The Stuff Of Which Legends Are Made

originally posted May 19, 2006

I wondered, after a time, what might have happened to the confederate of the lone rogue on the 24th of Hesius, the fellow who boldly, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the men of Thentis, shot the man at the wall. It was his action, I thought, aside from all of the swashbuckling and swordplay, that truly turned the tide of the day. Had the men at the wall turned the cranks with impunity, the impaling spears would have continued their slow, tortuous ascent into the bellies of the criminals, the mercenaries who fired the wagons of the Merchant Jerome. Gold is a citizen of the world. She travels, with impudence, behind any wall, past any gate. How easily men are apt to turn a blind eye when their palms are greased and their pockets are weighted. This, above the 'heroics' of the day, is what struck me most. As atrocity and tragedy turn into legend and lore, even the men of Thentis will begin to applaud the bravery of the lone rogue. How he stood fearlessly on the wall taking two, three and four men at a time, dispatching them at will. They will recall their red-headed Champion, stalking like a larl atop their city wall to face the lone rogue, how terrible and cold the ringing of steel was. It is easy, it seems, to downplay the betrayal of their own citizenry, to overlook the scoundrel in their midst. Let us pretend, fellows, that no one has pissed in the punch. Let us drink. Let us recall the bravery of the men involved atop the wall or astride their flighted mounts. Oh, how the wind buffeted us and the letting of blood excited us. So there is one amongst us whose loyalty has come into question. Is it truly something to worry over? What is but one drop of poison in a cup of nectar?