Previously, in fictional, a Scottish nobleman named Macbeth got a prophecy from some witches,

alongside his friend, Banquo. That Macbeth would become king.

Macbeth decided to take his fate into his own hands by murdering the old king and usurping his throne,

sending the rightful heir, Malcolm, fleeing to England. The former noble warrior, Macbeth,

racked with paranoia, then had Banquo murdered in the night.

It had been one week, one single week since he had been here. He killed so many people that day,

but he had done so with a purpose. It had all been for his king. Recalling that day,

just about Macbeth sick to his stomach, life had been so simple then. He was known as Man of Virtue,

of honor. Now, he was a murderer four times over. His king, two servants who had done nothing

worse than trust him, and Banquo, his friend. As he splashed across the stream, Macbeth realized

that he no longer recognized the face reflected back in him, pressing on word. He thought back to

those fateful words that had started all of this. Those tiny seeds planted in his heart, a groan,

and overtaken the man he thought he was. King, they had told him he could be king.

And he was the king. King Macbeth, but violence begets violence. He had had to kill the gain

of the throne, killed to keep it. And now he saw knives everywhere, as the ghosts of his friends

watched him. He had to know. He had to go to them, to confirm that he could keep the throne,

as he clamored up the hill. Alone on the wind swept more. He saw their three faces looking down at him.

The witches. He had to speak to the witches.

I'm Treesmoiser. From Bardock, this is fictional.

Macbeth stood firmly, uncomflicted and calm, as he stirred out into the darkness from his high

castle. Somewhere out there in the night, Banquo and his son laid dine. But Beth had sied with relief,

knowing then that he could be at peace. His brain was now secure. He would let the world crumble

...