When Legends Fall

Chapter I, Part I:The Woodsman

Chapter 1:1

In the seclusion of a woodland grove, a man gathered kindling. The sun was just dipping beneath the horizon, and he was collecting the pieces to cook his supper. As he worked, mosquitos buzzed noisily above his head. 'Bloodbugs' he called them, and he hated them with a fury normally reserved for horse-thieves and tax collectors. Leaves crunched around him as he walked; orange and red and yellow. He worked like a machine winding down, industrious at first, but slowing gradually until he stopped and stood, staring into nothingness. He stayed there a long, speculative moment before wheeling his cart over to his door, selecting a few pieces, and entering his small wooden bungalow.

He made his way over to the table, pointedly ignoring the plaque hanging above his mantle. Absentmindedly snapping beans into a pot of water, he began to whistle. As soon as he realized the tune, an age-old song, She Sings by the River, he stopped suddenly. Breathing heavily to himself in darkness, he lit another lamp, though it did little to dispel the darkness from the corners of the room.

He walked slowly over to the hearth, eyes sliding slyly over the staff adorning the front. He knelt, distributed the kindling, and set down the pot. From a small clay jar next to the heart he procured a red sulphur match. Staring at it for a moment, he struck it against the rough stone of the fireplace once, twice. Nothing. On the third strike it broke, splintering into useless fragments.He tried another, and another, but each time it would break, or the sulphur tip would simply refuse to light. As he reached the last match he had in the jar, he held it before his face and closed his eyes. After a long moment of concentration, the match flickered, then burst suddenly into flame. He opened his eyes, and almost looked surprised to see the cheery orange flame dancing in front of him. He held it gingerly between two fingers, waiting almost until it had been burnt to a nub before throwing it onto the kindling. He blew softly on it, spreading the flame until the larger pieces caught fire. Flame, his curse and his need. As his beans were slowly brought to a boil he reflected on days of power. When blood flowed too quickly and enemies fell with ease. And he had loved it. His dedication and his damnation. His triumph and his folly. His passion and his vanity.

For the first time in many years, he stared at the plaque atop his mantlepiece. It was carved all of lead, and gilded in gold lettering were the words: "The Greatest of Honor Comes in Sacrifice." and under those, To the legend, for surrendering your name, your power, and your legacy for the betterment of Alouana. We present to you the Plaque of Arasichian. At the bottom, his name was engraved in flowing calligraphy. He'd stopped thinking of himself as that name long ago. Now, he was different. A different man. A different person. Normal. Now he was simply "Quinn", the woodsman. With the subtle certainty of one long defamed, he drifted to the small cot in the far corner, falling asleep before he hit the pillow, consigning his dinner to the flames.