Once there was a bustling town, very prosperous and busy at all hours with activity.  To this town one day came a large group of people.  They had come from some strange land, indeed, for their speech was thick with a nearly unintelligible accent.  They seemed to have been driven from their homes, as they appeared quite impoverished in ragged clothing, and constantly seemed to beg for money or items.  They had nothing, and were seeking charity.

  Because of their odious nature, these foreign countrymen were ignored, shunned, and worse by the upstanding citizenry.  Rotten vegetables and fruit were flung at them.  Coins were tossed into garbage piles for some sick thrill of watching these poor impoverished people root through the muck for a single coin.  Being tortured, shunned and ostracized, the attitude of the poor huddled masses worsened.

  Soon these foreigners banded together in groups, intent on seeking some sort of retribution for the shoddy nature in which they were treated, merely because they were poor, dirty and hard to understand.  They started many riots in the hopes of getting the attention they thought they deserved.  The local constabulary of this bustling town put down the initial revolts with ease, garnering more hatred.

  When next the muttering mob appeared in the streets, the smaller groups had consolidated, and brought in some extra help.  Help in the form of a Fomorian horror.  A particularly rank one.  The offensive nature of the foreign accent coupled with the hideous odor of the horror rendered the mob quite unstoppable.   They terrorized the town for a while, targeting those who had persecuted them for their accent the most.

  Gold was usually the target, along with the finer clothes of the citizenry.  Perhaps they felt some joy in forcing the holier than thou citizens to run home in their undergarments.  On one raid, however, the mob ran a bit out of control.  Instead of the usual raid for money or petty vengeance on one who had wronged them in the past, a small girl had caught the eye of one of the mob's more influential members.  The girl was not treated nicely, to say the least.

  One of the foreign nationals took great offense to this act.  He had not agreed to this.  This was just wrong.  The disheveled mob had to be stopped, and he was just the foreigner to do it.  And so he acted, before more innocence was lost.

  When next the gang of unintelligible foreign nationals went to leave their hideout, the conscientious member stayed behind, having offered to guard their booty.  The night before, he had opened a few jars of fior sal in the Fomorian horror's pen, loosing the water magics.  Smiling to himself, he took the booty from the mob's hideout, knowing the Horror no longer packed such a pungent odor.

  Indeed, the horror proved no help when the mob ran into the constabulary of the town.  Instead of retching in disgust, the guards were able to demonstrate the finer points of using a club.  Odd sounding cries of pain were heard throughout the streets that night, as the citizenry joined the guards and took their justice upon the mob that had gone too far.  Far too far.

  As for the foreign man with his moral code?  He used the ill-gotten gains to found many programs to help both citizens and foreigners to learn a valuable lesson:

 One would do better to judge based upon what someone's heart says, not their mouth.