My Boys…

My little boys have been slain…

Not by atrocious accident or of age as all father's hope...but by this God awful realm and its God awful instruments of death…

Turning a massive face with lines of age and grief, he rested his anguish upon us.

My spine crawled and my skin shivered.

The dialogue had changed.

From any previous attempts recalled by the party members and logs acquired from black markets, this opening encounter had never appeared.

All these words were new and untested.

When our realms constants are changed, always an omen of death follows.

When ill prepared, men die.

When prepared, men die.

When will my men live?

Upon entry we were supposed to be met with a father waiting across from a monstrous dinner table, a giant's feast laid out for his loving sons.

With legs of creatures the size of tables over plates comparable to wagon wheels, everything spoke of a welcoming.

The startled father would ask for his son's whereabouts, and just who were we?

A few options could be chosen here.

But, as expected of our realm, we've learned that any option is fundamentally stripped of purpose, for it all leads to the same outcome: a boss fight.

In a world where four options will inevitably take you down the same path, is it even a choice?

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Looming over his throne of skulls and swords, with a look to match, he felt strange.

His presence was not one of a waiting father.

His aura fierce, piercing our resistances, applying a debuff to the entire party.

One that crippled and burdened.

[A Father's Fury]

You dare come face me, now?

Everything has been stripped on me…

What am I to do now?...

With a wicked grin, the behemoth of a man sat up from upon his throne of war.

Letting his cloak fall from his shoulders.

The cloak like a castle flag fell to the ground, revealing armor ravaged by time and wars gone by, gauntlets with engraved runes of power broke the very air around them.

Every item he bore was a set piece that could be dropped.

Items that when collected and donned granted the user unspeakable, unquestionable power.

But- like all great power- it came with a cost.

This cost being the sheer impossibility of the items appearing.

In our realm, only one man held a max level set.

Overgeared and overpowered as a result.

Mercy, that lucky bastard would get his one day…I thought as the thought of that man brought out a visceral rage, which helped battle the fear that berated me like arrows.

It was only now, straightened up, back straight and firm, that we realized what it was we were up against.

A monster.

I know…he bellowed with a force that caused glasses of ruby wine to shatter, bathing the one delicious feat in red.

An omen of what was to come.

Covering our ears we cowered.

Dropping to our knees.

Weak infront of power.

Small compared to massive.

Ants against a man.

Unsheathing a Greatsword that rivals the peaks of mountain tops, which shimmered in way that only great steel folded onto itself infinitesimally could carve into reality, he spoke:

To the instruments of the realm…

I will use your deaths as my slight against this damned realm.

Where once peace reigned,

Now death rains.

I will add to its showers.!!!

Without another word he charged.

Without another thought, without another option, I removed my eye patch and charged towards a monster with everything popped and burning.

There was no try.

There was do.

Or there was die.