Young Writers Society

The nation's lowest lowlifes had filled the tiny underground bar to the brim. Bandits brandishing their battleaxes, pickpockets picking their peculiar noses, and extortionists extorting the few they could extort. If the holy guard had been there, they’d have had a field day with them.

Arthur peeked out into the crowd through a curtain, disgusted by their very presence. As a member of the church, he couldn’t handle these faithless heathens. However, he knew that he needed to enlist their help for his particularly heretical task.

The curtain pulled back to reveal the young paladin, standing in his shining white armour. Every criminal in the bar turned to face him, admiring the gold-accentuated plating and ornate sword by his hip. If they could just take it from him, they’d be set for a while.

“Gentlemen, may I have your attention?” Arthur asked the crowd. They quieted down quickly. The paladin admired their ability to focus but caught himself when he remembered that most had probably killed a man or shook hands with a demon. “I know you’re probably asking yourselves 'why would a member of the church request the assistance of Horenheim’s most despicable underbelly?'”

“Not really,” a brigand in the back called out. “All you corrupt priests want us to do something for them.”

“Well, I’m not corrupt, for your information. I’m here on a legitimate mission I must complete, even if it requires the help of criminals such as yourself.”

“You know, if you wanted our help, you could be nicer,” an ogre in the front muttered. “You don’t negotiate a deal by calling the other party’s mother a whore.”

“Let me get through this first!” Arthur shouted. The crowd was starting to get restless, but they remained silent respectfully. “I’m here to offer a mission. I want you all… to defeat the chosen one.”

“I’m sorry, what now?” a pickpocket asked.

“Defeat the chosen one,” Arthur repeated. “We will storm the holy chapel and dethrone the hero.”

“By the goddess… This guy’s insane!” a ratman standing on a table shouted.

“Yeah, why would we try and beat up the chosen one?” the ogre asked.

The crowd had pushed back against Arthur, to his surprise. “Don’t you all resent the chosen one? With him around, your activities are being severely limited by the holy guard. Crime has gone down since he has claimed the throne.”

“Where have you grown up?” the ogre asked again. “The old king would send his guard to ransack our homes! Do you think we actually wanted a life of crime?”

“Besides, the hero actually made our lives better!” the ratman spoke up now. “He even helped my gran with collecting 15 apples!”

“Yeah, his welfare programs are putting my kids through college,” the brigand said next.

“Let’s dip. It’s obvious that we got a mental case here,” the pickpocket muttered, getting up out of his seat.

“Hey! Where are you going? I’m not done!” Arthur yelled. It was pointless, however. The entire band of criminals were quickly leaving the bar, ignoring the paladin’s orders to stay. The well-spoken ogre spat at him before leaving. Soon, the bar was completely empty.

Arthur gazed at empty tables with beer mugs stacked on top. He sighed, before squatting on the edge of the stage. Another failed attempt at gathering volunteers; the fifth one that month. He was starting to think that his quest was never going to get anywhere.

“Ah… That was a good shit!” Someone yelled from the bathroom, surprising Arthur. Suddenly, the door broke from its hinges and flew a few feet. A man walked out, sniffing his hands. He wore a long brown cloak, hiding his entire body except for his grizzled face and his shiny black hair. He paused as he realized he and Arthur were the only two in the bar. “Did I miss the meeting?”

The paladin sighed before he spoke out his answer. “You can just leave now-”

“You just got to the interesting part, though,” another voice interrupted Arthur. He looked to the corner of the room, where a masked black-robed figure sat. Arthur hadn’t noticed the prominent figure until now, like he had just formed into existence. “You can continue, holy man.”

“What do you mean?” Arthur asked. “There’s no one else here to even listen besides you two. I doubt we could fight the hero with only three people.”

“Four,” the masked man corrected. Before Arthur could inquire, the bar’s entrance opened slowly. A hooded figure with a red elongated scaled snout peeked into the room, cringing as the door creaked loudly.

“Sorry that I’m late, chums,” the hooded snout said, entering the room. He stood tall, his head brushing against the ceiling even the ogre couldn’t reach. Underneath his cloak, a red tail wagged back and forth. A lizardman, most likely from the Scalleth continent based on colouration. Arthur wondered why one of those isolationist iguanas had entered. “Ah, did I miss it?”

“Apparently you haven’t,” the old man said.

“You’ve already taken too much time getting here. Now, sit down so that we may begin,” the masked man continued. The lizardman happily obliged, sitting down on a stool by the back. The three strangers that had stayed looked to Arthur, who already had his head in his hands.

“It's pointless. This can't be done with just four people.”

“Not with that attitude it isn't,” the old man blurted. “So, what exactly is pointless again?”

“Killing the chosen one,” the masked man explained.

“Not killing him! Just… defeating him…”

*Killing’s the same as defeating, right?” the lizardman offered.

“I don't want to kill him. He needs to be beaten to near death. But not full death!”

“You're making no sense, lad,” the old man groaned. “What kind of usurper wants their superior alive? You know, consequences and all. Care to explain yourself?”

“I'm not a usurper. I just want to see something for myself…” Arthur muttered, tightening his fists. “Sir Senone has been acting…strange, as of late. He's been very interested in demonology, and the last I saw him, he was performing a demonic ritual in his room.”

“You were peeking inside, weren't you?” the old man grinned.

“That doesn't matter! What does matter is that Sir Senone has been different! He's not acting like the chosen one. I fear an imposter has replaced him.”

