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

`` Vengeance, at last, is mine.'' I said. I unsheathed my sword from my scabbard. I extended the blade under his chin and lifted the face of my nemesis upward. Scrabby, a mid-ranking fence of the thieves' guild. He was kneeling, his face bloodied and bruised, blood dripping from his mouth. My hands were trembling with adrenaline, I'd relished pummelling him with my fists as he stumbled out of the pub, his mouth reeking of cheap ale. 
 
 `` Recognize me?'' I asked. 
 
 `` No.'' He whimpered. 
 
 A tremor ran through my body. How could he not recognize me? 
 
 `` I am the Earl of Eastwood!'' I proclaimed, summoning the pride of my wronged ancestors. He gave no reaction. I grumbled. No doubt he was feigning ignorance to further enrage me. 
 
 `` Do n't insult me by pretending ignorance. You know what you stole!'' 
 
 `` No.'' He said again. His voice was haggard and slurred. I was attracting an audience. Passers-by and other patrons of the pub. All the better that this fiend be exposed for his crimes. 
 
 `` The 15th day of the Sun's Summer Solstice in the year of the Golden Grouse. You stole The Golden Sceptre! But you stole not just from me, but from my father, and his father, and so on for 16 generations. Forged in the golden rivers of Anteon. I have journeyed thousands of leagues to find you, I've journeyed through the Fenrir Forest, the mountains of Havanon and the deserts of the Paim.'' 
 
 `` Oh, that.'' He said, he coughed and choked. I was tempted to hit him with the dull slide of my blade for his insolence, but restrained myself, for now. 
 
 `` I sold it.'' He said. `` Do n't know where it is anymore. So long ago.'' 
 
 `` I know.'' I said. A confused look passed through his eyes. `` I retrieved it a month ago. It has already resumed it's place in my estates hall of honour. It's vengeance I seek.'' 
 
 The crowd next to me stirred, at least a dozen onlookers, men, a few women. They looked no different than those who worked on my land. Scrabby shook his head. He held up a bloodied hand. 
 
 `` Please.'' He said. `` I have a-'' 
 
 `` You're pleading now? How rich.'' I said. I heard a grumbling from the crowd. I darted an angry eye in the direction of the crowd. These peasants had no notion of justice or any of the refined notions upon which civilization is built. 
 
 I swung back my blade. `` My family's honour shall be restored!'' 
 
 It all happened so quickly, and with surprising ease. I swung the blade forward and slit his throat. Blood squirted from the wound, staining and drenching his ragged clothes. I exhaled but felt no exaltation, no relief, no sense of accomplishment or justice. He was dead. That was it. That would have been enough, but for what followed. 
 
 A shrill screaming broke the silence. `` DAAAADEEEEE!!!!'' A young girl, maybe 8 years old, burst forth from the crowd. She rushed towards the body of her newly deceased father. She knelt at his feet, her small hands touching his motionless leg. Then, another child burst forth, regurgitated as if the crowd were expunging an unpleasant meal. He looked to be no older than 6. I turned away, there, I saw his newly minted-widow. She was crumpled on the floor, weeping hysterically while her friends tried vainly to comfort her. 
 
 The sword left my hand and fell on the ground. I looked away, no matter where I looked, there was no relief. In one direction was the angry, shocked crowd. Another was the dead body and the two weeping children. The other was his widow. I was trapped in a trap of my own making from which I would never escape. My soul would always reside here, in this place, in this time, bearing witness to the terrible sorrow and pain I'd caused all in the name of vanity and `` justice.'' Vengeance, at last, was mine.
