Legends of Windemere: Beginning of a Hero

Legends of Windemere:

Beginning

Of

A

Hero

Copyright © 2004 by Charles Yallowitz

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design & Illustration by Jason Pedersen

Dedication

To everyone who has entered Windemere

And left their mark upon its soul

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Prologue

A shrill bell echoes in the darkness that covers the riverside town of Rodillen. Very few people walk the empty streets while eerie noises drift through the murky air. A dull wind snakes its way among the buildings, carrying a luminous mist that clings to everything it touches. The bell ringer stops and retreats to his stone shack as a lone, brown-haired man stumbles his way into the first tavern he can find. The tavern is silent as every guest stares at the newcomer, their eyes filled with suspicion. His muddy traveler’s cloak is torn in several places, but his clothes have retained some of their refined appearance. Everyone watches as the nervous man takes a seat at the bar and pulls out a gold coin with a jester cap symbol on it. He skillfully juggles the coin along his knuckles and lifts his arm, letting the coin slide into his sleeve. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a few women at the bar are licking their lips. Their attention is on the coin and most of the men have begun to unsheathe daggers of various sizes and shapes.

Are you a follower of Cessia? She’s a good goddess to have at this time, the bartender announces, his loud voice making the man jump in surprise. The Day of Darkness is no time to be outdoors with all the undead walking around like they own all of Windemere. If you need a place to stay, I have a few rooms left upstairs. The beds are hard and the floors creak, but it beats getting eaten on the street.

Thank you for the room and board. This humble traveler appreciates your kindness. I hope this covers what I require from your establishment, the man timidly says. With a slow movement, he pulls out four pieces of gold, placing them in the bartender’s hand. A few murmurs rustle through the room when a glint of torchlight reflects off one of the pieces. The bartender lets his hand fall under the bar, which causes the whispering and stares to stop.

The bartender cautiously eyes the other patrons as he pockets the gold. My pleasure, but you better be careful showing this kind of money out in the open. Thieves and crooked merchants are what Rodillen is famous for. Nobody would think twice about the looted body of a traveler. Anyway, I’ll be back with some food. Looks to me like you haven’t eaten in days. Give me a few minutes to prepare something quick.

As his host goes to the kitchen, the man slips the jester coin back into his hand and stares at it. He dwells on the events that brought him to this point in his life and comes to the conclusion that he should have stayed in Gods’ Voice. A primal howl erupts from outside, causing the tavern to plunge into silence for a few seconds. Everyone goes back to his or her business, except for the traveler who is still quivering in fear. He grips the coin with all of his strength, the edge of it cutting into his palm.

I should never have taken this assignment, the man mutters to himself. There were so many messengers who move faster than I do. I don’t even know how much longer I have to go. If I hadn’t lost my map and compass, I would feel so much better. This assignment must be a test from Cessia herself to confirm my faith.

What assignment? asks a female voice from his left. Holding his breath, the traveler shifts his gaze to a short, redheaded woman in a low-cut shirt and tight pants. Her cool hands are already performing a gentle massage on his leg and hip.

I didn’t know your people could have red hair, the man admits, noticing her pointy ears. A sense of dread washes over him and he tries to locate the quickest exit.

You must not travel the world because elves come in more flavors than humans. Though, all elves have the same talents in bed. Care for some company tonight, your majesty? Since this is such a dangerous night, I’m willing to reduce my fee. We’ll say eleven gold coins for everything. What do you say? I can give you a taste of what lies ahead.

The elf thrusts her face forward for a kiss, but the jittery man bounces his barstool away, slipping out of her grasp. A small amount of laughter erupts from a nearby table of dwarves. He looks at the drunken group of bearded men and they raise their mugs in a friendly salute. The elf hops off her barstool, walking over to him with a playful look in her eyes.

That’s it, boy! Don’t go elf on us! one of the dwarves hollers.

She continues to move closer, her tongue slipping out like that of a reptile. Don’t listen to them. Dwarves don’t know how to enjoy the soft and sensual touch of an elf. It’s entirely foreign to them. Besides, if you saw their women then you would understand why they like the dark. Now, come back to the bar and spend some time with someone who is more than willing to make your night a relaxing one.

