There is a white wizard, cloaked in spellcraft and guile and a truly astonishing sense of self-righteousness, and he simply will not stop slaughtering The Chosen One until he kills me.
He must be such a sight, he has an actual white horse (I genuinely suspect he painted the poor beast) – and there he is, riding ramrod-straight into some tiny village or hamlet had previously known him primarily for his card tricks. Now he looks neither left nor right (which is problematic for oncoming traffic, and many a vegetable cart is overturned in the wake of his utter disregard for basic traffic courtesy) – but rides steadily on until he reaches a certain hut.
Then, eyes blazing like a carelessly-started forest fire, he raps imperiously on the door with his sorcerous stave. He informs the bewildered parents that he must see their offspring (he seems to have a habit of picking only children, for reasons about which I prefer not to speculate.) He gazes at the aforementioned moppet with a disturbing thousand-yard stare, and then suddenly proclaims that this is the child of prophecy, the Chosen One, the One who is destined to bring down the Dark Lord.
The parents seldom complain. The cause is so terribly just, the kids do eat a lot, and besides, you know what they say about wizards—“Never piss off a crazy person with a magical boom stick.”
So they pack the sprog off, with a few tears and a brave smile, and perhaps some pride and hope.
They never see the kid again.
Let’s be honest. Even a tiny patrol of orcs is more than a match for your average pre-adolescent, even if there are a couple of unemployed companions along for the ride. Maybe that wizard could do something, but he’s never around. There’s always some nebulous task he must accomplish, some vital but secret mission. He promises he’ll meet up with them later.
But he won’t. He’s off weaponizing some other urchin. Because he figures that, if he keeps throwing them at me, one of them will get through.
Hey, is that a knock at your door?