In a small town called Little Haven, a place that lives up to the name, a most peaceful place, not a crime to be heard of, not even an injury in quite a while, if you were to look around you'd see many a happy face, and many teones, once feared beasts, now friends and guardians. Here, in this quaint little town, sits a house, as ordinary as any, and in the house, a man, once called hero, now considered on the verge of madness.
This Man sits at his desk, scribbling note after note, one after another, after another, in a seemingly endless stream of movement, the desk surrendering some of it's load to the floor, which happily accepts. These notes, the piles and piles of thoughts, are not being written willingly, for it was as if the words themselves forced their way from his mind and out of his hand.
For hours he writes, hand cramping, but still moving, fatigue attempting to overtake him, and yet his hand keeps moving. finally, after what seemed like days, his hand slows to a stop, the last piece of paper slipping to the floor, as his front door opens.
"Daddy! We're Home!" Calls a young boy, walking in with his mother.
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Meanwhile, in a community known as Rockwall, A young man is running.
Cries of, "Hey! Get back here!!", "There he is!", and "Get him!" can be heard, as he dashes through crowds, over fences and around obstacles, as he attempts to out maneuver his pursuers.
Managing to lose them after a few fancy moves, the young man stops to catch his breath, "Man, I didn't think they'd take it that hard, all I did was beat them in that card game of theirs, they were the ones who made the bets." he says to himself, looking at the small wad of money he had, "Well, time to get home then."