Hey, fantasy genre with this one. I wanted to explore the basic summoned hero story a little. While the chapter itself may not hold much in terms of an adventure, I wanted to try and leave parts open to interpretation.

Enjoy.

PG13: coarse language and mild violence.

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In its darkest hour, Eternum summoned a hero.

A man of prophecy.

A man to stand against the darkness.

A man to be a flame within the night.

At first, he was weak, and so to remedy that, the kingdoms of light sent their best warriors, mages, and teachers to train him in their arts.

Knowledge of war, politics, biology, healing, and, yes, magic.

From the southern lands he ventured forth towards the frigid north in order to banish the darkness. Along his path he made allies, friends, and foe alike.

Five years later, the hero finally reached the heart of darkness within the northern lands. On the final stretch, the hero's party was to be ill fated.

One by one his companions succumbed to the darkness. One to greed. Another to doubt. It permeated the very fiber of their being and corrupted their souls. Lost in their madness, the corrupted lashed out only to be stricken down by the hero with a heavy heart. In an attempt to protect his remaining companions, he sent them back as he alone forged on into the all consuming darkness.

Only the holy priestess made it back to the southern kingdoms bearing this tale.

To this day, no one knows of the hero's fate. Some say he sealed the darkness within the deepest caverns beneath Eternum. Others claim he sacrificed his own body to seal it within himself. Some even suspect the hero was tainted and caries the darkness within as he travels the land, alone and forsaken. Nobody knows the truth, but it is know that the darkness no longer threatens the land in chaos and death.

All that can be certain is that the darkness will awake and attempt to rise again for you cannot have a light without casting a shadow. Be it decades, centuries, or millennia, it will come again.

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/The Ramshackle Tavern, outskirts of a small Isadonian village, northern outskirts/

/3 years after the hero's disappearance/

The tavern is filled with the smoke of torches and pipes. Raucous laughter fills the air as wenches serve patrons food and drink among the various wooden tables. Adventurers, drunkards, the less than savory lot, they all come here to eat and drink their fill after a day at work.

A bedraggled man approaches the bar, garbed in a tattered traveling cloak and hood worn to cover his face in shadow. Gruff, beaten, dirty, he is less presentable than even the poorest of the Ramshackle Tavern's patrons. Despite that, he exudes an air of danger and mystery about him and the glint of metal can be seen at his waist as he rearranges his cloak to sit down.

Signaling the barkeep, he orders a mug of ale in a hoarse voice along with a serving of their daily meat and a bread roll. As the keep goes about to fulfill the order, the man proceeds to take out a necklace previously hidden within the folds of his cloak. It is made of a dull metal, oval in shape, flat, and inscribed with small words. Embedded within its center is a clouded ruby and despite its small size, it feels as if it holds unimaginable depths as you gaze within. The man begins to rub it, as if it were a nervous habit as his eyes begin to glaze over in memory, or perhaps a trance. One of days long past. One of irreplaceable loss. One of unending sorrows.

Moments later, the barkeep returns with the food and drink, bringing him out of his reverie. Tucking the medallion back into the folds of his cloak, he digs into the food with the vigor of a starving man, or more appropriately, a beast, as he forgoes the usual utensils of fork and knife and opts to eat with his bare hands.

Just another day in this northern backwater town. Too bad the peace is soon to be broken.

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/Barkeep POV/

Huh, what a shady fellow. Meh, not that he's that different from my regular customers.

After serving that shady fellow at the bar, I fall into my now almost routine session of self doubt and questioning.

'Why did I stay? What am I doing here? What is my goal in life now?'

*sigh* Why did I ever decide to stay in this dump. 10 years ago I came to this town with my wife, nothing more than a startup settlement at the time. Before that, we were young, stupid, and in love. We were out to find adventure in life, live it to the fullest, and enjoy each other's company. Eventually we settled down and decided to create the Ramshackle Tavern. I think part of us still wanted to adventure so if we no longer went out ourselves, why not help others in theirs?

