In a prosperous Kingdom. In a prestigious academy. In a position of power, a withered man bent over his chair, was flipping through a pile of promising profiles. His office smelt with a tinge of distinguished, prominent old. The posh smell you can only ever find in a library. His glasses were hard at work, helping his lazy eyes focus on the task ahead and sunlight seeping in through an unseen window above, emphasizing the smoothness of his half-bald head.
The old man lifted a stack of profiles and neatly packed them on a shelf behind and then returned to the leftover profiles. He scoffed and viciously threw them off the table until he was left with one single problematic profile.
Profile:
Eliot Grey.
Sex: Male
Age: 15
"A brilliant boy...a genius...bright future...good personality... Just the best."
His profile was neat and tidy, filled with beautifully written compliments. Fine, elegant strokes intertwine to form careful words with lines and patterns so pretty and proud. Not a stain to be seen. Not a word of criticism. All left evidence of a history of teachers pouring in their love and time.
Only an idiot would not accept such a promising student. But unfortunately, the world is full of idiots, no matter where you are.
The man sighed.
"If only you were born in a better family."
Unlike the rest of the profiles, the man handled Eliot's with care as he 'respectfully' put the profile in the bin, where all the others rot. The man took out a bag of coins, cleverly hidden under his desk and counted them thoroughly. The coins glowing brighter beneath the sunlight than the lustre nameplate on the man's desk reading: Professor Griswold Grimes. The man's turned quite the profit today.
And the man was right. If only. If only Eliot was born into a better family. One that allowed him to have the same or even more opportunities than the rest. One that could kick up a fuss when they are done injustice. But the orphan had no time to dream, he had a lot of work to do.
Outside the Madam Mildred Tavern, Eliot Grey stood petrified. In front of him was the biggest mess he's ever seen. From heaps of tables toppled on top of one another left from a makeshift Jenga game to groaning unconscious people decorating the place. Nothing was where it was before. Sighing, Eliot grudgingly picked up a cloth and contemplated just where or how to begin. Deciding to start with the kitchen and gradually work himself to the urine on the walls. Hopefully, by then he'd built up the courage to deal with the poop corner.
Like any sane person, Eliot truly dreaded the days when soldiers with wads of cash and nothing to live for arrived, just returned from the war. Of course, he dearly respected their contributions and efforts, but that sentiment stayed outside the tavern, where they could poop wherever they wished.
Of course, some people like Eliot's employer, Mr Roberts, disagree. They love it when rich hopeless war heroes return from their long gruelling wars. They are to be appropriately serviced and charged double for future damage they'll probably cause.
Thankfully though, most people don't like drunk war heroes. The boar head hanging over the entrance of the tavern would undoubtedly agree. One of his tusks were missing while the other looked... abused? No one could tell, and Eliot definitely won't think about it. After all, he still had to pry off the poor pig stuck to the ceiling before it lost control of its bladder again.
First, Eliot tried opening the windows to let out the stink and whatever putrid miasma was wafting in the air. But as he opened a window, the glass panel fell out the frame, descending to the floor and shattering into a million tiny pieces. Faithfully following the shrieking shattering, another two wine bottles fell out of the wine rack, leaving two blood splatters. And just for dramatic effect, the boar head fell off too in rebellion.
Eliot felt exhausted already. No amount of money could buy back the time he was about to waste cleaning those wine stains. He'd have to scrub it until another layer of wood comes off to replace the old sticky one. His aggrieved heart almost had him leave right here and now, fortunately, the boar head blocked his path to retaining some sanity as it stood sideways before the entrance, guarding it against traitors with its beady eyes that stared down any traitor who even dared to have a slither of a conscience. Eliot sighed, maybe it's not so bad. With new confidence, he glanced at the wine puddles expecting the worst, only to have underestimated entirely 'the worst'.
It was on the walls. The walls. He couldn't just scrub a new layer into the walls. He would have to completely redo some of the sections of the wallpaper. But that would have been ok. He took that into account subconsciously when he prepared himself. But it got on the ceiling. The ceiling.
No amount of therapy could ever make what had just happened ok. It's like pineapple on pizza. Not even finding three really good new pairs of comfortable shoes will ever make this situation ok. This memory will be the one to convince him that ending humanity is the only path to true peace.
After some fast-paced character development, Eliot begrudgingly took a mop and started to mop the furniture. He carefully stepped over some snoring hunks still even in their hangovers, subconsciously licking the wine puddle they lay in. He especially made sure that not a single droplet of wine would even think about coming to a close to his shoes. He was wearing his second favourite and third-best shoes. You can't get much better than that.
