Completed Hotshot

[Lionel Leonhardt]

It was a hot and humid summer day in the market of the Alliran slums. What pockets of shade there was were crowded with middle-class peddler and low-born beggar alike, made more tolerant of each other in their sweltering suffering as they sought any refuge from the noon's endless heat. Farmers and apple venders lay laid-back on their carts or slouched on impromptu seats of closed crates and barrels. Their voices half-hearted as they preached their wares wearily into day. Curses echoed from blacksmiths as their already hot environment was made to be even more miserable, their harsh words pairing gratingly with the endless cry's of summer cicadas and chirping birds.

Every now and then a noble in a shaded wagon, followed by their personal entourage of sweating armored guards would stomp on by. Many were the glares of envy.

Of course, you were always welcome to take a dive into the many rivers that came through the merchant city, but most Allirian's - even Leonhardt - were sensible enough not to. These were the rivers of Aliria, and no sane folk would ever dive in, given what was often discarded there.

Though no matter how stifling the heat was, business carried on. People dragged themselves from stall to stall, from business deal to business deal, from wayward errand to routine grocery shopping, they slogged onwards. There was something to be said about an Allirian never missing a day at the market. It could be raining cats and dogs, the cobbled streets could be flooded with more water than stones, or could be suffocatingly hot and humid like it was now, if there was a profit to be made at the market, people were bound to be there.

Leonhardt wasn't about to miss a day either.

He had pulled a perfectly square crate into the circularly shaped market-center, conveniently located next to the fountain (where most people had taken to crowding, idly splashing their faces with water - or tossing copper coins in hope of a nice breeze), and had began proclaiming loudly and obnoxiously in his typical fashion.

"Aha! On such a day as this, there wouldn't happen mighty beasts that need to be slain? Any heroic quests in need of undertaking? Any . . . comely princes or princesses in need of a dashing rouge to save them? If there might be, you need but heed the call of I, Glorious Lionel Leonhardt! Any takers?"

Somewhere in the distance, as if on cue, a cicada sang.

 

[Hector]

Hector stared wide eyed at the self proclaimed hero, who stood so proudly upon his crate.

Marta huffed, gave a small groan and grabbed betwixt her pants. "I got your princess right here," she said with a self satisfied grin.

Hector cleared his throat. "Pickin fights, are we?" couldn't help but grin a bit himself. More so at the Knight's indulgence, than anything else.

"Tch," Marta clicked her teeth, and shoved Hector with one arm. "Don't think because you've survived a week in the city, you're worth a damn, half-ear,"

Hector adjusted the straps of his cuirass. dusted his shoulder with a sly smile, and an easy look in his eye. "Well, you did well preparing me at the Tenpenny,"

Marta's eyes narrowed, but her grin remained. "Last I recall, you tucked tail and ran,"

"Went off to investigate,"

"Find any hairs growing out the palm of you hand?"

Hector fought back the urge to laugh.

Marta grinned wider, victorious. "Oy, Hero!" she called out to the young man on the box. She was taller than him. Broader too, and in good plate. Sword at her hip, daggers at her back. "Come here, I got some questions for ya,"

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

"I got your princess right here"

Came the words from the brash stranger. Moments later came the laughter of the surrounding crowd. For but a moment the suffocating heat of the market square was drowned and forgotten out by the jovial quip. A few seconds later everyone remembered how hot and sweltering it was, and made to miserably wipe sweat from their foreheads or reach for a clay pitcher of water. Their smiles remained though, and giddy late-to-the-party cackles sputtered amidst the crowd's ambience. Some returned to their duties, others continued to watch the interaction.

Lionel, for his part, laughed too. His head thrown back in a jubilant gesture of enthusiasm, his long golden hair swinging flamboyantly in the process.

"Ha ha ha! Silly armored stranger, you are quite the riot! That's not a comely princess, that's a pair of trousers! Ha ha ha!"

Lionel stepped down from his crate, smiling an open teeth grin as wide as the day was long, and began bowing theatrically to the unamused crowd. Catching invisible roses, blowing kisses, though eventually stopping in a huff of disappointment when he realized no one was paying him any attention anymore.

He pouted slightly, and decided that if the crowd around him wasn't going to pay attention to his amazing razor sharp wit, mayhap his attention was better spent on the two strangers before him. He set his dull-green gaze upon them, and gleamed what features and traits he could as they bantered to each other a dozen strides away.

Both of them were tall and well-muscled, with strong stances and powerful bodies. The woman's companion especially. He stood all timid and introverted like, but even Lionel could see the bulwark of strength that shifted beneath his armor. Though they didn't look like the usual armored muscle common for this kind of slum. Their armor was maintained to a gleaming utilitarian perfection, and common thugs never cared that much for their gear. Their garments were simple and straightforward, but they weren't ragged or patchwork. . . Perhaps professional mercenaries?

