The year is 1469 by Dale Reckoning, the Year of Splendors Burning. You are all between eight and 10 years old and have grown up together in the town of Loudwater. Your lives so far have not exactly been hard, but they have been just challenging enough to cause you to mature more quickly than others your age who lived more privileged lives. Your little clique is well-known in town as being good-hearted, if occasionally mischievous, and this reputation has gotten you out of one or two major scrapes with the local police.
A couple of weeks after the Spring Equinox, the lot of you are hanging out together in the courtyard between the southern set of apartments near the well, planning out what you will do when Greengrass comes in just under a month. Greengrass is an anual celebration of the first day of Spring where, traditionally, the wealthier people bring out flowers to hand to the less wealthy, who either wear them or throw them on the ground to encourage the deities to usher in the summer. In Loudwater, the holiday is a bit of a to-do, and none of you want to be unprepared for the festivities. Plans are hatched to raid the countryside for flowers.
Suddenly, an armored figure appears before you in a flash of blue flame. He stands no less than seven feet tall and carries a sword half again his height across his back. In his left hand is a shield that covers most of his form which glitters brilliantly in the reflection of the sun. The man lifts his visor with his right hand, revealing dark, pupil-less eyes that sparkle with the light of infinite stars.
“Tyr,” he states, addressing you all. “I have no inclinations towards your love, Tymora.”
You find you have no words to answer this strange figure, and before you are able to gather your thoughts, the armored man continues as though he has heard a response to his words, “Believe me or not, it does not matter.” He seems genuinely saddened at this, but his demeanor bespeaks a man resolved towards a particular course of action. “I have no choice but to answer your challenge, my dear and cherished friend. May my actions be forgiven!”
At this, the figure lowers his visor, draws his sword, and attacks.
Clearly more than a match for you all, the figure’s obvious confusion is the only thing that prevents it from cleaving your young bodies in twain. Your blasts of arcane energies ping against its armor pitifully, as though you were merely throwing pebbles at an elephant. Just as all hope seems lost, you notice the cart in the courtyard is filled with alchemical potions of healing! While this fortunate discovery is enough to prevent you from being slaughtered outright, it is still a frantic battle to keep your assailant occupied and off-balance while praying someone comes to your aid.
As the figure raises its sword high to dispatch the injured Ignis, Curuvar the Brazen rushes onto the scene and shoots a powerful blast of magic at the armored giant. The spell flies true, striking its target full in the back with the weight of a charging hippogriff. It drops to its knees in front of Ignis, now staring him full in the face. The figure lifts his visor once more and gazes into the genasi’s soul.
“Torm,” he says as though in a trance, “I entrust my followers to you. Keep them well, dear friend.” With these last words, he coughs, hacking up blood and splattering it about Ignis’ face and clothing. As the genasi reflexively moves to wipe his eyes, the figure combusts in the same blue flame that brought him before you all earlier. Quickly, you dodge out of the way of the explosion.
Nothing of the combatant is left, and the afternoon air hangs silently for a long moment as the lot of you struggle to comprehend what you have just done.
“We’ve killed a god,” Ignis says in a voice too stunned to be anything other than matter-of-fact.
“You’ve destroyed my potions!” answers Curuvar.
Come Greengrass, every door in Loudwater finds itself covered in bright red and orange flowers, casting the illusion the town is burning in the afternoon sun. It is a splendid sight to behold, and no one bothers to discover the culprits.