The not-immortal Blacksmith

Re-Dux 01 The not-immortal Blacksmith - Prologue - A human

I write this journal to document my travels and my life, to be relinquished to my descendants upon my death; I pray to the god of the grave and all his servants, that my death will come soon.

My name is Maxwell. I’m a human. I am 24 years old… Well that’s not entirely correct, I look 24 years old, and will continue to look like that until I die. I was born, the 55th of Kielat, 1657.

Now many know of the end of Demon Lord Mackelis IV, so I won’t go into all the details, but instead I will tell you of the aftermath.

The great hero “Tristan of Denvrr" from the "lands united Murika” had just killed Mackelis, and I lay bleeding to death on the floor of the throne room. Tristan walked to me, his smallest boomstick in hand, “Maxwell, I can’t have you die here, not after your service. Drink this! It's the potion the Goddess gifted me when I first arrived. It will heal you.”

I gurgled on the floor and he unceremoniously dumped the potion down my throat. It burned going down my throat, fire poured out of my wounds. The pain drove me unconscious.

When I awoke several days later, I gasped and opened my eyes. The castle; previously lit brightly with candles and magic; was dark, dreary, empty. I sat up and noticed that the floor nearby was covered by a very large pile of treasure and a note. “I hope this letter finds you well. Here are the remains of our treasure, I will not need them back home. Take them and start that shop you keep yammering on about! Tristan.” Next to the note were Tristan's original pair of boomsticks, items of death that he had called “Revolvers” or “6-shooters”. I knew them well.

I will be honest with you, I wept. My one and only friend of the last three years was gone, and I felt empty.

Let us move past this to a point 5 years into the future. I was now living in the northern town of Lykenburg. It resides on the edge of the cold, great northern desert known as "The Desert of Demons". I have been able to finally graduate from an apprentice, to journeyman, and on to a full fledged master blacksmith! Along the way I had married the love of my life. My life was busy and truly blessed by the Goddess of Tranquility, with my shop and new bride!

Adventurers passed through town occasionally, looking for spoils of war from the Demon Kings forgotten armories. I reminisced with them about what I remember. I occasionally give directions to an old fort. A good time was had by all.

Another uneventful five years pass. I have three children. I love my life, my wife, and my children!

Time goes by in a blaze, then, one day, I realize that my wife is getting gray hair. I have none. Not a single bit. I haven’t had a winter sniffle in…FOREVER! I start to dye my beard and hair.

More time has passed. My children are adults and married. Deborah (my wife) and I left the shop to our youngest, as he was the one who wanted it. Deborah is blind from the pox that hit 12 years ago. I’m pretending to be a feeble old man.

In my story, it is now the 3rd of Samue, the month of Planting, 1729 years since the new gods came to us. My wife of 43 years is dead. I look 24.

I am ashamed to admit that when I awoke that cool spring morning, and found her dead, I took my own life. I shoved one of the “revolvers” behind my ear, and pulled the trigger. I woke up a short time later. I cleaned the wall where my brains had splattered, and screamed my anger at the heavens, cursing the Goddess and the rest of the gods, and swore my vengeance upon them, should it take the entirety of my existence. Then I cried.

I planned the funeral, and did, against my better judgment, include the local priest of Tranquility. After the funeral, I told my children that I was leaving in the morning to go on a pilgrimage to the great theological city of Belergrad, and that I would not be back, the understanding made that I would die on my journey. Many tears were shed at the announcement, and well wishes were made. The youngest of my granddaughters crawled onto my lap and whispered into my ear, “Daddy and I know. There will always be a place for you here.”

Today is the 8th of Samue, the month of Planting, 1729 years since the new gods came to us. I departed from the city I once loved; and my family therein; this morning, with the clothes on my back and revolvers in my belt. A new life of sorts has begun for me, and I will try to embrace it.