Truth is Stranger than Fiction

It was a small relatively quiet town, lots of farms, and the usual slice of society. The rich, the wanna-be rich, and the poor. It was as good a place as any other, better than most in fact by his estimation. No matter where he went he knew everyone, he'd stood in the Hot Gates, shoulder to shoulder with his king, slaying the Persian scum who had come to impose their will on his people. Designer, architect, and ruler of Rome, he'd built it and burned it. From the beaches of Normandy to the jungles of Vietnam, he served in every army that had ever marched across the world. Ruin, death and destruction were his shadow, his closest confidants and only friends. They cried out his name in every tongue left under the sun and many that now no one knew but he. The summons had come in his childhood, into his dreams the visions had come of all he must do to give them one last chance to turn away from the madness that now consumed the world. Even at that young age he'd possessed his gift, usually one grew into this but his was the oldest soul ever to walk the earth so he'd been born awake and in the times when he appeared to all to be in other places, he'd written the tale that even now unfolded on the world.