Messages

ya'll old

Hello,

We should talk, just us.

Regards,
Secretary of the League of White
Themis

Everyone in this shithole is a moment away from selling their self-interests away to the highest bidder.

Everyone in this shithole is a conniving backstabber who has no loyalty to a banner, a word, or an ideology.

The only thing that matters in this shithole is Dinari. Even the most skilled orator would find no purchase here, without a fat gold sack backing them.

It is a pestilence, it is a mind rotting disease.

Unfortunate decision.

Secretary Themis.

Ow, fuck.

Hello!

There are a few matters I'd like to speak on with you, most concerning the next election. Though some are more pertinent to the Well now, like the Scorch Affair.

I'd appreciate it if you sought me out or called for me when you are available!

Thanks,
Themis
Secretary of The League of White

Revolt is born not in tyrannies, but in realms that speak of virtue while hiding injustice. Only where fairness is claimed but not given does rebellion find its cause.

Ephia's Well is upon paper, great in this. They speak of virtue for the Voiceless, yet there is little, and they subsist on donations outside, upon the exterior. Though, should you examine this, this is not a breach of any promise. The system in play has never -ever- tended to the Voiceless, from the days it was blatant to now.

The Voiceless have never seen their conditions change, so they do not know the Legates have ever promised that it would.

Hello,

I'd like to talk.

Themis,
Secretary of the White League

Hello,

I'd like to have talk about the future, again. I am hopeful this will be more productive for both of us.

Themis,
Secretary of the White League

A Pox Upon Your House

[WOE TO ANY WHO READ THIS]

WOE TO ANY WHO READ THIS

   Those who need myths are indeed poor. Here, the spirits serve as shade, as a cool breeze, as a drip of water condensed under a leaf. Happy is he alive who has seen these things upon the disc. Yet-. Even still, I know I will never know such love as one near the world can offer to me. I bring the Waters of Our Well to my face, my face shocked with the coldness of it. I lie upon the cool sand, a breeze catches, and again I am dazed with the rapturous beauty of the moon's light.

   I love this life, I love it with such a fire in my heart I desire others to love it so. It is what I stake here, this life. This life of a gentle breeze, of the sighing of the wind, of the gentle noise of the crickets. I am proud of this condition, of this life. Many I have heard say that there is nothing to be proud of in leisure, that all a moment in a life should be put to Rebel. But, yes-. There is-. There is something to be proud of here, in our home. This Sun, This Moon, This Sand, This Air, This Water, This Coffee, My Heart Leaping With Youth Like A Sand Mouse.

   Everything here places me within the moment. It leaves me intact. It is what makes me alive and bound to these people.

I arrive in the Scald at about midnight, on a Airship provided by the Great Baz'eeli Company, Gohari Heavy Industries. One of their Indentured Servants allowing me to sup from a chilled glass before we landed, it was the last of such creature comforts.

I am the only reporter to embed from the Baz'eeli Unified Press, another was supposed to come as well. However, he dropped out after completing the mandatory defence training that the Third Legion subjected us to before our arrival. He gained a sudden moment of sanity, as the intructor described the ashy residue of corpses sticking into our Tlyonssian Respirators as a "object to swallow", especially if it was "chunky", and so he left.

Taken to a ramshackle outpost, far to the outer border of Scald, rarely visited by the main bulk of Union of Kardesler. I meet my first of the Jannisaries, a few men and women in their early 20s, wasting their time. None of them ashfolk, of course-. They're all barbarians. As soon as I enter, one of them asks me if a figure known as "Bashir" died, they all pester me. Then, as I deny knowing if this "person" died, they state that "Maybe he really died, and they're just not telling us to keep morale up." Another says, "You know, I heard he was in the Consulate."

There is a layer of dust that emanates from this barbaric place and in this barbaric camp onto and in everything, and I so deeply miss the civility of home, and especially the politeness of the Gohari Servant and the crispness of my fruity bubbler...

[This is a True Story.]

This is a True Story.

At the request of the Survivors, some names have been changed.

Out of respect for the heroes of Ephia's Well, the rest is wrote exactly as it occurred.