First Person

Here's what I got so far tonight. I have to go to bed.

After my pa died I took up with the caravans. It was honest enough work, the pay was decent and I was able to see the sights from Shark’s Way up the Green Road all the way to Xin, The City of Wonders. I met Jon in Sillsdale, a run down mining town half-way between nowhere and the backwoods. There had been a misunderstanding regarding his national loyalty. The gentle folk of Sillsdale were King’s Men to the last and Jon, being from Lion’s Haunting and a Zagari, was thought to be a Freelander, which he was.
I had no wish to embroil myself in a political debate that seemed determined to end in bloodshed, but I couldn’t help jumping in on Jon’s side as he was outnumbered and I have learned, many times to my chagrin, that my loyalties most often lie with the lone wolf rather than with the pack. Besides, I would have bet all the silver in my boot on Jon against the entire town. Goats included.
“It’s a matter of diving right!” One of the locals was shouting up at Jon, the pitchfork in his hand quivered, mirroring the skinny fellow’s body. Jon, for his part, stood still as a stone, arms crossed tightly over his armored chest, a dark mountain staring down at the sputtering farmer through bars of his helm. “You Freelanders will be the end of us with your pagan ways. Some men are born to greatness, some are born to serve, but we all must follow our furrow until the end of our row. No man can change his destiny. It is written in the heavens!”
“And what man knows his destiny? We make our destinies everyday, in everything we do. We can all claim divine right as we are all children of the Maker. What is a king? He is man as I am.”
Shouts of treason and a few curses that even I had never heard before flew from the gathering crowd and some of the townsfolk stooped to gather stones from the dusty street. I had a feeling curses would not be the only things flying from the crowd that afternoon.
“Friends” I shouted, smiling “come now, let us be civil.” A score of hot faced farmers turned toward me in unison. My smile tried to slide from my face but I forced it firmly back into place. “After all, as this man said,” I lifted my hand toward Jon, “we are all children of the Maker.”
Murmurs of agreement rose from the sweaty throng. Pitchfork spoke up. “You one a’ them Freelanders too?” His face twisted in disgust at the word “Freelander”.
I tucked my thumbs behind my belt and tried to look relaxed and harmless even though the farmer’s stares made me terribly anxious and uncomfortable. “Me, ah, no. I am not much for politics. My father was a cleric you know, eighteen years ministering to the good folk of Joram’s Rift. I was always in the books, and helping my pa around the temple of course, didn’t really have time for much else.”
The farmers relaxed visibly. Many shook their heads in agreement as I spoke. I knew their type. Joram’s Rift had been full of them. They appreciated a chaste life, a life of order and hard work. There was safety in rules and ritual a safety the good folks of Sillsdale would kill to keep.