Let the man eat, ma’am. He’s obviously had a rough night and I think he needs rest more than pleasure, the bartender requests, returning with a plate of food and a mug of ale. Don’t make me toss you out on a night like this. It would make me feel bad.

The elf glares at the burly bartender and storms out of the tavern. With the woman gone, the traveler is free to crawl back to the bar and eat the barely edible food. The stew is watery with very few vegetables and the bread is stale, but he silently admits that it is better than nothing. The bartender helps a few more customers before returning to the man, who is vaguely unaware that he has been the center of attention since he arrived.

Sorry about that woman. Can’t go anywhere in this town without seeing the bottom of society’s barrel, the bartender claims, wiping down the counter. Like I said before, this town is known for thieves. The city has gone downhill over the years with all the corruption and crime. I’m guessing a man like yourself doesn’t care about the woes of a local merchant, so I won’t bore you any more. The bartender pauses to clear his throat. Mind if I ask you something, mister?

I have nothing to hide.

What is a messenger of Duke Solomon doing in Rodillen? the bartender asks, cautiously scanning the room and leaning over the bar. I saw your colors under the cloak and I’m sure a few of the local predators have too. That’s not something you should let people see around here. It makes this night all the more dangerous for you, so I'm hoping you can protect yourself. Only a very brave or very foolish man would openly wear royal colors in this town. I’m also wondering what has you so spooked. It may be the Day of Darkness, but your average undead doesn’t scare adults enough to turn them white like you.

The man nervously taps his finger on the bar, his breathing becoming ragged. I am passing through to meet with someone, so the less time I spend in one spot the better. I only know who I am supposed to meet and where. As for what has me spooked . . . a Lich has been following me since I left the safety of Gods’ Voice.

The bartender turns pale and a few patrons move away from the traveler. He can sense eyes boring into his back with malice and he hears a few people get out of their seats. Two male half-orcs, identified by their pronounced lower jaws and wide eyes, roughly lift the messenger from the barstool. They hurl him out the door, watching him skid on his back through the muddy street. The bartender walks to the doorway and looks out at the man who is nothing more than a vague form in the darkness.

No offense, sir, but I have my own life to think about here, he declares, closing the door and opening a grate to talk through. I can deal with most kinds of common undead, but I draw the line at Liches. Those are necrocasters of the worst kind and I don’t plan on meeting one in my lifetime. I wish you the best of luck, but I suggest that you keep running until this night is over. I’m sorry it had to come to this, but it’s nothing against you. May Cessia protect you through this night because nobody in this town will bother with you.

How can my life get any worse? the messenger wonders, getting to his feet and brushing the mud off his clothes. He stops when he realizes he is only smearing the mud around his clothes.

A guttural cough wafts out of the shadows and the man turns to face the group of dwarves from the tavern. Their weapons are drawn and the smell of ale is like a thick fog around them. The stocky men have a wild look in their eyes that paralyzes the traveler with fear.

No sense in wasting time with formalities or the usual flare, one of the dwarves states. The other dwarves stumble into position around the messenger, trapping him in a ring of greedy thieves. We saw those shiny pieces you gave the bartender. We also heard you work for the Duke. That means you have money and we want it. Hand it over and we’ll let you live through this . . . transaction.

Take it all! the man cries, throwing his money pouch to one of the dwarves. The thief moves to catch it, but trips over his own foot and the coin-filled bag hits him in the face. The crunch of a broken nose echoes in the night as the pouch bounces off the dwarf.

How dare you attack one of us! the biggest dwarf yells, inciting them into a drunken charge.

Three of them are grabbed around the ankles by unseen hands, causing them to fall into the mud. Everyone stops as the fallen dwarves are dragged under the mud, their screams ripping through the air. The sounds of crunching bones and skin being shredded abruptly cut the screams off. The messenger incoherently shrieks before sprinting in the direction of the western gates. The two remaining dwarves follow him when they see the silhouettes of four zombies crawling out of the earth. A half-cough, half-hiss slithers from the exposed throat of one of the zombies as it follows the retreating men.

