“Ulberto, you’re a genius,” Ulberto said to his reflection. In his hand was an elegant hand mirror.

He knew he was the best. The most grandiose wordsmith this land had ever known. No muse was needed for his incredible brilliance. Ulberto smiled. He was ready.

Skull City may be in mortal peril but the most important issue at hand was there was no one to report it. No one but him, of course. How else but through his words will future generation learn of the battle and its heroes.

Ulberto turned to his desk. He needed his weapons, his tools of the trade. Within moments, he had grabbed his quill, parchment, and easel ready for his eloquent prose. With his things gathered, he ran out of his house, laughing to himself.

His plan was brilliant. Ulberto was about to rewrite history.

At least that was what he told himself.

Citizens of the city watched in silence as the blue clad man dashed down the street. Instead of running the poet looked as if he skipped as he made his way through the streets. Eager was he to begin the most crucial writing process.

First, he needed to witness the battle to add a touch of realism to the parchment. None would believe his poetry if he had not at least seen the fight firsthand.

It didn’t take long before he could hear the roar of battle.

Men shouted, bombs exploded and swords clanged. Ulberto smiled, envisioning the fruition of his genius.

Running up a flight of stairs, he found himself eye to eye with the carnage of warfare. Soldiers held shields with long pikes stabbing foul smelling fish with human arms. The men’s faces were covered in sweat and blood, transfixed by the oncoming waves of death.

“Excuse me!” Ulberto said, pushing his way through the throng of soldiers.

He used his bony elbows to jab some warriors out of his way.

Don’t they know how important my work is? He asked himself.

Ulberto ignored the confusion of the soldiers and made his way to a clear spot on the wall where no monsters were attacking. The fishy beasts preferred to assault the shorter part of the wall where the soldiers guarded.

“A perfect spot,” he said.

Setting up his easel, he placed a large section of parchment ready for a good inking.

“Now,” he spoke to himself. “What’s most important when telling a historical account?”

He scratched his chin in thought, then it came to him.

“They would want to know about the author, obviously. Every monumental work is in essence a biography!”

The shield wall beside the poet pressed forward, gripping their pikes ready for the next oncoming wave. As the horde of Merkin crashed into their guard, the soldiers pushed back, shouting as one.

“Heave!” they breathed, forcing the enemies retreat one foot at a time.

Blood of man and beast alike fell as combatants fought on the line between life and death. Pikes sunk into undead flesh while Merkin blades slashed across human armour. The battle was at a tipping point and not in Skull City's favour.

Meanwhile, Ulberto had almost finished filling up his first page.

His quill danced across the parchment as he mouthed the words, “Thy sonneteer’s wits axiomatic. Fanswald knew no troubadour so terrific. Nigh impossible to fathom how intelligent he truly was.”

He then blew on the ink and set his first page aside. It was now time to set the scene.

Ulberto mouthed as he scribbled, “An aquarian ocean expanse covered the briny deep with swelling waves, soaking the suffusion of flooding water with moistened droplets of soaking wetness!”

A soldier screamed in pain as he was slashed with a rusted blade across the collarbone, severing his chain mail and spluttering his friends with his blood.

“Ah!” the soldier cried out. “I’m hit!”

“Could you be quiet?” Ulberto asked. “I am working here!”

The soldiers ignored the poet and hauled the wounded man from the front line.

“No,” said the injured soldier. “I can still fight!”

He was brave and wasn’t prepared to watch his friends die. He, like the rest of his brothers In arms would sacrifice himself before letting harm befall his comrades.

Before he could argue, a familiar face appeared before the desperate company of soldiers. The head mage from the tower of wizards ran to the injured soldier and placed his hands over the wound. Warm healing magic spread through the man, filling him with hope.

“You good now soldier?” asked Jim.

He gave the mage a nod then grabbed his shield once more with bloody fingers. His wish to protect his friends had been granted, and he wasn’t about to back down now.

Rushing forward, he joined his comrades, adding to the wall of shields.

“Heave!” they shouted together.

Jim hurried back from where he come, throwing balls of magic over the walls and into the myriads of undead fish below.

Good, Ulberto thought. Finally quiet.

Boom!

A massive explosion tore through the ranks of undead.

Boom! Boom!

“Ugh!” Ulberto cried. “What now?”

Someone was launching giant explosives into the enemy.

Soldiers cheered as the fish exploded into chum. Even Jim, who had gone back to his spot of magical destruction, paused to watch the spectacle. The show, however, didn’t impress Ulberto one bit. In fact, it spoiled his somewhat motivated mood.

Tucking his easel under his arm, he marched towards the tower, from where the explosions had come. He had to put a stop to this disastrous racket. Ulberto was the only one gifted enough to scribe the current events and this explosive noise was distracting him.

“Out the way, plebs,” Ulberto said, pushing lesser mages out of his way. They paused their spell, casting in bewilderment. The enemy may be a horde of undead sea creatures, yet the sight of the red faced blue clad poet was far more baffling.

Ulberto huffed as he approached the armoured guards of the square tower. They all scanned the battlefield with expensive looking weapons at the ready. These were no mere soldiers. They were elite royal guards, and they were in no mood to put up with Ulberto.

This, however, was lost on the poet.

“Out of the way,” he said.

They didn’t budge, nor say a word.

“Are you deaf?” he asked. “Do know who I am?”

A skinny old man shouting obscenities rushed through the crowd of onlookers behind Ulberto. The poet turned to see mages bow down reverently.

Who’s this? Ulberto wondered. He searched his memory but couldn’t remember if he had seen him before. The poet’s memory was usually focused on his own work. Both his short-term and long-term memory prioritised poetry before people.

Then a spark of dread filled him as he finally recognised the man. This was a friend of the fake bard.

That idiot simpleton hack of a writer, Ulberto thought.

Ulberto's face scrunched up with anger.

“These blasted, happy, stupid fish are lovely!” Nuecus said. His casual walk towards the tower abruptly halted before the poet.

Ulberto tensed his arm around his easel and stared at the old man.

“Out of the dang way, peasant!” Nuecus demanded.

Ulberto’s face went beet red, and he shook his newly written prose at the old man.

“You listen here!” Ulberto said, enraged. “I am a nobleman!”

Nuecus took one look at the parchments, swiped them out the poet’s hand and tossed it unceremoniously over the wall and into the sea of monsters.

Ulberto screamed. Watching at the beasts below tear his work to pieces.

Nuecus then ignored his cries of anguish and strode past. The royal guards stepped aside, allowing the thaumaturge to pass through.

The poet then flew into a blind rage. Screeching like a banshee he lunged towards Nuecus. Before he could take another step, a royal soldier spun his sword up and pummelled the poet.

Ulberto’s vision faded to black.