The Harmonious Inquisitors were done with Ivan.

His trial was brief, his death sentence met with blood hungry applause by the peasant crowd. Their filthy mouths hung open, exposing their wagging tongues. They looked to him like writhing, freshly dug worms.

As he was lead to the dirty world outside, Ivan looked straight ahead; chin raised, and defiantly sang the infectious riff of the theme of his people—his dry voice faltered once he actually caught sight of the guillotine.

The guillotine was, as all were, in the shape of a giant acoustic guitar laid on its side.

It had been refurbished with new fret strings. They gleamed sinisterly, mockingly.

"Let's hear a new tune!" A peasant woman shrieked, jumping up and down impatiently, making her ample chest bounce with her.

"A relaxing ditty!"

"A happy one!"

"No, an angry one!"

"Sad!"

"Romantic!"

A guard kicked the back of his knees and he fell, his head was shoved into the sound hole that would end his life.

The string wire would be strummed, and if the executioner was merciful, he would use the closest string on the fret board to sever the poor man's head, or he'd play it out until Ivan was deaf and bleeding. Ivan's heart beat out a steady hard rhythm.

The executioner shouted, "GET READY FOR A SONG!"

Ivan closed his eyes and focused on the smell of the smooth, polished wood. It made him think of home.

"HALT!"

A sonorous voice boomed.

"STOP THIS EXECUTION!"

It was none other than the Great Wizard Cecil!

Cliché is a story's bread, and butter

Formulas used by any nutter

Archetypes and stereotypes available

To make a story straightaway saleable

Even if it should be in a gutter!

---------------

"Great Wizard Cecil!"

"All-seeing and all-knowing Cecil the Unquestionable!"

The wizard levitated three feet above the ground with his back to the clouds, staring down at them in his flowing white robes with flowing white hair and flowing white disdain. Cecil held his wand, a silver piccolo flute, in his right hand.

His bright eyes, laden with the wrinkles of wisdom, squinted with disgust as an updraft of wind sent the peasant stench right in his nose.

"Descend, oh great wizard, tell us why he must be spared!"

"Descend? Down there?" He answered with a deep, booming laugh. "Certainly not! I took on the craft for the sake of never having to touch the ground, so long as there was any!"

"Well—"

"Hark! Your ears are still reached from here!"

The Wiseman swept his hands out in a grand gesture. "Both my twin, Cecilia of Distaff, and I, have foreseen that this—" He laid his glowing eyes upon Ivan and Ivan was bathed with light. "THIS man you would condemn is the Chosen One of prophecy! He is the one who will kill the Dragon of Discord and destroy the artifact it guards, and free the land of this horrific spell!"

Gasps of shock and reverence rippled through the crowd. Ivan was put back on his feet, and felt his ropes being hastily cut away.

The peasants gazed at Ivan with awe. He stared back dully, wondering if they were people or sheep shaped like people. They turned from hatred to awe so quickly...

"One more thing," Cecil began.

"Yes, oh great Wizard?" They asked, some laughing, and others weeping with joy.

"Unfortunately his journey begins with the Dragon destroying the village and killing all but him, twelve seconds from now."

Everyone stopped laughing. Some others kept weeping.

A distant roar ripped through the air.

"That's all for announcements. Oh, weep not dear villagers, rejoice that your last moments are spent bearing witness to such a spectacle!"

Cecil gave them a reassuring smile then snapped his fingers and disappeared in a blinding flash.