Hands Of Heaven 1

It's the middle of winter in this old village. Outside, the blizzard closes in- I've already made sure to block the doors and windows in this sole remaining shack. The tome in my hands inspired feelings of fear and antic.i.p.ation as I sat on the old wooden floor- luckily still intact. It spoke to me- it spoke of a "story." A story that I shudder to comprehend, and lack the means to- it's speaks of me.

This village has been uninhabited for years. A village once belonging of a race of the last remaining "Fiends," apparently. They have been wiped from the face of this world long ago- the words written here make me suspect the reason why. Was this tome and it's characteristics perhaps the reason for their demise? Did they make it, or were they guided to it, as I was to this remote and perilous location? In my journey, in search of this tome, I was guided here. A power outside of my control coaxed me. I at first I thought I was going mad in my old age. But I know now there was something here for me- and me alone. The words speak to me. To me. No one else. I am a Hero. A Champion. I am the only one deserving of this legacy.

It spoke of an ancient artifact, one which is apparently entwined with my life. In this world, the mystical is not unheard of. Relics, both common and rare, can be seen in daily life. They light the streets and walkways of inhabited areas. They grant warmth in the cold months. They can even attain... that's strange. I can't remember.

But the artifact that these words speak of- is one with the potential to shake the world. The Great Equalizer, The Level Playing Field, Demiurge, Belief Breaker- the Hands of Heaven.

By it's jurisdiction, a lame man can duel a G.o.d. Something can come out of nothing.

Power, is nothing.

Birth, is nothing.

Tools, are nothing.

Before the might of divinity, the real becomes the unreal, and vice versa. To make, and unmake. To guide, and mislead.

I have built myself up from nothingness- I have made a name for myself in the annals of history. I once thought myself at the pinnacle. But the powers of this artifact... call to me. Me, one who once had everything, has become brittle. I have lost things in my age- my mind, my body, - my soul. This story speaks of me, and speaks of the artifact, and speaks of my past, present,- and as I flit through the pages, I see where this artifact fits into my future.

As I read, I lose feeling in my hands. My eyes tremble in their sockets, and my breath becomes labored. My sweat turns a darker, more sinister color- the color of blood. I see the last sentence written before a collection of blank pages. My memories begin to fade, and my eyes melt into mush, yet I merely feel colder and colder- as if the blizzard outside is reaching not only into this small shack, but within my very being. My son, Anno,- forgive me. Theresa, I...

"All men are slaves to the will of Heaven."

And as I look at my hands with my dripping sight, they are clad in a set of white gloves.

...

It has been one year since the disappearance of humanity's champion.