Max is not a hero

Max is not a hero


Maximon is considered a hero by his people. The reasons are strong for his race, but for Maximon it just seems like an unnecessary focus on a few acts of bravery. Maximon is sitting at a table lined up to the counter of the bar. The stool seem to big for him, as the muscular little man sits there dangling his feet, but the table seems to fit his height remarkably well. The short agrerian is holding both his hands around a pint of beer, staring at it. But short might be a wrong measure of this man's stature, considering most agrerians reach humans at waist height, Maximon is tall enough to almost be confused for a human teenager. But the bulk of this man tells he is not unfamiliar with battle, the adornment even more so.

Maximon is clad in a sturdy plate of scaled mail, with both arms and legs outfitted likewise. The thick leather beneath creaks if he moves, and the leather boots are bound in iron plates as well. A blue traveling cloak has been flung in a heap on the table, out of maximon's way, with a simple enough helmet laid upon it. Propped up against the table is a maul, possibly his weapon of choice.

The bar is else lightly filled, and no one seems like anything more then a regular patron. Maximon scratches his sideburns distractedly. «Should get that trimmed,» he mentaly remarks to himself, knowing all to well he won't bother. Sighing, he takes a gulp of his beer. He has no idea what his plan is now. The reason for leaving seems just like an excuse, if nothing else. Maximon snorts as he remembers the day and the life that led to it.

He was simple smith then, or rather just an apprentice. He was traveling in a group with his father, lending their expertise wherever they went. It was good times, filled with carefree breaks. Cut from the bonds of cilvilization, they did what they had to and ate what they had. They never aspired for greater things. He misses his fathers simple cooking even today, even if he was a little bit of a hobby herbalist, and was a firm believer in adding a little spice to whatever they had to eat. His father always took the time to gather something of the local herbs wherever they went. Maximon sighs as he wished he had learned any of this from him back then.

It was while they were back home in agrerian home soil that it happened. Maximon was taking a drink with the local smiths, catching up and trading knowledge, when a large «crack!» signaled a start of an endless commotion. Getting up quickly and running to the doorway, they all looked out at a massacre. Marauders was pouring into the town from the south. Killing anyone they met, and grabbing everything they saw of value. Horrostruck, Maximon had stared toward the waterhole at the entrance of town, where their wagon had been standing. It was full of those foul looting beings, and a small fire had started in the back of it. By the water a mangled, limping form was trying his best to fight some of the brutes, and further back he saw his father valiantly fighting the most adorned of them. A sense of pride was crudely crushed, as his father was struck in his arm, and dropped his sword falling to his knees.

He had screamed from the top of his lungs as the leader lifted up his father by the throat, smiled evilly and stabbed him three times, for good measure, before dropping the limp figure to the ground with a satisfied grin. Being dragged back into the smithy, the others urged him to remain silent. Maybe they would go away eventually. He had stared at them then, where did such naivety come from. It always amazed him when coming here, how unfamiliar they were of the workings of the world. Agrerians were the worlds greatest farmers, they more or less fed the entire continent. No one else could or wanted to do this, and it was not the soil either. The Moors had the best soil in the whole world, but the will for agriculture was not in a Moor the slightest. Even the State of Fornis had a heaven made for agriculture, but the humans there never managed it as well as agrerians. They lived contently without riches and this also used to keep them safe.
But this naive? Did they honestly think if they didnt directly see it, it wasn't happening?
Maximon had suddenly gotten to his feet. Determination glowing in his eyes, he grabbed one of the mauls used for breaking apart stone and metal. Hefting it on his shoulder he strode over to the window. It was still going on, but more looting then killing by now. Most bandits knew that killing everyone meant they could not come back for more at a later occation. The murderous leader was standing a few feet out the door, surrounded with uglies bringing him trinkets, that got thrown into a cart standing nearby to be dragged along when they would leave.

Maximons eyes glowed almost as he retreated back into the room and started looking for a door. The others were watching him warily as he wrenched open the door and found the kitchen, and what he was looking for the stairs. He then ran up to the bedrooms. Walking into the one most likely to have a front yard view he looked out the open window to see the head of his quarry. Taking a few steps back towards the wall, he steadied his feet for the jump. Taking breath for a single prayer to the godess of luck, he then pushed away from the wall with all might, ran the few steps to the window and bounded silently through it. Passing the window frame, time seemed to trace along slowly. He grabbed his maul on the shoulder with his second hand and lifted it high.

With a thunderous crash he landed after delivering a sickly impact to the back of the leaders skull. A little time went to settle his feet, before he swung the maul left hitting a brute in the stomach, knocking it of his feet. Lifting it again, he noticed shocked bloodspattered faces looking at him or the dead chief. He struck a bonecracking hit in the back of the one who still had his back to him and was staring at the body. Moving forward he jabbed it at two still standing hitting one in the ribs. It stumbled back clutching his chest. Maximon took with effort a leftward spinning dragging his maul along. Coming around full motion, he saw a terrified expression on the last ones face before the hammer followed suit and literary broke it in two at waist hight. Advancing once more, the last one standing started to finaly draw a sword and tried to parry, but no amount of poorly made sword could really stop such momentum, and the blade shattered as the hammer implanted itself in its owners chest.

Hearing coughing sounds behind him, he turned to see the fallen form of the first henchman he hit, trying to drag a sword out. He walked quietly over and lifting his maul, he heard a weak plea before crushing its head. He turned to the street to see the rest of the gang slowly starting to trickle out from everywhere. He hefted his maul onto his shoulder, ready to kill everyone, or at least die trying. But the need was not in it one, then two more started to run. And as a frightened herd, they all started scurry away in all directions leading them away from him.

Maximon stood there panting now, as agrerians started to peek out to see what could have happened. And slowly they milled into the street, as the last of the marauders disappeared, but not before the wife of one of the smiths ran over to hug him, did he allow himself to feel that his knees could take it no more and he fell over. Everyone came to his help, and he was hoisted up and carried away for restoration and adoration.

Maximon had become the town hero.