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I had something written here, but then it got deleted, so now it's not going to be as good as it was before. Sad. So anyway, this was an RPG Maker game I was making. I stopped, but I still wanted to finish it. I liked the stupid characters. I also need to continue practicing writing. This is a perfect opportunity, because this story and characters are all really stupid. That way, if it's a little rough, it might just add to the charm. I was hesitant to start writing, but Wild (cute thingy) convinced me that I could just go back and edit this whenever, so this whole thing will probably be considered a rough draft permanently. Here's chapter 1, I guess.



In a land far from where you live (even if you live in like, Cambodia), an extraordinary man waits for his tale to be told. This tale will be known as . . . Very Long Saga.

~~~

“Hey man, are you ok?” A voice behind him asked.

The prison was dimly lit, but fortunately for its prisoners, not dark. Cold, large, gray stones surrounded them entirely, save a door to the cell. He looked down to see a brightly colored uniform. The robes resembled warrior monk clothes. Something large was nesting on his head. His tan hands reached up and felt a mass of cloth, with two stands hanging down across his back. It was a grand turban. Judging from the hanging strands, the turban was bright orange.

“Where am I? Who are you?” He asked. It was quiet in the cell. The air was silently growing stale. He turned around to see the man behind him. The young man wore a blue jacket and was noticeably cool. He was tall, and appeared very thin overall, but he was cool, and not sickly. He was leaning against the wall with his hands behind his head, looking quite comfortable. Their eyes met for a brief moment before he looked away. The man’s now fidgety fingers reached for his spiky, red hair to comb it.

“Your nametag says ‘Yoga Turban,’” a cutesy voice chimed in. In front of Yoga Turban, on one end of the cell and opposite the door and beds, a shiny, round table stood quietly. A petite, young elf sitting at the table was curiously watching the exchange between Yoga Turban and the stylish man. She wore highly fashionable clothes of expertly matching colors, mostly blue to match her hair, all in great style with admirable synergy. Her wardrobe suggested to Yoga Turban that she must have frequented many high profile clothing shops to attain such balance and harmony, possibly accompanied by fellow elf girls, while they gossiped about cute males. Yoga Turban had noticed his own nametag and squinted to read hers. It read, “Kelly.” The other young man crossed his arms over his chest and sighed.

“None of us can remember anything,” he finally answered nonchalantly, “We all hit our heads, one by one, and now we all have amnesia.”

“I remember who I am,” an attractive female voice responded from the wall opposite the young man.

“Shut up, no you don’t,” the man chided. This didn’t seem to faze her, and she continued to sit idly with a blank gaze. The owner of the second female voice wore a black hat, similar to a derby, but with a smaller, rounder crown, and a wider, flat brim. Pale, lavender hair hung limply below the hat. She was attractive, but appeared taller and stronger than Kelly. Her wardrobe was more casual, causing anyone who looked at her to focus on her extraordinary boots. Stretching down the center of her tall boots were brilliant blades that shined magnificently, even in the dark prison. Yoga Turban could see that there were smaller blades on the back of them as well, to allow for all sorts of dangerous kicking.

“We all . . . have amnesia?” Yoga Tuban asked, turning back to the young man, “Perhaps there is something more to this.” The young man unfolded his arms and shrugged. Yoga Turban noticed the nametag on the man’s chest, now in plain view. It read, “Rasputin.” Rasputin acted like he was too hip care, but on the inside, Yoga Turban could tell that he was deep in thought. Behind him, he could hear the woman with the fatal boots rising to her feet. She took a few steps toward them.

“Yoga Turban is right. I say we kick our way out of here,” the woman enthusiastically suggested. She even went so far as to lift a clenched fist. He wondered just how much use those blades on her boots received. His eyes wandered to her chest to read her nametag. It read, “Kick!” He then blushed and quickly looked away, but Kick! merely waited for support. Yoga Turban cleared his throat and finally considered her suggestion rationally.

