They wanted to be a Great Hero, wearing gleaming armor and recognized through the land.
They became a Great Hero, without fanfare or armor, the night they were willing to dislodge boulders which cascaded and jammed tight as the strongest brickwork ever known into the ravine, stopping a massive flood from destroying the city. Even though it cost them their primary hand. -- Anon Guest
Heroism only looks like a gleaming costume, a white charger, or a blazing sword. That's how heroes end up. How they begin is an entirely different matter. Familiar, in many ways. Different, every time.
An orphan who gains a powerful mentor who knows more than they should. A downtrodden person with a special gift. The neglected child with the Faerie Goodmother. The outcast lord destined to save the realm from darkness. The true heir to the throne and crown, heralding an era of peace and light.
It doesn't always happen that way, but it happens like that a lot.
It did not happen that way for Derril, who spent most of his childhood reading or listening to hero tales. He wanted to be a hero, but the city of Ravinmor was notably lacking in Adventuring potential. Or arms and armour decent enough for heroics. There'd never been a need for it.
Until Derril went looking. Up the cliffs and near the top of the ravine that gave the city its name. Just to look for something to be heroic about. Instead of finding a horde of Gobelliin or Harukh to have a pitched battle with... he saw a disaster about to happen.
A dam, once built by Dire Beavers, had fallen into neglect and disrepair, way on the other side of the ravine. One good storm and the whole lot would come down, and there was nowhere for the water to go but... straight through Ravinmor. Thousands would die. Thousands more would be injured. Very few would make it to the next dawn.
And a big storm was brewing.
There was no time to raise the alarm, and a debatable likelihood that anyone would listen to him if he tried. There was definitely not enough time to evacuate. He had to do everything he could to stop the disaster before it could happen.
At the narrowest point if the ravine, Derril worked as fast as he could. His sword set aside in favour of a series of branches and trunks that could work as levers. Jamming rocks or wood into cracks to work as wedges. Hopping back and forth across a fallen trunk in lieu of a bridge to work on other cracks as the rain began to fall softly.
Derril got increasingly desperate. Increasingly careless. It didn't matter if he lost his life, if only he could save Ravinmor. One life spent so thousands could live. It seemed a fair trade.
That, also, did not happen.
The rock cracked. The sides of the ravine fell, and so did Derril. Rocks, trees, branches, and Derril fell into the narrowest point in the ravine, just as the old Dire Beaver dam broke.
The water saved his life. Barely. The landslide he engineered saved Ravinmor.
They found him in the first hours of dawn. Unconscious. Injured. Close to death.
He had saved Ravinmor, so Ravinmor saved him.
Well. Most of him.
He'd expected to pay his life for the sake of the city. It only cost him his dominant hand.
A fair trade, all things considered.
[Photo by Kier in Sight Archives on Unsplash]
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