All this work, hauling felled trees, doing repairs to the house of which I knew not the cause, while my father enjoyed the company of our nearby neighbors, who, questionably, were also blacksmiths. They would laugh and joke and yell and hark during the day, drinking weak wine around our kitchen table until noon, upon which they would all leave to their respective homes for a good, midday's slumber.

At an hour before sun-fall, we made together a game of routines, coupled with song that went somewhat like this:

"Bar the doors ye forgotten children, no sleep to nite for hell be driven!
latch the windows forsaken one, lest terror come within a false eyed sun!
ring the bell and wait for seven, pray ye not be taken for heaven!"

The crackling of my Fathers deep voice still rings in my mind as I recall the hymn.
after the song and duskly chores were done, he would set me down at my scholars desk, by the fire, give me a quill, and a few sheets of parchment, and command me to study our Families Ancient Scrolls. He would say to me, without fail lest I forget;

"I am going out now son, remember that I do not abandon you, but protect you when I leave, and never, no matter what you hear, open any door or lever within this room, even if it is my voice that calls."

He would then grab his broad axe, a few vials of red elixir, and leave thru a trap door under our table, After which I would ring the bell cord alongside our stone fireplace, and wait for seven other bells, and seven bells rang.

I would sit at my desk, looking over the countless symbols, seals, and parables written in riddles that amassed themselves on the dusty old peaces of thin, dried, animal skin. To what conclusion did these illegible containers of knowledge hold? Perhaps he thought, with my youngsters sharp mind, that I may one day understand the grotesque depictions of dismembered limbs, eyeballs detached from their sockets, hollowed out skulls, and cryptic writing along side them. They only aided my nightmarish dreams. As with every night, since the day I could remember, not soon after my Father left, the screams began.
Edited by Hollowless#1366 on 5/22/2012 5:02 AM PDT
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