The Tales of Yorick the Wanderer - Chapter 1

Little more than a long time since, there lived a peasant named Yorick who traveled his way from Brymoor to Silver Town. With a jingle in his pocket and a skip to his step, Yorick traveled down old King Adran's road with much haste. Little did our poor Yorick know that bandits had been brewing upon the highway. Alas! He knew not the local warning and went his way.
After leaving the ol' Limestone Inn down the road, he trotted through the dark forested roads deep into the old dwarven lands Caleah. The trees, he felt, bent towards him as he made his passage. Something was amiss in the cold wind that followed him. His eyes darted across the forest and his mind wandered with thoughts of stalking or shadows. It was not his idea that a few thieves would actually be on his tail. Alas, the poor peasant was blocked on the road by a thief in dark leathers.
"Unload your silver!" the thief provoked.
Yorick obeyed, giving the bandit the fortune he was to carry to Silver Town. The thief smiled and counted the purse. 1, 2, 3... 10, 11, 12. Not much silver for what his day of following was worth. He spit on the loot and looked back to the peasant.
"What else do ya have good?" he asked, pointing his short sword towards poor Yorick.
Yorick shook his head. "N-nothing, honest!"
The thief did not agree with Yorick's confession. He took his blade and ripped off the poor man's belt. He scavenged the rest of the peasant, but found nothing more. Angered by his own foolish errand, the thief pushed a stripped Yorick down and spat at his face.
"Waste of my time," he told the peasant. "You're better off freezing in the night out here."
Thus, the thief made his way, holding the silver and dropping the peasant's torn garments. Yorick took his torn clothes and tried to wrap them around his pale body. It did not comfort him with warmth, but with the sorrow of his victimhood.
Alas, the night drew near to Yorick. He hurried down the road, hoping to beat the sunset and return back to the Limestone Inn. The lowering of the sun proved victorious. Poor Yorick, he was left in the shadows of the woods, only to hear the growling and hooing of hostile bloods and winds. He crawled into the bushes, afraid of what could find him while he stayed stripped and afraid.
Then, his ear heard a voice, strangely comparable to the smell of fresh baked bread. The warmth of the lips that spoke it drew his eyes, and he searched for the source. He found no woman to speak it. Alas! The voice came again, and it was saying his name in the chilling wind that scared him before. Before his eyes he saw but a mist encompassing the ground around. He stuck his foot out, frightened at first, but the caress of the voice comforted him.
"Come to me, Yorick," she whispered. "May your fortune turn to the better."
Holding up his garments, Yorick was careful with his steps as he journeyed through the thick mists of the night. A tremor in his lip began when he realized the fog looked relentless. Yet something called him to venture further. So he listened and let his feet decide where he walked, not the fear of his eyes. When he awakened from this practice, what stood before him was a lake.
Yorick looked up as terrifying lights dashed above. The sun and the moon turned around each other, as both day, twilight, and night met each other in the sky above, swirling so the starts stretched like a palace's ceiling. The planets could be seen, dancing in their retrograde form. When he looked back down, the leaves of the trees blossomed as much as they shed orange and red. In the very center of it all stood the fairest creature Yorick ever set his eyes upon, holding an immaculate blade.
With a stammer he questioned, "who are you?"
"The Lady of the Lake," she answered as a worried mother. "Come to me. The waters will carry you."
Cautiously, Yorick stepped onto the shore of the lake, then placed his foot on the waves. He could feel his foot press against the water, yet it did not sink. He carried on further, without a single thought, as he came closer to the fair woman that held out a longsword. Though he questioned the blade at first, he then touched it. Her blade was then taken by Yorick, and when it turned in his hand, so did his fate.
"Become something more," she called to him.
Yorick was terrified of the weapon. Before his eyes flashed his entire life, from the struggle of his mother's birth to the harsh winters of years past. His throat became dry, and though he tried to talk, the wind roared around him.
The Lady lifted her head. "You hold Fatebender, the blade of wonders. Though you know this not, the blade has changed the course of history time and time again. Now, you shall be the vessel. I call upon you, Yorick of Brymoor, to be my knight. May fortune carry you forth."
As the mists dispersed, Yorick inhaled a quiet and somber gasp. The light changed before him as the times and seasons returned to their normal course. He was on his knees, on the beach of the undisturbed lake. Yet he was dressed differently than before. He felt the weight upon his shoulders: a mail of chains protected him. As he stood, he felt the voice blow his tabard and boots.
Yorick laughed. "May I stay devoted to you forever, good Lady of the Lake! Silver Town doesn't feel so far anymore."