Do You Choose Battle Or Truce?

A solitary man stands on a small ridge, his stoic face set in grim acceptance of what lies before him. A flag planted in the hard ground next to him whips in the stiff autumn breeze. The flag is simple, nothing more than a green background with several white diagonal lines crossing it. In the distance, the man sees a solitary figure moving toward him along the ridge, his silhouette outlined against the gray sky. His pace is neither fast nor slow, but steady and determined. The second man approaches the first, glances up at the flag, and simply says, “Ditto.” They nod to each other and turn to the broad plain stretched out before them.

A loud, blood-curdling scream erupts from behind them. Both men tense and reach for their swords as they turn. A third man, shirtless and painted completely in green with white diagonal stripes is sprinting towards them. Both men relax, and marvel at the long, flowing hair trailing the man, the mane in sharp contrast to the close-cropped, flat locks that adorn the crown of his head. He stops next to the two men, salutes the green flag, thumps his right fist to his chest and smiles, “It’s a great day for party.”

The three turn back and survey the expansive plain spread out before them. The first man grips the hilt of his sword, repeatedly twisting his gloved hand slowly around it, the other hand propped up on an enormous shield. The shield is scratched and battered, the large “G” adorning its front side barely able to be seen. The second man leans on an ornate longbow and flicks the bowstring absently as he stares ahead. The third man, alternately hopping back and forth on his bare, calloused feet, pounds a giant club into the damp turf, mud splattering with every impact. He carries no other weapon…other than a look of crazed anticipation, a look that has struck fear into the heart of many a battled-hardened man.

The three men stare ahead, undaunted by what faces them. Across a muddy expanse of grass strewn with cleaved helmets, broken spears, and rusted swords, all remnants of past battles, stands a horde of blood-thirsty warriors. These warriors are adorned in shiny, new battle garb. Much of their raiment still has the manufacturers' tags. Each warrior carries a handheld device, from which they rarely remove their eyes. At the rear of the army stands a giant screen, the images portrayed upon it are impossible to discern from actual living, breathing beings. Huge speakers blast what the opposing army must consider to be music, but to the three, it sounds like a mortally wounded dragon, screeching in pain as it slowly succumbs to its wounds.


The first man steps forward. He looks up the at the simple flag behind him and sighs before addressing the enemy horde. In a booming voice, the ruggedly handsome warrior begins to speak, "You have entered our lands without leave to do so. Yes, these are lands that we once shared. Yes, we have been allies in the past, but you have succumbed to a magic spell cast by a dark wizard. This wizard has succeeded in distracting you from what we both once shared, a need and love for a common castle and those that dwell within, as well as all that accompanied it: much food, flowing libations, and competitions of strength and skill. We have expressed our allegiance to the olden ways, a simpler time, when these competitions were more pure, and bright lights, loud music, and visions on a screen did not distract from these competitions. Our fondness for the plain green with stripes is not a rejection of the current state of affairs, but rather an appreciation of where the kingdom has come from. The appreciation of the old armor in shades of blue, gold, and brown is not an indication of disdain for the current green and gold."


The third man slams his club into the ground and whispers, "Are we going to do battle, or monologue them into submission?"


The second warrior chuckles, as the first continues, "Rather this is a way of honoring our forefathers and their subjects, brave men and women who have served this kingdom for eons prior to us. Respect for them is something to be nutured, not swept away and rejected. If you wish to ignore them, and move forward without them, scorning their ways and views as simplistic and backward, you will have to do so over our breathless corpses. You do not have to change and go back to their ways, but we will not be scorned for our belief that their ways must be honored."


Members of the warrior horde glance at each other, doubt slowly creeping into their minds. They...


Awww, jeez, I just can't keep this up...I LIKED THE PLAIN END ZONES WITH THE WHITE STRIPES. Sue me. I also love the throwbacks, brown pants, brown helmet included. You're free to disagree, but you'll have to do it while I wear my new Acme Packers winter hat.


Go, Pack. Now...who needs some mead?