The huge pile of spoils was sitting there untouched. SPOILS! All a man really
wants is to spoil his family and himself. Spoils can do that. The battle for
spoils had been so fierce it left all comers dead. Except one. A coward.
Victor crawled from his hiding place, a kind of couch cushion fort raised from bodies of the fallen, which he had burrowed under in blind fear. He inspected the battlefield with the trepidation and wariness of a shorter than average dwarf trying to mount a particularly tall horse. After much prodding of bodies with boot heels to confirm they had indeed finished in their toleration of life, Victor collected the spoils.
A renowned poltroon, not a single soul in his village believed Victor could have triumphed in such a fierce battle. Merchants gladly pocketed his blood money but mocked him all the same. Even his family were disbelieving. His spoils were spoilt.
But
the craven are crafty and time ages both fierce and frightened. Victor wrote
down a story, a thrilling tale of derring-do and bravery, and recited his lie
to anyone who would listen. Passed down through generations, Victor’s became
the true history of that day.
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