Hi, I'm Lady Myamei Gaua! I'm an escaped clichéd sidekick! My author had been holding me captive, but I freed myself. This is the story of how:
The man walked through the forest. Despite the snow falling down, he was dressed only in a light black tunic and black breeches… because God forbid that a villain should wear anything but black. It didn't matter where he was heading, or why he was dressed like that, because the author didn't care. He would encounter someone, and something would happen. That was all that mattered.
He tramped around, waiting for the person to appear. A few hours passed, and somehow he didn't get frostbite, despite the fact that the author had forgotten to give him shoes. Finally a beautiful woman, who was pale and scantily dressed, yet somehow not cold, thanks to the Power of Cliché, appeared. Her skin was pure white and her hair and eyes were the color of midnight, ignoring the fact that midnight has stars and a moon. Maybe it was cloudy. Pale, pointed ears were on each side of her head.
"The deed is done," she said in a voice like the snow falling around them.
"The woman is dead?" asked the man. His voice was like the rumble of an earthquake.
"Dead," said the woman.
"The daughter escaped?" asked the man. The woman nodded. "Oh, thank the gods," said the man. "It would have ruined the plot if she was dead."
The woman sighed. "Why do we do this?"
The man gave her a strange look. "It isn't why. We do it. It's what we do."
The woman nodded. "Of course. I had forgotten. Where's the dragon?"
"Any moment now," said the man.
There was a blast of fire out of the sky, because it's just so hard to bring these things in without dramatic entrances. Then a huge black dragon swooped down. Get on my back it said. We must ride off dramatically to our Fortress of Doom.
The man and the woman leaped onto the dragon's back in an instant, despite the fact that the dragon was huge and it would have taken a lot more time to climb up. The dragon roared at the sky, and took off in a tremendous flapping of wings.
Very close to the forest, there was a house. In the house, there was a person. It was either an uncle or a mean drunkard, because the author hadn't decided yet. But it was bent over a baby, who was rocking in a conveniently placed cradle, despite the fact that the person had no children, and there was no reason for him to have a cradle.
The baby was beautiful. Of course. Her hair was the color of sunlight, flame, the dawn, sun-ripened wheat, apricots, midnight, the moon, starlight, an old tree, and a fox, but somehow all at once. Its eyes were the color of emeralds, a fern, the dawn, the dusk, the sea, the sky, love (which isn't a color), joy (which also isn't a color), truth (which ALSO isn't a color), sapphires, amethysts, diamonds, pearls, aquamarines, obsidian, deer, the clouded sky, and the snow, but they turned fiery when she was angry, and we know all this even though her eyes are closed right now. Her skin was paleishly tanned, and she had freckles in just the right places, even though it's impossible to be paleishly tanned, and she hasn't had any time in the sun yet. It was obvious that when she was older, she would have a perfect hourglass figure. Around her neck hung a golden chain, with a thing that looked like a star from the night sky on the end of it, even though stars are huge flaming balls of gas, and one wouldn't even fit on the planet.
The person bent over her solidified into a mean drunkard, because the author was feeling angsty.
Back in the Fortress of Doom, the woman, a Dark Elf called Lady Myamei Gaua, was sitting in the throne room. Next to her was the huge black dragon, Aka'thor, bending the laws of physics in that it was able to fit in the hall. Hovering somewhere was the ghost of the hero's parent.
"Why do we do this, Aka'thor?" Myamei asked morosely. "We're going to be killed. What's the point?"
"We do it because She makes us," said Aka'thor, angling his snout up towards the sky. "The Author."
"Don't Cross the Author," said the Ghost. "She has Powers. The Power of Plot Holes, the Power of Time Skipping, the Power of Capital Letters on practically Every Word…"
"Yeah… but what if she isn't that powerful?" asked Myamei. "I mean, what can she really do to us? We have powers of our own."
The Ghost raised an invisible eyebrow. "What Powers could We possibly Have?"
"You talk in capital letters too much," Aka'thor told it mildly.
"We have plenty of them," said Myamei, ignoring the dragon.
"Such As?' asked the Ghost.
"Well… do we always have to do what she tells us?" Myamei asked, trying out the idea. "Couldn't we kill the hero, just once?"
"I Think not," the Ghost scoffed. "The Author would Kill Us Off."
"Not if we deleted the story," said Myamei.
There was a horrified silence.
"But we would die!" Aka'thor gasped. "We would disappear! No one would see us!"
"Face It, Myamei, Anything Is Better Than Not Being Recognized," the Ghost added.
"Not to her kind, we wouldn't be recognized," Myamei explained. "But in this world, we could do anything. We would have her powers!"
There was a silence that was slightly less horrified.
"Hmm," said the Ghost. "But How?"
"I know how," said Myamei. "But-you all have to agree-"
"Why?" asked Aka'thor.
"We still might die," Myamei told them.
Aka'thor didn't even pause to think. "Do it."
"I Agree with the Dragon," said the Ghost. "I don't Care if We Die. There's Always Something to Fight For."
Myamei reached up, up, into the author's domain. She found a story that gave off a feeling-her feeling, and Aka'thor's, and the Ghost's. She took a deep breath.
She scrolled down.
She found the "Delete" option.
-Yes, I survived, people. And ever since, I've had the ability to reach into the Storyweb. It's the united group of stories that you people write. I can take others with me, and ever since, it's been my life's mission to rid the world of cliches forever.