The young man stared silently at the blank page of his journal. The blank page stared back at him. He tightened his grip on the quill pressed firmly between his forefinger and thumb, and groaned inwardly, muttering curses of self-loathing under his breath. He hadn't even begun and already found himself at the wall. Apparently it was something that all writers would collide with. Despite not being a writer by trade, it had still happened to him.
He drew in a deep breath, closed his eyes, and dipped his quill into the puddle of ink that had gradually pooled around his thigh.
Write the first thing that comes to mind, they said. Well, here goes.
They'd called me a Light Warrior. I don't know what had triggered this trend; one look at me would surely suggest that I was anything but this so-called champion of light. Perhaps it was due to the rock that I carried around my neck. A bauble, nothing more. How I came to possess such a thing... let's just say that it was fate.
'That does sound much better than simply chancing upon it on the road,' he thought to himself, inking his quill once more.
So there I was, stone in hand and near penniless, standing before the gates of Cornelia. I couldn't afford a room at the inn, but I thought perhaps I could find work to pay my way through the town. That, or attempt to swindle the masses with my award-winning personality and charming good looks. Either or, really.
In any case, my plans were put to the back burner when someone cried out "It's a Light Warrior!"
I had no idea how to respond. Better yet, I had no idea what a Light Warrior was.
'Should I run," I thought, 'or is it a good thing to be called a Light Warrior?'
It turned out to be the latter, of course and I was promptly taken before the king of Cornelia for inspection. I'm assuming that he liked what he saw seeing as he offered to pay me for my services, but I don't know how I'm to fulfil his other request. I'm expected to locate the remaining three Light Warriors and bring them before him. I suppose all I can do is search for men and women carrying stones like mine, if that is indeed the defining feature of a Light Warrior.
He sighed, stopping his empty ink pot and laying his journal out to dry. There were a few things he would need if writing were to become a profession of his. Experience being the first, and a small flat surface being the immediate second. Thankfully he had plenty of spare clothes packed away, all in his signature red.
"Accidents do happen, I suppose," He muttered as he dabbed at the ink pool on his thigh with a damp cloth.
A yawn escaped the young man's lips, and he rolled on to his dry side, sparing the inn the trouble of cleaning ink stains from their sheets.
'Tomorrow,' he thought to himself. 'I'll begin the search.'