Wind flows though ragged trousers and flowing red robes.
A wizzard's hat held with one hand on his head, the other flailing, rather pathetically.
Screams, shouts and random sniveling erupts from his mouth.
Because the Eternal Cowards has only one response to danger.
He runs.
Be it demons, armies, bandits or the tax collector.
The sprint has served him well.
Fear the guiding emotion of his inexhaustible stamina.
A constant refusal to die his only guiding philosophy .
Turning his back on Death itself the Eternal Coward shapes fate with his scrawny legs.
His tall and bony frame has serves him well enough. He certainly is still not dead.
The Eternal Coward is happy enough.

But what has the Eternal Coward taught us?
That a man on the move can go far on potato cakes?
That a hero doesn't need to be a brave man of brawny build and barbaric inclination?
That a story does not need to be about a hero at all?
It can be about a wizzard without magic, a coward without shame.
The Eternal coward is not a hero.
And neither are you.