You know, I'm not much of a writer.
The only reason these words are on these pages is that a friend convinced me to do so.
Said it would be best if I pen this all down.
I honestly don't see any reason to do so myself.
I feel rather silly; addressing you... whoever reads this.
Feels like talking to myself, or an alter ego of myself.
I should get started. But, that's always the hard part, no?
It's much easier to go with the flow.
I chuckle thinking at that.
All that happens below... I barely expected any of it.
When I got the hang of the idea, it went smooth.
So what to write first?
A neat little introduction of myself?
Maybe tell a quirky anecdote that never happened?
Or just flat-out start with writing?
That's just what's expected from most writers.
Have someone big and famous pull feigned interest out of their throat.
You know, the only reason I agreed to this, was that there had to be a good account.
I'm not letting some snobby, tea-sipping big wig or golden clawed idiot write out what happened, adding flair and stuff that never happened.
This was real, as real as the scars many of you have from what happened.
And if some 'artist' spews his 'creativity' and 'improvising' over OUR story, then he has another thing coming.
We weren't revered until the end. Heroes are only heroes when people realise that actually did something vital.
Else, they're just another traveller, merchant or nutcase.
I remember the statue outside my mother's home.
Big and imposing.
Styled after the Great Gaddar.
He wielded a spear and was as extraordinary as a crate.
Until he defeated the Dragon of Fall.
Suddenly, the mercenary wasn't dressed in leather and steel, but clad in silk and silver.
He was revered and everybody suddenly remembered or 'recalled' him.
But before that, they would spit on him.
He himself, he hated it.
He was a man of steel, born to toil and torment.
So he fled to the lands beyond, which was unheard of back then.
He settled in a quiet village, learned the language.
After some exploration, he settled.
In solitude and old of age, the hero died with a family considered a taboo by many.
While his homeland... they called out how he killed beasts and demons said to live n the land beyond.
He happy, though. Not a hero, but a strange foreigner for hire.
I was at that village and read him memoires.
I could draw from that book to write this... though he wasn't a very good writer either.
You know, I liked the old times.
When the land beyond was veiled in mystery.
When it was a mystery to me.
Most here still see it as sush, but I...
I dunno.
The world seems small now.
Like the two poles (both I saw) are a stone's throw away.
And a few thousand strips of bacon, mind you. Sailing demands food.
For those that live in the lands beyond, I'll sketch our old scenarios for you, it's a laugh.
In fact, if I hear them, I laugh. A hearty chuckle.
We... they... used to say that the lands were filled with horrid beasts.
Dangers under every bush, a dragon behind each bush and no laws to stop anyone wanting to loot your corpse.
Most sentient things there were cannibals, voodooists, sadists, witches and so forth, with the most powerful negative adverbs one could make up on the spot.
Rumours were that the few we had contacts were had to use drugs to keep themselves from sinking into a rampage.
Now, while on that subject, there are three points that my adventure 'started'.
The first was when a reptilian slave was rolled in, to be sold to a rich local. She was in no way polite about her status... if anyone understood her.
The second was my first encounter with a dragon like creature. And no, I did not heroically kill him.
The third was me actually leaving. I had met a young, aspiring healer and unlike most humans, was concerned about her abilities to handle herself.
Let's start with that first.
Prologue 1... Good way to title it?
Regardless, that started when I was young.
Her name was Medusa and she was closer to the super natural than most mages.
Though she only knew little on my future, she did know I had a purpose of some kind.
It started, when her cage was rolled onto the market square...
End Foreword.
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"Eons ago, when life was young and darkness slept in the heavens, a blade was forged by the gods themselves, for the beast men to wield. This sword would..."
"I paid for a story, not another myth of divine craftsmanship."
The tiger bard frowned and closed his eyes, releasing a soft sigh as he lowered his instrument. Another deep breath let the scent of cooking vegetables and burning meat fills his nostrils, strengthening his resolve to sing for coin. Wiping off a layer of drool, he nodded.
"I assume that story is less enticing for you than it is to my own kind." The human patron gave a small nod and peeked around the slightly dark in. The ambience was subpar, though it was justified; dragons were rampant this time of year, looking for mates and place to nest. A warm, bright, cosy tavern was perfect, hence the dark, moist and cold atmosphere, only made bearable by the pungent smell of good cooking.
Despite it being the dead of night, the inn dressed in a haunted mist and bathed in moonlight, little shady deals took place. It might be the dangerous environment, the hard to reach front door or just maybe the burly dragon kin guard, who occasionally puffed a puff of smoke to show everyone he didn't have any ethical quarrels with eating sentient flesh. He was might impressive in his shiny silver armour, formidable flail and buckler. Though a warrior of such class got very little respect when protecting a lowly hovel to travellers.
"So, Mister Barkeep. Seen any dragons lately?" A rather unimpressive beast boy asked. He wasn't dressed for any real battle, wearing leather and ringmail, with a few sheets of metal.
"Enough to kill any retirement; one peek through my window and you should get one in your sights." The orange furball shook his head.
"Eh... I figured on my way in. But I'm looking for a particular one! A brown dragon dressed in robes, who likely ordered little food!" The barkeep looked up, one eyebrow up in his furry haircut.
"I did... he paid me in natural, instead of coin. A pile of firewood for a night's stay. He left when he claimed to have a vision. I don't know where he went though and no money can help me 'remember'." The feline youngster shrugged.
"I guess... but that answer is enough for me." The gruff ant shrugged.
"Curious, though. Got any squabbles with him? Debts or some personal score to settle?"
"Nah. It's more something he did! He inspired me to take up the blade and I have a few questions for him."
"He did that? Well, I can't imagine a pacifist like he could do that. But... do you still want a bed or not?" The feline shook his head.
"Sorry, but I just came in for a drink and a question." The boy popped a few chunks of gold on the table and stretched, before heading to the door and slipping by the dragon bouncer.
The mountains outside were coated in thick snow and dry shrubbery. Spruce and evergreen were few and far between, leaving little landmarks in the narrow valley. A sign nearby read "Ruskin Lodge, first, last and only rest between Furs and Skins." The feline knew it all too well. The valley had ruins of failed outposts all over. It was rugged terrain, impossible for armies to station effectively. The lack of proper sunlight and moonlight made it dark, with the howling wind giving the shivers to just about anyone.
A quick peek down the road gave the boy a sight of a dot of light. It was a torch or maybe a spell of light, guiding a lone traveller along the slimmer parts of the path.
"HEEEEEY!" The boy shouted down the valley, almost deafened by his own echoes. The light halted for a moment, a spotlight blinding his rugged furry face, before returning to the path and continuing on. He sighed and sparked a light in his lantern, before quickly following suit.
