Private Tales Writer's Block and the Hero of Alliria

[Arthur Wilde]

Arthur sighed. Heavily. Dramatically. His world may as well have been ending, for his hand could not make itself write. On his lap sat his journal and next to him, on the stone half-wall where he rested, was his inkwell. It was messily set up, so small splatters of ink seeped into the stone. He twirled his pen around in his fingers and sighed again. Then, he rested his chin in his palm, leaning his elbow against his thigh.

"Oh, what is happening to me?" he cried. A few disconcerted faces glanced his way, be he ignored them. His professor of poetry had specifically assigned him a long-term project of a grand work, at least eighty poems long. And Arthur had not a clue what he would write about. Living in Alliria for so long (more specifically the Inner City), he'd seen it all! There was nothing left in Alliria for him to write about (of course, he could venture out of the Inner City to do so, but was too lazy to step foot into anything that wasn't a neighboring town with a mysterious rumor). He'd written about the nobles and their secrets. He'd written about the traders his parents had meetings with at their dining room table in the manor. He'd even written about his roommate whom he shared his life with for the first year of his life in college, when he was required to stay within the dormitories and they'd accidentally let more students in than they had rooms for. Arthur's old roommate, by the way, was a very uninteresting man. But desperate times call for desperate measures. And now, when Arthur was desperate and his imagination escaped him, he had no measures left to turn to. The only thing he could do was travel to a neighboring city -- maybe Elbion would be grand enough -- and rediscover life abroad. But that would mean he'd miss classes indefinitely.

Arthur moaned. He'd moved on from sighing. Sighing wasn't giving him enough relief. He told himself, "I need a hero. I need a wonderful hero to miraculously arrive before me and give me a story to write." Admittedly, Arthur had never met a real hero. He'd met a soldier once, but that man was a drunk and not interesting enough to write poetry about. Poetry had to be beautiful and grander than life. The drunk soldier was too drenched in stinking reality to waste whimsical words over.

He was just within the boundaries of the Inner City. He sat for hours, until night crept over the sun and dampened its light. The stars showed themselves, shining down on Arthur and mocking him. Arthur groaned, one last final noise ripping from his throat, and buried his head into his journal.

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

Leonhardt had always loved books. After all, they were the number two avenue of stories, and Lionel loved stories. However, a lot of people who read books, in his mind, the world could do without. Most readers were fine really, after all he was definitely a reader, and he definitely could read, and he was more than fine by all accounts. But no matter where one traveled to in the world, if there's a library, there's those kinds of readers. Those people that you see on fenced off courtyard benches, or austere library desks, or people that have enough affluence for a personal study. They sit there, book in one hand hand, a tea cup held in the other (pinky out), all the while bearing the obnoxious expression of "oh, look at me, I'm reading a three-thousand page treatise on some obscure topic that a plebian like you couldn't possibly comprehend. Now begone as I lose myself in the intricate wonder of some dead king who introduced aqueducts to the upper merchant class of Alliria" kind of people.

First of all, it was a book, not an ancient evil sorcerer's labyrinth hell-bent on torturing a prospective hero. You couldn't get lost in pages unless you buried your face in the parchment like it was a pie-eating contest. And then somehow miraculously went blind.

It was just that these kinds of people were quintessential tower folk. Crenellation sitters. Palanquin enjoyers. The kind of people who would ferry out to an oncoming legendary battle, and bring a spyglass to observe from a regally safe distance. Where the blood and glory wouldn't stain their fine handkerchiefs.

Lionel, was different. He wasn't like these book enjoyers, these tower folk. If one of these people was going to read an adventurous story about some glorious hero slaying a dragon, or rescuing a prince or princess from a random tower, Lionel would go slay a dragon, or save a prince or princess. Nothing irked him more than the idea of reading about something cool, as opposed to doing it himself.

Take for your example, your typical commoner revenge melodrama. Say, for instance, that there is a Glorious hero named , some random every-day name like, Lionel Glorious Leonhardt, in the slums of Alliria. He exists there, kicking evil-doer ass. Being beautifully charming and grand, yet also humble and relatable to the common folk's trouble.

Then, one wayward midnight, a group of merchant class academy students (And their hired bodyguards) waltz into the outer city to party with the people. Not uncommon, really, and even quite admirable, as most students stick to the cloistered comfort of the inner city's establishments. Most of the students are fine. They are bookworms, and even when drunk and perhaps a little obnoxious, they are no more drunk and obnoxious than just about everyone else there. It makes for a good time.