Turning a corner, the messenger sees the wooden gates of Rodillen loom in the distance. He can hear the wheezing and coughing of the dwarves a few yards behind him. Against his better judgment, he glances back to see the zombies are following the drunks, the undead moving at a steady pace. Panicking, the man pulls out a yellow potion and swallows it in one gulp. Feeling a surge of energy, he closes the gap between him and the inviting gates. Hoping to escape without a trace, he tries to run into the shadows only to trip over someone’s foot. He bounces off the solid gate with body-numbing force and lands face down in the mud.

You should have accepted my earlier offer, mister, says a familiar female voice, its seductive tone replaced by cold callousness. Your death would have been quicker and a lot less painful.

The dwarves skid to a halt a few feet away as the redheaded elf from the tavern walks into the light. She signals for the zombies to stop, the monsters groaning as they obey. Turning her attention to the terrified man, she shoves the two drunks out of her way. The elf stops and swears when she hears a low growl from behind her. The dwarves howl and charge with their weapons swinging wildly, driven by alcohol-fueled machismo.

Stop! the messenger shouts.

The elf pounces on the drunken pair with lightning speed. She stabs one of them through the eye with a slender dagger and his friend is taken down by a savage spin-kick to the throat. He sputters blood and bone chips, collapsing at her feet. She viciously stomps on the back of his neck, stopping when she hears a loud snap and his body spasms.

Now, for the messeng . . . son of a troll, the elf mutters, watching the man disappear into the forest outside the gate. Her face becomes very pale as a whirl of magic surrounds her, a telltale sign that her employer is watching her.

I’m in a lot of trouble now, she whispers in Elven as she vanishes from the street.

*****

The elf reappears in a large room with arcane symbols on the floor and a single chair against the far wall. Each symbol looks like it is bleeding along the floor and swirling into itself, shadows licking at their edges. The stench of spell components and blood rise from the red-tinted stone beneath her feet. Grimacing at the foul odor, she removes a simple, golden ring from her finger like her queen asked her to do when not in the field. Once the jewelry is off, her form changes to that of a cobalt-skinned elf with ebony hair and glowing, green eyes. She holds up her left arm to watch her ivory soul marking spiral back into view. The marking is a detailed serpent coiling from her right shoulder to her right palm. She gives a soft kiss to the serpent’s head as magic ripples down her shifting body. Her clothing changes into leather armor with several daggers attached to her belt. The elf hugs her body, but her joy of returning to normal is short-lived when she remembers where she is. Sweat forms on the chaos elf’s brow as a half-hour passes with no sign of her employer.

The chaos elf examines the room, silently scoffing at its bland and unkempt style. The only interesting parts of the room are the bleeding and squirming demonic symbols painted on the floor. She would not be surprised if a master painter was kidnapped to make them. Though, she is sure the poor bastard was the first to be sacrificed on this evil altar. She nervously taps her foot, wondering why she is spending so much time analyzing the décor. The morbid answer comes to her and sours her mood. She could very well die here, so she might as well enjoy the better parts of the scenery.

You have failed me, Garna, hisses an eerie voice. You claimed you could stop the messenger and now he is in the wild. We can no longer stop him from reaching the Paladin.

The chaos elf feels the hair on the back of her neck stand up. I am sorry, sir. I will try my best to track the messenger and eliminate him. I will even eliminate the Paladin if given the opportunity. I swear this on the suffering of my people and the honor of my queen.

Garna nods toward a shadowy figure who steps out of a billowing cloud of smoke. Layers of black and gray robes cover the taut-skinned body of the Lich. He flexes his hands and the chaos elf can see several gaudy rings adorning his gnarled fingers. His boney feet appear briefly as he sits in the solitary chair, adjusting his moldy robes. She cannot stop herself from staring at the red eyes, flickering with unbridled greed from underneath his dusty hood.

Why should I believe you will accomplish your goals when you wasted your time with a pair of dwarves? the Lich asks as he leans forward.

They attacked me and I needed to defend myself. I still bleed and get hurt like other living things. Taking an axe to the spine would have made it difficult for me to eliminate the messenger, Garna answers while standing at attention. Besides, they did not delay me too long and I saw where the messenger went. If you had not teleported me away, I could have caught up with him and this conversation wouldn’t be happening. She stops once she realizes her blunder. Uh, what I meant was . . .

