Rant Time: Hypocrites

    Hello and welcome to another installment of everyone's favorite segment, Rant Time!  In case you haven't noticed, the other 4 rants are all organized in the top navigation bar!  This is about Jan 9th, not today XD.

source (this is a real thing?!?)

    There are many kinds of guilds: Mages, Thieves, Murderers, and Fighters are just some of the abundance.  You yourself are a rather...oddly stretched being.  A member of not only the Mages but the Fighters guild as well, you are often very busy.  However, people fail to see the trillions of other guilds scattered across the earth, like stars in the sky.  You have taken on not only the guise of an adventurer, but that of a smithy, a scholar, a storyteller, (you may even fancy yourself a scribe at times), and a bard.  Upon this day, you must visit many of your guilds to gather tasks atop the already climbing mountain of work that follows you.  You begin the morning as a scholar: you learn you people's history as to be written and learned alongside the intricacies of a new for of arithmetic.  Some have ventured so far as to call you a heretic for even attempting such ventures, but you, brave adventurer, journey forth in your studies.
    Finally, a break is taken and a feast is to be had.  You take a few scholarly companions and taste the East's finest meals.  However, you realize you have ventured too far!  You quickly deposit the required gold and store you items away, swiftly leading your group behind you.  Your arrival was just in time.  The scholars leave you with a friendly goodbye and you nod to them knowledgeably.  Every adventurer needs time to rest, no?  You spend an hour or so working on that ever-looming Mt. Taskius in front of you.  But then, you get a warm smile across your face:  it is time to join the Bard's Guild.

    You travel far to the other side of the village alongside your feasting friend.  Upon entering the room you quickly see there is nothing to be done and decide to tackle the mountain!  However, one bard, a naive who thinks herself a princess, informs everyone that there is work to be done from the comfort of her chair with her heels upon another.  No one stands.  Nor does she.  This bard has caused you trouble for many moons, oft' telling you a task only to not do it herself: how to step in one song, how "not to go down the octave," how to listen to her incessant jabber at all hours.  When you note none have taken advantage of the time, you pull out your books and things for writing and begin to work.  A temporary leader of the guild, sent to give watch over you until the masters return, decides to put a play on in the front.  The bard remarks which one she would like and demands everyone be silent--that is, but herself and cohorts.  One small bard with hair orange as the sun, sits herself as close a possible to watch the play which goes on at a respectable level of volume, just low enough for you to work, but allowing you to glance up and still be able to hear the tale.  Or well, you might have been able to if not for the hyena-esque laughter and screeching from behind.  The bard and her cohorts have gathered into a small circle (not to work on the task she so adamantly preached at the beginning, mind you) to talk over the play (that she had picked) many others have made an attempt to watch.  As a time worn traveler, you know it is best to let many things be, so you take the higher road and attempt to work, oft' times covering your ears in  futile attempt to dull the

sound.  Then a loud bell can be heard, ringing from town square just as you had truly begun your work.
    With annoyance unparalleled, you and your bards venture out onto a field far from the town.  There had been some talk of a fire in a nearby guild, but you know someone had simply rung the bell to watch the people flee.  It was a rather common occurrence among the lower guilds, sometimes even a crafty thief hoping to get a steal whilst others are away.  When finally given the signal, you and the rest travel in and for some forsaken reason, you hope that perhaps after the event, the bard will finally be silent: you are wrong.  The clamor behind you spirals and swirls through the air louder than any lute or pipe and swells to the ceiling and all around.  They can clearly see you, head buried in your work with the candles all blown out, working under a small, dim glow off the metal of your armor.  Alas, what care is give to those who try?  The sound
rages on and hardly little progress in your quests is made...That though, does not irk you.  What truly pierces the breastplate you wear to protect yourself from enemy blades is the dual-sided axe the bard caries.  The one side, the demands she makes--do your work, be silent, follow me, do this step here, don't do it that way, you're wrong, you're always wrong--the other edge, the truth--she does nothing of the sort.
    A summary my dear people.  A hypocrite can be more dangerous to the human mind than work, a sword, or truly anything.  It is not the sound or the annoyance that truly pierces you, it is that the sound is pummeled into you with her axe.  Hypocrisy, not doing as you command of others or say is right, is not more justified that committing a crime yourself.