Unfortunately, as most of the pitiful deprived public is aware, there is no such thing as a decent and comfortable shoe. Such things exist only in legends. But Eliot knows better. The shoes he is wearing now rate a three and a half out of five on the comfort scale, a whole one and a half above the average shoe you find at a shop! Not to mention that in the looks department, it scores a whopping four! Eliot wouldn't even let a strong breeze graze it, what to say of wine. He absolutely refuses even to fathom the idea of wine even scraping the air around the shoe. So when traversing the treacherous terrain that was the tavern floors, Eliot was doing it with the utmost care.
He was using his mop to wipe off the furniture while standing only in the spots he's cleaned.
After nothing more to use as objects of procrastination, Eliot moved to clean more mentally taxing 'terrain'. And soon as Eliot focused on his task, time was drowned out...
Eliot worked furiously as the clock clacked away in the far corner of the Madam Mildred Tavern. He worked straight through the early morning all the way until the late mid-day. His small hands skillfully handled a mop and a cloth, leaving only a shine and a hint of mental deterioration in his wake. And as he was climbing the tower of tables, planning to disassemble it from the top down after removing the snoring man tied to the comically small chair at the top, the loudest, most frighting sound in existence echoed behind him. Who else but Milo! The loudmouth himself. And arguably the single bane of existence for someone scaling a shaky tower of tables.
"ELIOT!!!"
A scruffy boy with fluffy brown hair and a beret on his head stormed into the tavern. He had the single biggest grin, revealing an impressive gap where a tooth should have been.
"Eliot have you heard!"
Frightened out of his wit, Eliot almost completely lost his balance. Fortunately, as he was practically falling off the edge, he got a hold of the unconscious man's ankle. Unfortunately, his shoe was not as lucky. The shoe, like butter, slipped straight off Eliot's suspended foot and tumbled down the tower like a boulder and disappeared into a corner. And I mean THE corner. The shoe sunk like an anchor. How that's physically possible? Ask the poop.
Absolutely terrified, Eliot clung to the tables for dear life. He wouldn't wish that pile of poop on his worst enemies.
"Milo! You brat! That was my second favourite and my third best shoe!"
Milo, seeing what happened to the shoe, was shocked. He saw the shoe sink into the poop like it was sucked in.
"Is it... alive?"
Eliot was stunned. Was Milo always this stupid?
"Of course it's alive! It ate my shoe!"
Milo directly stared at Eliot with his big shiny blue eyes glimmering with astonishment.
"Awesome!"
He then excitedly hopped over to the poop like rabbit and dramatically reached deep into his pocket to fetch out his poking stick. And I mean THE poking stick. Rumour has it that King Renold Donald Sir Nameless the Third-and-a-Half once poked a cat with it. A history of children's drawings were engraved into it. The most prominent, of course, was 'MILO WAS HEAR'.
Milo brandished the stick like a sword. His thumb slid over the mostly flat surfaces. He, as cultured as he was, took the perfect squat position and breathed in before fearlessly sticking the stick into the poop.
Maybe it's because it was a historical moment, but Eliot held his breath as the stick solely moved towards the poop. It felt like time slowed down and all the snoring, groaning and moaning disappeared as silence gripped the room. And as the stick closed in, Eliot swore he saw in the corners of his peripherals how the 'unconscious' men littered on the ground lifted and turned their heads ever so slightly to see this historic moment happen. And maybe it was a trick of the light, but that stick was shining. Finally, as the stick lightly grazed the poop, Eliot gasped. The stick cut through the poop like an arrow and pierced straight through. There was a shrieking squelch and a puff of... smoke? And then nothing.
Loud consecutive thumps echoed through the room as the men's heads once again fell to the floor. The silence was broken by moans and groans and snores. The tavern's atmosphere returned to what it was before.
Milo, of course, couldn't be the least concerned about what was going on and was instead poking around in the poop, continuing to make disturbing squelching sounds and slithers of smoke.
Only Eliot was left confused. That's it? After that thing ate his shoe? Not sure what he was expecting to happen, Eliot cut his losses and refocused his attention on the snoring man just above him. He slowly made his way up, climbing past the man's ankles. His head was now past the man's legs, just far enough to be just out of reach of the knot that tied the man to the chair. Looking and faltering around, Eliot concluded that he couldn't climb any higher. He found himself in an incredibly uncomfortable position. He was right in between the man's leg, practically breathing on his genitals and his hands fully stretched out, just mere millimetres from the knot.
Eliot felt uncomfortable. He just wished for it all to be over quickly so that he could be done. He could clearly see the knot, a single slight pull could loosen it. He just needed a slight tug. There was a few solid seconds of struggle when sudden exhaustion came over Eliot. And then the rope came loose. So the snoring man came tumbling down...
Eliot inwardly cursed at his own foolishness. After all, drunk men don't tie ropes very well. The whole tower came down like a tidal wave. It smacked the ground so hard Eliot might have finally discovered something louder than Milo.
