He did not have a country. He did not belong anywhere he went. So he carried on, wandering the roads without a destination. His staff was tall and thin and worn all over, like one past their prime. His face was rough and weather-beaten, like the path he travelled on. He did not run, just simply walked, for there was no rush. There was no hearth to reach, no youthful arms to embrace him. His destiny was to roam; not lost, yet never found. There was no banner to sing to, no king to salute. He was his own leader and his realm was the road. Not born of weak stock, the man continued, never staying longer than he needed. The way was harsh and unforgiving, but he did not falter. Whatever was thrown at him would not see success, for his will was that of stone and his mind was sharper than the blade of a god. The man pressed forward, with nothing to lose and nothing to gain. He had nothing to love and nothing to hate. All he had was his staff and a soul purer than most " these were the only things he would ever need.
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