What an ill wind this is, thought a certain man of uncertain identity, and what a horrible headache those idiotic fanfares caused!

Standing atop the very crest of a nameless precipice, somewhere between here, there, and somewhere, the man clad in gray could not help but feel slightly exposed. Briefly he entertained the notion of once again weighing his options, but with a hundred horseman rapidly approaching from the rear, and a few minutes of free-fall in font, those options hardly seemed worth reviewing. A drink from the wineskin did him no favors, either, except to dull that insistent horn blowing.

“I wish you morons would shut your worthless holes,” said the uncertain man, “and let me drink about this.” The enormity of what he had done, as well as what he had yet to do, was not lost upon the uncertain man. This had represented the sole purpose of his existence for the last seven months: cause and effect, making waves, setting in motion the wheels of revolution, whatever was the favored term of the moment. In a world where one person’s definition of corruption differed from the next by volumes, one could easily locate enough tinder to light a fire. The uncertain man prided himself upon being an incredibly convenient spark in a land of powder kegs.

He broke from his thoughts just in time to catch the sound of musket fire from over the ridge. The cavalry drew nearer with every second he spent considering, which meant that he needed to consider hauling ass.

“Sorry everyone,” he mumbled to himself, “I don’t feel like being interrogated for another six months.” That said he lifted his hat from his head, tossed it onto the precipice, and stepped over the edge.

His foot caught harshly against a small outcropping of rock beneath the drop-off, and he pressed himself against the cliff facing. There were caves enough here to allow an escape… and what was another faked death, a new identity? What was another seven months, seven years, seven lifetimes? The uncertain man still had fires to start.