Alright, this is just something I've been doing to pass the time. Its based on Dota, which is pretty popular so a number of you guys should know it. In any case, its about the life of man named Davion. I'm kinda inexperienced, the the odd review would go a long way/

Erm...here goes.

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If you are reading this dear reader, I would assume that my time and world has long passed, borne upon the wings of the eons. Memory after all is a fickle thing, helpless against the corruption of exaggeration and twisting. Truth is lost in a generation, replaced by lies the ignorant call fact. Not even the Elves, immortal and wisest of all denizens of this world can truly recall what has passed upon the passage of the millennia. But here dear reader, with my hand that has known both sword and pen do I record my story with the hope that it will live on, that will serve as a memorial for those who had sacrificed so much in my thankless service. Perhaps, the hope I bear now is genuine, or perhaps it is my vanity that spurs me on to immortalize myself in time and memory. But that I think, is for you to judge.

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Every story I would suppose needs a fit beginning, but if you would forgive my unoriginality and ramblings, I think I shall start by giving you a brief notion of who I am. The reader after all, should not be kept in the dark about such basics that would, if unaddressed, no doubt haunt this tale as a wounded but unfinished foe would hound his supposed enemy till his thirst for vengeance is sated by death and blood.

To start I think, you would want my name which incidentally is the most trivial and unimportant aspect of myself. I have gone by many names in my time, casting one aside to put on another as easily as one might change his cloak. But in any case, you may know me as Davion app Neb. And I am a bastard.

That done, I believe the time for ramblings has passed and we can commence.

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My earliest memories were that of smoke and terror and even that is now vague. Perhaps I did remember more of my childhood before the time when fire and death traversed the realm of tale and into reality, but the stark horror of those days was sufficient to wipe them from my young mind. In any case, I can clearly remember an instant as I stood amid a panicked mob that ran amongst the filth ridden gutters and tenements with strange single mindedness in spite of their apparent lack of order. Still, to think back, their motives were simple, flee the fire and the Naga that gnashed at our heels.

I staggered and stumbled in the general direction of the exodus, moving as quickly as my child's legs might have carried me. Prior to the events that I now write, I vaguely recall living the life of a scamp, cavorting about the docks and hovels that were piled upon the edges of Trisamore, creating a phalanx of poverty and filth between the wealthier regions of the city and the sea.

It was there that the Naga first struck.

Even at that tender age, I was no stranger to running or hiding, but even that did little to prepare me for the stampede I now found myself in. The air as I might have mentioned, reeked of smoke and fire. My eyes burned and watered as the smoke assailed them, reducing what vision I had to a blur, the tears that they shed in defense mingled with the tears of fear that too ran freely down my soot encrusted cheeks. I clawed at them with my ash covered hands only to get more of that vile black powder in my eyes, the pain soon discouraged me from my futile attempt that served only to aggravate the pain and I ran on, crying, screaming and cursing with the rest of the mob.

What was worse than that however, was the fever. Much of that I will leave out for now, though entwined as it was and still is with my life, it would be but a distraction at this moment. Thus all I will say at this point is that in my childhood, I was plagued by bouts of fever and cold sweat that would come upon me like a fit, accompanied by mad mutters and murmurs whose meaning then eluded me like a song once known but forgotten. It was as you might imagine, an extremely inconvenient time for such a thing to take place and thus I ran on, half delirious with fever and fear, wondering if each breath would be my last. Strangely, the only small comfort I found was from the fire that devoured the city that had been my home for five or six years, I had always liked heat.

I ran on and on, through the slop and muck that yet clung to the streets, heedless of those who fled by my side. Many a time did I glimpse one slip over the uneven cobblestones, only to disappear as he was trampled by his likewise fear stricken compatriots, even his dying screams were lost in the cacophony and madness. The air had taken on a strange reddish tint that I came to associate with the fires of war, but fear ruled me then, and I can recall little more save the general panic and chaos that spurred me to greater heights of terror. Not once I think, do I recall seeing any signs of the Naga that sowed the seeds of destruction upon the city, but they were no doubt there.

But sometimes it seems, the Gods do grant a miracle, even if it is to but have their mortal subjects maintain a certain semblance of faith in the credibility of their powers. Staggering, gagging and in the very real danger of falling beneath the feet of the single mad organism that inexorably surged forward, I saw the soldiers.

There were perhaps a dozen or so of them, boys too young to shave and old men who leaned heavily upon the heavy iron shafts of their spears. They little in the form of armour nor held anything deadlier then a rusted spear, the insignias on their leather breastplates I later learnt, marked them as naught more then a ragtag assortment of irregulars and the city militia. Men too young or decrepit to fight. But to my fear and fever addled mind, they came like avenging Angels to pull us from the depths of the thirteen hells, and they had wagons.