The necrocaster seems to grow in size as he screams, You dare to place blame on my head!

No, sir, I merely ask that you give me more time. Taking me away before I have time to reverse my mistakes does not prove I am a worthless agent.

You and your ilk are invaluable agents, Garna, the Lich agrees, folding his hands on his lap. Chaos elves have been loyal to the darkness for a very long time. Garna, can you tell me why your people are so good at what they do? Please refresh my dusty memory.

She cautiously walks around the circular room, her attention never wandering away from the Lich. She stops on the far side of the room and takes out a dagger to twirl in her hand. She can tell he is up to something, but she knows too little about the creature to predict him. All she remembers is that her queen warned her that a wrong move would land her in this position. The thought of her queen and how she may have failed her brings tears to Garna’s eyes.

The chaos elf clears her drying throat and stops spinning her dagger. My people are the stealthiest warriors in the world. We thrive in the shadows while improving our . . . unique survival techniques. There are no better spies in all of Windemere and we are the best assassins in the Post Cataclysm era. Does that answer your question, sir?

Full of pride and arrogance as I expected, her employer replies as he clacks his bony fingers together. Chaos elves always see themselves as the greatest race in all of Windemere. Personally, I don’t believe you are as talented as you think. Do you agree?

I swear I will do better next time. I promi- Garna begins. Her voice is cut off by a quick spell from the Lich, who rises to his feet. His crimson eyes bore into her and she can see a vague, skeletal sneer beneath his hood. An eerie chill creeps up Garna’s spine, taking root in the back of her skull.

A raspy cough passes through the air as the decaying necrocaster circles the room. You have had your chance to prove yourself. Trinity told me you could do this job and you have failed me. Now, I must bring in something more powerful and dangerous. I need an assassin who can finish this job and serve me without failure until all my goals have been achieved. The Lich stops walking and faces the nervous woman, his rotting arms weaving in the air. To be honest, I agree with you that chaos elves are the best mortal assassins, but I need a demon. You are dismissed.

Thick chains lance out of the shadows, wrapping around Garna’s legs and dragging her across the floor. Several of the arcane symbols light up as she is pulled toward the middle of what she now realizes is a demon-summoning circle. She struggles against the chains, but small bursts of electricity pulse through her body with every twist. All she can do is panic, feeling her strength get rapidly sapped by the chains. Out of desperation, Garna digs her fingernails into the space between two stone tiles. The chains violently yank her with enough force to break off a few nails, hurling her into the center of the circle. As she stands, the chains wrap around her entire body, leaving only her left eye uncovered. Terror fills the single orb as its pupil frantically moves in every direction, hoping to see a way out.

As you know, a sacrifice is necessary when calling forth a minion from the Chaos Void, the Lich says, running his hand over a faded symbol on the wall. You may have failed me as an assassin, but you will make a perfect offering. Wouldn’t you agree, vermin?

Garna cries as the Lich chants the incantation, the bleeding symbols pulsating with crimson light. Her scream echoes throughout the chamber as a spiral of blood-like magic curls up from beneath her. The chains around the chaos elf transform into a suit of gothic platemail as she grows taller and more muscular. The sickening bursting of skin fills the air, her body becoming too large for her cobalt flesh. Her ears gain sharper points and red streaks form in her ebony hair. A final surge of magic ends her agony, leaving a green-skinned, elf-like figure standing in her place. All that is left of the woman are bloody shreds of cobalt skin strewn around the fire-eyed demon’s feet.

Perfect, hisses the grinning necrocaster.

What are your commands, master? the demonic assassin asks in a low, predatory voice.

The Lich returns to his chair and conjures a goblet of vile smelling liquid. I require the destruction of a Paladin who will be getting in my way if allowed to live. There is also a messenger of Duke Solomon who you can ignore. Without the Paladin, he is nothing but a scared fool in the woods. He pauses for a moment and reconsiders his second order. On second thought, you can put the fool out of his misery since he has caused me some trouble. Take some of my zombies to help you, but they do not have to return. Return as soon as the Paladin and the messenger are dead. Any questions?

The demon draws a curved sword made out of ebony metal, swinging it to see how it moves outside of the Chaos Void. The Hellfire Elves have been the most feared assassins for centuries. I will not return until I have destroyed my prey. Do you wish for me to be seen by my target?

