Corruption is power, and power is corruption. These are fundamental truths of man. To seize power requires mighty intent, and those with such intent never surrender it. Except for one. John Nivan was a man of the people, a proud son of Nirvivan. He rose to absolute prominence, seizing back his fertile lands from the greed of foreign nations. He held it all in his hands, the land of a nation, the power of a king, and the adoration of the people. And he gave it all away. To the people he could have ruled. An impossible first step. He maintained himself in the face of absolute power. I must do the same.

Two men faced each other under the hot sun. Dust swirled around them, the silence occasionally pierced by the sharp cries of an eagle.

“Surender. There is no more running.” the man on the right said, fingering the pistol at his hip. His brown leather boots shifted as he prepared to draw.

The man on the left only snarled, his visage a riticus of anger.

It happened in an instant. The man on the left drew as fast as lightning. Gun rising to face his foe.

It had nearly gotten halfway there before he collapsed, a bullet hole right between his eyes.

John Nirvan, Sunshot, blade of the people, blew away the gun smoke lazily drifting from the tip of his pistol, and turned back to town. All in a day's work.

An hour later, the door to the Rusty Hog tavern burst open, revealing a dark silhouette against the brilliant sun. The raucous clamor within died down at the immense shadow cast by the stranger. The tavern's inhabitants shied back as he walked past them to sit at the bar.

“Whiskey. Straight outta the bottle.”

John eased himself into the chair, wincing at the soreness long riding inevitably brought. Behind him, the whispering started up.

“It's Sunshot”

“What's he doing here”

“Think he caught wild willy?”

“Of course he did fool! It's Sunshot!”

It has forever been fascinating to me how humans idolize others. Always seeking someone to look up to. They seem to crave it, unaware that their heroes are no different from them. They make men larger than life, unheeding of their mortality. Perhaps it was to prove to themselves that man could indeed become great, or perhaps it was so that they could safely rest in the shadows of these titans. Whatever the reason, those they idolized were powerful.

And John was one of them.

John didn't grace any of the comments with an answer, quietly sipping his whiskey, and eventually, the conversation drifted away into other topics.

“More taxes…”

“And we can't even say no!”

“What king? Not ours certainly!”’

The increasing tensions between the great nation of Frald and the increasingly discordant territories of Nirvivan had been all the rage lately. They taxed the colonies like they wanted to suck them dry of wealth. Of course the proud sons of Nirvivan fought back, disobeying orders when possible and maliciously complying when not. Out here, in the wilds, they boasted about fighting back and dreamt of an independent nation. One where they didn't need to bend the knee to every passing foreign noble. They didnt know how close they were to getting their wish.

John continued to sip his whiskey, following the flow of the conversation, understanding the stance of the people. He felt their rage, their fear, and finally, their helplessness.

They were being chained, and violated. Forced to kneel.

He was their blade, and he would not allow such a transgression.

It’s time.

He slowly stood up, feeling the silence return to the tavern. He turned and surveyed the people before him. They looked at him with a mix of fear, respect, adoration and a thousand other emotions. They looked at him as if he were something more than human. All men are the sum of their action, and John’s made him something mighty indeed. Their time would come soon.

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“The winds of freedom blow. Prepare yourselves. The storm comes.”

And with those words, he left.

Days later, he rode, accompanied by the full moon, into a bustling city. Wide cobblestone paved streets escorted him through the city, illuminated by bright gas lamps. The colorful and varied buildings piercing the sky were decorated with signs of life. A drop of water splashed him from a wet clothesline above. It never ceased to amaze him how much life was in this city. Rashek was a city of immigrants, and it showed. Various forms of architecture and life met and clashed, creating wonderful mixtures and fascinating intrigues. But now was not the time to explore. He had a mission.

The winding roads grew wider and even more magnificent as we approached the center of the city. The colorful and wild architecture of the outskirts yielded to more graceful stone buildings, built in the image of ancient Royal architecture. He started to draw looks as he moved deeper into the heart of the city, his wide-brimmed hat and tight leather hat drawing even more attention than his hard-tanned face and vivid orange eyes.

Finally, he arrived at his destination, the assembly building. The lights still shone from elegant windows, revealing to all that the assembly was in session.

Taking a deep breath, he rode Nelly, his faithful horse, all the way to the stairs.

The guards stepped forward to stop him as he dismounted, but one look at his orange eyes stopped them. Even here his name carried great weight. They let him pass without a word.

As he approached the assembly, whispers of their argument reached his ears.

“This cannot go on!”

“We are nothing in front of Frald! Do you want to die?”

“Some things are worth dying for! I won't take this disrespect!”

“Order! Order I said!”

The door opened silently as he entered the room full of shouting politicians. Almost all were wearing some form of a frilly suit, though some wore more practical clothes, and they were currently engaged in a intense shouting match as Tomas Jeffington, the assembly judge and scribe, struggled to keep them under control.

“Order! ORDER!”

It was to no avail and the shouting continued. Until they saw John. One by one the voices died down upon witnessing the tired legend until all fell silent. The flickering light from the gas lamps merged with John’s orange eyes, setting them alight.

Tomas was the first to speak,

“John. Why have you come?”

They were probably reflecting on the last time he had come here, a misadventure which had not ended well for them.

John spoke, a deep bass that resounded through the chamber,

“Frald’s actions have become increasingly bold, and the common people are beginning to suffer. Something must be done.”

The room almost erupted into shouting again, quelled only by a glare of John’s shining eyes. Even here his ethos held strong, his past feats acting as his power.

“Tomas,” he commanded, “Tell me what's been going on here.”

The young man, the youngest judge in the history of the assembly, quickly gathered his wits and spoke,

“We have noticed the same thing. Frald’s demands have become increasingly tyrannical. Why, last week they massacred nearly 20 innocent peasants! We cannot abide by such insults. The people clamor for freedom, and I support them in this pursuit. That's what this assembly was founded for! To that end I have drafted a declaration. A declaration of independence. Yet some ignorant fools still want to remain Frald’s lap dogs.”

“How dare you! Do you know wh…”

A glare from John silenced him.

He considered the document, peering curiously into its essence, measuring its worth.

It was a declaration of independence and therefore a declaration of war. It would be costly, but something had to be done. The cycle needed to be broken.

He looked to Tomas,

“Have they shown any indication of backing off? Any indication at all?”

“No” Tomas replied grimmly.

Tomas nodded, expecting such an answer.

“Then we must fight.”

This time even his ethos was not enough to silence the room.

Tomas was red faced by the time he got everyone back under control.

“Now,” he panted, “If anyone wants to bring up a dissension, do it in an ORDERLY manner.”

For a moment there was silence, then somebody in the back shouted out,

“Why are we even listening to the dirty peasant?”

In an instant 56 pairs of eyes and a pair of brilliant suns pierced the young man with deadly force. He shrank back, sweat breaking out on his forehead,

“...never mind,” he stuttered.

“Any actual questions?” Tomas quickly continued.

The debate lasted for hours, and in the end, John’s ethos was enough to sway the vote.

On that day, history was made.

Nirvivan declared independence from Frald.

And John Nirvivan, Sunshot, blade of the people, was unanimously elected high commander of Nirvivan’s forces.