Movements.

If you'd like to, read this thing. Or don't. 

I'm a blog post, not a cop.

How does a pawn take a king?

It is a sad old cliché that is cliché for a reason.

Through the movements of his friends, and the tensions of his enemies, I'd say. The outspoken movements of your powerful compatriots, their strides echoing on the horizon.

Walls are put up, and soldiers sally forth to push back the bishops with their words, and the knights with their swords, all in the name of our August Majesty. So where does the pawn make his mark?

Only on the blades of their betters, They'd say.

And yet...

The right pawn in the wrong place. Under the steel wing of a powerful friend, he is ushered into the royal court itself, the clashing of steel and the screams of the dying muffled by the stained-glass and stone. And what does a king do, when confronted by a pawn with friends, a gleam in his eye and a nervous smile on his lips?

He runs.

Harried, and frightened. A giant, made little. A fortress, made ash. His big decisions and his big enemies and his big words and his big thoughts. Made small, blinded to nothing by the light on a chipped sword in the hands of a pauper.

To keep one's head, one must keep one's eyes on the prey, and not the horizon.

So how does a pawn take a king?

The small made mighty by the movements of his friends, I'd say.