Problems arise however, when one student, Theodore Harkenright, gets a little big for his bootstraps. After one too many tankards of spiced rum, they start mocking the tavern dwellers for their "lack of culture" and "general ratty fashion", and "lack of education regarding the things that truly matter." A squadron of plate-mail and hired halberds keeps any one with common sense from biting back.

Thankfully, Lionel just so happened to be there, and when this glorious, morally justified hero stands up from his corner booth at the back of the bar and challenges this upstart to a duel of honor, this arrogant academic hides behind his hired muscle and skips town back to his fancy estate!

At this point, a tower folk reader would take a sip from their tea, and turn the page to the next chapter.

Lionel, however, had just scaled the wall of the Inner City at the break of dusk. His calloused fingers and palms pulling himself just over the mighty crest of the Inner City's crenelated walls and onto the stone walkway just as the day guard had wandered off to swap shifts with their nightly counter-part. Their metallic footfalls slowly clattering off into the bustle of the city. Silver-stars sparked amidst a slowly darkening navy blue sky, which at the fringes was tainted with the deep reds and oranges of a setting sun. Lionel exhaled, and smiled his hero's grin as he crossed the meter-length width of the wall's walkway in lengthy, cocksure strides. Arriving at the edge, he wasted no time in promptly dropping himself onto the roof of the nearest building. He didn't stop to ponder if it was some noble estate, the garrison of guards for this section of the wall, or even the residence of some intrepid poet with a sore case of writer's block. . . His mind was elsewhere currently.

He would have his duel with this Harkenright. And people would write about it.

 

[Arthur Wilde]

Arthur spent a moment with his head in his journal. And then a few moments more. His mind was blank, empty, hollow. Nothing swam there. Not a single thought. He could force himself to think, but didn't bother to find the energy or the will.

What he wanted was to write something classical. An epic story about an epic hero. It would be long-winded but its length and pacing would be essential to the narrative and thematic elements of the tale. It would be taught in schools and children would hate it, only to learn later in life of its grandness. That's what Arthur wanted. And truthfully, that's all Arthur's ever wanted. He's wanted to be known.

The thing about being the son of a nobleman, no matter how low on the hierarchy, is that it is that son's father who is famous. The son is always cast in the shadow of his father. And the father does not give room in the sunlight for his son. But Arthur was okay with this. He didn't want to be a noble forever. He wanted to be a writer. He wanted to be great and everyone knew noblemen were far from great.

When he lifted his head from his journal, a smudge of ink stained on his forehead from where he'd written his name in the corner of the page -- his signature and the way he began all of his writing, just so he could test out the pen -- Arthur spotted a strange figure on the rooftops. Arthur tilted his head, a curious hound.

"Huh," he whispered to himself.

Then, he stood up and followed.

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

Leonhardt was running from rooftop to rooftop now. Not for any real reason other than he felt it was something a hero might do. After-all, everyone walked the streets, and heroes were oft elsewhere than where everyone was. He needed no more reason than that. With the wind in his wavy golden hair, and a smile brazen upon his scrappy features as he crested the pointed triangular top of the building he was currently on top of, and without a moment to waste he began his sprint across the downward incline of the roof towards his next destination. The footsteps - despite being fast and hard-coming - fell soft and muted in the air, tiny little clicks in the night as he stomped towards the bottom lip of the roof he was on. Even now as he was sprinting, he knew the trick of deafening one's footsteps was an Allirian one. One of the brewed from the harsh gang-ridden violence that was the Areck Slums where passing unseen would save you from a sure slaughter.

In the obscure way time briefly slowed at the zenith of his adrenaline, right before his steel-toed boot breached the edge of the roof and he made to leap, a thought entered his mind.

He would always be a hero, no matter what life availed him with. That was a certainty.

But would he always be an Allirian? Did he want to be one? To be able to skulk unseen? Was that something a hero even did?

Then he was soaring through the air towards the next steep rooftop, propelled by a sure-footed jump that had him flying through the air. And here he felt free. Unchained, unrestrained by whatever binds withheld his heroic self to the ground. Like his organs were free-floating in his own body, like his soul was floating too. He found himself laughing unbidden, though definitely not unwanted.

Though just a moment before his left arm could grab the cold-stone certainty of the next roof's shingles and ensure that he didn't fall to his death, gravity ensnared him, and dragged him towards the world's craterous embrace with the gentle grip of a kind reaper. His left palm cupped naught but air and swished past the shingles, mere inches out of reach.

I'm going to fall. He thought in a flashing dread. That wouldn't be very heroic.

The whistling winds by his ear became dead silent as he began to fall, and that silence might have been the last sound he heard (or lack there of) if he didn't do something! With a heroic will! Yeah! - a heroic will! Definitely not a panic-induced terror - he compelled his right arm to swing fourth and make a reach for the stone shingles.