"Oy, Hero!" came the girl's words again, and they took Lionel from his observational trance. He blinked once or twice, and then smiled merrily.

"Come here, I got some questions for ya,"

Lionel began swaggering forwards, his hands idly raising to relax inter-lock fingers and relax behind his head.

"Aha! Well you've come to the right person. For there is naught that glorious Lionel Leonhardt cannot tell you! Don't you know? A hero always has all the answers!"

He stopped his strut a pace or two away from the duo, and craned his head to meet Marta's gaze. Even with the distance between them, she was tall enough that he had to make an effort of looking upwards to maintain eye contact.

"How can this humble hero of the land be of service? Wait! Let me guess - do two warriors, such as yourselves, need another excellently equally awe-inspiring warrior to help you slay some wayward beast?"

 

[Hector]

Marta cocked a brow, her lips pursed with doubt. "Nay, nothing so grand, hero of the land," she said, her teeth sharp with humor.

Hector watched the Sworn knight a moment.

"You seem like a knowledgeable sort," Marta went on, looked about the market square, and wiped at her brow. Grabbed the loose cloth of her gambeson, and tried to fan herself. "Gods damn it, why did we decide to wear our kit today,"

Hector shrugged. "Helped instill a sense of authority, you said,"

Her eyes cut toward the squire. "No one-" a groan. "Never mind," her eyes came back to regard the golden haired young man, who seemed more a bard than a hero. "Look, we are, looking for something,"

Hector already had his bound pages out. Flipped through the fine paper, and landed on a page with strange markings writ across its surface in dusty black charcoal. He pointed at one in particular, a stylized eye, long and frayed at its edges, like a tear in fabric. "A cult, that bares this marking,"

Marta nod. "Call themselves, the Sightless," she turned her nose up at the name. "Ever heard of them?"

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

"Nay, nothing so grand, hero of the land,"

The playful joking bite of those words went right over his head as the "Hero" processed their literal meaning. Lionel pouted, doing his best to appear not too disappointed. It seems all he could do was hear of interesting things happening, mighty wild beasts that need slaying, never did he have the chance to actually do some of the slaying. Just his luck, he supposed.

Still, such blatant displays of sour emotions were unbecoming of a hero, and it wouldn't do to glower like some sullen child - no matter how desperate the urge was. But long were the hours and days of practice he had spent training to conceal such emotions. Half of it was slum life, deception was a common a trade as cobbling here. Lying could save your life in so many ways among the slums, and honesty was for the corpses in the river.

And for real heroes, Lionel thought sullenly, but soon he drowned the thought from his mind. A real hero wouldn't think like that, he told himself. He was a real hero, and real heroes didn't think like that.

So instead, he tilted his head to one side and shrugged helplessly, his smile remaining ever lax and uncaring.

"Ah, fret naught. Being the glorious Lionel Leonhardt I am, I am sure I will not have to wait long for such a venture. . ."

"You seem like a knowledgeable sort," Lionel smiled with unrestrained pride at the compliment, and the woman paused a moment to fan herself with the loose cloth of her gambesson,"Gods damn it, why did we decide to wear our kit today,"

"Helped instill a sense of authority, you said," her companion said.

"No one-" she groaned. "Never mind," she responded.

Now there was something more telling. . . "Kit" was a word that might've been used by professional mercenaries. Authority, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. . . Authority was either a rich man's word, or a noble's one. . .

"Look, we are, looking for something,"

Lionel tilted his head back upright, unrestrained curiosity dancing in his dull green eyes.

"A cult, that bares this marking". The companion of the woman had already began to procure a leather-bound book of fine paper and pragmatic charcoal handwriting. He flipped through a number of pages and presented Lionel with a sketch strange markings. The most notable of which was a stylized eye, elongated and worn out at the edges, almost like cloth ripped asunder. "Call themselves, the Sightless, ever heard of them?"

Lionel's smile was excited and passionate, and his eyes lit alight in blatant spirited enthusiasm. Two wayward warrior wanderers strut into the Allirian slums, no doubt skilled in arms and battle, seeking some mysterious cult called the Sightless? They must be knights of some religious order! How fascinating - it was just like a heroic quest! He felt himself chuckle, felt the giddy-ness of adventure swell in his chest. This was too perfect. He had to get in this. He absolutely had to - a hero would do naught less!

He smiled just a little bit wider.

"Can't say I've ever seen them personally, suppose that's fitting of ones who identify themselves as the 'sight-less'. . . Ha hah ha! That's just a little bit of a heroic joke there - but I would not be a true hero if I had not heard of their ilk uttered among the shadier slums of Alliria. Not much, but the name rings true among my memories. - Ehehe, as a hero, I make it my sworn oath to learn the names of all my would be foes."

