One last story, eh? Well then. Let me think.
In strength born, in weakness die.
That’s how the old saying goes among your people, doesn’t it? But I was created strong and kept getting stronger. My people—well, my makers—didn’t know what to do with me after a while. Not that they were fragile, not by any means, but they simply weren’t a match for me.
If you are wondering how a champion is made, don’t expect to learn it from my story. I am no champion. They raised me for one purpose: to kill heroes. I am the foil, the tireless hunter, the immovable wall that stands between them and their goals.
Yes, I know how champions are made. I studied their kind. I studied how to kill them, thwart their goals, cause them to doubt themselves. (In that order—for though it is surprisingly easy to kill them and even frustrate them, worming my way past their defenses with words alone can be a difficult task.) They are as human as I am not. Still, I don’t hate them, though I question their sanity. But champions have their job and I have mine. That’s life.
Or it was until one champion came and destroyed my makers.
I had been out cleaning up the latest batch of heroes. Takes some doing to clear out the land and let everyone rest easy … what? Oh, yes, they rove about the land, waving their swords, requiring gold and armor and honor. Such a nuisance. My job was certainly necessary to keep them from riding over the poor peasants’ crops. So I had gone out to do a bit of work, as I was saying. I had intended to kill her, you understand. I had her and two others right at the brink of death. I finished off the two and then turned to her, but she had escaped somehow while I was occupied. She was sneaky for a champion. So I left her for later and turned my attention to pursuing another hero in the next village.
I returned from that hunt to find her waiting beside a pile of bodies. I attacked as soon as I realized what she’d done. I was surprised, for she was my antithesis: soft, flowing, knew how to use my strength and size against me. Fighting her was maddening. Nothing I did seemed to touch her. At last I lowered my mace and stared at her.
“What is your secret?” I asked.
She smiled. “Rabbits,” she said. As I stood there in confusion, she turned into a rabbit and fled down a nearby hole, leaving me with no revenge or, in truth, understanding. Why did she seek out a life of conflict and questing if she was so good at sneaking around and hiding? Where did this spell come from? And if she could have hidden so easily from me—for rabbits have deep holes—why then did she come to my home and slaughter my makers? All they wanted was to be left in peace to work their dark magic without any heroes interfering.
But she killed them anyway and left me with no answers and no direction. And that is how I became a worker for hire, making my way in this world just like you. Except for the fact that you are quite a bit younger than I, and that I am made of stone and clay.
Oh, you don’t think that story made sense? You desire a story with more magic? Fewer rabbits? Ah, I see. You want a proper ending. Well, this is my life, and it will never have an ending.
Ah, there is the bell. We are closing for the night. Best you get home now. Yes, yes, I shall be here when you return. The book too. And consider yourself lucky, young fellow. Not every library has a golem curator.
Just don’t develop into a hero of some sort. My friendship has its limits.
