There was once a strange man who lived on the top of a desolate mountain.
Why he was there nobody really knew, and he didn't mind, one way or the other.
It never is pleasant for one to have one's expectations disappointed, but then there is an occasional glimmer of novelty in gaining, whether temporarily or permanently, a new thing to think about and to consider.
Life is fairly empty and very boring without friends.
It is surprising, then, that although the old man knew this, he chose to live in the most barren, quiet and silent land he could find. In this respect, the remote mountaintop was ideal- he was free to pursue his interests and lead a simple lifestyle, which was, to be honest, all that he wanted.
Guests, as can be imagined, were very rare. However, while the mountain was, indeed, desolate, there was a small village at the foothills of aforementioned mountain. The villagers in the aforementioned small village were all of the opinion that this man was a deity of some sort. In fact, many whispered (quietly, so as not to be overheard) that he had gone through some supernatural rite, and become immortal.
He was even deitized by the people's overactive imaginations (although they were not quite off in the former speculation, to be completely honest)
Then one day he fell off the mountain and died. The villagers found his decidedly mortal body at the body. He was still gripping his old thermos flask, which still had some of his cooling, undrunk coffee in it. After the initial shock everyone agreed that he must have been an ordinary man after all.
So that was that. None of them had the initiative, the enthusiasm or (to be fair) the strength to climb up to his house and take a look at the life of the man whose identity had eluded and still continued to elude them even until death. That was, without a doubt, a pity, because there was a secret hidden in the lonely hut which the man had built.
Under the old man's roof, something with a slow, malicious aura had begun to awaken.
Xenophobia in the village was high, and thus visitors were rare. As such, two years would pass before a searcher- one, incidentally, much faster, stronger and more intelligent than the villagers- would finally find the blade which lay rolled up, innocently, in the man's old bedroll.
-to be continued-