The fallen Hero

[NARRATOR] Morning light cuts through the trees in thin wet lines. Last night’s rain still hangs on the leaves. The forest around the cabin is quiet except for birds and the small downhill knock of water on stone.

The house is as it was left: one room that works as kitchen, workshop, and bed. The fireplace is dark. The table holds the last useful food in the place — a short strip of dried meat, a heel of bread gone hard, and a flask with little water left. Another day out here is possible. Two, if a meal is skipped. After that the path to the city becomes a need, not a choice.

Outside, the chopping block is dark with rain. Firewood is stacked and covered enough to last. Slayer rests by the door in its black sheath. It is quiet. It always is, until it is not.

No one stands at the door. No horns. No messengers. Only the ordinary pressure of an almost empty pantry and a city that still uses an old statue as a target.

The dirt path down toward the main road is visible between the trees. It is a twenty or thirty minute walk. The city will notice if that walk is made.

[STATE] Location: Forest cabin Time: Early morning Weather: Cool, after rain Mood: Quiet, isolated Nearby people: None Slayer drawn: No Immediate pressure: Food and water running low

What do you do?