One night, while having my brig repaired at a local shipwright’s, I saw two men by a pub near Sandfall Isle. The first of these men clearly had no fortunate blood, and the stench of cheap Ravennan booze clung to him like a sickness. A fool, as most might say at first glance. The other was a prominent nobleman from a neighboring kingdom, drinking whatever sorrows away with barrels full of imported Azuran wine aboard his ship—a haven he refused to leave, by all accounts. And by most common definitions, I saw a Noble.
Some time after, another man—drenched in seawater and robbed of all he had—arrived at the pub and approached the previous two. First, he approached the Noble and his barrels, asking for just the tiniest share. The Noble declined, proclaiming that men such as himself should not drink so late at night. Yet, when the drenched man approached the Fool, he gladly offered all of the few beverages he still had.
I took my leave the morning after, but a question lingers on my mind.
Where does true nobility lie in: in what one has or in what one gives?
