Three great men sit in a room. A king, a priest, and a rich man. Between them stood a single common sell-sword, a man of little faith, and no nobility to speak of, armed with a simple sheathed broadsword and a dagger, summoned from a nearby guild. Each great man bid the sell-sword to kill the other two. Promises of riches in station, in heaven, and life spilled from the lips of the great men, each promise more ridiculous than the last, until the sell-sword raised his hand to halt the flow of ludicrous offers. Clearing his throat, the sell-sword stated, "Who am I to judge fairly amongst you fine lords? I present this thusly, my Lords." With deft hands and an elegant flourish, the sell-sword removed his belt and sheathed sword, placing both on the ground at the wise men's' feet before backing away. "My lords, let us see which of you is worthy of my allegiance. To whom is left standing, you will have my loyalty until my dying day." The arguments began immediately, each lord scrabbling for the sword, snatching from each others hands and attempting to draw it from it's sheath. The sell sword watched with an amused smile on his face, for little did the great lords know, but the sword's blade was locked into the scabbard, and the hilt was coated in a deadly poison. All of them would die this day, never to bother another common sell-sword with their petty squabbles.