By Arutha
These fables were written at the founding of Iridine by the great author Gaius Cornelius Nomanius. I, Arutha K'Valdemar, found them written on ancient parchment in a scroll case that was burried behind heaps of junk in an old tavern. How they came to be there is a mystery. I have translated them as best I could, and have published them for all to enjoy.
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The Warrior, The Bandit and The Drink
Once, long ago when Iridine was not, and large cities were yet to be dreamed, there was a small farm. On this farm lived a man known as Willith. Willith was a strong man, quick to anger, and over-indulgent of the drink.
After a particullary good harvest, Willith got very drunk on home-brewed morith, a grain-alcohol. Willith decided that he would head into the forest bordering his farm and try to find some bndit treasure. Willith strapped his large bronze gladius to his back and started off.
Willith was not long in the forest when he chanced upon a lone bandit. Still quite drunk, Willith stumbled loudly when trying to sneak up on the outlaw. The bandit whirrled around, pulling a small knife from his boot. His esyes went wide when he saw Willith's bulk, and the bandi froze in his tracks, knowing he could never hope to outrun such a behemoth. The outlaw panicked, as he knew he could never beat this man. But as Willith pulled his gladius and started towards the bandit, the grimy outlaw saw how drunk Willith was. A plan quickly fomed in his mind.
Willith lunged at the bandit, his gladius held straight outward, but missed to the far right. The bandit, being of quick wit, fell down moaning, rolling on the ground Willith, drunk as he
was, didn't realize that he hadn't hit the bandit. As Willith bent to rummage through the bandits belongings, the quick bandit brought his knife up, sliding it into Willith's ribs. Willith fell to the ground, and the bandit quickly robbed the dead man of all his belongings.
The moral of this story is that no matter how big you are, a simple sip of the drink can level you flat.
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The Masked Man
There was once a mighty warrior called Heoptis. Heoptis was the champion of the Republic. He was able to take on entire battalions of Iridine's enemy by himself. One day, Heoptis walked to a battlefield that was on the disputed border of Iridine and a barbarian tribe. He was a follower of the club, and wielded his with great effeciency. After dispensing of quite a few barbarians, Heoptis realised that he was cut up quite badly. The barbarians had pierced his chest and neck, and left flesh wounds on his face and arms.
Heoptis quickly sent for the renowned Healer Marithtic, a good friend. While waiting, Heoptis slipped in and out of uncounsiousness. As he was just regaining consciousness, he saw a masked man approach him. fearing that he was to be robbed blind by this obvious thief, Heoptis pulled his club, and with a mighty blow broke the masked mans legs, and killed him with another. Felling quite pleased with himself, Heoptis pulled off the msk to find who the would-be rober was, only to reveal the face of Marithic. Marithic had borrowed a mask from a friend so he wouldn't be harmed on the battlefield.
The moral of this story is never take anything at face value.
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The Rich Man
There was once a man named Tursius who grew up in a wealthy merchant family. His dad sold weapons and armor to the constables, miltias, and the Rebublic's Army. When his dad passed away, Tursius inherited the business. He profited from all the wars and outlaws that were prominent at that time.
When Tursius first inherited the business, he had many friends. He went to parties, played games, and drank at taverns with his buddies. But soon, the business began to occupy all of his time. He stopped going to parties, never played games, and couldn't get away to go drinking. Eventually his friends drifted away. He stopped being invited to parties. People stopped talking to him because of his reclusivness. During this time, Tursius was raing in a huge profit.
When Tursius go old, he sent for all his friends to see them for one last time. No one came. His obsession of his job cost him all the ties to the world he had.
The moral of this story is that having moey does not make a man rich.