Malborn: A Fictional Narrative

Death is not at all what I thought it would be. I had personally anticipated living to a ripe old age and passing away silently in the night, not bleeding out on some jagged outcrop half a world away from home. But then again, I hadn’t expected any of this to happen. No, when I was back at my cottage, sitting around the hearth, all I fretted over was the lack of decent books on the shelf or the incompetence of my neighbors. Perhaps it was these minuscule inconveniences that made me leap at opportunity when it knocked, throwing caution to the wind when the adventurer, Barran of Malborn, sought me out in the market, yelling “Orvyn Hartman” so loud it must have been heard three townships over. So, not willing to cause yet another scene, we moved our meeting to the inn as not to further
Still, he slashed with the fury of a god, bringing his sword down to block mine. Amidst the clinking of our blades and my failing hope, a war horn of Malborn echoed across the land. “Barran is here! I am safe!” I thought as relief washed over me. Yet as I had turned to catch a glimpse of expedition charging into battle, the jagged blade of the General forced its way through my back and out my chest, dripping crimson onto the earth. I slumped to the ground in defeat.

I am now on my deathbed, in the middle of some forsaken skirmish, I can see the light fade from the sky and feel a pull to the other side, the voices of the past calling me home. There is another voice too, so familiar and close, that of Barran begging for forgiveness and apologizing for being so blind. I cannot answer him, my mouth will not move, my eyes are growing so heavy, and the voices are calling me to rest. I wish...I need for Barran to know he is forgiven, but perhaps my eyes tell him, for when I look at him, he falls silent. Farewell Barran, may the sun shine on your