[ WP ] You are an observer , a time traveling historian made invisible and intangible to those native to the era ment to study history as it happened . One day , while tailing a young leader to be , you discover something horrible that completely reshapes the history they create . What do you do ?

Records. 
 
 The point is to keep track of patterns. Things happen, things change, and soon things come and had came to be. 
 
 It was Samson ’ s job to jot these points down, and make sure they were accurate. He began with a place, England. Or the lands that may become England. Next he had a question. What had resulted in true leadership in these parts? So he followed the life of a random man named Art. 
 
 Art enjoyed tall tales, and had convinced a good many of people to follow him on the basis that these tales could have happen. Tales saying he had obtained a sword of rulers past, from the rocky cliffs, or received blessings from a mer-person. But a pattern remained. That somehow he was the best man for the job. 
 
 He began small as a tribal leader but the title did not suit him by the 20th tribe that was convinced to follow him. He was a warlord then, powerful enough to change the very landscape he lived in. Before long he was in control of England. 
 
 But to Samson ’ s dismay, he could not guess that this could happen. 
 
 Samson could not find a record of Art anywhere. Not one tale about the tribal leader, not one battle during his status of warlord. But it was not the fighting that tracked his attention... it was the lack. 
 
 Art would walk up to a tribe and talk to them. They would yell back. Both would spin tales about dragons, battles, loyal men and women beloved and cuckolding allies alike. Then they would join him. 
 
 Pissing contests. All of it. But Samson could not turn from the pure history he had been seeing. The only pattern he could compare it to was that of old sonnets, incomplete tall tales of a man named Beowulf. Samson swore he would find a complete copy of the old sonnet for further study. 
 
 But it was that day on the skin wrapped hutch that made everything change. Samson ’ s translator was working overtime, to create something more defined for his ears. And all Samson could do is write it down. 
 
 “ Sorry? ” asked Art. 
 
 “ We may need to write this down sir... or it could be forgotten, ” suggested a scribe. 
 
 “ Why? I ca n't read, ” said Art. 
 
 “ But... ” stuttered the scribe. 
 
 “ If I can ’ t read, it does not mean others can. And even then the words change when we get too far away from our rock. And farther still beyond the water it changes, then past weather worn sand lands and cold ice plains the words would change further. In a thousand years my words and the way to say them would be forgotten. So what ’ s the point?, ” asked Art. 
 
 “ But what of what you have done? ” countered the scribe. 
 
 “ Look at the words. I was called leader. Then tribal leader. Now warlord. In a hundred years, if my people remember me, they may call me something else. A man of men. A leader of leaders. A male ruler of a place. Maybe this word would demand something more. It may suggest something else. Blood of the divine. A right to rule granted by one of our many spirits, imps, and gods. ” 
 
 “ But who would then remember you? ” asked the scribe. 
 
 “ Would they even remember my name? Art. Art may be more than a name eventually. Somewhere else it may mean bush or brook, or excrement. But it could be define by my actions, Art or convincing someone by grand acts of spoken words. I Art her to share a bed with me. No I ’ m a sexual being. It would need to be something like… I Art her on the table. In fact let ’ s see what can happen here. Lance and ya lot. Go spread the words to the people. The tale of Art her and the round table. Let them guess its meaning. I would like to see the story my people will tell, ” chuckled Art. 

