A Hero's Tale

*Intro*

Dear reader, I hope you won't think me too forward for be upfront about the story I'm about to tell you. Perhaps you'll let it slide, for my future transgressions are far worse than this small slight. Do not worry too much about me, I am of no importance, I am but the storyteller that all tales must have.

This is not a story about redemption. Not in the slightest. This is no fairytale about how justice is served or how good people really are. Instead it's about lonely hero who's name is barely remembered by the country she served. Many, historians included, claim that she does not deserve the title of hero, anymore at least. Such a ruthless being should not be looked up to or be called a hero. I agree. They are correct that the title of hero, suits her no longer. But nor should she be seen as a heretic or traitor- those titles are reserved for other scum fungus. However she shouldn't though of as a savior, or be called by her all popular title "truth seeker", appointed to her by the public.

She was a just hero. Maybe not the best, certainly not the worst that her country had. But she was the last of her kind. Which was both a curse and a blessing, for both her and her country. She was just a woman trying to fulfill her duty, then live out the rest of her life peacefully. However, that would never happen. Especially for her.

Centuries ago, local deity was getting bored, and frankly tired of a certain country's stupid tradition. A lovely question started to form in his mind.

"What if...?" He wondered aloud.

And so the bored god decided to answer his own question. However he couldn't meddle too much in the affairs of mortals, except for one in particular. So he waited, for a hero that would be able to take on this monstrous task. He bide his time patiently, and when it came he was happy in a sense. Although he was a deity, and thought neutral of the mortals he oversaw, he was disgruntled with how these ones were acting. He was positive it was one of his siblings who had planted the seeds of the boorish tradition they now followed, but he couldn't be bothered to look for them now. Centuries had passed, and many of his siblings had moved on from this world.

However as he looked down upon the word, he felt a small bit of regret. Regret for what he was about to put this hero through. But he quickly flicked away the feeling, growing increasingly interested in what was about to happen. For nothing is truly more entertaining, especially for a god, to create something new.

Death and destruction are never warranted, but in this hero's case it certainly was. And she was not to blame for any of it. For hell has no fury like a woman backstabbed.