The chill feel of clay tiles came for less than half a second, he had grabbed the roof! Then suddenly, Leonhardt's senses were concussed by a sudden blunt impact to his face and body. There was scraping, and a blunt bashing that came all at once, and somehow the shock compelled his eyes shut. His face felt welt, and there was a grunted smooshed noise that shot out into the air. His voice, he was late to realize.

It took him a precious few seconds to realize that he swung into the building's stone wall as he had grasped the edge of the roof, and a precious few more to realize that he was still hanging.

He laughed haggardly at this absurd realization, and shook his head as he swung his left arm onto the roof's shingles. His arm felt somehow leaden after the impact, and it took him a great deal more effort than it might've usually taken to pull himself up onto the roof. He rolled onto it with an emphatic sigh and another set of air-less cackles, and as he regained his bearings and breath, he reached for his face and found the source of wetness was naught but a bloodied nose.

Ah well. It adds to my scrappy exterior. I hear a scarred nose is all the aesthetic these days.

He chuckled, rose, and scaled up towards the triangular pointed top of the building he was now on top of. He had to lean on all-fours as the roof's slanted steepness drastically increased as he got nearer the top, but he had no to trouble swinging himself up onto the top once he got close enough to grab it with his hands. He took a seat at the zenith and propped his right shoulder against a conveniently located chimeny stack, his legs dangled freely off the roof's other slanted edge.

It was here he got a good view of the inner-city at large beneath the moonless sky. The Inner-City, much to Leonhardt's innate Allirian-slumrat chagrin, was beautiful. The romantic in him could not help but admire just the grandure of the place. The spires and towers and grand-stone mansions that populated the walled-mazework of the Inner-City may have been founded on a bed-rock of greed and gold, but the result was no-less beautiful. It was a glorious diarohma of mansions, private gardens, picteresque cobbled streets and wide-tiled market squares, adorned with fountains and statues and shops and restaurants. All illuminted by the spotted amber comfort of lanterns and torches and candlelights behind glass.

His ears twitched, hearing something before Lionel had, and his attention was now elsewhere.

Elsewhere happened to be to his left, on the street that this house in particular belonged to, and that sound he had heard was nothing else other than footfalls on cobble. The street was mostly empty at this hour, most denizens off at other more populated districts probably, and the Hero's mind took a shot in the dark and guessed it was likely a patrol guard.

Then again, the footsteps weren't metal, and there wasn't that typical metal clamor of a guardsman. So maybe not.

He looked over his left shoulder towards the sound of approaching footsteps, and pouted when he found that the various rooftop archetexture, chiminies, and odd angles didn't spare him a glance. He saw bits though, between chimney's and tiled ridges. a splash of dity blonde hair. A luxurious white tunic, perhaps a lute hanging over a shoulder?

Leonhardt's grin came to his face in a flash, toothy and cheek to cheek. Whoever it was, it wasn't a guard, and that was enough for Lionel to raise his voice towards the semi-distant figure.

"Oh? Have I company, this star-bound eve?" He bellowed into the metropolis sprawl, heroic camp blatant in his booming voice.

 

[Arthur Wilde]

Arthur followed. For a long time. It was hard to keep up. His mystery figure moved across the rooftops with expertise. He was a natural shadow. A natural talent. Arthur smiled as he ran. He wasn't used to running. Wasn't used to any sort of physical activity, but as far as he was aware it took experience in order to move around like his mystery figure was. He'd found his man.

Around corners and through the streets that Arthur was so familiar with they went. Arthur found that looking up, he was seeing the Inner City from a whole new perspective. The sky was wide. The buildings were tall. The city was huge. Living in it his whole life meant that every year Alliria shrank. Or, the Inner City shrank. He didn't venture much further unless his imagination took him there. This mystery figure would take him there.

SMACK!

Arthur halted. His mystery figure fell. Face first into the side of a building. If Arthur squinted, he could make out a tiny circle of red blood. The man had smacked his nose.

Arthur grimaced. He took a step back. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe his romantic tendencies had led him the wrong way once again. But now he was the stuck. He watched awe-struck, though not out of awesomeness, as the man heaved himself back onto the roof and then promptly noticed Arthur's presence.

Arthur had to tilt his head all the way back in order to look up at the man. It was like looking up into the sun. Arthur had to squint.

