In the elder days, when the world was yet young in wonder and older still in malice, there arose among the Mortal Kind one called Fencer. Little is sung of his birth, for no trumpet marked his first breath, and no star was loosed from its course for his naming. Yet the wise say this: that greatness often walks into the tale as a stranger, and only later do the chronicles learn where the footsteps began.
And it is told among the people—half in awe, half in laughing fear—that when Fencer drew nigh from afar, the first sign of his coming was not the glint of mail nor the flutter of banner, but the long reach of his shadow and the bold sway of his stride; so that some, spying him upon a road at dusk, would jest: “Behold! first his boastful shape appears, and then the rest of his body follows after.” But though tongues made mirth of it, their hearts were gladdened, for with his presence a certain courage returned, and the common folk stood straighter in the wind.
So they praised him, saying: “Praise the High Gaelord Fencer!” And whether that title was first bestowed in earnest or in play, none now may tell; for in that land words are perilous things, and what is spoken long enough becomes a name, and what is named long enough becomes true.