Alright. You guys sitting alright? You've enough drink, yes? Good. I am about to tell you why I left an easy life to become an adventurer. And I don't want you leaving over uncomfortable seats or thirst. Kills the immersion, you know? Alright. So.
We'll start from the de facto beginning of my life. Roughly twelve years ago, I was riding on a ship, going… Somewhere. I have no memory of where, why, and with whom, but it was high autumn. There's not much to tell of the journey, for as I said, I have no memory of it - undoubtedly the trip must've been dull to the point of desperation. Anyway, the ship got caught in the storm. I don't remember much, but I know the ship was thrown onto a cliff, or reef, or similar hull-smashing formation. The ship went down, but I was not afraid. Timing my jump, I dove into the water like a dolphin, narrowly missing the rocks, their teeth leaving a scratch on my good arm as I fought the waves, the current, and the pull from the sinking ships. Land was only a few scant metres away, but it was sheer cliffside, so I couldn't get to shore. I must've fought the currents, just avoiding getting smashed, for hours, as the raging storm hammered the sliffside as if the ocean itself was trying to reclaim a lost kingdom. More than once, waves smashed me into the cliffside, but I always managed to brace. Anyway, when the ship was finally down and the currents became more predictable, I dared to make my way to shore.
The swim was long and gruelling. Twice I was attacked by sharks, and once I had to scream at the top of my lungs to avoid being taken in and enchanted by the song of sirens. Out of breath, out of strength, I kept paddling the towering waves, desperate for a landing. The gods must've heard my prayer, for in that moment, a piece of floatsam appeared before me. I struggled onto it, my arms desperately clinging to what used to be the crossbeam of a mast, slippery with saltwater and sloppy carpentry. I felt my strength waning, and was certain I was going to die. Then, an enormous wave, tall as a tower and wide as the horizon, smashed into me and my wooden lifeline, burying us both under the crushing blackness of the unforgiving sea. I remember my world going black, and thinking 'it mustn't end like this'.
It didn't though. The gods had something else in mind. I woke up, five days later, in a bed in a smelly cottage. I had been clad, dried, and fed, nursed back to health in a village somewhere indistinct. The healers said it was a miracle I was alive, and that it took less than a week to heal. My memory had fled me, however. I knew not who I was, where I was from, or what I was doing. I was weak and desperate. And the men who saved me insisted I paid back my life-debt by working for them. I didn't have a choice. Can you imagine what it was like, trudging in the muck of critters, shovelling their food and droppings, and eating their leftovers for dinner to avoid starvation? I lived thusly for eleven years, my spirit dying a little more with each grip of the shovel, each sloppy meal, each chilly night. But in the adversity I grew strong. My muscles turned to chisled marble, my lungs gained the capacity of a whale, my legs as stong as those of a horse. Then, at the height of my life, I got a calling.
I was lying in my bed one night, bored out of my wits. I was laying on my bed of straw and planks, shivering in the cold as a patchy wolf's pelt covered half my body. I felt so ashamed at what I was. I swallowed my pride and fell asleep. But the moment my eyes closed, I got a prophecy.
In the dream, I was standing in a darkened cave. There was a strange light, eminating from my head, faintly illuminating the few feet directly around me. In my hand was a sword, long as my arm and gleaming with flaming gold. On my other arm was strapped a shield of seven metals, perfectly round, with carved oaken base, engraved with foreign symbols and strange imagery. I was clad in light armour - leather cuirass, boots, and gloves, but with breastplate, greaves, and cuffs of brilliant bronze, beset with onyx and pearls. On the walls of the cave were faint, faded reliefs depicting heroes slaying monsters, battling armies and falling before the gods. Moss hung from the ceiling, dripping with ichor. I always tread slowly forward in the dream, admiring the work on the walls, the legacies of heroes gone and forgotten. Then, every time, I take a wring step and fall into a pit. By now, the glow from my head is bright enough to illuminate an enormous arena, where I face a hydra, a fury, a tyrant, a giant, and a pair of twin sorcerers. As they close in for the kill, I hear the chanting and harp-play of angels and the beating drums and gruff warhorns of demons, and in my heart, I know it is my destiny to overcome all terrible and great things thrown in my way. I let out a warcry to shatter the hall in which I find myself, I raise my sword, and I charge, while a familiar, but inplacable voice whispers in my ear: "You are destined for greatness".
That is when I wake upo, every time, without fail. After the third night of these dreams, I snuck into the village armoury, stole a sword, a shield, and a spear, and took to the road in search of my destiny. And I am still here, so the gods still have more in store for me!
