He had heard stories before about The Falling Gate, and about what lay beyond it.  Even though there was no rule that compelled people to go through it, and in spite of the fact that plenty had come back wounded, scarred, with pieces of themselves missing--or even worse, with nothing at all--most of the people in his village had at least faced the first doors. 


There was something about The Gate that called people, that encouraged them to take the chance, whispering to them that they might get lucky.  "People would rather risk everything than live with uncertainty," his father had once said, and it seemed wise at the time.  He remembered listening to his father talk about what he saw beyond The Gate, the various tests he faced, and how he chose.  About the room with the enormous hourglass, and about how his father simply waited for it to run out.  He had heard other people talk about the hourglass as well, though.  And at least one person, the Copyist, did not wait, but kept walking.


At any rate, he knew that it was time. Time to go through The Gate and see for himself.  So many of the stories he had heard were about the gate, people comparing what they saw, how they had chosen, what they came back with.  There were even arguments about what was the best path, whether to open the leaden box if you found it, whether if you happened to meet the grinning demon it was best to fight, to run, to hide. 


Once, glowing and fuzzy after a night at the tavern, he had dropped a few coppers in the Beggar's cup.  She cracked a flaky smile and asked if he wanted to know something.   He wasn't sure that he did, seeing as she smelt like dead skin, but she must have taken his hesitation for assent.  "I hhembraced the grinning demon!" She intimated, followed by a chuckle that soon turned into a racking cough.  He thought that was a pretty novel approach, whether she actually did such a thing or not.


All of which is to indicate that he was as well prepared for the moment as could be expected.  Perhaps more than average, for he did enjoy stories.  He had turned all the different versions together in his mind, boiling them, reducing them, interpreting where appropriate and filling in blanks where some were hesitant to offer details.  When he reached a certain age, he began to want more than stories however, and this was the day that he decided to go for himself.