A weary looking man dressed in a black Seeker tunic pins a note to the Lower Sanctuary Fortress, before heading to the Crone.

Men of the Sanctuary Below.

As I stand amidst the ruins of the Canal District, the putrid stench of blood simmering into my nostrils, the gaping maw of apathy threatens to consume us all. We have become complacent, content with this prison inflicted upon us by the accursed hands of our ancestors. Our brethren of Ubel brood in exile, forgotten in memory and song. And now even as they weary and fall into darkness, their corpses decay alone, and we remain, resigned to linger enchained and waste away into dust. We have become a staid people, beaten and withered at the hands of tyrants who bear the chains of luxury, and our dreams of freedom echo upon the wind.

And now even as we go about our lives, a new foe was poised to bring untold destruction upon our people. Innumerable goblins lurked at our borders, on the edge of our consciousness; and yet we did nothing. However, there still remain men in The Sanctuary Below who would bleed for it's people. This dark, a force lead by the Lowersmen Aurin Guerini and Lucius Westmore stormed the terrible bastions and battlelines of the Slugcrawl Tribe, and defeated them utterly. And yet our foes still remain, awaiting a fatal time to strike.

As stormclouds darken around us, as the Tower casts its shadow into word and action, all is not lost. Lower calls! Arise, men whose spirits have long slumbered; draw steel left to gather dust and bare it anew. I call upon you, I beseech you to let the banner of Lysik be unfurled, horns of Ubel be blown. Let them sound, so that their cry rises up unto the heavens.

Let Lower arise out of the apathy, and be reborn.

Fire and Blood.

-James Lysik Last of the Lancers

*written below in large, blocky but neat letters in full sight of both Seekers*

Lucius and Aurin led us to victory!

Who the hell is James?

The gangs of Lower quite obviously prepare to defend their turf against what they interpret as a challenge. Those old enough to remember, or remember hearing from their parents, dwell on the "Ascendent Regime" and the "Supreme Ascendent" Jher Lysik.

Already they sharpen their blades, looking to the canal ward for expansion, glory or profit...

A man dressed in the rags of a beggar tears down the notice, before placing it up with one almost identical. He hopes nobody noticed.

The note remains pinned to the fortress, a euology for a man slain injustly. Time wears over it, dust sweeping away the words until their meaning are lost. Eventually, it falls into the stream, and is swept away into the Lake.