A Gentle Reminder
As the elections come close, we inevitably draw ourselves deeper, deeper, deeper into the banal politics of our bleak city. In past years, Gray Men would rise with passion, and beat heartily upon the podium.
They would spew bile that rose like mist, vanishing in the stale air. We would stand and shout, embroiling ourselves further and further into this city that had never intended to be a city.
But now, now there is no longer even this pervading passion. We amble about, shades of men. We shout, we fight, we brawl. We stay, stay, stay embroiled in the bleak prison that is our Sanctuary.
We have grown complacent, a far-cry from our rebellious past. Where once we sought the surface, we now seek to embolden the chains we have wrought for ourselves.
Frederick Bresley was said to be many things. Some, myself included, counted him a mystic, something divine. Others have simply called him insane, a dreamer in the worst sense.
Perhaps, as many would have you believe, Frederick Bresley died a madman. Slayed, perhaps, by a Drow raid, or nibbled horridly askew by kobolds.
Died horrid, alone, and unfilled in the surface. Yet he died persuing a dream- a freeman in the way none of us will ever be. It was he alone, I think, that had truly freed himself from slavery.
Citizens, fellows in despair- take up his torch once more. Do not accept passively your lot in this bleak prison, nor the words of idle men who would keep you here- here where they've power. A slave master in the skin of a brother.
I remind you, my brothers and sisters in darkness, of Frederick Bresley.
Hopelessly seeking the road of hope-
Brother Jones, a cliff overlooking Sanctuary, Kythorn 6th, Year 151.