roger

[crack connoisseur]

Pretty Girls Co. had an ending. It wasn't a pretty ending, and nor will Roger ever be paid the price of the days he rented in advance.

Roger spent a few days in the cruelest of jails, a cave that served the purpose of a big, spacious cell, made by the Archmage Association to keep the vilest criminals from walking on Meranthe's soil. Every day, the Archmage Association let out boars, some were small, some were big, but all of them were feral. Roger would kill every single one of them to afford a nice night of sleep, only to be awakened the next morning by a bell ringing so loud the cave would spit a few rocks on the ground. And that kept going on for months, and every other day a warden would show up in a little window, smirking spitefully.

Though big was his will to meet the women he loved so much outside the cave. He behaved, and the world's femininity is what kept him alive. It was what made him grasp for the fragments that were his life. The days were agonizing, and most of the time the thought of walking off that world loitered amidst his thoughts.

As bad as it was, he held himself together, which ended up being worth it, as a day, one of the chilliest he'd spent in the jail, a visitor greeted him with a stern, almost disappointed voice.

"Roger. You're out."

At this point, Roger was on the ground taking a rest. He had just killed the boars! He roused instantly as if an earthquake was happening. His clothes were tattered, and his hat looked like a scarecrow's. The man had lost a couple of pounds, and his beard, patchy as it was, was at its fullest. He smelled slightly better than a hobo, and his face sported so many tear stains it seemed like he made them himself to appear a better person than he was.

"Am I free? My Aschea! Tell me, what's your name? What's the name of my beloved savior? Who I owe my whole life to, tell me?"

The savior didn't answer. But he did cant his head towards the open gates, and past the gates, Roger recognized his old workers, who camped outside heartily, though which was meant to be a good surprise, made Roger gasp, remembering the days he spent jailed and crowded by boars because they were its reason, that is, if we excluded his lack of character from the equation. He ran out, and at once, he screamed.

"YOU'RE DISMISSED! DON'T EVER TALK TO ME ANYMORE!"

But that didn't mean he'd forget his ways. The man expelled the illegality of his mind, but he still lived to love, and loved to live! He was still the same bohemian layabout, the same bon vivant. And so, on the first day, he surrounded himself with women and drinks and spent all his coins in a single night in the most expensive tavern in Arcadia.

Only to wake up the next day unchanged. How good it is to forget oneself, how good it is not to be Roger! The man himself knew it.