Eliot with a splat, was sandwiched between the floor and the man. Eliot's head fell on something soft, blocking his fall, and the man on top took the brunt of the tumbling tables. Lucky Eliot fell towards the opposite direction of the rest of the tower.
There were a few silent seconds of shock before Eliot could comprehend what had just happened. Somehow, except for a sore left leg and back, which took most of the brunt, he was fine. It was a miracle.
Eliot laughed in relief. He was fine and alive and sort of well. But he didn't laugh for long. He turned his head to find Milo next to him with shock written all over his face. Unfortunately, that shock didn't last long though. It very quickly turned into a smile and then a laugh. Milo was practically rolling on the floor at this point.
Eliot didn't need to look to know what had happened. The whole back of his head, almost all the way to his ears, down his neck and shirt, was covered in poop. Breathtakingly stinky poop. Absolutely disgusted, Eliot pushed off the man on top of him and stood up. He could feel the cold, slimy substance dripping down his neck. With no pride nor dignity left, Eliot stuck his hand into the poop once again to fetch his shoe. He might as well.
Gagging all the way, he picked up a cloth and pressed it against his face to avoid the smell. He pressed his hand, shoe and all into the mop bucket. Unfortunately, he underestimated the poop greatly. It clung to him like wet jeans. Eliot sighed.
He was having a bad day. It was 9 AM.
It was one of those.
Eliot sat down, exhausted. His eye fell on Milo's poking stick. It fell on the floor in the drama. Strangely enough, the tip of the stick was purple, but he didn't take it to mind.
Having thought of Milo, Eliot glanced at him rolling around on the floor.
"Weren't you going to tell me something?"
Thinking a bit, Milo replied, "O, yeah. I heard someone important from the capital was coming to town tomorrow. I also heard that Mr Robert has been busy recently. In fact, someone even heard him speak..." Milo leaned in and lowered his voice, "Politely."
Eliot gasped. He has never heard that money-grubbing fool speak politely in his life.
"You loudmouthed genius. Always sticking in your nose everywhere. Well done."
Eliot almost patted Milo on the head before remembering the state of his hand. So instead, he showed Milo in praises. Milo clearly liked it, to the point he was blushing.
Eliot felt excitement welling up inside of him. Milo would never know the extent to which he had just helped him. After all, he never told anyone that he applied to the Royal Academy of Magic. Did they want to greet him in person? Does this mean his application was accepted?
Of course, Milo was probably just doing his gossiping routine again. He probably told more than just Eliot about this. He was always running his mouth somewhere. It's why he's a loudmouth. Still, Eliot couldn't help but hum. Despite the terribly exhausting work he has to do, Eliot couldn't be in a better mood. His exhaustion disappeared in a blink. And his excitement couldn't be more justified.
It's the Royal Academy of Magic. An academy of magic! A place where the most established mages are born. And less excitedly, the place where you get your magic licence. It's the ideal place to build a future. Eliot hasn't heard from them in the week since he applied. Finally, things were looking up for him. After countless torturous years of juggling work and school, just barely hanging on. His future seemed so beautifully bright, a change for once.
Eliot was in a hurry, messily spilling water everywhere. He's already wiped off the floor with a broom, but stains from last night rudely persisted no matter how hard he scrubbed, making his life ever more difficult. But he didn't give up. After all, tomorrow will be an important day. It's the day that a famous figure will walk straight through those tavern doors. Even the birds were busily chirping around preparing. Not to mention the people.
Eliot had a row of hungover, half-unconscious guys were laying butt up and face down in front of the tavern. They were leftovers from yesternight's party. Eliot obediently removed what was left in their wallets, leaving only a poop print for the cleaning service. It was never a lot, but enough to buy him a proper meal. Although Eliot felt justified taking their cash, he also felt that rather it be him taking their money than those crazy-eyed criminals in the alleyways.
Eliot could sometimes hear dreadful munching coming from the dark corners, just out of sight from the light omitted by the hazy magic streetlights, when walking home late at night. Once, he swore he saw a foot rolling out before a bony hand swiftly grabbed it and dragged it back into the darkness. Not to mention the abundance of people going missing every day. If it were up to Eliot, he would place them up for questioning first, and then something more permanent, depending on their mental wellness if they have anything mental left. Unfortunately, hunches don't hold in court, so as a favour for the money and maybe a tad of guilt, Eliot would take the money openly, making these helpless snoring men's worth as a victim less, although unfortunately never nothing.
After Eliot finished what he could in his condition, he called over Milo.
"Milo, finish for me."
Milo's head twisted around and contorted like an Owl. From Eliot's perspective, his bright blue eyes grew triple the size staring Eliot down.
"How much?"
Like a wizard, Eliot pulled out two coins as if appearing out of nothing and flicked them over to Milo.
"I'm feeling generous."
With the words still echoing through the room, Eliot left the tavern.