Oh how I laugh at the writhing unwashed masses of the non polers. What sad circumstance has landed someone is such a position as to wear their inferiority proudly, like a banner of shame twisted into a whip of self flagellation.
I remember when I too was ignorant of the truth, blinded by ego or perhaps guilt, but then a light shone on me, borne from my ancestors, and illuminated the path toward a better future. Oh how the non polers shrink from this light like roaches, how they hide from the brilliant truth of pole supremacy.
The druids of lore, my ancestors, bore a sheleighleigh along their journeys through the vast untamed wilds of the past. If one to were even compare such an implement to a mere stick I would have no choice but to scoff at their unabashed ignorance. This was a finely crafted tool, a weapon, a lifeline. Without their sheleighleigh they were naked, just as the wretched non polers venture nakedly into the wilds, oblivious of why their heart, no, their very soul, calls and aches for more. Just as my ancestors did, I now go forth into the untamed wilds, with not one implement, but two, strongly striding at a minimum two points of contact at all times. I cannot help but release a slight guffaw as a pass a non poler struggling through mud or slopes, always careful not to brush them lest I contract their brutish disposition and stench, as they slip and slide like the peasant they are.
