The kingdom has fallen. Ganon-- nay, darkness reigns supreme. Link lay beaten, battered, bruised . . . dead. Slain. Sitting atop the beast king's massive golden trident, his body slowly rots to bone. And soon, too, does that crumble. Zelda is no more -- stripped of her ruling right and her aspect of the triforce, Ganon no longer had a use for her. Strewn aside as little more than useless trash, a new age of monsters and darkness has arisen. Hyrule has fallen. But none of this matters to you. You've sat in this fortress; nay, this tomb, for well over a century now. Decades ago, you noticed a stop of intruders, of invaders; of those who would hope to deprive your master of his greatest creations. But that time seems to have passed now. You have never seen sunlight. Every day, every night, you would stand here, your azure armor now dull and still with dust. Your blade lay in its sheath, untouched for just as long as you've been standing here: alone, confined, and uninformed. Ivory pillars encircle you, each about five meters away from the last. The ceiling of the gray brick room reaches well beyond double your height into the air. You don't know this, but you stand about seven feet tall and weigh almost a ton. And then, as it often used to, an alarm goes off in your mind. Someone has entered the crypt. > What do you do? (Write-in. You are not confined to this chamber.)
Even though I have a perfectly good sword, I instead decide to seek out this trainer instead and punch his or her face so hard it breaks the space-time continuum. No questions asked. My sword is probably rusty as hell by now, anyway.
> Examine self and inventory. Well, you're clad in deep azure armor. You have a large rectangular shield, blue in color, with a cross of yellow on the front. Your blade is practical, efficient, in design and shape. While a bit wide, it also has a turgid point, lending itself well to slicing or stabbing. In addition to your sword, you always have your spiked gauntlets and bull-horned helmet. You're not sure what you look like under all this armor, though, if a you even exists in that sense of the word. > Punch the intruder. In the face. > Knock a pillar onto the intruder. You try your blade. Its white edge still draws from its scabbard, but you forego it in favor of NEGOTIATION and INTERROGATION. In other words, your fists. You briefly ponder using a pillar an improvised weapon. No, they're too bulky and heavy to use efficiently. You enter into the next chamber and immediately eye the threat: a short, skinny, pointy-eared boy. He looks at you pleadingly, terrified, as you approach. You register a new emotion for a second. Hesitation. This intruder is barely clothed and obviously malnourished. > Continue with extermination?
