The Chosen One?

Boatman Farr’s Farm.

Near the Kalthairne Mountains.

Aldain Voss always dreaded his morning chores. 

Always the same mundane shite. 

Up before the first notes of birdsong. 

Fumbling in the darkness for his warmest clothes, as it was always colder than Morganna’s tits in the morning winds.

Out to the muddy fields, still drenched with the near-frozen morning dew dripping from their crisp leaves.

Aldein grabbed his well-worn staff and made his way to the north field. The worst field, as it was the higher pasture land and closest to the Jutian’s edge. At the very beginning of the Kalthairne mountain range, the sheep seem to thrive on and their incessant baying demanded he took them there every morning. 

“I am more than this life.” Aldain laments as he escorts the sheep up the steep steps to their grazing fields. 

He ignored the obstinate baying of the sheep as he herded them on their way.

“For I must be meant for bigger things than feeding livestock and cleaning their shit.”

As the sheep spread out in their new morning confines and begin to chew on their grassy breakfast, Aldain leans against the well-worn land-marker post and looks to the shifting grey and blue sky, asking for an answer from any of the god that may be listening. 

Moments pass as he looks impatiently to the sky and when a small sheep gathers close to him, he impatiently, absent mindless, kicks it away- sending it descending into the deadly depths of the mountain range. 

Her horrified death cry bayed off the jagged mountains around him. 

“I pray to you, Lord Arthur. The one true god. Please save me from this monotonous life and tell me I am destined for much greater things in this world!” Aldain shouted. 

Another baying sheep rubbed against this leg.

He kissed it on its forehead and then kicked it off the craggy cliff. Its blood-curdling screech echoed off the jagged stone and disappeared in a muted splat.

“That means now!” Aldain commanded.

A harsh rain cried from the gray sky, drenching him and all the flock in his charge, followed by a white flashing light, blinding them all. 

Aldain staggered, nearly falling off the edge of the mount. 

Bathed within a white light, stood a figure. Dressed in a white cloak, a matching, flowing white beard swayed in the hard winds.

“Who are you?” Aldain asks.

“I am Garlanon. The Last of the Many Mages, the Many of the One. I am from the Circle of The Seers and the Scryer of Secrets. I bring unsettling news to you, Aldain, protector of the flock.” The tall figure in pristine, white robes threw his long arms out wide in proclamation. 

“Uh, you’re who?” Aldain asked, peering down the steep cliff-side, chuckling. 

The tall figured coughed, looking disdainful of the cold rain picking up and lightening licking the bruised sky all around. 

“I am the bringer of Truth. For the dark one is coming and is consuming all of our world and you are the only hope for the world of--“

Aldain fell to his knees, mouth agape. 

“I am here. I will do whatever the Gods require.” He stands on strong, thick legs, offering his own young, muscular arms out wide, embracing his destiny. 

The marbled stormy sky swirled around them, and the remaining sheep huddled together in fear as the blossoming hero prostrated himself before the blooming mage.

Garlanon held his oaken staff outstretched and smiled. “Very well then. Son of Rovantry. Brother of Forynay. The Ancient Scrolls of Bantary had foretold of your coming.  Aldain, stand up and offer all to the source of all.”

Aldain stands, dropping all pretensions. “I am your vessel. I will save our world and rid the evil and..”

A bright flash of white and purple light bleached out all over the area, followed by a loud wailing.

In an explosion of motion, a man in purple and black, with a wide-brimmed hat and large purple plume, appears in the same spot as the chosen one of Aridor.

The wizard gasped as the future savior of the world was violently knocked from the precipice of the mountain and disappeared with only a high-pitched, and rather undignified screech. 

The foppish fellow in purple with a closely shorn red beard paused, looks at the wizard, then down at the crying lad, then back to the robed mage. 

“Terribly sorry.” The fop stated flatly, then ran down the hill at a desperate pace. 

The less-than heroic-death cry of the once-to-savior of Aridor lasted for what seemed like an eternity, while Garlanon can only look and listen in abject disbelief and hopelessness. 

Garlanon stood for several long moments, watching the fop disappearing into the mist below and then to the swirling storm clouds encroaching from the west.

The tall man in the road-weary robes let out a long breath.

Shrugged his shoulders…

And mumbled... “Meh..”

Then uttered some words and in a flash of blinding, red and white light.

Garlanon was gone.