[hider=Rémix]
[center]Rémix, [i]Gaulish Barber-Surgeon[/i].
Surgery, first aid, barber, cooking, sentry, scouting, manual labour, literacy, brawling, polearms.[/center]
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[i]Do I guard myself? Am I truly blinded by my own past?[/i] Rémix thought back to his earlier years, under the service of his brothers. Both trained and natural-born leaders. Fighters, too. They were the kind of men young boys would look up to and envy. They were the models that left so many volunteers dead on the fields of a tribe's tribulation. War comes from warmongerers.

And as far as Rémix could tell, Vercingetorix was a warmongerer.

But Lugurix's word did carry within them a ring of truth. As a healer who'd seen many battles, a son who'd seen many dead, he had reason to be particularly antagonistic to the tradition of [i]war[/i]. And yet, it had its uses. Perhaps war [i]could[/i] bring food to the masses and cure the Gaulish people of their suffering?

[i]I highly doubt that.[/i]

"I guard myself for it is necessary. Too many follow, with neither care nor caution, the words of others." Rémix looked towards the opening of their healing-place, thinking of the king. "I know not that [i]I[/i] am fit to judge him. But nevertheless, [i]he[/i] must be judged."

In this time of new turmoil, he considered once more his loyalties. Born and raised by the Gaulish tribes, he felt some connection to their people and their ways. And yet, he had been betrayed by his brothers, both of blood and of heart. Were these people really worth sacrificing himself for? Was he destined to be ever their servant?

Looking down at the dirt beneath his feet, Rémix allowed a hint of a smile to touch his face. "If this man is as good a leader as you say—" he turns to face his partner "—do you think that I might be better swayed, were I to meet him myself?"
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