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
Rodrick
The familiar voice sent shivers down my spine and tail. I turned, my throat tightening with anxiety, to meet the gaze of a middle-aged priest. As our eyes locked, his face brightened, and he rushed toward me, taking my hands.
"I can't believe it! You actually came back!"
"That's enough," Fyren said sternly, laying a hand on the priest's shoulder and guiding him back a step.
"Oh, yes, forgive my lack of manners," the priest replied, bowing low. "But please, come in."
With a sweeping gesture, he invited us into the chapel. The building was just as I remembered: ancient, dry, and dusty, yet its enduring warmth remained. "I'm afraid I neglected to introduce myself the last time we met. I'm Rodrick."
"Do you know this man?" Fyren asked warily, maintaining his protective stance.
"We've met before. He allowed me to practice my healing magic here, some weeks ago."