Beatrice rubbed underneath her eyes, ashamed for the past few moments. Rodent didn't mind as he sat silently, allowing the woman to process things. He looked around the room, seeing it was no different from the living rooms back home.

There was a kitchen and a table.

People gathered with the same issues as those back home.

Sure, there was magic and spells, and food and drink were rawer here. But, at the same time, they were eaten with the same mouths and processed the same way.

Where's my whacky and goofy adventure?

Rodent almost felt bad for thinking such a thing, though, at the same time, he wouldn't trade what he had now for anything. His only wish was to be decent and helpful. Despite being weaker than the average person, he wanted to be useful here.

What can I even do anyway?

It's a gift that I have Stick.

But I don't even have a proper sword.

And I couldn't swing it properly, even if I had one.

Rodent became sucked into a vortex of doubts.

Old Man.

You sent me here for a reason.

But I can't see how I'll be useful.

"Look at me… getting mad because I decided to tell that story again." Across the table, Beatrice shook her head, looking earnestly at Rodent. "Forgive me. I have some unresolved issues with that tale."

Rodent offered a half-smile. "Looks like for good reasons."

"I'm just an old lady without her family because of it." The sentence was riddled with pain as it hurt listening ears. "And though I wish all of them were back... at least having one person... would mean I wasn't alone in how I feel."

"I can't be them," Rodent answered sincerely. "But I can still listen."

"You've already lightened my heart, dear." Beatrice smiled. "Shame you weren't here sooner. You would have loved my grandson. Issac. He was fond of stories as well. You two would have much to talk about."

Rodent smiled. "Did he also go to battle?"

"HA! He's the one that didn't go into battle!" Beatrice rose from her chair and climbed down its side, cleaning the mess on the floor. "Was too busy with his nose in a book and a quill instead of a sword in his hand. Didn't stop him from wanting to be a hero, though."

The old lady cackled fondly as she did away with the shards and then put away the wine case Rodent had handed her. "He was too idealistic about it." She turned. "My other sons and grandsons were more practical regarding swords. But Isaac? Well, he always pretended that he had pulled THE Sword. He would be the one to save the world—to rescue a Princess."

It made her laugh more as she walked. "It was cute. Very cute. Nobody dissuaded him. Didn't seem wise at the time." Returning to the kitchen, Beatrice stashed the wine vase in a lower cabinet, placing it where it would be harder to acquire. "Of course, as he became older and his body proved weaker than the rest, he smartened up to the notion of ever being a warrior."

Rodent wanted to ask more about this person whom he felt a resemblance toward… but thought that it was right to listen and to hear more of his story… allowing the grandmother to speak as she wished.

Returning to the table, she sat, pushing forward her plate.

"Would you like a little more to eat?" Beatrice asked. "You look as though you need it more than I do."

"Maybe," Rodent said, reaching over… and pushing the plate back toward her. "But you should eat first."

"I don't need it like you."

Rodent smirked. "Don't care."

They both chuckled, and the old woman pulled the plate, preparing herself a sandwich. "Most become depressed when they can't serve, that they can't be of use like those around them—that many will come to look upon them and call them lazy and weak. But Isaac didn't go through that. Not one bit."

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"The young lady had been stolen, kidnapped! Taken by bandits who plunder unprotected villages!" Isaac, a frail, tall male, stood in the open center of the village, a foot placed upon a crate, as he told his tail to the children—and the few adults—that had gathered before him. "A ransom had to be paid by the end of the day! The Guard wouldn't make it in time—couldn't care either."

Issac threw his hand and bellowed out a great laugh. "But who needs them! Who needs the Guard… when four brothers will do!" He kicked the crate and strode in front of the crowd, acting like he was on a horse, pulling an imaginary sword from his waist. "We made up a plan. A plot. Barrels lit aflame and rolled from accompanying hills. We were outnumbered—but not outmatched."

He pretended to gallop into place while making music and sounds with his mouth. His pretend sword rose. "From there, we swooped in, the fire of the barrels hiding our entry. We struck at the surprised and locked the doors of the bandits still asleep."

Isaac nodded. "From there, we divided and conquered until the bandits started fleeing, and the village was ours again." His head fell to the side. Now, to be fair… I actually didn't ride with my brothers… but I was the one who made the plan, crafted the barrels, and figured out which village the bandits were hiding out in."

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

He opened himself before the crowd. "And so long as the Fila Brothers are here—you'll never have to worry about this village being overtaken!"

The kids cheered, and the adults clapped.

Isaac went on to explain how he used clues and a map to figure out where the bandits were. He was the life of the village and told the tales that his brothers brought back home. Often, they would bring back scrolls, riddles, or problems that the youngest son was able to solve.

"Finel." Issac said as he returned to the house, gathered with his brothers, and sat at the dinner table. "You'll need a mage versed in Finame. They'll be hard to come by—the practice has been dead for nearly a century… if not more."

Thomas, the strongest, tallest of the lot, stood and lorded over the table without trying. "The Guard thinks—"

"Don't tell me what the Guard thinks," Isaac returned and looked up at his brother without a hint of fear. "Or else you wouldn't be here."

Thomas struggled with his current breath. "I still think you should enlist with the academy. You would be a highly regarded scholar."

