I hear them.
And you.

You killed me in a room attack, and I wasn't part of the fight, just passing through!
(I didn't see you; I was fighting, you said.)

You didn't respond to my tell.
(I didn't hear you; I was fighting, you said.)

You insulted me when you died; you got mad at me for the same insult at you when you lived.
(I don't remember that, you said.)

That's all it takes to start, and then the rumours flow: You're a combat jerk!
Just another combat jerk.

All the effort you put into timings and balances.
How do I beat this class? Can we do a test spar?

All the effort you put into your friends who
For whatever reason
Aren't as fascinated by it as you.
The numbers dwindle away, as combat eats your soul.

Embrace it! Love it! The rush of euphoria at the victory!
Until it's gone.

I dream of a day that may never come
When the masses have moved beyond it.
And a few of you
Like stubborn leaves in fall,
Cling to the places just outside arenas
Old men muttering about locks and limbs
Entertain newbies with exaggerated tales (but not by much!)
Of the days when everyone did combat
And you were Nobody if you didn't

And they listen raptly
But then go back
To an Achaea where sure, there's fighting
But more people than not
Are doing other things.

It's really really hard for me
To get other people to realise
You're not just some combat jerk.
Sure, you combat. But that's not all there is to you.
That's just all they care to see.

If my fantasy of an Achaea where combat isn't important
Were to ever come true,

Sure you might be where I said - but I think
You'd also be wherever the truly important stuff was going on.

You would surprise all the people who believe
You're just another combat jerk.

Penned by my hand on the 18th of Glacian, in the year 960 AF.