A withering proclamation...

  • In the dead of night, in those silent hours between drunken midnight strolls back home and the awakening of the first laborers, a blasphemous parchment covered in black ink is found on the main thoroughfare of Old Town...

    The gods abandon you in this time of Silence.

    Wars are waged in Tempus' name, but where are the trumpets of victory from the heavens?
    Lands are conquered for Bane, but where is the adulation from his black citadel?
    You pray to Lathander for the coming dawn to shield you from evil, but where is his light to smite the necromancers roaming the land?

    Reach out and claim the world for yourself, as the gods have. You need not share.

  • Another parchment emerges in a similar fashion...

    You have broken the yolk of the Brigade, all by yourself.

    You should be proud of your freedom.

    You should relish in this victory.

    Revel. Celebrate. For you are only as good as your own two hands, and they are mighty.

  • As he walks by, in the usual down time when the fleshies are sleeping... Tempest finds this parchment, reads it and writes under it a few agreeing words..

    An age of properity will grace Arabel once the divines are left to the sidelines. It is due time we acknowledge their influence over mankind as more detrimental than positive. Remember the blood flowing the streets of this Old Town during the night the Banite cohort crushed the Tempans? It will happen again and again.

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