Dante rode east along a dusty brown road. As his steed trudged along he whistled
to him a gentle, lazy tune, the song of his guns slapping his thigh provided a steady and
consistent beat which in tern kept the horse from quickening its pace or dwindle behind.
It was accustom to him, by now, to not travel to fast or slow in his travels, as his
destination was so often unknown to him. He had little memory of why he wandered like
such; he had no home and had not in many years. Frankly, he found, that every time he
would try to settle down he would soon grow restless and just leave, before he knew it he
was back in the same position he had been in before. He rode then, one hundred and four
years of age and to that day had not been happier than aimlessly traveling the endless sea
of roads that stretched across the ground. He was content alone as well, he rode now with
a horse he called Alexis, after a dame he’d once knew. However he knew the horse would
not always be there, the thought made him sad but alas, loneliness was mood he was fond
The bard was so preoccupied by his thoughts that he didn’t notice, a bloody and
bruised beggar lying on the side of the road until he was within a hundred paces of his
perch. He rode slowly up to the man and investigated his condition.
Through the brown jacket the man whore on across his torso, a crimson stain
protruded from his left side, another on his right pectoral. The bard dismounted and
walked to the beggar,
“How does the day greet you, dear Beggar?” Dante asked the Beggar.
“Fair and foul, young man”, his words were strained and made out only through
the gargling of his own blood.
“My, name is Dante, old man, of the land of Medisium. I wish our acquaintance