The wooden bowl landed with a thud on the wooden table. There was little meat and vegetables in it. There were three people in the hut which this table and bowl were contained in. The mother was saddened with the harvest from this year's yield. Their farm was failing as there was a severe drought terrorizing the village. The weather conditions were unstable. It would snow one day, then burn ablaze another. The father, a retired Hunter, looked to a corner and saw his equipment, although rusting, sitting there, waiting to be used. He was getting old. He wasn't in the days of his youth and he loved his family very much. But he knew what he had to do. As he picked up his weaponry, you could hear lightning strike and the rain pour. Good, he thought. My family won't go hungry later on. But still, he had to go. He knew what he had to do. He must journey into the Sacred Land and appeal to the Gods or perhaps slay the one who was harming the village. He looked to his blade, a greatsword. He had to do it. He looked to his son, now turning 10. He took off his helm and placed it on his son's head. "Don't worry, I'll be home for supper."
He could see it through his red eyes. Home. A place to rest. He was limping on his greatsword, struggling to get home. He had slain that wicked beast that was causing the village to suffer. He was bleeding heavily although the rain was washing away most of the blood from his wounds. He entered the hut and collapsed, only for his family to find him there in the morning. His son took up his father's blade and cleaned it. He inscribed upon it "Here lies a man who's only quest was to return home." They decorated this blade as much as possible, allowing it to emulate their feelings for their lost loved ones. This was his epitaph. This was his blade.