An old, tired looking Councilor Raymus takes the stage. He falls into a fit of coughs, and wipes his mouth with a handkerchief. Staring down upon the assembled citizens, he begins to speak.

Citizens of Sanctuary, lend me your ears.

For two terms I have fought the excesses of the defence organisations of our Sanctuary. Since the ending of the Ubel Rebellion, the creeping ascendancy of the Order of the Spellguard had laid great statesmen meek, stifled the voices of those who would speak out against mageocracy and driven the last stake into the dream of Ascension. For decades unto centauries, you have looked to the Courts and the Debating halls to protect your sovereign freedom from tyranny and oppression. Our efforts failed.

In my hands lies the burial shroud of Yorrick Bresley. His name, a memory held dear in the hearts of the people- his legacy, stolen away by thieves and tyrants. Your voices call to Sheps in suppliance, you call him saviour, like Azzam before him. Your hearts cry out for absolution from a Tower which shall see you enchained. In my hands lies his legacy- should the dogs wish it, take it.

An impassioned Raymus took the Burial Shroud of Yorrick Bresley, and hurled it into the crowd. Raising his fist in anger, he continues.

Mourn for the Council as you mourn for him, for we are dead just as he. My heart lies buried in Dunwarren with Yorrick. I can do no more. Reason flies from you even as I weep, and I am spent. I beg of you, citizens all- seek ye Michael Bresley, for I cannot. The shadow of the Tower draws me to apathy and death.

Just as the old man finished, a Spellguard Agent appeared out of nowhere, slaying the Councilor. In the next few hours, the City would be torn down the middle and fighting would break out openly in the streets.