[WP] In a high fantasy world, Write about a very powerfull hero's day.

...

Bandaged and recovering, the Great Battlemage of the South-Western Territories, Hero of Red Stone and Slayer of Goblins, lay groaning in discomfort on the only legitimate mattress in the world.

That wasn't to say that there weren't other mattress imitations out there, especially among noble courts which prized themselves on having such things, but the material beneath what were now partially blood-stained sheets was easily centuries beyond such primitive technology. Not even the richest and most eccentric of nobles could claim as the Hero did, to have a bedding of Memory-Foam.

Among the marching armies beyond the wood, insulation, and metal walls of his strange carriage, tales of his prowess in combat were whispered by more than just a simple few; some in fear, and some in wonder. "How?" Many asked, even among the more magically inclined circles, "How did a man so young as he master such powerful Castings to slay fifteen Orcs alone?"

It was indeed a a question for the ages, as all who knew of Mages (battle intended or otherwise) knew they were generally crotchety old men who had spent far too much time studying particular things that discomforted others to think about for even the briefest of instants. The Great Hero and Battlemage of the South-Western Territories though, was quite obviously not past his twenty-fifth season even at the most weighted of guesses, and therefore obviously not a crotchety old man.

There was also the matter of his companions and company. More than one brow had been raised at the obvious tamed demon of metal and glass that drew the foreign-made carriage of similar construction along (the likes of which all who witnessed might agree to be the carcass of a far less fortunate beast that had been painfully gutted hollow for said purpose) or the fact that the Battlemage kept close company with a Dark Elf who wielded a rather disturbing grace in battle by unconventional means of a wicked looking shovel. If the considerations that the Mage had some hidden knowledge of the grim arts unspoken were not all but confirmed and proven by those those examples alone, the final might suffice if only for the strangeness of the man.

He had somehow come upon (and perhaps even tamed) a werewolf who answered by the name of Lars, and even the Great Healer of the caravan Falazar- a man paid personally by Jarl Congrad himself to attend the expedition, was off-put by the man. "Abnormal to the farthest extremes." The healer had stated, when pressed beyond his fifth glass of Dwarven Firewater.

These simple facts, now known by all who happened to have the misfortune of being drafted beneath Church's banners of the Northern Crusade, were more than enough to convince any sane man to stay clear. So much as they were in the lands and territories of the Dark Lord himself, the unusual Hero was an element not too far beyond the dangers that might lurk over each hill of black sand and stone.

Be his reputation one of popularity or infamy, none of this was of the slightest concern to the man himself. In fact, it might be safe to say that it was quite the opposite.

The Great Hero of Redstone, slayer of Goblins, Tamer of Demons, and renowned Battlemage of the South-Western Territories (who much preferred to go by the name of Jake) was more concerned with the fact that he had been stabbed several times by a large Orcish warrior and his recovery was leaving much to be desired in the way of pain relief. He'd taken the last Advil and it had been months since he'd run out of Tylenol, but the physical pain only added the mental stress that he had nothing to do but lay as still as possible while one of his faithful companions did their best to keep the vehicle and attached attributes from rolling down whatever unfortunate embankments and divots that seemed to hazard the roadways.

A rather rough jostle managed to usher out a string of curses previously alien to the land, as Jake's hands gripped at his belly and leg. Moments like this were enough to regret the entire venture and consider what the consequences might have been if they had all just driven off before the Church rallied every able body and sent them over the Holy wall for the sake of progress.

Unlike most heroes of legendary feats, he had no such ambitions to repeat the ridiculous nature of the presumed title. Not getting killed held a much higher position on his list of To-do, and there were at least three-hundred random examples of other instances between that high-ranking consideration and the urge to perform Heroic deeds for fame and fortune.

Truly, Jake would much rather eat scones and drink beer than try and be a hero, as he logically reasoned that scones and beer had never directly killed anyone unless they foolishly forgot to chew and swallow. That was a sharp contrast to slaying monsters and fighting in Holy Crusades against an unspeakable evil and powerful Immortal Wizard that ruled the Western Continent.

People certainly died doing that, be they heroes or otherwise.

His groans and complaints lessened as whatever motion was taking place to drag him along ceased. Voices raised with the clanking of armor beyond the trailer walls, a fierce clattering and rattle in an abundance which he now recognized as men forming rank.

Slowly and carefully, cautious of his bandaged stomach in particular, Jake rose to a seated position, trying to peer beyond the thick planed and deeply tinted window beside the trailer.

The soldiers in sight were certainly standing ready in attention, but not in preparation for battle, instead their eyes seemed to be following a source outside his small field of view, heads slowly turning towards the center of the small army along the road between their many ranks. The longer he watched from the window, the more heads seemed to turn towards him.

That nagging sensation of dawning and uncomfortable realizations was bluntly interrupted by a rapping knock on the trailer door, and a familiar voice.

"I'm entering." The door clicked open without further warning as the Great Jarl Congrad entered, immacualte clothing and leather worked buckles pieces catching the dim glow even shadowed beneath a thick regal cloak. "Glad to see you're still breathing. That makes this easier."

Jake did not reply directly, eyes catching sight of several figures waiting behind the man still outside the trailer. Each one was roughly tied and bound by a rather peculiar looking silver-rope, and with their heads covered roughly by black hoods he didn't recognize anyone beyond the Elf looming behind their backs with a shovel at the ready. "What do you need, Jarl?"

"Why, I'm very glad you asked." The regal cloak caught the wind, lofting its deeply hued folds as Jarl turned to usher the figures inside. "See, I've found some people I'd like you to speak with."

The Jarl smiled as they stepped inside, eyes watching with a dangerous glint of experience as he let the door close before either the Elf or her shovel could gain entry.

"Before I kill them." He then added.