The One Who Swings

Once upon a dream, in the vast expanse of realms where swords clashed, wizards incanted, and prophecies meandered with the reliability of a drunken bard, there existed two figures as diametrically opposed as sense and sensibility: Wazir and Charon.

Wizard #6287, of course, was known as "The One Who Rings," a title he wore with the grace of a well-pressed robe and the dignity of a sage who has seen too much, yet never quite enough. With a golden bell that dangled from his hand like an overripe fruit of goodwill, Wazir rang in times of peace, unity, and all those other nauseatingly wholesome things that make one’s teeth itch. His bell was not just a bell, you see—it was an instrument of harmony, a talisman of tranquility, and occasionally, a nifty little trinket to annoy house pets. When Wazir rang his bell, kingdoms paused in their incessant squabbles to reflect on the better nature of humanity, which, unsurprisingly, led to the swift and unanimous decision to resume squabbling immediately after.

But then there was Charon.

Now, Charon had no interest in bells, unless they were being used to fortify his ears against the dreadful sound of peace. He hailed from a corner of the universe where joy was as welcome as a tax collector at a tavern, and unity was something you achieved with a spiked bat and sufficient persistence. And what a bat it was—a weapon of such crude elegance that it made a mace look like an ornamental doily. This bat was no ordinary stick; it was a snarling, spiked beast, forged in the fires of sheer obstinacy and tempered with the resolve of someone who had been on the losing side of far too many debates. Charon didn’t ring. Charon swung.

Where Wazir would walk into a room and, with a delicate flick of his wrist, chime a melodious note that could bring a tear to the eye, Charon would burst through the nearest wall, bat in hand, and offer a robust interpretation of 'knocking'. Where Wazir sought unity, Charon sought to test the structural integrity of everything in his vicinity, particularly skulls. And where Wazir brought peace, Charon brought what one might call "peace through superior firepower."

It was at the fateful Battle of Clatterbridge that Charon truly earned his moniker, though to hear him tell it, he was simply “doing what needed to be done.” Wazir had taken his place on a hill, ringing his bell with the serene smile of a man who’s never had to clean up the aftermath of his own idealism. Below him, the warriors on both sides began to lay down their arms, overcome by the spirit of brotherhood and the impending threat of a joint holiday. This, Charon felt, was simply not on. With a bellow that sounded like someone had set a mountain on fire, he descended upon the battlefield, his bat—a thing of beauty and excessive craftsmanship—held high.

Where Wazir rang, Charon swung.

And as he swung, it became abundantly clear that his swings were not just the motions of a man fighting a battle—they were his philosophy, his creed, and, to be frank, his favorite pastime. The clash of his bat against helmet, shield, and the occasional boulder rang out across the land with all the subtlety of a symphony performed by drunk ogres. The chiming of bells was now drowned out by the rhythm of Charon’s unrelenting strikes, each swing a note in a brutal concerto that sang of finality rather than harmony.

When the dust settled, and the battlefield was littered with the remains of what had once been called "peace talks," Charon stood alone, bat resting on his shoulder as though it were merely a comforting weight. The survivors, nursing their collective injuries, looked upon him with a mixture of awe and a deep-seated desire to be anywhere else. The legend of Charon, "The One Who Swings," was born not in the soft chime of a bell, but in the resounding thud of a point made—firmly, and repeatedly.

And so, it was that Charon and Wazir, though destined to be remembered together, would never be mistaken for one another. Where one brought people together, the other ensured they had something to stay apart for. And in the grand tapestry of history, it was clear: every time a bell rings, a bat swings.

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