"The man who moves a mountain begins by carrying away small stones..
-Confucius
In a plane between planes, above Heaven yet below Hell, between both Krynn and Fae'run, dividing Middle Earth from Eden, there is but a single building.
In this lone building, a construct without space, without dimension, there is naught but a maze of cracks and crevices, halls lined with statues. Statues of heroes from all walks of life. Dark Elves, Dwarves, Krogans, Wookies, Orcs and Humans, Ogres and Kobolds and Ferrin. Every sentient species ever thought of had a statue in this hall. Humans took the cup for the majority of heroes, but they represented but a small percentage of the whole.
Only one thing lived here, wandering about the statues, dusting them and keeping them dry. He was a old man, of Goblin heritage, with a great grey beard usually unattainable by the race. One eye was perpetually squinted, and his teeth were almost horizontal, sticking from his brown mouth like wild weeds.
Like most of this particular breed of Goblin, he had long, horizontal ears, pointed like a bats. He grumbled to himself as he worked, dusting a statue of a Dark elf holding two scimitars high into the sky. Around him were statues of various races, but they were each smaller and less detailed, and the one of a massive human was cracked and clumsily glued back together.
The goblins name was Grumble, for he forgot his real name long ago, when he was taken here. He had been keeping this place for mellenia, waiting for the final statue to appear in the center of the hall. The dias stood blank all this time, a small fountain underneath providing a nice trickle to accompany the steady music of Grumbles namesake.
Of course, the plot advances as it always does. The statue appeared on the dias, a blank square of rock, yet to be molded by the hands of whatever author was good enough to write such a thing. Grumble grumbled at this as well, and threw a kick at the fourth wall for good measure. This had, of course, happened before, with some young enterprising sprout preparing to write the final tome, but it never panned out. The closest finished story to that was written by a middle aged british woman, and the obligatory statue of Mr. Potter stood quite aways away from the Dais. The unfinished stone blocks had to be carted off into the massive warehouse where they were crushed by a massive machine.
Grumble stopped to watch as the stone began to mold itself into whatever form this new hero was to take...
What will this new heroes face be? 
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Topic: The Last Hero: Chapter one: A Empty Hall (Read 3674 times)