“And you don't want us to kill this imposter because?” the lizardman asked.

“Because I'm not sure! He still looks and acts like Sir Senone. I just need him to show off the power of the goddess. Only then will I be sure whether he’s an imposter or not.”

“So, let me get this straight,” the old man said. “You have evidence that the chosen one is an imposter, but instead of informing the church about your findings, you're asking a bunch of criminals in a bar to kill him.”

“By the goddess, I never said I wanted him dead! Why do you all want to kill Sir Senone so bad?” Arthur asked, annoyed at their lack of devotion to the man he wanted to beat to near death.

“It’s my goal to kill the chosen one, for as long as I live,” the old man explained. Arthur could hear rough metal scraping metal as he drew a blood red sword, broken into an intricate pattern. His skin started to harden into a reddish black colour.

“Killing the chosen one will help me further my pursuit into God-hood,” the masked man said, hovering out of the seat. A large black orb formed behind him as lightning arced around it. It zapped his mask, breaking it in two to reveal the haunting gaze of a skull.

“Money, for a bed,” the lizardman said. He threw off the cloak he wore, revealing two great horns on the side of his head. Large draconic wings unfurled themselves and flapped once, sending a gust of wind throughout the room.

Arthur froze as he saw the three monsters reveal themselves. He attempted to reach for his sword, but he realized that he couldn’t move his arm at all. A second later, he started to foam at the mouth, and he fell off the stage, hitting the floor with a thud.

The three monsters remained in their poses for a moment before realizing that the paladin was out cold. The old man walked up to the boy, tapping at his head with the side of his blade. “He might be dead.”

“Don’t be so surprised, Gallant,” the skeleton in the robe sighed. The orb behind him disappeared into nothingness, and he landed quietly on the ground. “He never expected to be in my direct presence.”

"Why did we reveal ourselves like this, again?" Grace asked. "It didn't seem to work."

“I don’t think ‘disaster-level threat’ is a good party name,” the lizardman commented, squatting back down on the stool. “I’d prefer ‘A Merry Band of Monsters’, or something like that.”

“Please, Grace. I would rather not be compared to your pitiful existences,” the skeleton said, floating back into his seat.

“Oh, look. Lord Condiment is acting all high and mighty again,” Gallant muttered, sheathing his sword and kicking up one of the fallen chairs, mounting it like a horse.

“That’s Lord Vegemite to you.” Vegemite waved his bony hand. A bolt of lightning struck Gallant in the head from above, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Blasted thick-headed knave.”

“Mates, don’t fight, please. We’re already running low on funds as is, and I don’t want to pay for any repairs,” Grace chuckled, scooting his stool between the two.

“I will be their future god! They’d be honoured to have their bar destroyed by me!” Vegemite proclaimed.

“Besides, we can probably leave before the rest of the holy guard gets here. Pin the blame on Paladin Peeking here,” Gallant explained. “So, have we actually found anything useful this time? I’m all for romping around once in a while, but Cho isn’t going to kill himself, you know?”

“We figured out that his followers like to peek on him in private,” Grace offered, his cheerful tone returning. “Reminds me of what my Mum said of my Dad.”

“You two are idiots, aren’t you?” Vegemite questioned. Grace turned inquisitively, but Gallant simply scowled. “That paladin gave us the most information we’ve ever gotten.”

“Like?”

“The chosen one’s interest in demonology.”

“Bah! Cho kills demons like they’re his breakfast. A fancy interest in their privates doesn’t mean anything.”

Grace blushed as Gallant smiled at his own innuendo. Vegemite sighed again, placing his bony fingers on his face, before casting another lightning bolt onto Gallant’s head. “Idiot. You don’t need to know demonology to know most demon’s die from a big enough blade. This lead is promising.”

“Well then, oh glorious Lord Condiment,” Gallant began. “Tell us, where do you think we should start?”

Vegemite snapped his fingers. A third lightning bolt struck Gallant, this time actually forcing him to the ground. “Well, that paladin said that he was performing a ritual. He must have learned it from someone. Gallant, when was the last time you and Cho were in an area that legalized rituals?”

“That’s… Uh… the Demon King’s land, I think,” Gallant slurred, temporarily paralyzed from all the lightning cast on him. “He’s stayed in the capital ever since, so I doubt he learned it anywhere else.”

Despite the fact that Vegemite’s skull was unchanging, it seemed upset at this news. “Ah… Vorigan…”

“You getting cold feet, Lord Veg?” Grace asked.

“Lord Vegemite, Grace. Don’t forget the ‘mite’,” Vegemite reminded. “And, it’s nothing. I’m just a little discontent that we’ll have to go to the hometown of my sworn enemy. Pack up your things, we’ll leave for the Demon King’s Castle by noon tomorrow.”

With one last wave of his bony hand, Vegemite formed another strange mask. Placing it on his head, he began to float, chair and all, towards the exit. Grace stood up and took his cloak off the ground. He curled up his wings before draping himself in the brown cloth.

“You need help?” Grace asked Gallant, still paralyzed on the floor.

“Um… No, I’m good. I can move my head. You can go, halfie,” Gallant slurred. Grace shrugged, before exiting the bar next. Gallant started to pull himself with his chin, slowly inching towards the door. He wanted to leave before the bar owner had returned, leaving the still seizing paladin on the floor as a scapegoat.