- Messages
- 27
- Character Biography
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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.
"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.