No, the Lich angrily snaps, his teeth clacking together. Make sure nobody sees you. I do not know how strong this Paladin is. He might be able to banish you if you give him time to react. Also, the messenger is under the Goddess of Luck’s protection and has managed to evade my minions thanks to her blessing. It will be easier to dispatch him if he does not know you are there. Use my zombies as decoys.

With a low bow, the Hellfire Elf vanishes in a puff of brimstone. The Lich calmly sits in his chair as the sound of heavy footsteps pass through an illusionary wall. A shadow separates from the gloom, silently slipping through a crack in the floor. The rotting necrocaster lets out an ear-rending laugh and his revelry is joined by another voice that emanates raw, terrifying power. The deeper voice vanishes, leaving the Lich to lift his goblet of foul liquid toward the ceiling.

It appears someone has been eavesdropping. I propose a toast to Gabriel the Destiny Weaver. May he be entertained by what is about to happen to his pawns.

*****

Unnatural beast, growls a silky voice that passes over the oceans and returns to the throat of its patient mistress.

A gorgeous Elven woman with chocolate brown hair stands on the pristine shores of Ambervale. The goddess turns away from the open ocean, forcing her mind to focus on the sound of nearby music. She takes a deep breath to calm herself while her regal companion lets his mood sink into darkness. A storm brewing on the horizon grows stronger with every snarl that escapes the male god’s lips. An earth-shaking rumble stops the joyous music for a few seconds, but the other gods quickly go back to their blissful celebrations. Only a few lesser gods venture to the high cliffs and peer down on their serious brethren. The elf-woman waves them away before her companion decides to take his anger out on them.

The goddess turns back to the man who is staring at her with a wild glimmer in his green eyes. He grins wide enough for his ivory teeth to shimmer in the sunlight. She returns the expression with a feral growl that causes his lips to transform into an amused smirk. The goddess knows what the raven-haired man is going to ask without him uttering a word. It has been the same argument for the last month and it is finally time for her to graciously lose the debate. If she were stronger then she would deny his request, but nobody can stand up to this god and walk away in one piece. Even the other gods fear the power of Gabriel, the Tri-Fold God who rules Hell, the Chaos Void, and forges the destiny of mortals.

Speak your mind, Uli, he requests.

I do not like this course of action, Gabriel, she declares, her golden eyes narrowing to slits. He is not ready for this. Send the other one and give the boy more time.

The god turns his back with a flourish of his cape and pats the hilt of his crystalline longsword. A whistle from his lips causes a painful tremor to pass through Uli’s well-toned body. Facing her again, Gabriel’s eyes change from emerald to a pale green.

Excuse me, my dear, but I am the God of Destiny. It is time to put an end to this and we need our most powerful tools on the board. Even the effect of free will cannot stop these events from reaching their climax. The boy is the heir to a great legacy, which I have spent centuries forging. He will be ready by the time his power and courage is needed. If he does fail then he will give us a few more years to prepare a stronger set of champions.

Uli clenches her fist and swears in an archaic form of Elven. This does not mean I have to approve of it. He is one of my devoted and I feel he is not ready. The boy has not accomplished any heroic deeds and his skills are barely above average. His potential is great, but you cannot guarantee he will mature in time to meet his destiny.

I do not care whose devoted he is. That boy has an important role to play in the coming storm, Gabriel snaps, waving his hand to silence her. The look of insulted honor on Uli’s face makes him lick his lips. Most of the other gods are turning a blind eye toward the danger on the horizon. We are two of the few who have bothered to get as involved as we can without breaking the law of influence. This boy is important to our plans, so we will use him. I have already sent an emissary to point him in the right direction. He is going in the proper direction as we speak, but he needs a little . . . inspiration. If your predictions of failure come to fruition then maybe the other gods will see the importance of our work and help. My point, dearest Uli, is that something good will come from the boy even if he dies.

Sick of the conversation, the Destiny God walks away and whistles an angry tune. A ripple of magic flows from his lips, changing a passing robin into a fearsome tiger that crashes into the shifting water. The confused beast panics and attempts to fly while the strong currents drag it out to sea. Uli extends a calloused hand toward the tiger and uses her magic to bring it to shore. The large cat rubs against her leg while chirping and singing like a bird.

