Now, my general approach to the finer details of worldbuilding in Realmgard is “like the 17th century, unless otherwise noted.” Most of the obvious exceptions are things that you’d expect to find in a Fantasy world (magic, ghosts, Trolls) and most of the glaring anachronisms are included for the sake of humour.
With that in mind, who’s up for some Pro Wrestling?
Kat grabs Amara by the arm and begins hauling her away.
“What are you doing?” Amara exclaims. “I haven’t finished my hair! My make-up! I can’t go out like this! I’m not decent!”
“You made me go the Art Gallery,” she declares. “Now, we’re doing something I want.”
“Katherine, I am not watching you eat an entire roast chicken by yourself,” Amara notes.
“We can eat after,” Kat says. “But if we don’t hurry, we’re not going to be able to find a good seat for the wrestling.”
The colour drains from Amara’s face. “Wrestling?” she repeats. “Katherine, why in the world do you think I’d want to watch big, sweaty men trying to fold each other into pretzels?”
Kat looks over her shoulder. “Why did you think I’d want to stare at paintings all day?” she counters.
“Touché,” Amara mutters.
Kat leads Amara to Porthaven’s main square, where a large crowd has gathered around the wrestling ring raised in the middle of the square. Amara glances over to her friend and finds Kat grinning giddily like a little girl on her birthday.
“This is going to be great,” Kat exclaims, happily bouncing on her heels. “Andreas Colossicus said he was going to throw Baron von Bad Guy into the harbour. He’s had it coming ever since he ruined Lady Lisette’s birthday cake.”
Amara stares blankly. “His name is Baron von Bad Guy?”
Kat nods. “Yeah. And he’s, well —”
“A villain, I take it?” Amara asks.
Kat nods.
“Powers save me,” Amara mutters as she rolls her eyes.
When her eyes are finishing rolling, they settle on the man in the centre of the ring.
“Oh,” she says. “That is a very large man.”
“That’s the Muscular Sovereign, Wilhelmus Ferox,” Kat explains.
“And is he a villain?” Amara asks.
“No. He’s a little unhinged, but the crowds love him,” Kat explains. “Just wait until he hits the top-rope elbow drop.”
Amara points to the wrestler pushing his way through the crowd to approach the ring. “And who is that, Marquis de Evil?”
“No. Marquis de Evil is a different guy,” Kat says. “That’s Aristocratic Arundel Appleby.”
“His fashion sense is striking,” Amara mutters.
“Don’t be fooled,” Kat warns. “He’s one of the bad guys.”
“But he’s so elegant!” Amara protests. “How could he possibly be a villain?”
“You’ll see,” Kat answers simply.
“I must be in Porthaven,” Aristocratic Arundel Appleby says as he steps into the crowd. “I could smell you louts all the way from Goldharbour. And you’re all dressed like starving beggars.”
He meets Amara’s eyes.
“Especially you, Elf-Girl,” he sneers. “Is that a dress or a tablecloth? You are, however, at this very moment the luckiest woman in the world. Your poor, inelegant self gets a glimpse of true elegance and grace: me!”
“How dare he!” Amara growls. “I will not stand for this… this calumny!”
Amara pushes her way to the edge of the crowd and looks up to the ring. “You there, Muscular Sovereign,” she calls. “I have a request.”
She levels a slender, manicured finger, quivering with indignation toward Aristocratic Arundel Appleby.
“He called me inelegant! Destroy him!”
Amara be like:
And for reference, picture Muscular Sovereign Wilhelmus Ferox as a bombastic, larger than life late-80s era good guy like Randy Savage circa WrestleMania IV or Hulk Hogan in his prime. And picture Aristocratic Arundel Appleby as, well, basically every vanity-oriented villain ever — and there are a lot of them; take your pick.
With that, my February Daily Writing exercises come to a successful conclusion. Huzzah!
Expect a post with the last week’s exercises later today, and a full recap of the month a little later.
And in the meantime, follow me via social media or my email list:
Sign-up for my email newsletter here.
Realmgard 