Splash!

Puddles in the uneven cobblestone path splashed as your bare feet propel you step after desperate step. The night air is chilly, so it burns the lungs, leaves your nose feeling closed off and your mouth dry. It doesn't help that the skirt you wear is torn, ripped by your own desperate hands to make room for you to use your full stride. It had taken your teeth to start the tear, but the alternative would have been worse.

They were behind you, flashing orange lanterns and the sounds of heavy leather boots splashing through the puddles your own bare feet had just passed through. "Com'long back'ere girly! We ain' gonna 'urt ya!" the hoarse laugh that joined those misshapen woods made their honesty dubious, at best. The fact that they came from the brigands who had broken into your family's barn just an hour ago didn't help. You don't know what they did to your family, all you know is your father had shouted for you to run while bodily blocking the stairwell. That had given you enough time to slit your skirt, to dive out the window and get to where you were now.

Where was that? On either side of you the pale moonlight illuminate the trees, which in turn became tall looming figures in mocking laughter while uncaring stars twinkled above when they weren't instead inclined to rest comfortably behind storm clouds. You had turned every local road you came across, hoping to lose them around the bend never to any avail. Now you were just lost, just running.

As it happened, you weren't the only one out and about that night. When you first ran into him, you must have thought you had run into your pursuers, that somehow one had gotten around you. The man was a brick wall that smelt of alcohol and aged male musk. Despite his size, he stumbled from your impact, and then laughed. "Car-arefu' now," he slurred, one hand coming to your shoulder, stopping you as surely as did your fear of being caught.

"'Ey now! That's ours!" came a voice from behind you, the first sign that maybe this wasn't one of them.

"She ain't yers no more an," a hiccup cut off what was undoubtedly the clever part about this retort. "Ah fuckin'..." he gave up and reached to his belt. From its sheath he then drew a sword which flashed in the light of your pursuers lanterns. The long blade was true, almost blue steel, with a gilded gold hilt set with flashing stones brighter than the careless stars. The laughing trees became again foliage in the gleam off the weapon. And in your head flashed the words of the children's tale hero your father used to tell you years ago.

"Face me now! For I am the Ever-Guard, the ever burning flame!" The words of the great hero, the immortal warrior who had alone cut through the unjust armies of Emperor Gasweine. The man who had left the cavalry hordes of the evil empire kicked from their own horses by the sounds of his voice, whose sword had cleaved a path through the great city all the way to the Emperor himself, who even possessed by a great demon had been felled before that very sword. There was even the chip at the tip where it was said the force of the final blow had gone straight through Gasweine and cracked apart the top steps of the Palace Steps.

Presently, the aloud mimicry of that cherished phrase came out something like: "Face muhh... Errer-ard... THE... fum." followed by a belch. The sword clunked to the ground, unneeded as the first man charged and was simply slapped aside, flung at his companions. Far from the grandiose battle between divine powers in human form, these men were brigands, burglars which were all too common in this age past that of heroes where the jaded mortal men let those great memories become simply story; they ran, spitting curses, unaware like you were of who you had barreled into.

With a thump, the big man dropped unceremoniously on his ass and let the sword rattle onto the cobble stone. His hand was more interested in twirling strands of your hair around it as he grinned through a great dark beard and chuckled hoarsely. "'Ey now... you are a nice thing. Could ya...." hiccup "gemme some fresh ale? I cannuh... pay ya back," he mumbled, chuckled, and his hand dropped from your hair to innocently, at least by comparison, pat your rump with a squeeze for good measure before his head thunked against your shoulder and at last... he snored.

Alright, so this actually ain't all that serious a prompt. It's an over the top fantasy world where in some time in the "near-ish" past some great hero arose to conquer the powers of evil, yadda-yadda. Well what do ya think happens to those sorts of all powerful, immortal heroes after they save the day? If they don't become a dictator all their own, I imagine here they end up a little washed up. Y'know, like their best days are behind them and all they can do now is drink, wander town to town, and hit on cute farm girls. Alcoholic, perverted, but ultimately still a hero deep down... or are they? I imagine this as a short term, almost one-off scene where you play a character that finds herself the attention of this washed up childhood hero of hers.

There are details to hash out, but the general "kink" of it would be the older pervert constantly trying to sex up the young (18 ) maiden, shameless washed up pervert that he is. In turn she could try to reform this former hero, using his attraction to her to show him back to the way of heroism... and rolling her eyes at every time he tries to drunkenly motorboat her instead. OR, perhaps she can fuel the corruption, further seducing him into taking revenge for her, or convincing him he deserves to go around and take what he wants; he was a great hero after all.

Lots of options. In fact, if you just liked my writing and aren't feeling this prompt, I'm just about always open to other prompts. You could pitch your own at me, or look through my post history, most all of which are always open. I'm pretty flexible and mostly just need a fresh creative outlet.