Myth Makers
Beneath his cloak was a body weary and secluded. A chest bearing marks of old skirmishes in distinct pattern and a musculature that had been forged within heavy steel armor and ornamental weaponry of every caliber heaved on his back, in his hands. He walked without it. In his mind virtually naked, bereft of the second skin he could scarcely remember the last time he went without. How long had it been? Years, had to be. Maybe since he was a boy; the last time he remembered being a child, before he was abducted by heavenly forces and transfigured into the paragon of bravery he was now. But today he was not that man, no. Today he was no one. It was raining. There were people lining the streets. Some standing, some sitting on downed wheelbarrows. Some with drink, some munching inside their beards on soggy soda bread. This is what people do? He could feel their lethargy, their oppression. Even the clouds turned downtrodden away from them. There was a light up ahead and an open door and a fl...