Pride is what got Borin in the end, but it wasn't his sin. No, every swell of his chest and jut of his chin was earned. An outstanding night guard, a loyal servant to the king, and a loving husband. The village council had bestowed to him the Robin's Sword, all shimmering and gold, for his good standing. If you turned it this way it caught the sun and scattered it about the room, run your finger down the hilt like this and it sang. He wore it on a strap around his waist for a fortnight to honor the council.

Dain was a wretched creature. Hunched and wicked, he glowered as Borin strutted about town with the thing hanging from his hip. It was so terribly beautiful, so horribly attractive. Why should such a prideful brute have the privelege to carry such a wonder, he thought. Why shouldn't a cunning and sharp one like himself have it? But! But if he won it fair, no one could deny his rightful ownership.

However, Borin was as wise as he was admirable. He knew the sword was a conspicuous relic, one sought after and coveted. So Borin took the blade into the marsh to hide it. Someplace he could find it. Someplace he could bring it back if needed, or show his children when he had some. Dain followed.

The mists rose from the ground and granted the marsh a haunted reputation. Borin thrust the sword under the crook of a fallen willow, took a last look at its fine hilt, and walked off. Dain was quick to sweep in. Struggling and heaving, he wrestled the sword from the ground. Borin had done good work lodging it. With a surprised yelp he finally fell backwards, sword in hand. Borin heard and turned, spying Dain with his treasure. Borin charged. A flash of gold split the air.

Dain sauntered as best he could from the marsh. On his face sat a wicked grin, and on his hip a golden prize stained crimson.