It is told upon ancient scrolls scribed in blood that there would come one who could challenge the very nature of the universe itself. That day has come. Our story began in North Vancouver in a small practice room in the Fir Building. The metallic smell of blood and tears filled the room as our Hero fruitlessly attempted to master the arcane arts, each dom7sus4 and #9 chord driving him closer and closer to oblivion.
“You’re a valuable member of the band,” exclaimed the Italian Master. “But I respect your choice.”
“Thanks, Bradshaw,” the Hero croaked, fighting back tears, his spirit more broken than the skin on his fingers. He had destroyed his future as a mage long before it had ever started. I’m not good enough. I should have become a blacksmith. After all, his father was a blacksmith and his mother a botanist. His childhood had been filled with maths and neat books about mechanical flying machines. Defeated, he withdrew into The Void, a plane of oblivion far from the light and life of our dimension. There he wandered for 24 moons, tormenting himself, watching John Schofield videos.
Eventually, enough was enough. The Hero burst forth from The Void, scarred, but with new determination. He was going to be a blacksmith.