Life was harsh, but I could bear with it for my wife and providing travelers and good folk with a bit to eat and a cup to drink brought me joy. Two years later, my wife bore me a beautiful daughter. Everything was perfect for a time, until disaster struck.

As the prophecy foretold, the darkness rose from the north, spewing forth the beasts of nightmares. It started small with one or two corrupted wolves, perhaps a giant spider or demented bat. Nothing a couple of adventurers or guards couldn’t handle. Like clockwork, a handful of monsters would appear, get slaughtered, and we would continue on with our lives, that is, until the raids started. Intelligent beasts and monsters began to lead small groups. Dire wolves, harpies, sometimes even a vampire. They'd come in scores and attack everything. Kill a few people, take a few losses, then they'd run.

First I lost my daughter in one of the initial raids. She was at the tender age of three. *sniff* I still remember her first words. Soon after, I lost my wife to the monsters too. Lost in grief, I took up arms from my adventuring days with renewed vigor and crazed blood lust. Little more than a dull, rusted claymore, basic leather bracers, a leather chest plate, and small buckler, it wasn't much, but it would suffice as a tool to slaughter my foes. When they would attack, I'd lose myself in the carnage of battle. I was fighting desperately to live, but hoping to die in my heart in the hopes of embracing my loved ones again.

On the verge of breaking, both physically and mentally during what was to be the last of the raids, the hero appeared with a resounding roar. In my eyes, light shone down from the heavens upon his shoulders. His silver armor gleaming in the sun and through the blood as his sword glowed with the soft touch of divine magic and cleaved through the hoards of darkness upon us. He gave me reason to live once more.

After the battle, the hero stayed to help us clean up and rebuild before setting off to continue his quest with his companions. The most striking memory I have is when he saved a child from the claws of a stray Murder Crow. Thrice the size of a full grown man, it wasn't the act itself that held importance, but his blade. An unornamented double edged dagger sheathed horizontally along his back, hardly worth noticing, was whipped out and thrown deep into the head of the Murder Crow. He then easily caught the falling child, no worse for wear than a few scratches which their priestess quickly healed.

When the hero removed the blade from the monstrous bird, it was if the blade was made of the deepest shadows, the purest black, and seemed to drink the monster's blood. Sending shivers down my spine, I turned away and inquired no more. Darkness such as that is never meant to see the light of day and is better off forgotten, lost to the depths of time. For the hero to carry such a curse blade, it was surely an ill omen.

*SLAM* The sound of my tavern door hitting the wall breaks me out of my trip down memory lane.

"Oi! Barkeep, gimme a bottle of somethin' strong!" A man in leather armor swaggers arrogantly towards the bar. Hi weapon is openly displayed on his back, a large bastard sword. I can't help but think that he's overcompensating for something. I'll refer to him as 'Bastard'.

Not far behind is his gang. Similarly dressed, they clearly want trouble. One is equally fat as he is tall and carries a studded mace at his side. Another is tall and skinny, but also wiry and wields a crossbow. Lastly comes a tattooed fellow, covered in scars and ink, he also has the mark of an exile upon his face; at his left hip, a jagged and abused scimitar, but nonetheless, sharp as a razor.

Perhaps a quick explanation is in order. After the disappearance of the hero and the retreat of the darkness, Eternum enjoyed a brief peace. That peace continues to this day, but only on the surface. Beneath that nice dream, crime began to pervade through the outskirts. It spread to the cities subtly and I doubt that the nobles aren't involved in some way. Where there's money to be bade, nobles are sure to flock. Along the edges of the kingdoms and along the roads, the number of bandit attacks only increases as time passes.

Back to the situation in my tavern, Bastard slams his hands down loudly on the counter and demands a drink again, clearly showing his weapon and insisting that he wants no trouble. To that I reply, "I'm terribly sorry sir, but I only serve gentlemen in this establishment." gesturing towards my other patrons with a wave of my arm. This earns me a couple of muted snickers around the room.

