Snippet #1361716

Xavier couldn’t help his clichéd entrance. After all, he was the only person riding a horse up the main road towards the centre. Upon arriving he could see that a few others had already arrived. He made a guess that they would be Heroes; punctuality is a virtue that Xavier always valued in those working towards the same cause.

Dismounting his horse in one swift motion, he tied the reigns to a nearby handrail. He unbuckled his shield from his back and locked it to the horse’s saddle; he would have no need of it inside the centre. Turning to face the entrance he saw someone that was obviously either a Hero or a Villain as Xavier had observed him enter through a rift in thin-air. He could only guess at what power that man possessed.
“I hope he’s on our side…” Xavier mumbled to himself as he took off his belt with the scabbard of Blackadder attached to it, the belt did little else other than hold his sword. The sword itself was back at his base in an undisclosed vault, but he brought the sheath along for show. He buckled the belt and scabbard to the saddle and began to walk over to the centre doors. He passed some form of army vehicle on his way over. It had a turret missing, what he could only assume, what would be a rather large and dangerous gun. Inwardly, he began to feel at a loss. It seemed all he had over his fellow heroes was his blade skills, and if Villains were just as advanced as this, well, he may be hanging up his sword prematurely or handing it to his God in person.

He dismissed such pessimistic thoughts from his mind. He knew what he was here to do and he had to focus on the task at hand. He reassured himself his skills were valuable and that the smallest amount towards justice is superior than the greatest to evil, and if dying included, then so be it. He didn’t want to change the world per say, he just wanted to help it. His silent monologue had come to an abrupt end when he had inadvertently and rudely walked past the people at the entrance, highly out of character, in Xavier’s opinion, and was now being stared at by the receptionist, simultaneously, she furiously typed on a keyboard. Suddenly he remembered why he had walked inside.

“Er, Oh! I hath an appointment, I believe. I am Sir Pent, t’would be appreciated if thou wilt direct me to the correct tryst.” He caught himself on his speech, aware that his occasional archaic language often confused people, “Sorry, I mean could you point me in the right direction, please.” Xavier didn’t do himself any favours when it came to being stereotyped.