No harmony is better than song arising from mine own hands; that is, from thine own hands.

Hero.Felicitations, Paxador: wanderer of roads well traveled with ends rare traversed.

Peacemaker.And I them to you, hero.

Hero.I voice to you your travels and know nothing of them; how went they?

Pcmkr.Seconds were as precious gold pieces, lost if the wrong ale is bartered for them, never won again but through grueling treachery; the soujourn was as life: the rewards ephemeral, the obtainment of them arduous. But, as in life, the gold pieces found themselves worthy.

Hero.Pleased am I at your words, but do not misread me; your morose slumber, as by all, is felt by me and procures embitterment. I mourn your claim and empathy only can I feel in this life as a carousel: living to-morrow, and tomorrow, and the next.

Pcmkr.Albeit, sir, t'was not all fun and failure: knaves found themselves in my path, carrying claims of carefree and crave-worthy culture, what was cacophony to mine trumpet-ends. Afore my rejection, hear did I: "With us, and for angel trumpets and devil trombones rejoice!" Upon my rejection, hear did I: "If thou art having but not peddling, thine moneys are products of Old Guard and Old Money: give it us, and feel your bones remain cold and robust!" I thereafter had no capital: but I revealed to the knaves my place of abode, and forgave them.

A bit of a classic version of what happened to a Washington DC peace teacher who occasionally travels the halls of my school and permeates into the rooms when permitted by the administration. Robbed three times, he every time told the robbers his address, forgave them, and gave them welcome if ever they needed anything: two of the three times they came and returned his money.