“No, I do not know where we are, but escaping from prison is surely against the law. The law was created to ensure our safety, and we must not break it,” Yoga Turban concluded.

“It’s not so bad here,” Kelly quickly added, “Look, we even get this table.” Kelly rested her cheek against her hand and stared fondly at the table. With her other hand, she lightly traced idly on its smooth surface. It was almost hypnotic to watch her. Yoga Turban looked on, albeit distracted with feelings of confusion. Rasputin had begun eyeing Yoga Turban, and his exotic attire. Kick! stared blankly at the wall.

“Are you some kind of superhero, Yoga Turban?” Rasputin asked. The question caught Yoga Turban by surprise. He instinctively examined his foreign attire. It was clearly nothing like what the other three were wearing. While it struck him as possible that its origin could be a faraway culture, the bright colors did make it rather flashy. Rasputin motioned that it wasn’t important, and that he had more important things to say. “Forget the stupid table. I never put possessions on it anyway. We’re getting out of here.”

“Give us a hand, Yoga Turban,” Kick! requested, “If your suspicions are correct, we just might play a role in a far greater, diabolical scheme.” Kick!’s gaze drifted toward the ceiling. She thought about what she had just said, and secretly patted herself on the back for the display of arguable wisdom. Yoga Turban scratched his chin and considered this possible scenario. His own mind was still reeling from the idea of mass, self-inflicted amnesia.

“Ah! Yes, unfortunately, you may be right. If this is indeed an insidious plot, we must destroy it before others can be harmed,” Yoga Turban reasoned.

“I’m going to miss this table . . .” Kelly lamented. The others were gathering together to approach the door. Kelly reluctantly began to rise from the table. Her fingertips delicately brushed along its surface as she daintily walked past it. Kick! turned to her and seemed to understand her pain, or at least appeared sympathetic. Kelly made her way next to Kick!, who put an arm around her. Kick! eagerly looked on as Rasputin and Yoga Turban examined the door.

“Well? Does it look like we can kick it down?” Kick! asked.

Yoga Turban leaned in closely. The bars were finely crafted, and very sturdy. His fingertips lightly brushed against them. His astute eyes darted across the door, looking for a weakness or anything to take advantage of. Rasputin squeezed and shook the bars, hoping to best it with force. There was no response from the door, causing him to step back and frown. He futilely kicked the door. Yoga Turban peered into the door’s lock.

“I might have a useful tool . . . Hmm . . .” Yoga Turban murmured to himself. A feeling of déjà vu had struck him. It was instinctively that he began searching his clothes for a tool to assist him. Perhaps, he guessed, it was an epiphany, and a tidbit from his lost memory was returning to him. He hoped this meant that there really was something of great usefulness on his person. One of his pockets, deep inside, was holding something heavy and made of metal. He quickly removed it and looked in awe at an old, rusty key.

“What’s this? A key?” Yoga Turban observed.

“You had a key!?” Kelly exclaimed. She took a few steps forward, leaving Kick!’s arm to drop lifelessly at her side. The key seemed to shine brilliantly, and smell of freedom, despite being rather homely for key standards. Kelly gaped in awe and peeked at it from behind Yoga Turban’s shoulder. In an instant, she was frowning sadly. “Why didn’t I get a key?”

“Maybe we kicked the guards to death, but we don’t remember it,” Kick! suggested.

“Open it already,” Rasputin urged. “Something huge could be going down, and I’m not going to miss it, unless I do, because of you. Then I’ll be upset.”

The arguably ugly key fit perfectly into the door. Yoga Turban mentally apologized for escaping his prison. His fingers reluctantly turned the key, and the prison door creaked open. The door was very noisy considering how considerate the rest of the silent prison was being.

“Freedom!” Rasputin cheered.

“The exit is straight ahead,” Yoga Turban signaled. They followed his lead and walked out of the cell.