He lied as confidently as his passion could deliver, turning his gaze side-face to one of the market's many off branching slums, as if to appear observationally thoughtful.

"The slums get all sorts who'd shy away from the light of day amidst the hustle and bustle of this humble market city, and anyone with coin could find reliable refuge here, if they had the resources to afford it."

He let a dramatic pause settle before he looked back.

"Of course, two noble and regal warrior-folk such as yourself might have a hard time getting about those slums. . . you know, being righteous and honest, like stray wandering paladins - not that there's anything wrong with that - 'tis just. . you might need a glorious hero of the people! Someone who wouldn't look. . too astray in these slums? Someone who might. . . be your guide?"

He extended his hands to either side of him like he was subtly gesturing to himself. To really seal the sell, he raised an golden eyebrow as enticingly as he could.

 

[Hector]

There was something in the way the stranger smiled that did not sit well with Hector. A something that turned into a knot in his stomach, a something that the squire had trouble keeping from the corners of his lips, and the arch of his brows. It wasn't just an ordinary doubt. But a weird worry. For this stranger, as much as for their own cause. Dark as it was.

If Marta felt any of it, she hid it too well for the younger Hector to tell.

That too worried him.

But, many things worried the half-elf, and he had gotten quite good at hiding most of his worries from those around him.

So, he watched, and listened. Quiet as Lionel fed them his confidence.

Marta smiled at his jokes, a dry quirk of the lips that bared her teeth, but hardly reached her hard eyes. She even chuckled some at the joke.

Hector made a sound, that almost sounded like worry. Tittered toward a laugh. A hero. A hero. This man, no. It was only the dirt that made him look a man. He was a boy. Just as wet behind the ears as Hector had been not so long ago. Did Lionel truly think himself a hero?

Or was it all an act. A brave face to-

The pause of silence between them pulled him out of his thoughts. Like a plug pulled out from a drain, his attention fell toward the young man and his golden hair.

"Of course, two noble and regal warrior folk-"

Marta snort, elbowed Hector in the ribs. "He think's we're regal," she sort of whispered. Laughed a little more, then nod along with Lionel's words.

Hector's brow knit into an arch. "I think-"

"Aye," Marta said confidently. "We'll need a guide, and you seem like the right sort,"

Hector gulped down a glob of spit. He wouldn't question Marta openly. He was a Squire, and she, a Knight Sworn. And, she was teaching him the ways of the city. Her way of handling business. He nod his agreement.

"But it's as you say, Master Leonhard," Hector added. "We look the part of wandering paladins, best we, dress the part of... the people,"

Marta glanced at Hector, sidelong. "Right, we should prepare to, better blend in," she added. Her glance fell back to the young man who so volunteered to guide them.

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

Lionel leaned back and crossed his arms as he awaited the response he knew was coming, his smug grin softening somewhat as he stood, his hip cocked sideways all confident and sassy like. A look of lax, assured confidence on his scrappy features. Now this is what a hero was all about. Collaborating with other the other influencers of the world and its storybook. To chat with the folk that mattered to the world, and to add his own narrative to each of them.

Some days he was talking to wisened sages and wizards, who knew more about the world than he could ever fathom. Of course - he'd get there some day, it wasn't like he planned dying an idiot - but right now he could explore the joy of not knowing. It was that funny feeling he got, discovering just a little more of Arethil, like a hero might do on their quest.

Of course, no one knew he knew nothing. It was like he said, a hero had all the answers, and he was a hero, obviously.

More often than not he was talking with people who didn't have the answers, and that was beautiful too. To be lost and alone with everyone else, drifting from moment to moment, from rival to villain, to established hero to unbelieved underdog. Those days were nice, but no one in Alliria had the answers, and he was tired of being in the dark. He wanted to be in the know for once. He wanted to have more than a tertiary or background part to play.

Today it was noble warriors, on a quest to seek out a cult, and likely destroy it. An adventure like all the others, but also so different and unique! Who were these people, their secret histories? What was their backstory and what were their goals? Why were they seeking this cult? What wrong had it done them? And here he was, offering to help them, to tag along and assist like only he could. It was thematic, coincidentally perfect. But reality wasn't a story-book, as much as he so desperately wanted it to be. Of course they would say no like -

"I think. . ." the younger of the two warriors started, and the words struck him from his internal train of thought.

"Aye," the elder said confidently. "We'll need a guide, and you seem like the right sort," and he felt his face fall flat for a second.

They had said yes.

That was a first.

He blinked once or twice again, staring back at his questioners. The lady was smiling, but she wasn't angry. Another first, most time folks stared at him and smiled like that, it was like they were mocking him. Or they were laughing at a joke he wasn't getting. For whatever reason that bit happened more often than not.

