Never Trust A False Prophet

Back when the wolrd was know and the gods of old had been wiped from the poeples memory there lived a poor man. Although he held himself to a high moral character, which seemed to hurt him more then anything done to him by man. Always he had been a wonderer migrating every year to a new city. His current travel though lead him to a tiny village on the outskirts of of the civilized land. He walked into town his shabby clothes which smelled of feses and urine. His long shaggy hair hung heavily around his surprising young face. Eyes which gleamed like emeralds showing a hidden knowledge, this his cleanest feature. 1

Although the village was accostomed to some strangers like this one there was something about him that troubled them. His voice when he spoke was smooth like silk, which spun wild and fancifull tales of his adventers. He walked into a tavern placing himself with a certain grace onto a stool in front of the bar. With a profound sence of assurance he asked the bartender for a mug of ale. 2

"Tramps aren't allowed in nor are they allowed anything but a foot to the chest." The red faced bartender yelled to the tramp. 3

"I am no tramp nor shall I be refered to as such." With that the tramp grabbed a finely tipped throwing knife from his rags. Thus he flung it delicatly at the bar keep slicing the man's arm. The wound oozed crimson blood onto the bartenders shirt as he grabbed a butcher's knife from behind the counter.4

"Ya shouldn'ta done that." Screamed the bartender. Rage out of control boiled over the barkeep as he lunged at the tramp still sitting stationary on the stool. Casually the tramp his own arm raised a silver knife held tenderly in his hand.5