The Forsaken Hero
I closed my eyes and let out a shuddering breath. My fingers were numb and cold, my arm aching where the needle pierced the vein. Something clattered onto the pavement, and I looked down to see the needle. It had slipped out of my hand. Nothingness swirled around me, bringing the first sense of peace I'd felt in my short, miserable life. There was no one to miss me, and no one I would miss. There's always someone else to beat or rape. The regulars would move on quickly. I died. Only...wasn't death supposed to be dark? And since when did 'nothingness' have so many gods? Discord: https://discord.gg/PX3xqJdZMY
Soltair
I passed the rest of the banquet on the stand, trying not to associate with anyone. The heroes wandered about, returning frequently for more wine or a brief reprieve from the intense social climate, but soon departed again. Occasionally, someone approached and engage me in conversation, but it soon became apparent I was only an object of curiosity, and soon forgotten.
As the night wound down, Soltair returned, collapsing in the seat next to me. Although he carried himself well, his collar was moist with sweat and I could see a slight slump in his shoulders.
A few minutes later, the Pope rose and gave some final words, thanking the attendees and formally beginning the festival. There were cheers, claps, and some final toasts, and then guests began to file away. I shivered as more than a few guests clung to whatever maid happened to take their fancy, no doubt intending to take the celebration to their bed chambers.