<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/>And perhaps that is what Alfreic was known best for:  reverie and debauchery.  When the three men were younger, they surged forth from their homes like a pulse, and roamed through the countryside looking to drink, fight and pop maidenhoods.  Time had not been too unkind to Martin, but for Alfraic, a man of war, time had been a terrible, cuckolding mistress.  It took a long time for Alfreic to answer his friend, for Alfreic was uncertain whether to call him a friend at all.  An acquaintance, bygone through the years, renewed again but with some disinterest.  For the call of battle changes the interests of men, and when such wars are as savage and brutal as they were, men are no longer men at all.<br/><br/>But do not think that Alfreic actually hesitated.  No, it was as if he was rhythmically taking in everything the same way an asp does before it strikes.<br/><br/> "Port-a-Lucine was a lifetime ago, Martin," Alfreic said, reminiscing momentarily.   "I have been laid to with a noble family in the north.  It seems I join a choir of our ilk who have underestimated the value of firearms in battle.  Now I reap the rewards of a metal ball interred in my hip."<br/><br/>That damned wound.  It injured his pride a bit to look at it, to feel it.  At the same time, he felt lucky.  A few more inches to the left and Alfreic wouldn't have been able to live.  A male organ torn asunder makes for a very boring life.<br/><br/></td></tr></tbody></table>