CIVILIAN, hugo britton

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he wears his brother’s hand-me-downs  with gawky conceit, his hemp-woven tunics and baggy breeches—they slip off narrow shoulders and thin hips. still, each garment is a prize when he receives it, a burnished piece of armor. he can’t wear his brother’s shoes yet, but he’s happy to walk, run, jump barefoot and dig his toes into the grass. like a sapling he’ll stretch up, grow bark. he’ll fill the shoes and the chinks in the armor. back then, his brother is a knight, he the squire. their swords are sticks, their laughter callow.

when his brother proudly announces he’s a champion, fate’s chosen, he grins. he’s known it all along. when his brother sets off on his quest, back broad against the painted sky, he cries. he’s known it all along. when his brother comes back, he tries—again—to fill the hole. the poplar casket runs smooth and cold under his hands. the sky laughs, blithe blue.

he’s known it all along.

his own send-off is without ceremony. at dawn, he runs away chases after the sun, to start over, to rewrite this hero’s tale into the happily ever after he knows is true. his brother’s footsteps are impossibly large, his brother’s shade even larger—like colossus. like standing in a zeppelin’s shadow.

he will never fill it.



neither gifted with magic nor formally trained in combat, he amounts to practically defenseless in a world overrun by monsters. he’s scrawny and slight in frame; endangered, he can run fast, but there are many things faster. he keeps two daggers tucked in his belt just in case—useless in any real situation that warrants it when he’s too stricken to use them.

his real areas of expertise include hero worship, false bravado, and delusional optimism.

[attr="class","appname"]HUGO BRITTON

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AGE: 18
SEX: M
RACE: HUMAN
HOMELAND: IRKALLA
CONTRACT: N