It took a moment before Arthur finally answered. He was a bit too dumbfounded to be totally focused. His face probably reflected that. He shook his head, desperate not to look too dumb before saying, "Oh. Um. Yes! I mean, I saw you running on the rooftops." Arthur pointed back to the approximate point that the two began their chase. If one could call it that. "You, um. You aren't by any chance," Arthur felt idiotic, "a hero?"

He immediately cringed at his own words. And he was meant to be a writer, dammit.

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

"You aren't by any chance. . . a hero?"

It was like music to his ears.

Leonhardt had lived his entire life doing countless heroic things. I mean - he hadn't killed a dragon, or saved royalty from a tower, or really anything that was in the books, but for Alliria he was a gods damned champion of heroics. He had beat up thugs, saved people from pick-pockets, bought that one round of drinks for everyone that one night. He had definitely swashbuckled with a lot of people. From deckhands, to bodyguards, to like - that one really rough bruiser on the fishmonger sreet. In his eyes, in everything but those specific deeds in the book, he was a legend! Yet - despite that - no one had actually refered to him as a hero! It was about time!

Pride welled about his features, and a bright toothy grin as wide as the day was long flashed across his face like wildfire to pitch. He took a moment to just bathe in the glory, taking a great deep breath of air, hoping he could just drink the moment in.

Then he opened his eyes and actually took a moment to gaze upon who had called him a hero. If he was the first, it was a face he wanted to remember.

Tilting his gaze downwards towards the man in the street, he squinted and did his best to drink in all his features. He was short, but notably taller than Lionel, and sported a head of dirty blonde hair, and a hide of tanned skin that suggested that he didn't really sit indoors all day. He was well-off money wise too, judging by his clothes. Nice tunic, embroidered leather boots, and the lute over his shoulder was no doubt expensive, but that wasn't all it. Those were the details, the finer print.

For one, half his forehead was smudged blank with ink, and it didn't look like the stranger particularly minded that this present moment. For another, there was somthing about his voice too. It was practiced, melodic. Like someone had taken a poetic whetstone to it. Lastly, he looked to be vaguely sweaty, like he had been running after Lionel all this time. . . Or away from something else . . . perhaps he needed Lionel's help fending off some brigands. . ?

Lionel stood up, and laughed his heroes laugh.

"Ha ha ha! Guilty as charged, intrepid stranger!"

He flourished - a wide and sweeping bow that left him bending ninety degrees at the waist.

"Lionel GLORIOUS Leonhardt!" He said, and then rose taking a heroic pose. Chest puffed out, fists on hips.

"How might I be of service?"

Arthur Wilde

 

[Arthur Wilde]

Arthur was beginning to think he'd made a mistake. This Lionel Glorious Leonhardt seemed a little like an idiot. And now that Arthur had a good look at him, it was clear the man was really barely a man at all. He was a boy. Definitely younger than Arthur, though not by much. Through Lionel's entire dramatic introduction, Arthur couldn't help but stare with his mouth agape. He was a fool who'd chased after another fool.

Whatever. People liked to read about fools. Foolish heroes were always the most interesting. Arthur cleared his throat.

"I'm, um," Arthur gulped, "a bit ashamed to admit this, but I'm a poet. And I've been assigned with writing an epic poem -- you know, the ones about heroes that overcome a great challenge to achieve chivalry. I thought I'd write about a modern Allirian hero and," Arthur shut his eyes. He'd never been more embarrassed. "I thought maybe you were one?"

He regret making it sound like a question. His last intention was to offend Lionel. In fact, he seemed interesting enough to at least warrant good company. At the very least, Arthur wanted to get away with a night of drinking with someone who could tell him a story.

"I'd like," Arthur felt like he was sweating under the gaze of Lionel Glorious Leonhardt, "if you'd have me," Arthur wiped his brow and found he was, in fact, sweating, "to join you on one of your adventures."

What on earth had he gotten himself involved in?

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

The man was nervous, even Arthur could tell that much his roof-top perch. The ciruclar golden light from a neighboring lamplight definitely helped him see this, which shone upon the poet like a beam from the heavens, or like a spotlight would in a theatre on an actor's famed monologue. Though the hero was certain he would've totally been able to discern that unease in pitch darkness. After-all, he was Lionel Glorious Leonhardt, and he was just that good. Totally that good.

The poet's speech - while eloquent and musical, was stammering and hesitating. The tone of his words was almost a little bit ashamed, embarrased, and the intrepid hero was definitely certain that the poet's face was not just red because of the running. His eyes were shutting - as if he couldn't handle the import of what he was saying, and just who he was saying it too. Lionel's smile widened at this.

