We stand, heads bowed with age
In armour pocked by rust
Our faces grimed and scarred
Our clothes made up of dust.

We travel from village to village
Selling our shield and sword
We may not be bright paladins
But we're all they can afford.

They come to us with frightened eyes
And beg for a helping hand
We place our bodies on the line
For a pittance we make our stand.

They are... oh... so grateful
When nears the time to fight
They feed us with their meagre scraps
Women warm us through the night

Then the day arrives
When we must do our work
Though we take no pleasure in it
It's a duty we do not shirk.

Just a minor skirmish
Not a battle, not a war
When it's done we seek our pay
Though some will seek no more.

Then you see it in their eyes
Now you have done the deed
They fear your very presence
For you, there's no more need.

The coins are hastily given
With thanks, so softly stuttered
While most hide in their homes
Behind the windows, shuttered.

We leave to no parade
No crowds to kiss and cheer
No tributes to our comrades
Who sold their lives so dear.

So we take our silent path
A dusty, ragged band
We are the Company Free
And for a pittance, we make our stand.

Penned by my hand on the 20th of Phaestian, in the year 416 AF.