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
Westfall Village
Tana's offer to see the village took me by surprise. I glanced down at my leg, tracing the fine, white scars before nodding. Helron shot Tana and Sorrin a wink and dragged Bilev away, hustling the protesting innkeeper down the stairs.
Taking a deep breath, I swung my legs over the bed and paused, my bare feet an inch from the floor. Tana nudged Sorrin, who grunted and rolled his eyes.
"Want a hand?" he asked.
I stared at his offered hand, finding it coated in dozens of fine white scars and thick callouses. Soltair had a hand like that, as did the other heroes and soldiers I fought beside, one that had seen battle time and time again.
Seeing my hesitation, Tana slapped his hand away. "Just take your time."
"Just make up your mind, elf," Sorrin grumbled, striding over to the door.
"Half-elf," she corrected automatically, as though giving a practiced response.
"Whatever. I'll be downstairs."