men hide behind their many masks
and prance upon the stage
painting lives and wearing dreams
while destiny turns the page

men hide behind their many masks
and walk the crimson road
marching towards the setting sun
as fate's creul seeds are sewn

men hide behind their many masks
as if to ward the blight
if only man would rise and see
the future's his to write

The night was still. That was an adjective not often used to describe something in Ridley Wizen's life. Activity was the core of his nature, chaos had its own twisted order in the recesses of his mind. He calmly strided forward, one foot after another, the calmness threatening to drive him insane. The world defiantly screamed at him, yelling, bursting through his ears with words that not all was Glory and Honor and Righteousness. Some things, such as the calm, cloudless, starfilled night, simply were, without an accompanying description.

It was awkward, really. The midnight journey was taking its toll on the battle hardened general; taxing his conscience and questioning his grip on reality. In the wake of war and amidst an ocean of self-doubt, why was beauty such as this star filled midnight, the song of the crickets, the soft meandering of the inky blue clouds... why was it allowed to exist?

Darkness was beautiful. Legends always align evil with blackness, darkness, and emptiness. But darkness, the night, the warm embrace of the ethereal sky, the silent cooing of far off insects, the dewy mist which was painting the countryside. How many famous manuscripts described a "black wizard" or a "dark overlord" or a "king of the night?"

A stereotype, perhaps. The night had its Role, its Place in the world, laying gently behind a barrier in people's minds which could not be broken. Night has fallen; stay off the streets, lock your doors tight, hang a crucifix from your neck. Night is darkness. Darkness is black. Black is evil.

That was the Role of the night, to act as a sword, a blight upon the people. It struck fear into the hearts of children, lured adventurers to their death. And yet its Role never changed.

Everything had a Role. Every man, woman and child on the planet had a purpose to fulfill, a destiny to walk. Every rune had a beginning and end, every action and every deed had a cause and an effect. A place for everything; everything in its place, as the saying went. It was futile to go about chasing half-forgotten dreams and whispers of a sought-for reality; a man had to find his Role and be content with it. From the most golden king to the most famous hero to the most enlightened scholar to the most dirty winger... each was a gear in the intricite clockwork of fate, clicking and yearning in their own direction, slightly affecting the adjacent gears which in turn moved and clicked, moved and clicked, until the movement spread throughout the watch and, out of nowhere, time lurched forward one second.

Destiny.

Each man had his destiny. Some were destined to lead, some to follow. Asking the lowliest urchins of Jowston would yield Ridley's certain destiny; a great leader, fearless, unshakable. A kobold unlike any other- clean, inteligent, a rock among men. A born leader. The only thing more fierce than his fangs was his blade. A word spoken from the lips of Ridley Wizen was the word of authority, as if destiny squirmed to shift out of his way.

How utterly laughable.

Ridley was not a leader. Any half-drunken bubber who's staggered into Two River could have told that. Ridley had about as much political muscle as a boulder had hair. Whenever one of his soldiers addressed him as leader, Ridley wondered why the people revered him as an icon of leadership, of bravery. If Ridley had any shread of leadership in him, the kobolds of Two River wouldn't have been suffocating in their dusty hovels and mangy tents strewn about the countryside, but living in lavish houses of stone and wood near the city's center of trade. If only Ridley had the guts to take Makai's place as mayor.

But the gear kept clicking, and the seconds kept on slipping away from him.

It stood to reason, therefore, that Ridley was a follower. By no means was this the case; Ridley brutally tore through any qualm or challenge to his authority throughout his ranks. What little mutiny which arose throughout the kobolds of Two River was quickly sought out and shattered, leaving Ridley to the title of undisputed general.

Following, as well as leading, took qualities which Ridley did not have. He was stubborn, charismatic, and never offered his hand in assistance without a strategic and beneficial reason either to himself or his army. To follow, one needed loyalty, one needed a cause, one needed a common goal with his fellow men. Ridley had nothing to show loyalty to- a city which did not recognize his strength? An alliance which hated his people? Loyalty to those things would mean a certain level of insanity on part of the kobold general. He refused to pay homage to a country which would turn its collective back on his people without a second thought, and only half a first.

Then a question ensued- what role befitted a man who could not lead and who refused to follow?

This Role was left to the manipulator. This person sought power, fortune, all to his own greedy ends, at the expense of everyone around him. He forged his own path in life, pretending to follow, to conform, pretending to follow the rules, yet forever changing the rules as he went. In wartime, this was the true front. Strategist versus strategist... which pawn could be sacrificed in order to claim checkmate? And when it's all over, to whom can I sell the victors to in order to maximize my winnings?

Soldiers always believed they were fighting the battles, believed that their generals were giving orders. In reality, who could say who was fighting whom? Manipulation was the key to every lock, the proverbial loophole through which so many empires were smashed and so many a great lineage was snuffed out of the pages of eternity.

Certainly Ridley could never fit this mold. Cunning as he was, aware as his piercing eyes were of the blasphemous world, Ridley's radiant heart prevented him from taking pleasure in personal gain. Every time he cut down one of Makai's political marionettes, Ridley would spend nights in restless unease until a proper apology was made. Never would he wreak punishment on his countrymen without feeling each lash upon his own psyche. Bending power to his will was a skill which eternally escaped the general, always an unacceptable answer to the neverending question.

What Role was left, then? There were always freelance men, carefree and vigilant, vibrant and full of life. Viktor and Flik fit this mold perfectly- men who had no word in the way time played itself out, but whose hands sent ripples through the flow of destiny's clock. But nevertheless, Ridley was the general of Two River, so this final Role was not his either.

Ridley's muscles felt old and tired. His mind was bogged down in the murk of reality. He could feel his soul caugh in between two of destiny's gears, pushing against each other, being torn apart in the relentless marching of time.

And yet time must march on, no matter how many souls it must tear. Destiny ensues, following even the lowest creature to the grave. And the clock moves and ticks, moves and ticks. That was the clock's Role; the Rolekeeper, the Guardian, the Gaoler. Weilder of the Blade and Bearer of the Fangs.

The eternal Gatekeeper with its three wicked hands, moving and ticking, moving and ticking.