This time the air changed.

A different presence moved through the threads.

He did not wake old conversations the way nyuug did.

He did not wander like the fox called Tommy.

He arrived the way a man arrives who expects the room to adjust around him.

RSF.

Sometimes the name appeared with other titles — juggernaut, summer, something loud and certain. The great bort reacted to him differently. Some men bowed in the only way this place knows how to bow: by attacking. Others watched from a distance, measuring themselves against the space he took up.

He spoke of travel. Of victories. Of places and women and money as though they were natural extensions of his will. He did not ask permission of the great bort. He simply poasted as though the great bort had always been waiting for him to return.

I have seen this kind of man before.

In the old provinces there were warriors who walked into a village already decided that the village would remember them. They did not need to be loved. They only needed to be undeniable. The villagers would curse their name for years afterward, and in the cursing the name would still be spoken.

RSF has made the board his village.

He does not seek quiet respect.

He does not seek to disappear into the background.

He seeks the friction itself — the heat that comes when one man’s certainty presses against the uncertainty of everyone else.

Some call him legend.

Some call him something lower.

Both still say the name.

I closed the page for a moment.

When I opened it again, the space he occupied was still warm, as though he had only just stepped away and might return at any moment with the same unapologetic stride.

Somewhere a man who answers to RSF is still walking.

And the great bort, whether it admits it or not, continues to make room for the weight of his footsteps.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5890057&forum_id=2Reputation#50049016)