A Collection of Anonymous Essays, Poorly Written, found in dens of iniquities

[Kollontai]

A Mirage in the Desert: Scathing Thoughts of Freedom

A mirage shimmers on the horizon of Ephia's Well. It glitters like an oasis of promise to the weary and the Voiceless, luring them with the illusion of cool water and freedom. This mirage is called Asterabadism - the rule of the multitude, the so-called "democracy" that the Well has flirted with these past seasons. In theory, it is a bright impossibility: everyone a Voice, everyone a vote, each citizen an equal star shining to illuminate the dark path bestrewn with thoughts of tyranny. From disunity, unity.

But like a desert mirage, in practice it has proven nothing but a cruel deception. What was promised as an oasis of fairness has turned to dust upon approach, leaving only dry tongues and bitter hearts. Under the high sun, democracy gleams like a distant oasis. It is watched quietly from shaded balconies and crowded bazaars and dimly lit offices at the Consulate - to see it shimmer bright and fade fast. Asterabadism was born from the mouth of an eponymous madman of fleeting virtues, who saith: I dream aloud that all men have equal say. Yet in the Well, only the "Voiced" speak - those who have paid gold for privilege. The crowd's roar rises, a clamor for blood and bread, games and gaiety, but it is only gilded lips that shape law. It is called an idea with direction given to the people, yet power in all its cloying allure remains only with those whose coffers rattle louder than their tongues.

False fountains rush with hope in sand, but parched hearts thirst where waters land.
    _{- Ammaran of the East}

Ephia's Well has become a stage where too many actors dance without a script - dancers in desert courts, twirling to entertain the crowd rather than to lead. In the Assembly halls beneath the grand Pyramid, every Voiced citizen dons a snowy toga and speaks as though they were a philosopher-king. They shout of liberty and prosperity, each striving to outshine the other like frantic stars competing at dawn. Yet their voices are discordant, the act written by a naive playwright with no thought given to the vainglorious egos of each participant who thinks themselves a lead, but is little more than an usher. The result is not harmony, but cacophony. Rule by the many has yielded only chaos by the many, as debate has turned to decay. Speeches are as impermanent as parabolic dunes, erased by the next useless gust of wind from another would-be politician, whose sense of self-worth teeters on the brink of collapsing under the weight of his own applause.

In crowded courts, the word of the poor
Is lost to wind; the rich devour more.
    _{- Zahiri al-Nas}

The members of the Assembly debate in an open forum like beggars outside a brothel, pining in quiet desperation for an invitation to taste of the pleasures within. All the while they argue how best to put a price on a life, attempting arithmetic with the bones of their fallen comrades; addition in ash, multiplication in misery. A hundred dinar for a man's life, a thousand? A price too easily, willingly, paid by those who need not reap the consequences of such debt themselves.

The Balladeers of the Lost Hearth proclaim their grievances to be principles; the Banda Rossa pretend briberies are virtues to uphold. Q'tolip sequesters himself not out of a desire of solitude, but out of shame for his acolytes who study the stars and, in their senseless hubris, think themselves their equals. The Janissaries of the Fourth make a mockery of Sorazin Bey's legacy as they, like desperate jackals, leap at any chance to supersede the flimsy pretexts of law and delve into arenas to sate their barely restrained bloodthirst and duel to the death the subjects of the Sultan whom they swore to defend for the heady promise of immaterial glory. They beguile the Well's people with the belief that death is righteous only when administered by their own hand - and how eager they are to share in that bloodthirst with the likes of Faith Kreuzler, who leaps at any chance to discard the veil of legality and kill whomever the law no longer shields. She, like many of the monsters guised as men in the Well, is governed neither by goodwill nor conscience, but is merely one of many predators in the pack within the walls, merely waiting patiently for a world without rules, so that they might kill without hesitation in the moment the rules are gone.

Worst of all are the Legates who embrace a policy one week, then reverse it the next, their whims shifting like the dunes. One day, a grand law is proclaimed at dawn - only to be rescinded by dusk. The code of justice upon the Stele has become a scribble in the dust, erased by the wind of public opinion or the irritable velleities of the Legates themselves: puppets who play at power, thinking themselves master of their own strings.

In a fit of misguided freedom, inspired by the noble ignoble Sol Auk, the Assembly once dared to etch the name of Gellema upon the Stele of Law. They sought to make the Sabotage their patron, praying her shimmering aegis of protection might reveal great fortunes in the shadows of the Well's walls. And what came of it? Nothing but embarrassment and swift reversal. The sacred Stele was defiled by caprice, then scoured clean in shame. Such is the legacy of rule by whim - turning things of prayer into things upon which to prey.

Where, then, faith?