Send him to what may be his death, but I will be watching over him, she claims, storming away with the tiger in tow. Unlike you, Hell Lord, I care about my devoted.

Your devoted? Gabriel says, chuckling in amusement. He creates a golden orb that hovers in front of his face. Deep inside the scrying globe is the image of a young half-elf running through a distant forest. Last time I checked, dear Uli, his path was in my hands.

1

Visindor Forest remains at peace as it has every morning for centuries. Birds sing and shimmering pixies play tag in the warm sunlight. Glistening droplets of dew cover the leaves and grass as animals venture from their homes. A low grunt echoes throughout the wilderness, causing all other sounds to stop for a few seconds. The grunt returns minutes later, but it is too far away to scare the timid forest creatures. It is a landscape of serenity that painters strive to capture.

No place is more peaceful than where a tumbling brook cascades into a deep lake. It is an isolated area where slender naiads bathe and a herd of red-hide deer drink. The only sound that does not fit with the rest of the morning stirrings comes from the lakeshore. This constant, steady grinding noise catches the attention of several pixies, who cautiously approach the lone swordsman. They soon realize they have nothing to fear as the youth smells like the forest and emits an aura of calm. Instinctually, the pixies know he is trained in the ways of the wild and would never hurt them. It is the adult noble shepherd curled by the smoking remains of a fire that makes the tiny creatures nervous. The pixies tiptoe through the air, trying to get a closer look at the youth without disturbing the dog. They are within a few feet of the swordsman when the dog stirs and barks, shattering the morning peace.

You sleep through the call of a dread boar, but sneaking pixies wake you? the young warrior asks, patting the beast on the rump. In response, the stubborn dog barks louder at the pixies. Calm down, Stiletto. They don’t mean any harm. Grandpa said pixies never attack unless their soul tree is threatened. So be careful where you relieve yourself.

The youth’s face and body show very few signs of battle or harsh traveling. The pieces of leather armor on his forearms and torso are as smooth and pristine as the day they were crafted. His dirty face is handsome with none of the scars or stress lines one would expect to find on a wandering warrior. Even his dark blond hair is well groomed, which is incredibly rare among adventurers. Most people would think he was new to the road, but his boots tell a different tale. Once high-grade leather with silver embroidery, they are beaten shadows of their former glory. Dried mud covers much of the leather and only flecks of silver remain of what must have been an intricate pattern. To say these boots were well-used would be an understatement.

Getting tired of the noise, the young man puts down his twin sabers and tosses a piece of dried meat to the dog. A blue pixie lands on one of the youth’s pointy ears and walks around his cheek to inspect his face. It gently wipes at a smudge of dirt on his nose. With a giggle, the tiny creature returns to its friends, who are hiding behind the wide leaf of an oak. They rejoin the larger group of pixies that are playing a game of tag through the trees.

Now, this is the freedom we were meant to have, the young warrior declares. Beats being stuck home and not seeing anything beyond Haven’s borders. Right, Stiletto?

The swordsman goes back to sharpening his blades, taking some time to buff the smooth ruby embedded in the pommel of each weapon. Tucking the rag into his belt, the youth makes a final inspection of the beautiful blades. He stops abruptly and sheaths the sabers with a muttered curse.

Who the hell am I kidding? This isn’t what I want at all! We left home six months ago and I haven’t done anything heroic yet. All of my ancestors were great heroes of Windemere, so why should I be any different? The bards make adventuring seem so glamorous and easy, but there is so much competition. All these mercenaries and experienced heroes keep beating me to the big jobs. They get to fight demons, Weapon Dragons, and trolls while I’m left with scraps. All I want is to go down in history as a great hero who saved some part of Windemere. Not some pathetic slayer of nuisances like skeletons and rabid goblins. Is it so wrong to want to be as great as your ancestors?

The dog rolls his eyes as if he has heard this rant many times before. He yawns and snorts as his friend paces between two maple trees.

