[ WP ] You are a `` hero '' in a fantasy world , but as you `` adventure '' , you are slowly realizing YOU are the antagonist .

General Simon Strava clawed at the top button of his dinner jacket; a tapered topcoat, impeccably blue with golden fobbed buttons and a collar that threatened to smother him. Rushing out through a pair of confused dignitaries, he bumped the long-handled door and found himself in the muffled quiet of the balcony. Straightening himself, Strava finished with the buttons as he neared the wrought iron railing overlooking the courtyard and the Elba River beyond. The air was brisk and inviting. 
 
 How could it have come to this, he thought finishing the last drop of his brenault and chucking the glass into the darkness below. Music echoed all around him. It came from everywhere. The whole of the town that twinkled in the distance was ablaze with celebration. The streets crawled with parading soldiers and drunken revelers alike. The war was over. Strava smiled, if they only knew. 
 
 `` To think,'' Strava whispered, `` after four years nothing has changed.'' The smile continued to play at the edges of his mouth as he cracked open a bottle of whiskey that had been stashed away in his breast pocket. He downed a healthy dose and propped his back against the railing. He ran his fingers through his hair which hung in wet strings about his face. Four years wasted, and for what? Ambergrave had outplayed him. He, a career general, had been duped by that worm. Strava lightly chuckled and choked down another burning mouthful. 
 
 It was not long before the door to the balcony opened and Strava's aide, Pel poked his sharp nose out into the night. The mouse-faced man sighed when he saw Strava and stepped out. 
 
 `` Sir,'' Pel said, his voice was deeper than his appearance would suggest. 
 
 `` Do n't start,'' Strava waved him off and turned back to face the river. Lights dotted the banks of the Elba as the last of the hundreds of funeral pyres were still burning out. The dead had yet to be fully counted. 
 
 `` You're presence was requested personally by Ambergrave,'' Pel came up beside Strava and cringed as the general downed another swallow, `` you must be *at* the party to be present.'' 
 
 `` Why,'' Strava said, `` so he can taunt me in person?'' 
 
 `` I do n't believe...'' 
 
 `` Do n't be a fool,'' Strava interrupted, `` I've taught you better. Do you see the way they look at me? They hate me.'' 
 
 They did hate him and Strava knew it. He had felt the stares of the elite all night. The same people that had clamored for old King Segress' head on a pike and spewed their vitriol in the streets four years prior now appeared in full regalia to swoon Ambergrave. The hypocrisy of that vipers nest was suffocating. 
 
 Pel, as if acquiescing, nodded his head. 
 
 `` Ambergrave hijacked my armies with that lie.'' Strava continued, `` He promised change. Real change.'' Strava stretched out the bottle over the edge of the balcony, `` I put my reputation on the line and what did he do?'' Strava dropped the bottle and looked at Pel. 
 
 `` Such is politics,'' Pel said. They both listened and Pel flinched as the bottle smashed somewhere below. 
 
 `` We were the heroes.'' Strava sighed. He pointed out towards the lights, `` they, *they* were the heroes. And for what? I have run out of ways to try and explain this.'' 
 
 Strava followed one light. The light barely gave the outline of a woman holding the torch. Two small children followed in her wake. Strava imagined the heartache they felt of saying their last goodbyes. He had believed in the revolution. He had convinced those men that they were fighting for good. They had died because of him. 
 
 `` I have spoken with the Lieutenants,'' Pel said, `` and they are all in agreement.'' 
 
 `` To what,'' Strava said. Pel pointed down into the darkness. Strava strained his eyes, but when they had focused he saw several men hiding among the bushes. Riflemen with black powder and bayonets. Pel directed his gaze up to the crenelations surrounding the top of the manor. Mages stood at the ready. Why were they here? 
 
 `` Sir,'' Pel stuffed a black powder pistol in Strava's hand and pulled his sword, `` have you ever thought that what this country needed was not a revolution.'' 
 
 `` Maybe what is needed,'' Strava smiled. 
 
 `` Is a coup.'' Pel smacked Strava on the back and headed towards the party. 
 
 Now, Strava thought, they would truly hate him. 
 
 **** 
 
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