They call him that, but no one knows his real name. His statue stands atilt a massive block of black basalt dead center in the square of a certain eastern European village. Only thing is, the square is gone now. Hell, the village itself is gone now, reclaimed by the forest that once surrounded it. The buildings have crumbled, though there are hillocks where they once stood, an occasional brick poking through the moss. His eminence was spared the reclamation, being as he was ten feet above the ground. Since he's stone and not bronze, he seems at home in the wilderness. Actually, it's not wilderness, exactly. He's at the radical bend of a bike trail. The man who laid out the course for the trail included a spur so that riders could take him all in. It's obvious the trail comes here just for him.
He faces a bench and entertains guests. They ponder on his visage. When was he attacked? Was the town gone by then? Or did he still rule the place with an iron fist? No one sitting on that bench could ever decide if it was a shameful act of vandalism or a brazen act of defiance. But to a one they prefer him this way, brought down to the elemental. Remember to chip a shard of the base before you go.
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