He had an adoring fan, obviously, who was just a little nervous to see a glorious hero in the flesh, out and about adventuring! In the presence of his such kickass, of-the-people legendary-ness-

- He paused for a moment to briefly wipe the blood from his nose with the back of his hand as he thought this certified cool guy internal monologue -

- It was just that he was so nervous, that this poet, someone who's whole purpose was practiced charm and poised charisma, was stammering. That HAD to be it. He was just being humble with the way his assertations were framed like questions! Questions that sounded awfully like the speaker doubted their integretiy! Like they were stupid questions!

He wiped the thought from his mind before he could really examine the implications of that last bit, more so because he was distracted by the ending of this poet's speech.

He wanted to join him, on an adventure. What perfect timing.

He wanted to follow him on his adventure. His adventure to humiliate Theodore Harkenright in a duel of honor. A poet. An author, wanted to follow him.

He would have his duel with Harkenright, and people would write about it.

He let a moment of dramatic silence fall after the poet had asked his questions. Really drawing out the moment as he stared down at this poet in his smug happiness. Allowing his stoic grandure as a badass hero to really settle in. . . Would he accept this humble poet's offer? Would he, Lionel GLORIOUS Leonhardt, be so awesome? He took in a deep breath, cackled as he exhaled, and pointed a rigid index finger down to the poet. His other hand remained on his hip, holding his heroic pose.

"Ha! Ha! Ha! Well intrepid poet, your fortune could not be greater! For I happen to be on a quest this very eve! A quest for the honor of the outer city, you see!"

He raised his index finger towards the star-bound sky, and clutched it into an iron fist, as if to signify the import of this moment.

Then, suddenly, he leaped from his perch on the roof! Not forward, but to his left, as he made a dramatic -really ham'd up jump - towards the lampost! He laughed as he caught it (perhaps a bit too roughly on the impact, dramatic personage aside, he was really excited, and even a hero as totally badass as him had trouble concealing that from time to time).

Sliding down the lampost, he leaned slightly outwards. His legs wrapped around it lazily while his right hand grasped the post. His left hand dangled, radically. This was a classic new trick he was trying, to signify how much of a careless bad-boy renegade he was. There was always one of those in the books. It was either the hero, or his equally badass rival that people ended up liking more.

Eventually, he his boots hit the cobbles, and he wasted not a moment striding fourth about an arms-length away from the poet. He made a mental note on how he had to look up to meet the poet's gaze. Annoying. Perhaps he could get platforms for his boots. It would not do to keep looking up like this. He shook the thought from his mind though, as a more important question left his lips.

"Tell me, intrepid poet of Alliria. O'student of artistic academia. . . Do you know of one Theodore Harkenright? A fellow student of yours, perhaps?"

Arthur Wilde

 

[Arthur Wilde]

As a matter of fact, Arthur did know a Theodore Harkenright. And Arthur hated him. He was stubborn, obnoxious, a bit older than Arthur, and undeniably stuck-up. He was rich, but not quite noble, so Arthur was a source of conflict and jealousy despite the fact that almost every single one of the students at the college was also of the same socio-economic status.

Arthur sighed, "Yes. Unfortunately, I do know him. And he does happen to be a fellow student."

It was curious that this boy, younger even than Arthur and definitely not from a noble or rich family, would know Theodore Harkenright. Arthur always assumed, with what Theodore would say in class, that he would stay far away from anywhere that wasn't the inner city. Then again, Arthur didn't talk to Theodore and didn't ever plan on it. Until today, he supposed.

"What do you want with him?" Arthur furrowed his brow.

He desperately hoped that whatever grand adventure they were about to embark on didn't involve Theodore too closely. If he had to go back to school after getting in a sword-fight (not that Arthur had a sword or anything close to one) or out-drinking him in a contest he would most certainly lose and come back sore. Theodore would spread the news and Arthur would have to drop out due to embarrassment.

On the other hand, whooping his ass and succeeding sounded very tempting.

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

"Yes. Unfortunately, I do know him. And he does happen to be a fellow student."

Lionel observed what he thought was a wide variety of emotions on the stranger's face at the mention of this villian of the Upper City, this Harkenright. None of those emotions looked pleasant by Lionel's reckoning, especially that sigh the poet made before he spoke about him. That much was good. So far it seemed Theodore wasn't a popular person, even here. That much meant Lionel would have an easier time kicking his ass, or at least less swords at his hide should things get popular. Lionel was just about to open his mouth and spout more of his usual heroic banter, until the second part of the stranger's words rang out in the empty urban air.

"What do you want with him?" , said the poet with a frown. Lionel's tongue froze in his mouth, and he stood stock still for a second.

