Tar Ghet

Thus they saluted me, in older days. I was the champion of every man: women fell over themselves to have me. I commanded an army of ten-thousand men, all of them brave and true in the service of the Horde!

But now no one will have me. I am grown old; my muscles, with which I climbed to my lofty pinnacle of power, weakened and grew useless for age and disuse. And my people - who should shelter me, who should aid me after I spent my youth in their service - my people have abandoned me! They say that I am an emblem of the corrupt past. They say that I am everything that they most regret of the last two generations. What right have they to say that? WHAT RIGHT? I won the battle of Hellscream Pass for them; I held the walls of Dejagore against the Howler and all his legions! Were it not for me, my people would have long since fallen to our endless ranks of foes. How dare they - how dare they - think that I made the wrong decisions?

These days, if I walk in the streets of Dejagore, children spit on me; youths and grown men alike deride me; women throw rotten vegetables and slops onto me. They who would never have been born without my actions deride me! Who are they to think that I should not have interned the Nar; that I should have quarantined the carriers of the Grey Plague, or held my men back in the Slaughter of Baldur's Gate? They were not there! The leaders of my country - my country - say now that I was a brutal dictator; that I slaughtered hundreds of thousands of innocents; that my overthrow was right and justified.

They may say that all they wish. But I know that I am still Tar Ghet.