Don’t start! All I’ve done so far is stop goblin raids and minor undead from destroying nearby farms. Look at me! I haven’t even been touched, so people don’t believe I’ve even been in a fight. I know I’m helping people, but I need something bigger. The dangers around here are far too easy to defeat. Look, Stiletto, we both know I’m highly skilled and that nothing frightens me. At least, nothing I’ve seen so far. Still, I didn’t run when I faced my first zombie or my first orc, which has to count for something. When do I get to prove to all of Windemere that I have what it takes to be a great hero? He stops pacing and stares at the morning sky, a few wispy clouds passing overhead. I’m fed up doing small jobs. Today, I’m going to find an actual adventure and start on my path to being a hero. Are you with me, old friend?

The young man bends down to pat Stiletto on the head while the dog chews on the piece of dried meat. Lots of help you are. The least you can do is stop eating while I talk. It was a good rant too.

The snap of a twig catches the warrior’s attention and he whirls around with both sabers drawn. Standing next to a tree is a slender woman wearing an elegant gown of silver satin, which contrasts with her long, fiery hair. The youth is slightly taken aback by her ethereal beauty, but finally manages to peer directly into her sapphire eyes. Something about her is familiar, but he cannot concentrate long enough to remember where he has seen her before. He feels like he is compelled to break eye contact by something deep within his bones.

I heard that forest trackers have some of the fastest reactions in the mortal world, but I never had the pleasure of meeting one before today, the woman says, looking a little worried and concerned. You are Luke Callindor, right? I would feel very foolish if I approached the wrong half-elf. There are so many more of your kind on Windemere since the last time I left Ambervale.

Luke stares in awe for a few seconds, struggling to find his voice. Yes, I am. This is incredible. I never met a goddess before. I’ve heard of people meeting with gods and goddesses, but I never thought I would, especially with Zaria. The Goddess of Purity is one of the patron deities of my hometown. I mean, you are one of our patron deities.

I am impressed you recognized me so quickly, the goddess says with a warm smile. I typically have to give mortals a hint or introduce myself. It is all because those silly artists insist on giving me blonde hair instead of red.

I saw a gemstone statue of you when I was five. I never forgot what it looked like. You probably already know this, but I have bard’s memory. So, I remember every detail I ever see. It may take a few minutes for me to recall the information, but it’s stuck in my brain somewhere. It comes in handy when wandering the wilderness. Luke blushes when he realizes he is rambling to the deity and clears his throat. So, why are you looking for me? I’m a forest tracker who wants an adventure. You don’t happen to have one for me, do you?

His bright, green eyes give away his joy at possibly receiving a mission from the gods. Zaria cannot help but smile at the ecstatic expression on his face. Her smile covers the misgivings she has about what she must do to the boy. Like Uli, she is unconvinced that the young warrior is ready for what Gabriel wishes to put him through. Unlike her friend, Zaria knows there is no stopping events from unfolding. She would rather send Luke off with hope and excitement instead of whatever horrible method Gabriel would use. Her focus faltering, the goddess dwells on how much she loathes the God of Destiny and how she has to work with him to solve their mutual problem. Remembering the half-elf, Zaria snaps out of her trance with a gentle shake of her head, her red hair leaving sparks in the air.

Your enthusiasm is very alarming, as is the announcement of your abilities. You are a friendly person, Luke, but you cannot trust everyone with your secrets, the goddess warns him while touching his arm. I have been sent to converse with you on the behalf of the gods. We know you desire to be a great hero and we believe you will reach your goal. You have many of the qualities and skills a hero needs, but you lack the discipline that will bring you to victory. In truth, I do not believe you are mentally ready for the adventures you seek.

Luke shakes his hand free of the goddess, stepping as close to her as he can without touching her. He is a little taller than Zaria, so he moves back in order to look her in the eye. He stares long and hard at the goddess, never breaking eye contact. The half-elf attempts to speak once or twice, but no words come out. It is unclear to Zaria whether facing a god has caused his near silence or he is unsure what to say.

It is impressive that you can stand up to a goddess of my caliber. You are a brave boy, but you need more than that to succeed, the goddess states, her hand falling to where a sword would normally be worn. "If it was my choice, I would give you more time to mature, but the choice is not mine. Please, do not mistake my statement as an obstacle to your success. I simply worry that you are