The moment he reaches the burning side of the village, it’s clear that the place has been well-evacuated. There’s not a cry to be heard, but he knows there’s someone still there. Braving the risk of the still-oncoming arrows, piercing out from the dense clouds like infernal nails, he ducks behind the smithy and into the door to his home. Thankfully the fires have not yet overtaken the abode, and his father is still in the spot where he fell, pressing a rag around the wound to help staunch the flow of blood.
“Hero!” He cries, “About fucking time!”
The lad rushes to his side and he unfolds the scroll. It’s of a weird, arcane script in a language that he cannot read, yet can understand perfectly. As if the words themselves reach out to his mind to influence him, Hero takes a deep breath to begin the spell.
“Ten out of ten, would bang!” Hero says, unsure what the words mean in that old language, but certain they are of a deep, sacred meaning, probably an excerpt from a holy text. At once, the blue bar upon Hero’s H.U.D. drains a little past halfway — so that’s what that thing is, a magic gauge!
You learned: Lesser Healing!
A soft glow emits from the scroll and attaches to Hero’s hands. He wastes no time in applying his hands to his father’s wound as he slowly, gently retrieves the arrow from his chest.
“Tha-… Thanks, lad,” The blacksmith says, wincing as the arrow head is fished out successfully.
“You can’t leave yet, father, you still have to teach me how to talk to girls,” Hero says plainly.
The two share a frank laugh, both quite aware of the great din of the approaching horde.
“I’m going to hide out here, Hero. But your chances are better if you just run.”
Hero’s gaze is perplexed, edging into horror. “What are you saying?”
The dwarf smirks. “I’m saying those fuckers would catch me. I’m not good to walk, so You’re going to have to… you know, run.”
Hero’s not sure about much in his life, why he has a H.U.D., or how the healing spell’s incantation suddenly registered to his until-now empty spell list, but one thing is for sure. This man is his father, and he would do anything for him.
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“Also,” his father says with an awkward gaze aside, “It’s time you knew, I’m not your real dad.”
Hero draws back in enormous shock. Impossible! How could this be?!
“No… no you are my father!”
The dwarf scoffs. “I’m a dwarf you daft idiot! If you were my son you’d be a total manlet!”
Hero’s seen them before, those unholy midget-man abominations between four foot ten inches and five feet ten inches.
Thankfully at a strong 6’3, Hero’s never had to deal with their sort, but this doesn’t make him feel any better.
“No, that doesn’t matter,” Hero says.
The blacksmith laughs morbidly as the screech of an undead soldier can be heard as it rushes down the near side of the village. “It’s not important, just get out of here.”
There’s a pause, and Hero stays arched over the dwarf with a serious gaze.
“Go, you stupid asshole! You’re going to die!”
“I don’t care if I die. Right now you’re the only thing that’s real to me, and I’m not leaving you,” Hero says, just before taking to his feet and turning to look through the broken window.
They’re here.
Hero’s “Father” sits quietly in his pathetic heap for a moment as he looks over the young lad he took in all those years ago, and after a moment, comes to an understanding nod.
“Give ‘em hell. Show those maggoty fuckers just what my son’s made of!”
Hero looks to his father admiration and bravery, perfect traits for a true hero, before he turns for the door.
“I’ll be back soon,” he says, taking up the dwarven short sword and buckler in preparation.
The smith nods. “Good luck.”
At that, Hero charges out the door just as a tiny swirly symbol rotates on the bottom right section of his H.U.D., accompanied by the word: “saving”.
Just in time for their arrival, he comes face to face with his enemies.
Amidst the fog of war and fire, they step forward in lazy, shambling ranks. Disgusting monstrosities of human and animal flesh, metal, and plant fiber — anything to hold them together.
Hero brandishes his blade at the massive silhouette of the enemy force, and just as quickly takes a stroking bolt from one of the enemy’s crossbows. An immense “284” pops over his head, and he reels upon the grass, his blood gushing from his carotid artery and producing a steady “14” damage per second thanks to [bleed]. Hero convulses as the wound runs blood from his artery into his airway, dually causing the [choking] and [silence] effects. Breath after breath simply ushers more blood into his lungs as his body at once gasps for air and dooms itself by filling his bronchioles with his sanguine viscera.
His HP threshold runs down in but seconds, and once it crosses that “0” line, he falls limp, and feels eternity reach out to him as his vision blurs out into a messy, grey-white blindness. Only his H.U.D. is still visible, updating his console chat tab with a single, damning message:
You died.