[ IP ] Guard

Justice is blind. It is a shield, to be turned against the crowds pushing onwards. As long as you never need to face it, it is an indomitable tower. A bulwark against the masses. We, the humble, need only stand in its shadow. 
 
 Honour, on the other hand, is a sword. It does not stand; it is wielded. It takes a single person to use a sword, to cut down a foe. One honourable edge, and the world shall stop and turn. 
 
 Between honour, and justice, there lay real people. Justice is, like the blind man, fallible. Dividing defendant from public, justice puts up wooden traditions and fleshed codes of laws between heroes, and villains, and those caught in the crossfire. Were we to leave it to the shield, to divide and conquer, justice would not give way to truth. And so, justice becomes unjust. Yet, honour is something entirely more ethereal. One does not wield a blade just to cut, but to serve. Farmers raise hoes, scythes, and miners pickaxes. 
 
 The Captain's sword is a thick red cape. In his right hand, it is the defender of honour, as his left hand preserves the pursuit of justice. The masses press in on the young princess; whether it is a sin committed of her own accord, or merely the failing of some close compatriot, is not for us to say. It is not for the crowd to say. In that courthouse, there is a jury - a dozen men and women, ready to pass judgement. We know not whether it will be just. But as long as the Captain lives, that judgement will be honourable. Let those amongst you who have committed no sin cast the first stone - it does not matter, for it will merely bounce off that blood-red cape. 
 
 The princess stands accused of that most vile crime. She is accused of high treason; of threatening to become a kinslayer, of her own father. A beloved, if ailing King, whose reign has given way to the transgressions and ritual of local Lords and Ladies, empowered by his weakness and withdrawals. I imagine she has n't the heart to defend herself, for it is an accusation that would bring the average lady to her knees. The mere suggestion is enough to cast doubt, and darkness across her face. Guilt intermingles with fear, as she wonders - was she truly loyal to her own father? The masses are, no doubt, justly enraged. As her father has pulled a veil around himself, leadership has slowly trickled into the hands of his advisors. A fickle bunch, willing to exercise as implements her and her siblings. And those implements are not built for sowing, reaping, or milling. Her blue dress and silvered crown have seen no hard wear, and neither have the tax collectors. There is precious little for them to take, any more. 
 
 That little pendant around her neck has a story to tell. It is a rare thing - a necklace of engagement. Her fiance is a petty Baron from another province entirely, a man blessed with more sense and wisdom than wealth, which, I can assure you, is saying a lot. The colour blue is the thing of the commoner. It is not the red and gold of the establishment, that so readily conceals her virtue from a hostile crowd. To have been given such a token of love is a rejection of all that is good and proper: a healthy marriage to a nobleman. A just man. 
 
 A blind man.