The will to survive I've come to learn, is only closely linked to madness. To protect the fragile shells that encase our souls, men would descend into a riot of madness and frenzied action to defend that which is most precious to them. I have seen comrades offer each other to the cold bite of a blade to safeguard their lives and mothers who abandoned children in their drive to live, but the sheer collective madness of that day yet haunts my memory.

The mob it seemed, were goaded to a further level of frenzy and fear at the sight of salvation that waited before them. They swarmed forth, heedless of the guards who strove to maintain a semblance of order that never existed. More men were trampled and crushed as the mob sought to scramble aboard the wagons, more then one of those rickety contraptions buckled under the weight of its load as dozens or more climbed upon them. A hundred brawls broke out like little pockets of insanity amongst the general chaos. I skirted a brawny unkempt man who bawled and smashed a ham sized fist into the face of a guard who impaled him upon the notched edge of a short sword, both men going down as I made my way past them. I shoved and sidled my way through the crush of bodies, winding around the forest of legs and abdomens. I remember my face brushing across countless others, flesh pressing against flesh with the closeness of lovers, but with fear in place of intimacy, feeling the breath and touch of others as I did so, never in my life had I been in such close contact with people. My heart skipped a beat and thundered when I squeezed past a woman, her heavy bosom brushing against my crown, but the drive to live I think, overrode all that of modestly. Thus I got away with that transgression. At that time, it would have had been a moment of triumph and glory for me I think, if I hadn't been on the point of retching in fear and fever.

By the grace of sheer luck, I somehow shove, fought and bit my way before a wagon. To see that rotting, fire damaged cart, already spilling with filthy unwashed bodies was bliss that came like a break in the clouds of my terror. I swooned in relief and nausea that the fever brought on, only saved from falling by my flailing hand that somehow caught the side of the wagon, blood welled on my palm as splinters penetrated my soft flesh. With one last titanic burst of effort, I pulled myself upon the wooden planks. I collapsed as soon as my feet touched the wooden boards, my head banging hard against the bottom of the wagon. But I was beyond pain.

Fever and exhaustion that fear had warded at bay crashed down upon me. My vision swum and the world seemed though a flood had banished it beneath the depths of Oceanus's realm. Still, neither sleep nor oblivion laid their claim to me.

I watched in blissful paralysis as a guard leapt between the clamoring crowd and the wagon, jabbing his spear to keep all but the most desperate at bay. He placed a hand onto the wooden planks of the wagon, pulling himself up as he lashed put one last time to dissuade the mob from surging forth. For a moment, I saw the soldier in his entirety. His grey, unwashed beard that yet had morsels of food clinging upon the grey tangle of bristles, his dull eyes that cataracts were starting to claim, the set of his mouth that was caught between a grimace and a snarl, the long bleeding gash on his arm and the rank stink that came off him. But all I saw was another fearful man, forsaking his brethren so that he might live, just as I was doing. He barked a guttural order that lost upon my ears which resonated with the mad mutters that crawled from the depths of my mind, and we were off. I lay upon the wagon and watched the mob that I left behind, and never did I feel any pity for them. I had fought, struggled, and lived, and for that I foster no regrets.

Oblivion finally saw it fit to claim me.

I only surfaced to consciousness once during that journey. In spite of the warm summer's afternoon, it was bitterly cold, and an unnatural darkness had fallen. Jolted with a momentary burst of energy born of fear, I rose on my elbows and sent a worried glance at the rest who packed the wagon, marking a similar fear in some. But many yet sat with their heads buried in their knees, disconsolate and crippled by the bone numbing mental and physical weariness that fear leaves in its wake. Neither death nor hope could stir them for now.

I turned to the soldier beside me, seeking childish comfort in the wounded old man by my side. It would've been laughable had I not been so afraid. The soldier must have caught me staring at him, for he looked down and appraised me with a rough glare that strangely conveyed no hostility. It was but the look a war-weary veteran would've deigned to give one as young and terrified as I was. The soldier gave a snort of harsh laughter and shook his shaggy locks.

"Deathknights boy, the Thirteen ride. That is what brings this darkness. But me thinks we're not what they want. Reckon they want Purist." He jerked a gnarled finger at a red glow on the horizon, the city it seemed, had gone completely aflame. He brought a flask to his lips, tipping its contents down his throats before offering it to me, "Yer want some?"

I shook my head, too weary to speak, my fever sputtering itself out though the dizziness remained. The events of this morning seemed like naught more than another fever dream. I wondered if I still was in one, wondered if I would wake up to find myself lying in another of Trisamore's numerous gutters, wondered if my life could be salvaged.

"Yer okay?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer. Besides, what answer did I have?

"Yer mute?"

I shook my head.

"Bah, just go back te sleep." He dismissed me with a rough wave of his hand.

And I did.

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