You know, I’m not much of a writer.
The only reason these words are on these pages is that a friend convinced me to do so. 
Said it would be best if I pen this all down. 
I honestly don’t see any reason to do so myself. 
I feel rather silly; addressing you... whoever reads this. 
Feels like talking to myself, or an alter ego of myself. 

I should get started. But, that’s always the hard part, no?
It’s much easier to go with the flow. 
I chuckle thinking at that. 
All that happens below... I barely expected any of it.
When I got the hang of the idea, it went smooth. 

So what to write first?
A neat little introduction of myself?
Maybe tell a quirky anecdote that never happened?
Or just flat-out start with writing?
That’s just what’s expected from most writers.
Have someone big and famous pull feigned interest out of their throat.

You know, the only reason I agreed to this, was that there had to be a good account.
I’m not letting some snobby, tea-sipping big wig or golden clawed idiot write out what happened, adding flair and stuff that never happened. 
This was real, as real as the scars many of you have from what happened. 
And if some ‘artist’ spews his ‘creativity’ and ‘improvising’ over OUR story, then he has another thing coming.
We weren’t revered until the end. Heroes are only heroes when people realise that actually did something vital. 
Else, they’re just another traveller, merchant or nutcase. 

I remember the statue outside my mother’s home. 
Big and imposing.
Styled after the Great Gaddar. 
He wielded a spear and was as extraordinary as a crate.
Until he defeated the Dragon of Fall. 
Suddenly, the mercenary wasn’t dressed in leather and steel, but clad in silk and silver. 
He was revered and everybody suddenly remembered or ‘recalled’ him. 

But before that, they would spit on him. 
He himself, he hated it.
He was a man of steel, born to toil and torment. 
So he fled to the lands beyond, which was unheard of back then.
He settled in a quiet village, learned the language.
After some exploration, he settled. 
In solitude and old of age, the hero died with a family considered a taboo by many.
While his homeland... they called out how he killed beasts and demons said to live n the land beyond. 

He happy, though. Not a hero, but a strange foreigner for hire.
I was at that village and read him memoires. 
I could draw from that book to write this... though he wasn’t a very good writer either. 

You know, I liked the old times. 
When the land beyond was veiled in mystery. 
When it was a mystery to me.
Most here still see it as sush, but I...
I dunno.
The world seems small now.
Like the two poles (both I saw) are a stone’s throw away.
And a few thousand strips of bacon, mind you. Sailing demands food.

For those that live in the lands beyond, I’ll sketch our old scenarios for you, it’s a laugh.
In fact, if I hear them, I laugh. A hearty chuckle. 
We... they... used to say that the lands were filled with horrid beasts.
Dangers under every bush, a dragon behind each bush and no laws to stop anyone wanting to loot your corpse. 
Most sentient things there were cannibals, voodooists, sadists, witches and so forth, with the most powerful negative adverbs one could make up on the spot.
Rumours were that the few we had contacts were had to use drugs to keep themselves from sinking into a rampage.

Now, while on that subject, there are three points that my adventure ‘started’. 
The first was when a reptilian slave was rolled in, to be sold to a rich local. She was in no way polite about her status... if anyone understood her. 
The second was my first encounter with a dragon like creature. And no, I did not heroically kill him.
The third was me actually leaving. I had met a young, aspiring healer and unlike most humans, was concerned about her abilities to handle herself. 

Let’s start with that first.
Prologue 1... Good way to title it?
Regardless, that started when I was young. 
Her name was Medusa and she was closer to the super natural than most mages.
Though she only knew little on my future, she did know I had a purpose of some kind. 
It started, when her cage was rolled onto the market square...

End Foreword.