A QUALITY PUBLICATION FROM THE PUBLISHER OF SOME OF THE BEST BLOGS YOU NEVER HEARD ABOUT

The Hero laid his sword down on the pier and looked westward. He had learnt long ago that looking at the sunset helped nothing except his image in the eyes of the obsessive admirers standing behind him. Although in pressing times, obsessive admirers were often the only thing standing between him and a future without a decent pension. They spelled votes.

He grew tired of looking at the sunset. So he sighed audibly and slowly turned towards the temple. The Sorceress stood in the hallway.

“How much longer?” he asked.

Everything stopped. A moment later, the Sorceress lifted her hand and beckoned to him. He walked into the temple with her.

“You should know better than that.” said the Sorceress. “You can’t expect me to hear you from across the road. And you know it would shame a being as all-knowing as I to say ‘Beg your pardon’.”

“My apologies.” said the Hero, “I wanted to know how much longer.”

The Sorceress looked embarrased again, “What are you talking about?”

“I am sorry.” the Hero said. He empathised with the Sorceress. Image was everything. “How long before I finish all the tasks? Before I can settle down?”

“What do you want to settle down for?” the Sorceress asked. “Yours is the life hundreds in the world’s cities would like to have. The excitement of it, the danger of it.”

The Hero continued unamused, “I think you should tell the new sign-ups about the insurance documents’ fine print too.”

“Come now warrior. Has mortal fatigue taken you?” The Sorceress turned and her cloak swung. She realised she had asked another question. She was supposed to know if mortal fatigue had taken the Hero.

“I prefer to call it realising-that-the-end-always-comes.” The Hero smiled a mirthless smile. “I have slain happy dragon families to appease prejudiced villagers. I have made meaningless cryptic conversation with Gods. I have pretended to be unafraid while I mocked fiery-eyed demons. I have… I think I have had enough.”

“You wish retirement then? A quiet life in some far away isle with none to disturb your well-earned peace?” The Sorceress thought she could make these questions pass as marks of condescension.

“Like hell I do! The Hero thundered as thunderously as he ever did inside the temple. “What about all the gold I earned this town? What about the enchanted treasures of Ikthya? The magical jewel I retrieved from the most disgusting serpent of Palia? Is a fair share of what I won not my wont? Heaven help this town if your answer be no.”

“You will have to sue the elders I am afraid,” Said the Sorceress. “They decide.”

“By the blade of *name of the local sky spirit whose name it is blasphemy to pronounce* I will do.” The Hero swore.

“I am sorry it is this the times came to.” The Sorceress was genuinely sorry. The temple didn’t have many able recruits right now.

“Not as sorry as you will be temple-keeper!” Said the hero. “I will have a divine council sit on this. See you in the city hall in two moon-spins.”

The Hero’s admirers were sure he was storming towards another task as he swept past the crowd in a hurry. Some time later, thunderclouds above the Hero’s place announced the lawsuit.

New banner, not that it means anything. Was bored and had photoshop handy. Did shoddy work, uploaded.

What?

The adrenaline associated with filmed entertainment (even books for that matter) owes much to things going wrong. In Star Wars, you aren't a hero until your ship malfunctions at the most crucial point in the battle. Think of all the heores who were forced to lunge forward with a rod (or something) when their handguns went kluck kluck at the opportune moment. Think of all the rickety spaceships that the heroic get stuck with when it came to going up against a galactic fleet of hyperspace cruisers. Think of all the ropes that snap when they shouldn't.

I think, though, that Cartoon Network's Swat Cats was an exception. The episodes worked the other way around. While the heroes commanded the gleaming fancy ships and weapon systems, the baddies had to make do with ancient spells and magical weapons. That was one forward looking show.

Fobo was born a mute. That ruled out the family business. He discovered soon that he had a talent for remembering places and names. So he eventually became a messenger. Every once in a while though, when he had had enough downtimes in a day, he dug out his heirloom from the third trunk in the cellar.

His grandfolks' book of enchantments. The spoken word that could mould reality. Of course, there was no spoken word and there was no changed reality.

Just him. And one reality. He would learn later that the reality he saw was not the one meant for him.

He was not a show off. Indeed, he would have been mortally offended at the very suggestion. But the present circumstances didn't allow him a lot of dignity. He could not keep the hostage with him forever. The smell was getting to him.

The ransom clip to be broadcast live over all of outland would have to do the trick. He could imagine the targets cringing in fear backed up against the wall opposite their TV sets. The fact that he had a dwarf for a cameraman didn't help his ego either. The place was dead flat. Not a rock to set the dwarf on.

He had learnt that complaining never helps. Things need to be gotten over with. Or they never get done. He winced.

"Roll camera!" he spat. The dwarf fainted.