A Day in the Life of a Hero

A Day in the Life of a Hero
This is a dramatic prelude to an epic battle. The free men are lead by an inspirational hero, against a tyrant called the Raven, who is supposedly immortal. Can an army of mere mortals ever hope to defeat this fiend?
Ranjan AnantharamanBITS Pilani - Hyderabad CampusPublished on 13 Mar, 2013

The winter bore its heart upon the virgin fields of mist, and the moon radiated an eerie wave of thought that resonated strongly within the hearts of all free men. Though calm in disposition, each of these men bore a cold flame that shone through their eyes. They were here, assembled, their will pooled into one strong unbreakable force. All sung the hymn of the night.

For the hymn of the night was war.

Perched atop the Black Tower, the Raven eyed the fields with a steely eye. The cold did not trouble him, and he too bore a calm resolve, strengthened by the fact that no one would dare touch him. His might was beyond mortal realms of conception, and his shadow reigned over vast expanses of land.

The Raven did not crave for more power. He had all. But he did recognize that though power was a mere tool, it had incredible potential. If one had power, destinies could be carved out of thin air, rivers may be lead off course, mountains be flattened to shambles of rock and stone. More importantly, peoples could be lead if one had power. And to change the course of history, one must command the peoples. For history is but a manifestation of the strengths, conflicts, desires, passions, shortcomings and gatherings of the peoples.

But the peoples were primitive, shabby little slugs, wasting away in the depths of their own filth. They must be lead, and the world would rise to the very heights of civilization, to the pinnacle of magic, lore and knowledge. Or so the Raven’s vision held.

These men were mere ants in a battlefield, their courage weak and their vision narrow. Their fall must be swift.

The army was led by a man, a mortal, though most revered him as a God.

He was built taller than any other mere man. His bold, thick frame towered over any man who dared challenge him. His muscles were big and taut and sweat glistened off his torso. He wielded a massive broadsword and a large shield, made a substance unknown to most men. He was also an excellent marksman. However, he wore no armor, but only a large steel helm that covered most of his face, whose story was rooted in legend.

 Legend had it that he was not blessed with a tall, thick frame. Years of meditation, training and sheer grit as an apprentice under a warlord in the wild saw him grow as a man, both physically and mentally. Finally, to prove himself, he had to slay a beast that was tormenting this very forest for centuries. Memories of that legendary battle remained, in the form of a scar that cut across his face.

 A scar that the world should never have to see.

As they approached the Black Tower, the hero sensed that now was the time. After the men steadied themselves and held formation, the hero lifted his sword towards the Tower, threw his head back and let out a deafening roar. The first battalion of free men roared after him, their swords and pikes held high and their flags fluttering in the air. Their semi-naked bodies hummed with emotion as the first in line yelled a shrill “CHARGE!”. The cries of other men followed, and animated the midnight air. Cold steel glinted off the moonlight, as it craved for its first taste of fresh hot blood.

They started marching.

However, the hero stood still, and took out his bow. His head steady, he slowly drew an arrow from his quiver, with an ancient incantation on his lips. He was praying.   

Far away, the Raven’s ear twitched and he stood up, sensing an imminent force. Yes, these were primitive men, but there was something different. He felt the presence of a strange mystical force that rose as the cries of the men grew louder and closer. His grew wide with shock,  and he screeched, for what he was about to face was no mere battle.

It cannot be! They are primitive men!

The Raven’s power waned as he realized that they were aided by a force older and wiser than time itself.

The Spirit of Freedom walked with them.

Just then, an arrow whistled past his head and nestled itself into the tower’s woodwork. The Raven’s blood was rising and he lost all sense of control.

Down below, n the fields, the hero smiled. Another tower down.  





When I read "Raven", I got excited because Edgar Allen Poe. :P . Still, nice story. :)