Your Faithful

You sat under undulating palms in the shade of white porticos. You sat with your counselors and viziers. You planned your grand plans. You sat there and postulated how this or that would gain you more. You tossed money. You gave favors. You poked. You prodded. You wove your decorated webs.

And you revelled in the power that it brought.

But as you made your plans and formulated your game board strategies, you failed to realize that not everyone thinks of this as play. They took your money. They embellished your webs of deceit. They hailed your glories. They praised you with great praise.

But now, as the day draws near, as they stand in the streets ready to do battle with the black-robbedrobed usurpers, as they wait for your agency to show itself, they are not happy that you have silently retreated back to the safety of those undulating palms.

This was your army that you left encamped before the walls of the enemy. You drove them to a frenzy. You led them to believe that a new day had come. But now you have left them standing face-to-face with death, abandoned on the eve of battle. And with this, they are not pleased.

You turn your back on your faithful, and all of the sudden the game isn't a game anymore.

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