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Pymon's wrinkled eyelids creaked open and he groaned. The sun's glare barged through the window of his small shack. Damned be the sun, damned be the shack, feh! Joints clicking like horseshoes on a cobblestone road, he sat up and rubbed his aching eyes. Damned be these eyes, damned be these joints, feh! Stretching as mightily as one of his age could, Pymon rose from his simple bed.

Morning training, staving off the age. A soothing rhythm of fists and feet upon the stone walls, astoundingly graceful for his age. A flurry of blows drummed on rock, sending a rain of fine gravel to the floor. Perhaps the most pleasant hour of the day for Pymon, remembering that even in his age, he hadn't lost his ability. By the time he had finished, the sun had risen noticeably higher in the sky, it was time to get ready for the day.

A mid morning meal then, salted fish heads, the only thing in this world not actively damned. Pymon reached for the simple wooden bowl. Shooing the flies away with gnarled hands, he brought a dry leathery head to his mouth. Salty, and tough, just like Pymon. A hint of a smile almost flashed across his face as he reached for another one. No more. Damned be the bowl, damned be......something! With a snarl, Pymon stormed from his house, a mere two paces to the door.

The sun was blindingly bright, reflecting off of the water in a two pronged attack on Pymon's eyes. Damned be the sun, damned be the lake, feh! Lighting quick, a hand raised to shield his face from the sun. With another huff, Pymon clasped his hands in front of him, and broke into a proud stride, heading for the tiny rainbow of market stall roofs on the far side of the lake.

The walk to the market was half an hour, plenty of time to reflect. Damned be you Pymon, such a quarrelsome grouch to be around, feh! What good things have happened to you lately? Your old bones haven't broken yet, your fists are still quick as a snake, damned as snakes may be. Lord Kradok hasn't sent a garrison of the Steadfast to wipe you and your pitiful hovel off of the map. He even sent you a nice vase to make up for what happened with those vandals last month, or just to silence your constant griping, damned it be. No matter, it would be good anyway for some time in the sun, to ward off the aches of sleep, the yearn for eternal rest. He wasn't a day over fifty and his heart was one of a man in his eightieth year. Would it hurt to maybe lighten up a little? Show some contentment once in a while. Perish the thought, feh!

Even as this reflection continued, Pymon was suddenly made aware of someone following him. No doubt some thug who would take advantage of some unsuspecting old man. He shot the most hateful of glares over his shoulder at the surly figure, whose pace quickly slowed. It was at this point, he nearly collided with a woman. "You clumsy nag! Your feet should be tried for treason for their incompetence!" The words hissed from his mouth like venom and the woman hurried along with a mortified expression. Damned be these folks, feh! It was at this point during his outburst that he realized he was now among the stalls of the market. In familiar, yet uncomfortable territory, he hurried now to the stall he frequented monthly. The elderly woman, no stranger to Pymon's taste or demeanor, wordlessly set down a basket of fish heads on her counter, Pymon tossed a gold piece in her direction and was immediately off.

As he made his way through the bustling crowd, he felt a familiar sensation in his pocket. Whirling in an instant he had an intruding hand seized, the owner, a boy who couldn't be more than fifteen, clutching another gold piece desperately. Pymon's dark eyes narrowed beneath his bushy brows and a cruel smile crossed his face. He hadn't taught a lesson in months. His grip tightened and the boy's shriek announced to him that the pilfering hand would not be of use for pilfering for quite some time. Pymon's free hand clenched into a rock-like fist, delivering itself to a mere inch from the boy's trembling head. Pymon softened for a brief moment, his hand relaxed to an open palm, which immediately found itself whizzing across the boy's face at lightning speed. The resounding whip-like crack caused several dozen heads to turn, even more once the abrupt crash of the boy into an adjacent stall caused them to immediately turn away. Those who knew Pymon even in passing, were smarter than to address an issue such as this one.

His gleeful seething turned quickly from the pickpocket to his fish heads. All he needed to do was get home and he was set for a month! Blessed be the thought! A whole further month of solitude! As content as someone of his disposition could be, Pymon hurried excitedly back to his hovel. Another month of peace, inside and away from the drivel that plagued every street and shack of all bloody Dorne. It was upon nearing his hut that excitement turned to stark terror, for his door appeared open! His pace quickened exponentially as he arrived at his home, bursting in, fish on the ground, fists at the ready. But whoever had come, had gone. His bowl was face down upon the stone floor, his bed overturned. His vase! A thousand pieces on the ground. Terror turned to grief as Pymon sank to his knees. What could they have wanted? He had little gold. Upon closer inspection of his small coffer and he realized he now had none. Grief turned to fury. Whoever this or these bastards were, he would make them pay. But who could it have been? It could have been anyone. It would be everyone.