Latest revision as of 00:57, 4 May 2006

History of a Self-Styled Hero

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The Furthest Recesses of Memory

Once upon a time, there was a boy that lived in a village. The name of the village or even the name of the region is lost to memory, as he was much too young to worry about such a thing then. Every day was peaceful, yet busy, as each person in the village had a job to do, each member of every family having some set of chores. Chopping wood and tending to animals are vague images that may have been imagined while trying to remember what it was like.

The memory that is solid is the time of a festival. The neighboring villages would come together for a seasonal festival filled with food, laughter, and competition. The girls would dance, a few weddings would take place, and the boys would be as boys tend to be. Sports, wrestling, running... all were competitions that drew everyone's attention.

And in those competitions, he was golden. That memory is clear even though he can no longer remember his parents' faces. No matter what happened, no matter how difficult his opponents, the condition of the weather or the terrain, he was always able to come out at the top. It was as if through his fearlessness and desire to win, he was capable of nearly anything.

Like everything in life though, all good things must come to an end. The final sports competition of his life was the most challenging, yet also, the pinnacle of his athleticism. The opposing team was made up of large boys who had to have trained specifically for this competition, bulking up with who knows what kind of work. What they lost in agility, they made up in strength and rushing power.

Yet, he was still able to gain some ground with his smaller size and agility, stealing away balls and scoring points, as long as he made no attempt to go up against the bull rush of those boys. In time though, tempers began to flare and they shifted targets to the sole person who was giving them so much trouble. It is then, he believes, that things began to go all wrong.

He remembers a sense of invincibility. Unlike other times when backed against the wall, this was an assuredness that he couldn't fail. All other times it was simply a fervent desire not to lose, which paid off through fearlessness and painful effort. They were unable to touch him, unable to strike him or bring him down. The wind gave way for him, the earth held firm to give him traction, and his body moved to his every whim. He slipped past even a solid wall of bodies, flipping over, sliding under, or otherwise managing to evade anything they threw at him.

It was almost as if a great well of power was slowly being released. At first, it was simply a surge of energy, a focused power that filled him. As time progressed, it grew and grew to encompass him... and at that time, the cheers fell away into silence, his pursuers fell back and stopped.

The bright afternoon day had become exceedingly bright, as if he were standing on the surface of the sun itself. The light blotted out even the faces of the spectators. Yet, soon enough, the bright light faded out, leaving him with a sense of emptiness. As he looked around for the source of that light, he saw strange things, strange emotions pass over the faces of people he has long since forgotten. These emotions he would soon grow to understand in the near future.

Run, came the voice, a powerful voice, that he would continue to hear occasionally. The command was simple, yet it stretched through his entire being, and before he even realized it, the festival grounds were disappearing behind him.

Knowledge

He had run until his breath came in pained, burning gasps, his muscles aching. Collapsing into a field of flowers, his body pressed down into the soft bed they made, he gasped feverently for breath until he felt a hand resting atop his head. That same voice he heard before came to him, gentle and reassuring now, the command completely gone. It told him why he was made to run, that the villagers would have attempted to kill him for what he has become. It went on to tell him about the mark on his forehead, warning him about what he should avoid. "Do you hate them?" the voice finally asked.

"No," came his reply before he had even though about it. He never turned his eyes up to see the person above him. Some part of him realized it wouldn't be a person at all. "They are just afraid right?"

"Yes."

"Then it doesn't matter," he said, in finality.

The voice above him remained quiet for a moment, and in that silence, he remembers absorbing some comfort from the hand that had remained on his head the entire time. "Do you know what a hero is?" the voice asks, when it begins again.

"A... hero?" He can still remember his complete bewilderment at being asked such a thing out of the blue. "A person who... saves people?"

"Yes. A person who saves people... and destroys those who would kill them."

The young boy, Gawain, had lifted his head then to take in the god above him... and shook his head. "No, killing people is wrong. A hero shouldn't... kill people he doesn't have to."

The hand that had lift his head when he rose returns again, ruffling his hair in a paternal way. "Then... live in that way, as a hero in the way you imagine one should be. Do that, and I shall always be with you."

The golden god before him had then retracted his hand, smiling, as his body collapsed into motes of sunlight, that then drifted off as if carried by a wind. Gawain was left alone, but with a sense of peace... and purpose.

The Return

Despite the golden god's warning, he had returned to his village in the dark of the night, and despite his new purpose, he had to know if his parents hated him. He found them, crying in the dark of their home, praying to other gods out of fear of even asking a question of the god to whom Gawain now belongs. Why him?

His appearance then was a mixed blessing filled with mixed emotions. Fear, hate, love and sadness. Their teachings conflicted with the unconditional love of parents, and in the end, love won out as it has in many cases before it. They cried together and wished together for a different fate, but in the end, they had to let go of their son.