I may be getting old, but I'm not afraid of a little scuffle. There's a weighted throwing dagger in each boot coated in paralyzing toxins, my trusty claymore is mounted on the wall above my bar, hefty glass bottles can serve as clubs, or a shiv if they break, and even my serving trays can act as an impromptu shield. As a last resort, I 'm confident that I can drag at least half my customers into an old fashioned bar fight. Contrary to my looks, the passage of time has allowed me to hone both my blade and my skills in combat.

Getting worked up from the previous insult, Bastard draws his blade and continues to threaten me.

"You bastard! Insulting us. These sons of whores look like they've barely left their mother's teat! They're nothing compared to men like us." At that, my more bloodthirsty and temper prone patrons reach for their own weapons, only to immediately stop when they notice my cold glare. Yeah, that's right, they know who's boss. They've seen me deal with the riffraff before, even if they don't know me from before the darkness rose.

To bastard and co. before me, I simply raise an eyebrow and egg them on. Honestly, I'm just bored and wish to release some pent up stress on the bastards. Surprisingly, the cloaked man that I served moments before intervenes on my behalf.

"Hey, if you really want to fight, I'll oblige you outside. Hell, you can even come at me all at once. Four on one. What do you say?" Setting down 15 copper as payment for the meal, he gets up and walks towards the door without waiting for a reply. For simplicity's sake, I'll just call him Cloak for now.

Now fuming at the insult and humiliation, the four bastards follow Cloak outside. Meanwhile, several of my patrons begin making bets on the outcome and they crowd around the windows and outside the door to watch the match. I make my way towards the front of the crowd for a better view.

Cloak stands in the dirt street, 20 paces away from Bastard and co. as they line up and face him. Bastard, having already drawn his sword in my bar, merely readies it to swing at his side. Tubby grips his club in front of him with his right hand. Skinny draws his crossbow and loads a barbed arrow. Lastly, Tattoo draws his scimitar and licks his blade. Opposite them, Cloak gets into a runners stance before shouting for my attention.

"Hey, barkeep, be the ref. and call the start, would ya?"

Seeing no harm in it, I agree. If nothing else, he'll soften them up for when I beat them up later.

I raise my right arm an shout, "READY? START!" as I swiftly bring it back down.

Losing no time, Skinny aims and fires as Cloak catapults forward. Barely dodging to the right, he snags the arrow and hurls it back at Skinny's hand, pinning him to his crossbow. Bastard charges, followed by Tubby, and aims for the neck. Cloak ducks by a hairsbreadth and draws a dagger. A dagger whose blade is as black as an abyss and seems to suck away the light. A quick stab to Bastard's hand causes him to drop his sword and before it reaches the ground, it's swept up and used to block the club aimed at Cloak's midriff. A slash to the tendons in Tubby's wrists and a swift kick to the back of the knee causes Tubby to fall on top of now inaptly named Bastard. The only one left is the tattooed exile and he slowly drops his weapon in submission.

After Cloak drew his dagger, my mind blanked, barely registering the rest of the fight. With the thud of the scimitar hitting the ground, I can only sputter and point an unsteady finger at Cloak.

"W-wa-what! Y- you-! You're-"

Slowly, he raises a finger to his lips in a calm shushing motion, immediately silencing me as he returns his dagger to its sheath beneath his cloak. With that, I slow my breathing and eventually calm down.

As he turns to leave, I call out to him.

"Wait! If you come through these parts again, stop on by for a meal. On me. Think of it as… thanks. For everything."

Beneath his hood he reveals the bares hint of a smile and walks away, journeying to wherever the fates may guide him.

With that, I close up shop for the rest of the day, leaving the three injured bastards to their pain. Tattoo left not long after Cloak to go about his own business.

Scurrying about the back rooms of my tavern, I send my waitresses on errands or back home for the day. I need to make preparations and notify my various contacts from my adventuring days that things are moving again. There's a certain priestess to the southeast that would be particularly delighted to hear the news.

The hero has returned!