<table class="bbc_table"><tbody><tr><td>(http://www.dfwd20.com/photopost/data/522/medium/Human_Fighter1.jpg)</td><td><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: edwardian;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 2.65em;">Alfreic Slate, Soldier</span></span><br/><em>Front Lawn of Avonleigh:  To Martin</em><br/></strong><hr/>It did not seem that Alfreic took Martin's harangue well, but impoverished blood must tolerate the barbs of the wealthy.  So Alfreic shook his head, and stated disconsolately:   "Aye, I did not choose women, but sorted through them by chance, and chance has never been my ally.  In this, you are right.  Were I to have your fortune, I might be considerably better off.  However, fortune always is a fickle ally, Martin... and if I were you, I would never count upon it."  Was this a threat?  It sounded like it, but Martin would know that this is how Alfreic always was.<br/><br/>But Alfreic did lie.  By sheer virtue, Alfreic was considerably fortunate to have been bred by nobility in the genetic roulette.  Alfreic was also gifted with considerable prowess on the battlefield;  his might and his endurance, his relentlessness, they made for the stuff of fables.  Alfreic could outdrink a dwarf, outfuck a whore and still go to church the next day.  And, furthermore, he was not entirely unpleasant to look at.  He <em>was</em> handsome, even if he looked inordinately evil.<br/><br/> "It does not seem like a sporting contest to hunt an animal with such a foreign aberration," Alfreic said after a moment.    "I shall accompany you, but I do not care to do any shooting.  It does not strike my fancy, really.  It might strike yours because you might be unaccustomed to performing last rites-- but that, my dear man, is my profession."<br/></td></tr></tbody></table>