I was not born in St. Heim. I was born in a far-off town that I can't remember the name of any more. It was a player character town, full of player character's taverns, and I was a player character's kid. My mother's name was Vera Innocent and my father's name was Azrael Nosferatu the Third. Dad was a level guardian. Mum wasn't. Women find a certain type of level guardian irresistibly alluring, I've noticed, and I'm not really that type. Selene doesn't count, she's mad.

Yes, I'm half level guardian. A typical level guardian is incapable of getting it into their head that HP is supposed to go up, not down. As a result, I can't even heal a paper cut, no matter what character class I try my hand at. That's the main reason why Ryudo and party beat me so easily. I did, however, inherit that overpowering charisma and sense of style that impresses people so much from my father, and I inherited my mother's looks.

Somehow their twisted imaginations combined their efforts to produce my name, Zera Innocentius the Third. Isn't it a terrible name? I sound like the Pope or something. Anyway, I liked that town, it had friendly shopkeepers and other children to talk to, and a big field full of monsters just about easy and infrequently encountered enough for a kid with a dagger or a pointy stick to deal with. Our little gang spent many a happy day romping through that field, pretending we were Nigel of Maple or Alis Landale. Interesting people passed through the town every day from all over the world.

Mum was too busy levelling up to notice if were alive or dead most of the time, but my dad was very strict. NPCs can't really understand this, but level guardians are necessary to the survival of the whole planet- among the monster population, their word is law, and level guardians have an innate sense of order that enables them to control everything that happens in even the largest, most complex dungeons. DMs, on the other hand, just play god. Father's three golden rules were as follows:

1) Thou shalt not pester the level guardians and distract them from their work.

2) Thou shalt not play with the big visitor's book in the inn where everyone saves their game.

3) Thou shalt practise Devil Crash every day.

Devil Crash, for those who haven't played it, is a pinball game on the Mega Drive with a rather gothic theme. The background music is particularly impressive. Level guardians use it as a kind of meditation, to get in touch with their shadow nature. It flexes the mind in a certain way that makes you a much better spellcaster and teaches you the circular rhythm you need to fight like a level guardian. They also have it psionically networked. There's a complex heirarchy in level guardian society depending on how good you are at playing Devil Crash. I have quite a reputation for being good at that game- I have a certain grace about my hand movements.

When I was fourteen years old, I was legally allowed to own and use a sword, so my friends and I decided to form a party and be real player characters. My first party consisted of me (the front-row fighter type), a mage called Arcus, a half-Kobold archer called Rundorig, a shaman called Lola and a healer called Brod. Arcus was a traditionalist. Rundorig was a silent enigma who spent a lot of his time sneaking around in the forest and watching the moon. Brod was the party leader. He was an excellent strategist and a shrewd businessman who always knew exactly how much money was flowing in and out of the pay box. He wasn't a complete mercenary, though- he wouldn't let us take jobs without considering what we would have to do. He knew the difference between right and wrong and, more importantly, he knew which campaigns were likely to get us all killed in a horrible manner. Lola helped him predict the consequences of things- she could see into the future. We always did what Brod said. He was the one who kept us all alive.

For those of you from my backwards little congregation who haven't worked it out yet, a player character is what the rest of the world don't call a Geohound.

Our party worked well together and we were solidly levelled-up by the time It happened. We weren't exactly Ryudo Co., but other adventurers didn't dare spill our pints in the pub, or at least not while Brod was watching. We had just finished an interesting little quest in Mareg's jungle. How do they get the plants to grow so big in there? We were asked to find a rare orchid whose sap could be used in an elixir to cure a plague that was rapidly depopulating a neighbouring country. We found the orchid. It tried to eat us- and almost succeeded! After subduing it, we collected the sap in a bottle and traded it for experience points at the castle. We then hurried to the tavern to have a brawl and win and get some more experience points.

It was then that Brod announced that he was leaving the party.

He was always destined for greater things. His stats were too well-balanced, his style just a little too self-sufficient. He was obviously ready to become a solo adventurer. Brod Klondike would later become famous throughout the world, a dauntless dungeoneer of the highest class, slayer of demon lords, green dragons and one or two Microsoft executives. We all told him we would miss him and that the party wouldn't be as successful without him. We weren't lying. As soon as he was gone and we had finished drinking to his continued success, I was declared leader. I wasn't just ablative armor like most heavily armoured fighters- my charisma came in useful for talking to people. Brod had taught me a lot about tactics and book-keeping. My first act as leader was to look for a replacement healer. Going into to battle without a healer is a VERY stupid thing to do, unless you're so rich you can afford to buy an entire apothecary's worth of herbs twenty times a day. We weren't. We could, however, afford to hire a Mercenary Monk. The Mercenary Monks are an order of monks dedicated to true neutrality. From what I've heard, they worship a dungeon designer. They're the Mac of healers- effective, sturdy and stylish, expensive but well worth the cost.

This particular Mercenary Monk's name was Ragnald Abaty. He didn't want paying in money, he wanted a quest done for him.

"I was part of a twelve-man force, ye know, but we were wiped out to by a huge pack of dire wolves." he lounged against the bar, large tankard of ale in hand, "I survived by hidin' up a tree. Anyways, I went to sell off everyone's goods- hey, they're no use to the poor fellas now- an' what did I discover but my most powerful magical item missin'?"

"You want us to get it back, right?" I prompted him.

"Didros right I do! I know who stole it an' all- a merchant in St. Heim, goes by the name of Willard. I want that item back, but I'm no' travellin' all the way back to St. Heim on me own. Help me find my Staff of Healing and I'll join yer force."

At that point, Lola grabbed my arm and pulled me away. Her eyes were burning a fierce emerald green, like they always did when she had a vision. The expression on her face was one of fevered terror.

"ZERA!"

"What's wrong, Lola?"

"You must not go to St. Heim! Only sorrow awaits you!"

"What's going to happen there?"

"They will not tell me. It is an event of the first magnitude. Heed my words, Zera! Accept not this quest!"

Then she ran off screaming.