Now here was a dillemma. . . He could be honest, and just outright say he wanted to kick the pompous kid's ass in a humiliating fashion for his own personal reasons, but honesty - even heroic, morally justified honesty - often did not get Lionel results. . . And Lionel hated that. He really did. Doing the right thing here likely meant the end of his adventure. That simply would not do.

Lionel would have his duel, and people would write about it.

Then there was the alternative, lying. Lionel's own face frowned slightly as he turned the idea over and over in his head. . . He could spin a more justified reason for humiliating this Theodore . . . Perhaps inventing a crime the student did not commit, something that would enable even this stranger to lead him to the villian. It had to be a crime though that wasn't too intense, because then the poet would just get the guards, and that defeated the point of this whole adventure. What good was a duel if twelve boring ass guards beat him to it.

Then again . . . Was lying like this something a hero did?

He burned the idea in his brain, and spoke before he had fully think over the implications from that train of thought. A hero did not think things like that. He was a hero.

"This . . . deviant, Harkenright, has done me a dishonor, and done the outer city a dishonor. . ." His features unstuck themselves, and Lionel began to frown with a zealous anger. "He waltzed into our home, slandered us all, smashed up the tavern, hid behind his hired halberds, and when I went to duel him, he ran." Lionel snarled, revealing a notably chipped canine tooth.

Behind this donned mask of faux righteous fury, Lionel smiled. This would do. Harkenright did slander the outer city, did run behind his hired guards, these were truths . . but Arson was never part of the story. . . And the honor part was really all Lionel, but who was keeping score on these things anyway? Not this stranger, that was for certain.

On the topic of which, he shifted his gaze back from the void between them, and looked straight into the poet's eyes. He put on his best visage of resolve, and crossed his arms all surly like.

"I mean to pay him back the favor."

He paused for a moment, letting his anger cool - and pondering the poet's previous words. He did say he had wanted to play a part. . . but Lionel didn't want to drag anyone else down on his supposedly totally justified quest.

". . . If you want to join me, by all means! But I would hardly like to see you get bismirched and disgraced in the chaos of my quest. And so, knowing this, should you wish to part ways, I shall not hold it against you. That would be unheroic of me, and I am not unheroic.

That bit he really was genuine about, and his practiced features faltered for a moment as he recalled the last time he got someone dragged in his heroics. He shook the thought from his head again, golden lockes swishing too and fro, and then suddenly stopping as he looked back at the poet.

. . Then again. . . if he just wandered about the about the city, shouting for Harkenright, he would just attract the guards. That never ended well either. . .

"But, if you would like to lead me to his residence, or where he might be this eve, so I might rattle his rich-born behind with my magical steel sword, I would owe you a debt of gratitude on my honor as a Hero!"

Arthur Wilde

 

[Arthur Wilde]

"He hired guards to go to the outer city?" Arthur rolled his eyes and groaned. Harkenright was a right asshole. He wasn't even important. There was no need to hire guards to protect him in the outer city. Unless, of course, he planned to make trouble and get away with it. Which he did. Still, it was ridiculous.

Then, it came back to him. That one time during Arthur's first year at the college when Theodore absolutely humiliated him in front of the rest of his class, ripping his first ever assignment to shreds. Yes, the piece was bad, very bad, but that didn't warrant outright bullying. That was cliche and if Arthur hadn't been ravaged with anger and on the brink of tears, he would have laughed at the dramatics of it all. So, Arthur decided, not only had Harkenright already disgraced him, he was due for some good-old-fashioned revenge.

"Actually," Arthur scratched at his chin, "I don't mind at all joining you. Writing an epic in which someone I hate is made out not only to be the villain, but also a fool, would be beyond a dream come true."

Arthur started to pace. A plan was forming.

"Going straight to Harkenright's door would be stupid. Not only is his house most likely guarded considering he apparently travels with them, but there would be no one there besides his family to even watch the duel happen."

Yes! If they were going to humiliate Theodore, defeat him in respectful combat and them stomp on him a bit more when he was down, then they would need an audience. And Arthur wanted some of his peers to watch.

"We'll need to lure him out. Get him to a tavern -- in the inner city, of course, so that the people who witness his defeat will know exactly who he is and what is happening to him."

An event would draw him out. Something drawn out and advertised. Harkenright liked to seem important. So something important was exactly what would catch his attention.

"He likes to drink. And I know that he frequents the The Drunken Bell. If we can get him there, and get his friends to watch him, then we've set him up for failure."

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

"Actually," The poet scratched at his chin, "I don't mind at all joining you. Writing an epic in which someone I hate is made out not only to be the villain, but also a fool, would be beyond a dream come true."

