Once there lived a swordsman of exceptional skill. His mastery of the blade was unequalled by any he came across in all his travels. As such, he gained quite a bit of fame, and with that fame came the adoration of fans.

  The swordsman took to spending his time off the battlefield in the finest silk tunics and boots, to better impress the young female fans who admired his prowess. Even his sword was left on the battlefield, so that its weight would not upset his finely tuned saunter designed to draw any fine ladies' attention.

  One night this swordsman was in a small tavern, regaling a group of young female fans with tales of his latest exploits. As he wooed his fans, another patron of the tavern wandered past, more than a little inebriated. Having the reflexes of drunk, it was only to be expected that a goodly amount of his drink ended up on the swordsman's fine silk clothes.

  The swordsman did not take kindly to his clothes being so sullied in front of his adoring fans. Turning red with rage, the swordsman rose to the challenge and punched the poor drunk fool across the bar. The drunk crashed into a table of seedy looking gentlemen, who did not take kindly to their discussion being interupted. They approached the swordsman, brandishing broken bottles and knives.

  The swordsman knew that these men were no match for his divine skill, he just required any armament to fend them off. Grabbing the tavern's mop and a drink tray for a shield, the swordsman engaged the small group in battle, his fans oohing and aahing at his masterful techniques as he systematically disarmed and disabled his attackers, finishing the last of them with a mighty mop thrust, sending him stumbling into yet another patron of this tavern, who had been quietly drinking the whole time.

  This accident was also not taken kindly. The quiet drinker rose from his seat, and marched up to the mop and tray armed swordsman, who was grinning from ear to ear, relishing what would be another easy victory and more food for his hungry fans.

  The quiet man started growling as he came into range. The swordsman's face paled as his foe grew a full head taller and sprouted fur ...and claws ...and the sharpest teeth the swordsman had ever seen.

  The Feral Druid swung a mighty claw strike at the swordsman, shattering the simple drink tray shield. When the swordsman came back with the mop to strike a blow, the canine reflexes of the Feral Druid enabled him to catch the mop in his teeth and shatter it.

  Now unarmed and facing a very angry foe, the swordsman could do little more than cringe as the Feral Druid tossed him clear out of the bar. As his fans flocked to see if he was still alive, the swordsman had time to reflect upon a lesson he had long forgotten:

No amount of skill can compensate for inferior equipment.