As he left, they told him they would leave a present for him in his favorite spot, a partial secret to anyone else. To most, it was simply a rock he would relax on beneath the afternoon sun, drying off from a swim or simply resting. His parents, however, had found him in the alcove the rock forms at its base, when a bad storm had forced him to seek shelter.

He would return many times to his special spot to find money, food, and a note for him, telling him of recent events and their hope for him. It was in one of these notes that he would find that a Wyld Hunt had been formed and that they know his name.

The Hunt Begins

It would be several months before the Hunt even came close to finding his location and during that time he had begun his hero career, performing various acts of heroics with varying degrees of success. Each time, however, was a clue for the Hunt to go on and they came ever closer.

His abilities, strengths, and power had grown as he performed these deeds. It was almost as if he was slowly untapping a well of knowledge, knowledge that bred familiarity. He never thought long on such things, as they don't matter. They are simply tools that that golden god has given him to become a better hero.

The first appearance of the Wyld Hunt would take place outside Port Calin. The first view of the largest body of water he had ever seen drew him here, but largely populated areas he would soon find, draws far too much attention. Still, he could not ignore people who desperately need help, and in such areas, there would be many.

Through his heroics there, the Wyld Hunt quickly approached, and through a clever ploy of endangering some peasants, they drew him out. This would be the first time that his life was truly in danger, and the first time he truly thought he would die. The Terrestrial Exalted may have been weaker, but they were numerous, and wore him down quickly. His hesitance to kill also cost him endurance, as he was working harder to dispatch them without killing them. In the end though, he was forced to run.

When he was nearly beyond their reach, he felt a hand on his shoulder -- a light touch that filled him with comfort, full of strength but gentle, familiar. "Do heroes run?" came the voice, that same powerful voice.

With a small smile he had come to a stop, turning on his heel to face the oncoming forces of the Dragon-Blooded. He had no weapons, but still, he knew that these people are the ones that have killed many people like him for no other reason than existing. They are all murderers, and as a hero, he must punish them.

And then, out of his peripheral vision, a wall of flame appeared. No, not a wall, but a body, and not fire, but fur that arcs upward like white flames. "Boy, you're a hero, aren't you?" the creature, the fiery wolf, asked.

Gawain had smiled broadly then, another rush of familiarity filling him as he reached out to lay a hand on top of the wolf's head, unafraid despite its large size. "You're both so annoying with your reminders," he says softly, trailing his hand down the wolf's back to the harness there.

"Then take your weapons and end this. I will help you."

His hands closed over the circular pieces of metal, clutching them and drawing a pair of blades free of the harness. With a familiar practiced motion of his fingers, he pushed the mechanisms holding the blades parallel. Then, fluidly, the blades spun around the circle, each one locking in place until form blades stick out in ninety-degree angles, slightly curved.

His smile deepened then, his hands holding the weapons out to each side. "Ansar!" he called, not worrying in the least how he knew the creature's name, just as he doesn't care how he knows how to do the things he does. "Let's go!"

The Future

Gawain crosses his arms over his chest, standing on the edge one of the stone towers in this city, his red hair waving in the wind. In the years since this all began, he has grown quite a bit, both physically and mentally. He has been a hero in his mind more times than he can count yet the times that people actually thanked him for it are far outweighed by the times the same people he saved have ran him out of town.

Standing next to him, Ansar looks off into the distance, the rapport they share passing on his master's thoughts. He has never quite understood Gawain's desires to protect those that will never thank him for it, but if it is what his master wishes, he will do it as well and protect his master should those he saves actually be able to harm him... throughout every reincarnation.

"Ansar," the sixteen year old says softly, reaching out a hand to brush it through the white flames that feel so much like fur. "We have to find that serial killer tonight. We can't let him hurt anyone else."

The wolf lifts his head against the hand, pulling his lips back from his teeth in his canine-form of a smile. "Yes, master. We will capture him tonight. His patterns are becoming predictable."

"Let's go!" Gawain shouts, leaping forward. His fall is cut short by the next rooftop, his shoes digging in for purchases as he dashes forward, his footfalls making barely any sound. He hears Ansar land behind him, the heavy creature making no more sound than him, and not falling through the rooftop as a creature of his size should have.

His hand moves to his back, gripping the circular piece of metal and pulling the full two and a half feet of metal free. As he brings it to bear, his thumb flicks the mechanism to 'open'. The four blades that had been set parallel to each other are then released to spin around the circle, locking into place at their assigned points. Holding the now fully opened 'comet' away from his body as he runs, he leaps off the edge of the building and smiles, I will protect everyone! I'll protect everyone who can't defend themselves from monsters like this guy!

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