I have this one, see? I up and decided that I was sick and tired of generic Tolkienesque fantasy settings, meaningless Lucasian prophecy-centric stories, Paolini-style cutouts instead of characters, MacHale-style Aesops about how you should be content to be mediocre, and the self-righteous Mary Sues who have become ubiquitous in recent times. So I did the logical thing and wrote a book ("Wrote" as in past tense).
It's about a bitter, introverted eighteenth-century social outcast who, in a twist of fate borne of a
Thirty Xanatos Pileup, winds up in the company of a bum, a farmer, his adopted father, and a malicious spirit; and before long he gets lumped with godly powers and a horrible curse that begins eating away at his humanity. In addition, he gets kicked out of his homeland in an incredibly unlikely turn of fortune, treks across a sunbaked desert, and unwittingly becomes the plaything of an anarchistic idealist, a stauchly capitalistic warlord, and a heartbroken God of Death. And those are the abridged cliff notes.
TL;DR: I'm going to push my anti-materialism on you, no matter how much you beg and plead.
ADDITIONALLY: In response to the OP: Are you aiming for a satirical flanderization of the high fantasy genre? Because that's the impression I'm getting.