Raiker Venn sat at one of his favorite writer’s desks, one situated under a dark canopy in the courtyard of his private villa in the south of Foraine, the only land worth visiting on Thorneau, as far as he was concerned. The courtyard was mostly dark, lit only by a single line of torches along the wall and the candles illuminating the desk. The weather was pleasant, his seat was comfortable, and his Queen’s Vintage Chateau Lenaire was transcendent. Life should have been fantastic.

Except, of course, for Raiker Venn’s writer’s block.

It was an exceedingly frustrating thing. It was simply a matter of time, Raiker knew, but he was an impatient man when it came to writing. He wanted to get started on his newest poem, but his damned writers block was making it impossible. Any moment now, he told himself, yet still he waited, staring at an empty paper and a dry quill. Raiker Venn downed another glass of the profoundly expensive wine and cursed at his writer’s block yet again.

Finally, after an excruciating wait, Raiker heard the sound, and knew his time had finally come. He looked to his left, where the terrified face of Pierrene de Mots looked up at him, securely locked in Raiker’s writer’s block. Pierrene had claimed, publicly even, that he was a greater writer than Raiker, and so Raiker had paid him an unexpected social visit to have a little chat about it. Now, after an impressive and willful effort, Pierrene could no longer hold the tripwire in his teeth, and he had let it go. The writer’s block exaggerated mechanisms were working now, giving the prideful poet time to think about his fate.

Raiker Venn smiled. “You claim to be the better poet? You believe that talent is a race, my friend, and that you are ahead?” Finally, the last of the mechanisms clicked, and the massive guillotine descended in a blink of an eye, crashing down on Pierrene’s neck, sending a splatter of blood in every direction. “Perhaps you are right.” Raiker made sure none of the blood landed on him, although he allowed a few drops on his paper. With a smile, Raiker dipped his quill into the blood and began his newest poem.

“The Tragic Poet,” he said aloud. “By Raiker Venn.”