Then the stranger got this real thoughtful look on his face, and began to pace.

Then began to monologue.

The poet's plan came out in inspired flashes of intelligence, and it was all Lionel could do to not stand there like a hound in the rain. His plan came in simple segments: Lure Theodore out of his house away from his guards (something Lionel did not even consider, especially on the lack of glorious witnesses), get him out in public - perhaps one of his favored watering holes (An excellent idea!? Duel this man infront of his peers? Oh the Drama!), and invite his own personal friends along!? Golden. Golden idea. This was exactly the kind of melodrama he wanted to enact, the kind of book he wanted to star in. It was unique and juicy and evocative!

It took Lionel an embarrasingly long moment to realize that he had lost his heroic posture listening to this poet's plan. His hands had fallen from his hips, his shoulders slouched, he was actually leaning forward, like an absorbed simpleton - which was completey untolerable! He was a fellow genius! There was no way in whatever hells there were that he should be caught slouching! He corrected his posture quickly, and resumed his heroic stance.

This whole scene of the poet's intelligent on-the-moment plan caused Lionel to reconsider his view of the stranger. A few moments ago he thought this man was naught more than a nervous adoring fan, but now he was seeing beyond the narrative. Beyond the heroics.

In a quite sobering moment, he was beginning to grasp how intelligent this stranger was, this random someone that had called to him from the streets.

This was not a fan, this was a person, and a razor-witted one at that. Another character in his stories.

"The Drunken Bell. . ." Lionel echoed, rubbing his chin, and doing his best to sound like he was on an equal playing field when it came to intelligence. Which he totally was. Definitely

"I'll admit, I know naught of this intrepid tavern, or who this . . . Harkenright coerces with. . . I am afraid I must leave that aspect of our mutual revenge up to thou . . . but I do know how I might get him to show up at such a hollowed hour."

Of course, Lionel totally did not know such a bait, but now would not be the time to appear unprepared or unintelligent. He raked his brain for a solution, brow furrowed and all. He turned his gaze leftwards, mostly to hide whatever his features might betray of his nervousness behind a screen of golden hair. He pretended to look at the moon - or whatever happened to be in the sky at that time.

What did that damn Harkenright say when he last saw him? Mostly it was about how stupid the outer-city folk were, how uncultured, how unfashionable. . . What would be a heroic way to totally bait him out? What would fit the narrative?!

Of course, everything Lionel could think of involved something he did not posess. Fancy piece of clothing? Not a chance. Connection to a famous author or academic? Definitely no chance. . . But then again he could just lie. He wasn't bad at that, but it had to be a clever enough lie that Harkenright would believe if, even if he wasn't the one telling it. After-all, it was not like he could strut up to Harkenright's door in what ragged scraps - I mean - His "Cloak of Shadows" and request that Harkenright meet him at the Drunken Bell to totally not get his ass kicked.

He realized he was getting angry, and he clicked his tongue in his mouth. Normally anger was a totally badass heroic feeling that made the heroes in the stories so strong, they could do things like kill dragons. But anger was a thing for combat, not for cunning, and the running anger only made it that much harder to think.

He paused for a moment, there was something in that. . .

He looked back to the poet, a flash of inspiration in his dull-green eyes, and a heroic smile back upon his lips.

"I will . . . relunctantly admit, as much of a glorious hero I am, I have naught of import to bait him out. Like any true hero, I care naught for wealth or affluence, I am a true hero. I only care for the adventure! But alas, this leaves me without any cool gaudy gifts to which we might bait him. If you have any ideas. . . I am open ears to your razor sharp wit. . .But. ."

He paused and turned back to his left, adding a dramatic pause to his monologue.

"Harkenright is not renowned for a cool head. . . Failing anything that might drag him out in a merry mood - only to be smashed to smithers by our combined efforts of heroic vengeance! We could always lure him out with his own anger. . . Provoke him, mayhaps allude to someone spreading foul rumors, or bismirching his good name."

Lionel looked back, and smiled gleefully.

"I can assure you, I am not lacking in ways to bismirch his 'good name' . . . but 'tis just an idea."

He cocked his head sideways, and looked at the poet for his response.

Arthur Wilde

 

[Arthur Wilde]

Arthur cocked his head, thinking. "Then," he said, "You want to spread rumors about him?"

He though on this for a moment. He didn't know Harkenright exceptionally well, but did understand how he thought of himself as a genius and mastermind of prose. It would be easy enough to lure him out if he was offended.

But, no. Arthur remembered something even better. Sasha.

He snapped his fingers, nearly jumping into the air as he did. He couldn't help but laugh as well. It would be perfect.

