[ WP ] Describe the great hero of your story only through posthumous anecdotes of friends and family .

It was a sunny day. The air was cool and flowers bobbed their heads in the breeze, bees buzzing the dance of spring. The Hero's grave stood alone on the hill, white stone and freshly turned earth making a contrast against the natural scene. 
 
 There had been a public service thronged by thousands, but today we were only one hundred, from peasants to the king, those who had known her not just as the Hero but as a woman, a person, a friend. It had been agreed that each who wished to would say a few words, in reverse order of when they met her. 
 
 First, the King stood up. His hair had gone to gray in the past few weeks but his stride and bearing carried of power. The fresh lines on his face showed dignity and exhaustion in equal parts. He professed his gratitude to our Hero, spoke of her noble bearing and prowess in battle, lauded her as Dragonslayer, Foesmasher, the Shield of the Realm. He spoke of the honor in her sacrifice, how she destroyed the demon known only as the Enemy, even at the cost of her life. 
 
 Next came the General, whose army the Hero had saved from destruction by the Dark Night Embrach. He described her battle with the knight, how they fought unhorsed until he fell to her blade. He told of what he had seen, her slim figure swaying slightly as she stood over the corpse of the evil knight. How she had immediately begun to tend to the wounded, heedless of her own hurts. 
 
 Then came Sir Gawain, knight of the realm. He spoke of their quest to slay the great wyrm Grazh, terror of the east. How beautiful and deadly she was in that cavern bathed in fire, how her blade pierced its immaculately scaled hide. He spoke of camaraderie on the road, of her easy laugh and brilliant smile. 
 
 The sorceress Anima stood before us, and spoke of her battles against the Witch King of the North, how the Hero stood before his fell magic of rot and decay and was unharmed. How together, they turned away his armies and shielded the free folk of the realm from the frostmen. How the Hero had saved her life, and they forged an eternal bond of friendship. Anima shed bitter tears, that she had not been able to repay her. 
 
 An array of folk passed before the stone, dropping flowers and gifts. Folk small and large, peasants whose village had been saved from marauders, lords whose domains had been freed of banditry or protected from monsters. 
 
 Then came those who knew the Hero in her earlier days. The Blade Monk Daven, the wizard Edmon, the great healer Elena, all who had met the Hero in the early years of her journey and walked beside her for years, through adventures great and small. These could barely speak, weeping and clutching the gravestone, Daven swearing through gritted teeth that he would uphold her legacy, that he would protect the weak. Elena could only cry, clutching Edmon's robes as he gazed at the gravestone with hollow eyes. 
 
 And thus it went, as we came to the end. Finally, an old man trudged his way up to the gravestone, leaning heavily on a cane. Some gasps went up in the audience as he was recognized as Ormun Evilsbane, the great paladin of the Southern Wars fifty years prior. It was then that I finally began to weep, as old Ormun choked up, standing there, speaking of how she had come to him as an eager girl of thirteen years, determined to forge herself into a hero and adventurer. How she had trained night and day, pushed herself beyond human limits in a way he had never seen before or since. How she had carried the mantle of a Hero as he himself never could, how she gave an old man the chance to redeem himself, to believe that he had something left to give to the world. As the old man shuffled away, it was my turn. 
 
 Walking up to the gravestone, her gravestone, I felt my throat constrict, and my vision tunneled in. They tell me that I was weeping, tears spilling out of my eyes and onto the Earth, a keening whine coming from my throat. Then, I fell silent, to my knees, in the dirt. 
 
 `` My hero, Alma,'' I said, my hand running over the letters in the white stone. `` I met her, what, fifteen years ago now. I was ten years old, ran away from an abusive home. I got lost in the woods, and ended up cornered by a hungry direwolf. I thought that was the end for me, you know. A quick, sad end to a quick, sad life. But then she appeared. Alma. She had a glow to her even then, even though she was a blond haired, blue eyed waif, more skin and bones than anything else. She had a knife, and she fought. It was n't anything grand. No, it was brutal, hulking wolf against a small girl. She was a hellion, and her knife did its work. A few moments later, and the wolf lay dead, Alma's left arm mangled and broken from its teeth. I helped her bind it, and we travelled together from then on. Laughter, love, countless teenaged arguments. We've saved each other's lives so many times that we stopped keeping score. We met all of you, friends, family, fellow folk of the kingdom. And together, we accomplished her dream, to be strong, to be amazing, to have adventures beyond dream or belief, to help and protect people. I only -- -'' I drew a shuddering, choking breath. `` I only wish I had been able to save you one last time. That I had been able to trade my self for you.'' And then I, Bran Blackblade, Left Arm of the Hero, strongest man in the Kingdom, rose to my feet. As I walked away, through the crowd, hearing from somewhere far away their condolences, I knew. 
 
 I knew that I would make her proud, that I would keep this place safe. Now and forever. 
 
 I love you, Alma. 
 

