I had no ambition to be remembered. All I knew is that I wanted a desk eventually. Somewhere dry and quiet. A place where my boots didn't end the day caked in mud and dirt. I did not care for the frontline. I did not care for battle. I did not care that my wife always worried whenever I went on a campaign. I was not, and will never be, what you'd call a hero. Someone history bent around. That was for other people. To happen elsewhere, while I stayed comfortable at its edges. I was happy with that arraignment.
He arrived unannounced, in the middle of the night, from somewhere I still don't fully understand. He was forthright with any questions I had. A deeply honest man. There were rumours about the man responsible for making all of what we do possible, the majority of which I didn't understand. What I did understand, however, was that the man across from me, looking at drilling contracts and charters of accounts didn't understand any of it. But unlike most men of consequence I've dealt with, he was honest about that. In the end he said he'd rather be honestly ignorant in front of one man than dishonestly confident in front of a hundred, and would I be that man.
He has had many names and titles throughout history, both his own and mine. Some flattering. Some true to the man I knew. Others I still can't reconcile with him at all, atrocities I have no answer for and have stopped trying to find one. But before he was anything to anyone, he was a stranger asking me to be as honest with him as he was with me. For that I will always respect him and I will always call him a friend.
- From the memoirs of Lord Warden Forsyth of the Sand Marches
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