"Why? So I can be tied down by politics? Scorn by my elders who think they know better? Fat chance!" Isaac chuckled as he looked back at the map and scrolled across the table. "Look. You were right to bring this to me—barely anyone knows how to translate Farlow. It's still considered a forbidden language."

"So what are you suggesting?"

"You know of the pond with the water that is always clean? Do the ritual there." Isaac tapped on the map. "Not much is known about those ponds—they've always seemed to exist. But it's foretold that something special is to come from them. That scroll you have relates to them." Isaac leaned back in his seat. "But you'll need finel. A talented mage you can trust. And an object that can be infused—that can ward off Deskar."

Thomas was silent for a moment. "Y'know… they're worried about Deskar reaching here."

"And it will." Issac nodded, arms crossed. "The fable is happening again."

Thomas's head shook. "It's just a story."

"Legends are passed for a reason."

"And you think that legend actually happened? That people puffed into shadows, and there was a Monster who held the actual world in its claw?" Thomas's head shook; it was too hard for him to accept. "And what of the Sword? You think it still exists—that it's still out there?"

"I don't know," Issac answered honestly as he looked down. "But I'm willing to entertain the probability."

Thomas stole a deep breath, for he did not wish to say something out of line… but looked elsewhere and allowed his mind to empty… speaking much more softly afterward. "The Sword. Don't you… think it would have called to someone by now?"

"It's said that it'll only call to one who is worthy."

"If things keep as they are… the world is ending." Thomas looked back at his youngest brother. "Shouldn't it have chosen someone by now? Would it really let the world end before picking the one it thought was worthy?"

"I don't know," Issac answered again. "But one thing is for sure."

"What is that?"

"I'll be the one to find it!"

The room had a laugh about that.

----------------------------------------

"Isaac couldn't be like the rest of them… and though I know that ate at his heart a little bit… that never stopped him from being able to help in the ways that he could." Beatrice smiled as she talked about the past, feeling weak in the face and vulnerable in the heat, actually coming to eat a little bit. "He didn't leave the village often—only when one of my other sons was staying. And… when they passed… he rarely left… unless it was to hunt or help."

Rodent smiled, nodding along, listening.

"Our world became dark rather quickly. Friends came with frowns instead of smiles. And our backyard was no longer a place to play in." Beatrice stopped from having another bite, the past replaced by the present, despair overcoming hope. "Gloom stole our village. My family, sworn to protect Dumo since its inception, were now… a-all gone."

Beatrice struggled with herself. Her head shook. "My sons were great people. The tales of their fall spread quickly to places they shouldn't have. Bandits dared to attempt what they shouldn't have. Like everyone else, I thought we were safe when the Fal'qu sent one of their own to protect and survey the land, but…" Her fist curled on the table as her body wiggled from the vile venom that coursed through her body and soul. "You saw the animal they sent."

Rodent also curled a fist, looking to the side, wanting to say or do something that would help… but knew in his own heart that he was weak as well.

He couldn't fight like a soldier, did not have a sword, and did not even know how to use one.

Sometimes, he was decent with words—but what was the point of that against pure brute strength.

This world needed a {Hero}.

But Rodent wasn't one.

Why… am I here? Rodent asked himself again, wanting a reason beyond his selfish desire to find a good time in another world. It felt more and more like another was supposed to be here, and he was sent in that person's place by mistake. Did I rob this world of someone better? Am I going to play a part in its doom?

"The village did not take kindly to Steinith… enough that… they all banded together…"

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On a day like any other, where the winds were cool, and the skies were grey, most villagers gathered in the middle of the village. They had swords and sticks, pitchforks and clubs, and ordinary items fashioned for violence. Steinith, being the giant he was, stood above them all in size and height, dressed in silver knight armour and gazing down at the puny people before him.

“Ahahaha… that’s funny… too funny…” Even Steinith's open smile was massive, as though a whole turkey could fit inside of it. His face was blessed by a sinister mirth. "All of you think you stand a chance? Because of your numbers, I will suddenly forfeit my position here?"

His neck cracked twice, and the sound was like branches snapping from a thick tree. "Let me break this down for you, shrimps. You. All of you. You all cowered in the protection of your betters. You all allowed yourselves to become weak. Never have you defended yourselves. Never have you prepared, planned, practiced, or kept yourselves strong. So I stand in the place of the family sworn to stand in the light for you—and I do not work free."

He held a mighty, simple axe, which felt like it could clove through a building if the strike were smooth and true. To his credit, the giant did stake its pole into the ground, stepping forward and cracking his knuckles. "Because of that family, you did not know how well you had it. My price is fair. As will be my warning: return to as you were."

The people, though scared, with some stepping away, mostly held as the brute advanced. His open smirk and throaty laugh were enough to freeze all of their hearts. Even Issac, who stood in the middle of the pack, felt himself shiver. At the front, one man charged, yelling as he ran forward with a pitchfork.

Steinith chuckled, waiting for the attacker to approach, unmoving until the man was a few steps away. And then, in a blink, his massive foot raised and dropped, crushing the middle of the thrust pitchfork, snapping the wood and breaking the grip of the hands attached.

Next, his knee dropped forward, right onto the attacker's chest, leaving him utterly pinned. The man struggled for a second—before Steinith's eyes widened, staring into the man's soul. "One move—and I crush your ribcage."

The rest of the villagers halted in place.