"I've got it!" Arthur declared. "Harkenright is sweet on a girl, obsessed with her. Sasha Dunwitty. All three of us are in college together. Sasha isn't the biggest fan of his and it's obvious she'd rather be around anyone else, but Harkenright is convinced the two of them will have their happily ever after."

The pacing commenced once more, "If we can spread a rumor that Sasha is seeing someone else, perhaps you or I," Arthur pointed between the two of them, "then he'll come running in a heartbeat! And he'll be ready for a fight."

It was perfect. All he had to do was find Sasha and get her in the place they needed her to be, which couldn't be too challenging. She also frequented the Drunken Bell. As a matter of fact, Arthur could recall someone mentioning in passing that Sasha's uncle owned the place. He bet Sasha even worked there from time to time. Maybe they could even convince Sasha to go on an actual date with one of them?

 

[Lionel Leonhardt]

Romance. Gross.

Lionel's lips pursed like a child's might be upon being offered vegetables. If there was any one aspect of the heroic legend that he didn't understand, and furthermore didn't like, it was the focus on romance. Save a princess from hell to marry her. Kiss a sleeping prince so he might save the kingdom for you. Save a childhood friend from bandits. Save from damsel from some liscivious rapscallions in a run down tavern. It always was someone saving someone else too - never just two people bonding over heroic ass kickings.

Romance was always the key to a happily ever after, and it was icky. Lionel wanted no part of it. Especially not in his badass heroic legend.

Still, he folded the poet's plan over and over in his mind, and as relunctant to dance with even the most platonic crumb of romance in his adventures, it would be a worthy and effective one for luring Harkenright out. It's not like he had any actionable ideas either. Plus, he could always just brush over the fact of this disfavored tactic with the much alluring fantasy of suplexing some snotling noble. The thought was already bringing back a smile to his face.

"Very well! This plan is actionable, intrepid scholar. 'Tis wise, easily to execute, wrought with dramatic irony, narrative whimsy . . and most importantly of all. . . " Lionel flared his ragged cape, and crossed his arms.

"It's Cool. . ."

He brushed a lock of golden hair from his face, and continued.

"If you would be willing, would you be alright asking out this Sasha on a date this upcoming eve? Or - if thou art especially cavaliar - tonight, even? I can take care of the spreading of the rumors part. . . and the general ass kicking too, for that - in particular - is my speciality"

Lionel took the opportunity to flex his lithe, totally-bulky-arms. He smiled wider.

Arthur Wilde

 

[Arthur Wilde]

Sasha lived in a very nice part of town, the same part of town Arthur lived in. Her father was an important businessman, so held a rank nearly as important as a noble. He garnered more respect than nobles though. That meant Sasha was practically an Allirian princess. No one touched her without her family finding out. Though that was mostly because Sasha was a huge blabber-mouth.

Arthur took a deep breath, straightening out his jacket and holding his satchel close to his side. He knocked on the door three times and fixed a big smile on his face. Sasha's father opened the door. Arthur cringed. Great.

"Hi, sir," Arthur said, a hint of fear trickling into his voice.

"What do you want?" the father boomed, his voice as terrifying and the man.

"Um," Arthur gulped, "I'm one of Sasha's classmates and was wondering if she was home at the moment?"

The father huffed, turned around, and yelled over his shoulder, "Sasha! Get down here!" Arthur jumped at each syllable.

It took Sasha thirty seconds to reach the front door where she replaced her father. "Arthur?" she said, "Why are you here?"

Now was the time. The father was out of sight, so Arthur slowly leaned up against the doorframe, tipping his head of curly hair against the wood. He lidded his eyes and peered down at Sasha through his eyelashes. Gods, it had been a while since he deliberately tried to woo someone.

"I was hoping you were free tonight," he said.

Sasha gazed up at him. Arthur couldn't tell if she was interested or not.

"Really?" she asked, "I didn't think you were into me."

I'm not, Arthur thought to himself, I'm only doing this for our stupid writing assignment. "I don't like to make it obvious."

Sasha's mouth dropped slightly and she pointed up at herself as if to ask, me?

Arthur rolled his eyes, "Look. I'd like to treat you to a drink in town if you'd let me?"

Sasha appeared to be thinking on it. She squinted, looking Arthur up and down. He hoped she was only sizing him up, not actually checking him out. Then, she shrugged. "Alright," she said.

So they went. Sasha locked her arm over Arthur's and they found optimal seats in the tavern where Theodore would see them sitting together, laughing over a mug of ale. Their table sat right in front of the door. Arthur made sure his back wasn't to it.