His stout dwarven father slams open the door to his bedroom, rousing an ancient legend from his sleep with a sharp jolt.

“Son! They’ve finally come, those *******” The grizzled man shout with unnecessary volume into the room, as dwarves are so partial to do. “Up from your bed, Hero, my son, and come with me quickly!”

The young blond, blue-eyed lad of a bout eighteen rears his head near his small bedside window. It sounds like screaming from outside, and the steady hues of fire engulfing the weak and the foolish. Suddenly, an arrow smashes through the window and darts right into the dwarf’s ale-filled chest.

“Argh! **** me in the ***!” His father cries as a crippling “159” digit marks above his head. The dwarf blacksmith stumbles with a crash as he paints the side wall with his crimson blood.

Hero jolts from bed to his father’s side. Even though he cannot speak, and has no memory of his past, and has been touched by a horrible curse, or something, Hero knows that his father was always there for him, and even let him read his dirty elf magazines. He gently runs his fingers along his struggling father’s wound, close enough to the heart to cause serious bleeding.

“Don’t worry, my son. Those ******* I know you can’t speak, but if you had the option to, I know you would tell me that you love me and that you’ll always remember me, and that you’ll name your son after me, and that you’ll make a statue of me, and that you’ll commission some nice lookin’ hammers in my honor, and-”

As Hero’s father goes on and on about how much he’s certain Hero loves him, something strikes the young lad as strange. His father mentioned that “if he had the option to” he would speak about how great his dad is. In a joint mix of desperation and inspiration, Hero mentally selects the “options” tab on his mystical H.U.D.: his curse. He looks over to the “chat” sub section in the menu that pops up cheerily, and realizes that, for all these years, he’s had parental control’s family chat turned on. He aptly clicks it, and at once he’s released from the perils of being the silent self-insert character.

“Are you listening to a fuckin’ word I’m saying, boy?”

Hero jolts in awe. He’s never heard that word before.

“Uh… Yeah,” Hero says in a mild, though deep, voice.

The dwarf jolts the same as Hero. They’re both in awe.

“You can… you can talk, boy!”

“Yeah,” Hero raises his eyebrows awkwardly. “I guess I can.”

“What the fuck!? How by Arskull’s black beard does that happen?”

Hero shrugs. “There’s a thing that says ‘options’, I don’t really know what it means, but somehow I… I selected it and-”

“Okay that’s all fine and well, lad, but now you can cast the healing spell!”

Hero perks up. “The one in the elder’s tent?”

The dwarf shoots a playful, if a bit weak, fist into Hero’s shoulder. “That’s the one!”

Hero draws up.

“Take my sword and shield with you, those undead dirt-fuckers are gonna have a bad day when they cross swords with you, my only son and a natural swordsman!”

Hero steps into the hall and gathers up his father’s equipment from the mantelpiece.

The prompts skew his vision. He remembers now why he barely ever picks anything up:

You looted: Shortsword, Level 4! You looted: Buckler, Level 2!

Hero equips the gear immediately and looks to his father a final time.

“Alright, I’ll be back soon. I just wanted to say that I love you, father, and that you’ve always bee-”

“I’m bleeding, son, by Arskull’s fucking balls. This hurts!” His father interrupts, and rightfully so. Dramatic monologues are only appropriate for when one has time for them.

Hero jolts. “R-right, on my way!” He says as he dashes through the door, and into the flaming village.