Once upon a time there was a fair little village, nestled in a sunny vale between the Tall Mountains in the west and the Deep Woods in the east. The people living there were an industrious people, and generally a good people. If they had any failing it was in that they too much wished to be thought well of. More; they wished to think well of themselves.

They pursued their desire in their industry. They built their homes and barns and public structures with great care and sturdiness. Loving beauty, everything they created, from pottery to inns, they created to be attractive to the eye. With sweeping curves and long, straight lines. They were fair and generous, but kept to the wisdom of their forebears in teaching their children Virtue.

In the Deep Woods lived a tribe of orcs. Being orcs, they loved not the bright sky, and cared not for beauty for it's own sake. Being orcs, they cared not if they were thought well of, just so they lived well. Orcs cared for their pleasures, any pleasures, and cared not for those who obstructed them their pleasure, and often took pleasure in removing the obstacle.

For the longest time, one was selected from among the villagers, a Watchman, chosen for his strength, and courage, his fortitude and loyalty, to stand the narrow path leading to the Deep Woods, barring access to the orcs. This was his only task; he was relieved of all others that he might protect the village well. Generation upon generation, a Watchman stood the Watch, and stood it so well, that orcs were almost lost to the minds of villagers. The Last Watchman stood his watch as had those before him. In the pelting rains of spring; the freezing snows of winter; beneath the summer sun that would knock a man to the ground were he foolish enough to stand under it without a hat upon his head, he Kept the Watch. On his hands were 27 scars, each with a memory of an orc to whom he'd barred passage over the years. Over the rest of his body were scars of other encounters more savage and desperate. The villagers knew not of these, for he kept his Watch in silence. In the lean years he was the last to be fed, for he must not leave the Watch. In the weal years, he was the last to be fed, for he was then oft forgot. But, still he was honored; men doffed their hats as they came by, women curtsied. Children were told not to stare, and out of his earshot they were lectured what a Great Man he was.

One day, a couple of village children brought him his evening meal, and sat to talk with him as he fed himself. They listened to his tales of orcs, and the strangeness intrigued them. So when he had finished his meal and returned to the Watch, they hid in the nearby bushes. In the late evening, when his head nodded near sleep, they stole past him into the Deep Woods.

Once in the Deep Woods, they quickly lost their way. Now both fearful and tearful, they cast about this way and that, crying hopelessly. Soon their cries were heard by a wandering orc, who went to investigate. At first all they heard was the shuffling of his feet as he approached; all they saw was the greenish glow of his lantern as he grew nearer. Soon they looked on his hideous features. The broad jaw, the overhung teeth. The low forehead and bushy brows. Wiggling the brows, and snuffling about, they though he made a comical figure, once their initial fear was past. But, beneath the narrow brow, orcish schemes were hatching. The orc spoke kindly to the children, at least as kindly as his orc-kind could speak. He told them of the orcs' love of the Deep Woods, and their complete lack of desire to be anywhere else. He spoke of orcish arts and sciences, of which he knew nothing but imagined much. He spoke of the evil Watchman, who stood between the friendship of the orcs and villagers, and would keep them separate. The evil Watchman, who was fearful of his power over the villagers (a power the Watchman could not imagine possessing.) The evil Watchman, who would keep the children from experiencing the pleasures of orcish magic, the joy of orcish friendship. The evil Watchman, who was the force behind the parents; the parents who issued chores to be done, lessons to be learned, and denied even the simplest of leisure pleasures (after dark.) Why should the children be in bed at nightfall, the orc asked? So much to be seen and felt in the dark, so many stars to be counted once the sun was down. Why should the Watchman deny them these things? Were they not villagers themselves, and was not the Watchman taken from among them? The orc led the children home, and returned to his den chuckling an evil orcish chuckle. Orcs are long lived, especially Deep Woods Orcs, and are patient in direct proportion to the degree of pleasure for which they wait.

Years went by. The village went on its way, seemingly little changed. The Watchmen kept his watch, always apart; of the village but not among it. He grew old, and bent, and his scars multiplied. But still he Kept the Watch.

But now the children were grown, and had many peers among them. They asked questions and made challenges of their parents that the parents, wishing to be well thought-of, and wishing to think well of themselves, conceded to nonsensical arguments regarding the orcs and the forbidden Deep Woods.

One day, the Watchman was keeping his watch, his keen eye still viewing the Deep Woods for sign of orcish mischief, when a party of young villagers approached him. He smiled kindly on them, and they reviled him. They accused him of egotism, of oppression. They described his Watch in terms of tyranny, not the service he thought of it. They challenged his right to keep the Watch, arguing that each of them was of the village, and had as much right to the honor and respect he hoarded to himself. That each of them should be given a fair turn at the Watch, so that they might each know what it is to be a Great Man. They knew, they said, that anyone could keep the watch with the weapons and armor ( much of which was crafted by the Watchmen over the years to make their job of guarding easier) that the Watchman alone was permitted to wield. At which, he quite understandably, snorted in disbelief.

Being loyal, he would not raise a hand against those he had so long ago sworn to protect. So they abused him. They threw rotten tomatoes and other vegetables at him. They took his weapons from his unresisting hands, and with jeers and cuffs and the occassional kick, they drove him to the town square, where they had erected a large cage. They pushed him into the cage, and from then on all the villagers who went by would point and laugh and belittle him. As the years wore on, and the years wore him down, as his once shiney armor turned to rust and ruin, the villagers would still walk by and call him "Great Man... Ha!" in such humiliating tones that even his grim, grey eyes could not hide his grief and misery.