Brown Bread Blueskull, All Teeth and Furto Everyone

Yesterday I changed guilds, leaving me with as much offence as a new born babe. I bump into Threap, he sees my plight and backs off with assurances that he will give me a chance to advance my skills before he continues to slaughter me.

I sit out in the open and discuss my guild change with friend and foe alike, and easy target for the dozen or so Thakrians that could have walked up and despatched me any time they like. I sit and reflect. I come to the conclusion that despite the hea

ted arguments we sometimes have, and the odd cross word, that Avalonians as a whole are a fair minded and honourable bunch.

Today I log on, feeling fairly sure that I can once again rely on the sportsmanship and sense of fair play that seems inherent in the land. Arthor logs on. I inform him that there is not much point in jumping me as anything stonger than a gust of wind

is likely to slay me at this point in time. He nods an acknowledgement. I settle back down to work that I'm employed with.

Two minutes later, wham - Arthor, King of Hypocrisy arrives. The rest is easy to work out. I ask Arthor where his beloved honour is, to which he blusters some reply about Darkness, and his honour being intact. Arthor is a dangerous man, not because of

his swords, but because he lives in another world entirely. In this fantasy world, he believes all his actions to be just, and he thinks that any act, any act at all can be excused by mumbling some sentance that includes the word 'darkness'.

Despite his deeds, I feel that compassion is called for. I believe that if one day Arthor were to finally realise the horrible difference between his perceived self, and the perception that others have of him, he would fall into an eternal oblivion. I

for one, cannot hate another so much as to wish such a thing on them, and will therefore do my best NOT to point out to Arthor his many inadequacies. I urge my fellow Thakrians, Parriuns, Springdalians and Mercineans to show the same restraint.

Blueskull - lover of fair sport, defender of the weak (Arthor included)



Written by my hand on the 11th of Cloudburst, in the year 994.