Her counter-part nodded supportively along. He had been silent and steady as an oak tree to Lionel's eyes, observant. Definitely not the kind of response anyone who wasn't taking him seriously would make. His brows were furrowed, but standing in that armor in this summer's heat, who wouldn't be a little uneasy?

"But it's as you say, Master Leonhard," he added. "We look the part of wandering paladins, best we, dress the part of... the people"

Master Leonhard, he said.

Lionel felt his smile widen again in a way he wasn't used to, and the cackle left his lips. That was odd too. Usually he had to force himself to laugh, this time it just happened.

"Right, we should prepare to, better blend in", his elder added, giving her counter-part what was no doubt a sly side-long glance of steady approval.

Lionel would not waste this opportunity. He clasped his hands, laughed his heroes laugh, and stepped forward into a sly, swashbuckler's curtsy.

"Then say no more! The Glorious Lionel Leonhardt, esteemed hero of the land, renowned to all, is at your service."

He rose, smiling his wide grin again.

"Pardon my manners, I don't believe I got your names. Could I, perhaps, know them? I can't exactly waltz about calling you 'Paladin one', and 'Paladin two', that would be unbecoming of a hero such as I! And besides, what's a name between fellow heroes such as ourselves?"

 

[Hector]

Hector cleared his throat. "Rook," he said simply.

Marta grinned wide. "Marta," she said, sharp toothed.

Rook looked down at the plate that smoothed across his chest, the leather swordbelt at his hip. "We will need to leave our equipment," he said and looked over to Marta. The older knight gave him a nod.

"Lionel, the uh... Glorious," Marta put forward. "How about we, rendezvous?"

Rook looked about, wiped the sweat that formed on his brow. "We can come dressed a little more," his eyes came back to the would-be-hero. "Prepared for the investigation,"

Marta nod, glad to here the word. "Well, glorious guide, what is a good place for us to begin this, adventure,"

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

Lionel leaned back into a sassy swagger, a stance favoring his left leg with the corresponding hip cocked outwards. He raised an index finger to his chin, and continued to smile.

"Lionel, Marta, and Rook. Bound to accost these sightless scoundrels, from every cranny, to every nook. . . " He giggled, a giddy laugh that was unabashedly more for himself than anyone else. "That sounds storybook . . Yeah. . . eheheheh"

"Lionel, the uh... Glorious," Marta put forward. "How about we, rendezvous?"

He blinked again, and he set his dull green gaze back upon the duo. Just in time to see Rook wipe sweat from his brow and give the market a wide glance.

"We can come dressed a little more," his eyes came back to the would-be-hero. "Prepared for the investigation,"

Lionel's smile widened bear-trap wide for a spiking second, and then it vanished beneath a look of exaggerated sage-like thoughtfulness. His eyes closed softly in wisened speculation, and his fingers grasped around his chin, as if to mimic some instinctive unconscious gesture of what was no doubt intensive internal critical thinking.

"You speak wise words, Marta and Rook, but of course I should expect naught less of such seasoned warriors such as yourselves." Lionel nodded once or twice to himself, and his eyes opened. With an excited alacrity, he sauntered forwards towards the duo - beginning to circle both of them like he was a tailor, keen on getting measurements.

"In terms of blending in . . . you should loose anything shiny. Find ill-maintained armor" He paused as his gaze caught a gleaming pauldron, "Or make it ill-maintained. Dent the metal with a pommel or mace blows, stitch your gambesson with ragged seams. . ." Lionel swiveled about to Marta's side, and squinted like an art critic. "Lose the authority and discipline in your kit"

His smile widened again, and he stepped back to a respectable distance before the duo. "Lose the shine in the gear. The knight's pride. . .Though keep it in your heart - for a true hero is naught without their pride!" he finished. And as if for emphasis on that last point, Lionel laughed his hero laugh, and struck a heroic pose. Fists on hips, chest puffed outwards, confidence poised and pouring out of every joint.

"Well, glorious guide, what is a good place for us to begin this, adventure,"

Lionel laughed again, perhaps a little too excitedly at this question in particular. His head thrown back again like before, his mouth agape in odd, physical joviality. It continued for an awkwardly long moment, drawing weird looks from various observers in the surrounding market place. When his laughter stopped, and his gaze finally fell back upon the duo, there was a tricky twinkle in his dead green eyes. His smile held a bit too tight. As if his face could not contain his excitement

"Ahahah! Ahhh - ahha . . . well, no prodigal heir's farmhouse home, that's for certain . . We're headed where any good heroes go on their merry adventures. We go where the trouble is. . and in Alliria, that's The Shallows. . ."