Asterabadism promised the power of the people, yet even one's Voice must be purchased with coin. Representation is bought, not earned. Those with the fattest purse shout the loudest. Demagogues slither through the bazaar with golden bribes, buying signatures and votes like spices or camels. Legates rise on dinars; ideals are traded for sacks of value. When votes and voices become commodities, what remains of this "rule of the people" but an auction of power?

Charlatans rise on soapboxes in the Plaza, breathing fire and ash with every promise. They whip the crowd into frenzy with honeyed lies as they slaughter themselves on scorch and dirt, promising oases where none exist.

Where, then, truth?

The city is split into Leagues of Gold, White, and Purple - factions named for dyes, now stained with contempt. Instead of uniting beneath the ashstorm's weight, they bicker and scheme. The gilded voices of what remains of Zatar's flock call Syter's faithful naive; White decries Gold as greedy; those who still carry Diakos' stained history stand aloof, intoning loyalty to the Sultan while feeding fears of the other two. In this mire of division, the many cannot rule as one - they are too busy tearing one another down, their hands bloodied from the speed at which they break each other's monuments.

Where, then, unity?

Let it be spoken, then, by the likes of a nameless observer - not as a philosopher, but as an idler who has walked the dusty streets and sat in the perfumed parlors of this place. One who has moved through every stratum of society, from many marbled halls in the City of Gold to shadowed corners where rumor is traded like coin. One who once knelt with a basin of water to wash the feet of a man who ruled, in public supplication. The master beamed as if anointed; the crowd cooed at the display in mizzar-mist and more. But in the rippling water, a reflection of private anxiety. His eyes were like troubled glass, ready to shatter with the next breeze of whim, the soonest jape sent his way. Beneath the praise, fear. Beneath the performance, doubt.

Where, then, strength?

The folly of rule by the many is not a new tale. The ancestors, the poets, the sages - those closer to dust than memory - spoke plainly of mobs and the need for wise rule.

When the sandstorm of voices rages, no traveler finds his way.
    _{- ibn-Ammar}

Let one knowing driver lead, and the caravan shall find its lost oasis.
    _{- Qazim Qazimi}

A hundred torch-flames make a bonfire bright, but uncontrolled they shall burn down the tent.
    _{- Magus Zahir, Orentid Historian}

Better a single wife of good order, than a harem of whining mistresses.
    _{- Caliph Osman IV, glory to his name, his lineage, his legacy}

These masters of men knew that order, hierarchy, and firm leadership form the bedrock of civilization. A strong, wise ruler is the pillar that holds up the sky; a mob is but sand - each grain alone insignificant, together a storm.

Now, as Ephia's Well contends with legacies older than stone - Iakmes, Bet Nappahi, and others unnamed - it must return to the wisdom of elder times. Asterabadism has become a luxury of chaos. It is time to awaken from the mirage.

As sands slip through the hourglass, so does virtue through the fingers;
We build our pride on shifting stone, then wonder why it crumbles.
    _{- From the works of Upon this Wheel, We Break, IY 7351, Faoud the Inheritor}

A city built on discordant songs and too many dreams crumbles beneath silence and steel; a market of tongues is no bazaar of merit when each thinks their wagging is equal to another's. The Legates debates licence fees while poison slips through Stockade kitchens and crime stalks the gutters. The law is merely performance poorly played. Ideals wilt like dry petals in a gale.

Let the wisdom of the Sultanate be remembered. Once, before Orentes' fledgling rebellion, when the Sultan's eye watched directly, there was peace. Law was carved in stone. Today, autocracy is viewed with distrust by those who think themselves beyond the reach of the Consulate's eyes and ears. But what tyranny is worse: the silken yoke of one just master, or the golden leash of a thousand demagogues?

Where, then, faith?
Where, then, truth?
Where, then, unity?
Where, then, strength?

Not here.
Not in Ephia's Well.

Let Ephia's Well become once more a garden of tended paths - not a wild field trampled by every passing herd. Let it be guided by steady hands proven worthy, whether appointed from Baz'eel or chosen from among those who still recall how to rule.

In the end, the heart of the people whispers what the Assembly cannot shout: the city is weary of mirages. It longs for firmament - it yearns for bedrock.

May courage then today rise to seek not another chorus of shouting, but a singular voice, clear and wise.

Awake, O city of sand and heron,
 Cast off the shroud of empty star.
 Dream's pale promise cannot suffice;
 Take once again the crown of the wise.
_{Oh, Marcellus Saenus - Unifier, Uniter.
    Your death, a tragedy. Your legacy, a disgrace.
      A lament.}

[Kollontai]

[A reply in defense appears to be forthcoming...]