I’ve decided to try putting up some of the little things I’m working on, since I seem to be unable to conjure up blog topics every week.
“Thank you for calling Bash, my name is Alexander, how can I help you?”
“I am Sir Harold of Misra and my sword isn’t working.”
“Ok Sir Harold, how isn’t your sword working?”
“It’s just not working.”
“Is it not cutting? Is it a flaming sword?”
“No, it’s not a flaming sword. And yes it still cuts fine.”
“Ok sir, so how is the sword not working?”
“If I knew I wouldn’t be calling you.”
“Sir, is that a dragon?”
“Yes, I’m trying to use this stupid ice sword on this dragon, but it’s not freezing it.”
“Sir did you say it’s an ice sword?”
“Yes, I just said that.”
“And it’s not freezing the dragon?”
“Yes, I said that too.”
“Sir, ice dragons can’t be frozen with our ice swords.”
“Then what good are they!?”
Bash: A Tale of Helping Heroes
“Oh gods, I’m late,” Alexander said, panting for breath as he raced from the stables. It’d taken him longer than he thought it would to arrive. He’d figured the distance well enough, but didn’t count on finding two overturned wagons and their owners squabbling on the only road that led this far south.
Alexander passed from the heat of the midday sun into the shade of the squat tower before him. It was hardly larger than some of inns he’d passed on the way, but it was made of impressive block stone and still managed to loom over him. Its base was ringed by low, well maintained trees, as well as a statue of a man hefting a large hammer. To either side, a heavy wooden door was set into the wall.
“Good day, sir,” a finely dressed man said as he pulled the door open for Alexander.
“Thank you, thank you,” Alexander said as he slipped through the door.
“And to you. Interviews are on the sixth floor,” he called as Alexander passed through the white tiled lobby.
He stopped at the latticed door to the lift heading up, ringing the bell by the door. Alexander rang the bell again.
A man’s face peeked out from behind the lattice, “you trying to use the lift?”
“Yes, I’m late for my interview,” Alexander said.
“Ah. Well, it’s not working. Stairs are next door over,” the man said as he disappeared from view again.
Gripping the roll of parchment tucked under his arm, Alexander bolted around the corner and into a tight stairwell. He took the stairs two a time, but found his nicer clothes only chafed and pulled uncomfortably at him when he tried this. His calfs burned as he ran up the stairs. The sight of the sixth floor came as a relief and he burst through the door into the lobby.
It was quiet, aside from the resounding sound of the door being swung open. A long, black desk sat against the far well with a well groomed man sitting at attention.
“Good Afternoon, can I help you?”
Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, Alexander smiled while he caught his breath, “I’m here for an interview.”
“Ah,” the man said, checking a slip of paper on his desk, “Alexander Dupron?”
“Yes,” he said, taking in a long breath, “that’s me.”
“All right, take a seat and I’ll let them know you’re here.”