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Dear dearest of all kin,

I have looked into the heart of all what is and should be. Our eyes unpeeled revealed one clear notion. One sound which was to resound throughout the Spirit of spirits.

From its bosom sprang forth to me, with such great and fervent glory, a single hope. Though, unlike before the times now past, this hope lay not within the soul of a single man or woman. Nowhere to be found in our old shells of authority. And singularity now does not mean what once was the old definition.

Oh yes, my brothers! I bring splendid sounds to awaken our inner thoughts. For in this heart of all lied us! It is true, and all but fear can stifle this great wisdom. You and I, and all that once had a care for what we all seem to praise with our words. You and I and he too, all are now what should rule.

For such fleeting gains as power and clout are nothing to our Gods. To this we should remain faithful!


Brothers and sisters, I beg for you assistance, to find some peace for our once Great City. For which I once served and for which I once loved. The calling is now clear.

Aid all of us, to illuminate that which is drowned in darkness.

I ask more clearly, one simple wish. For your support to guide This City to greater heights!

For TB,
The reform is Me!

Vote Brer Beothach!

Troll's Bane must always be vigilant against those trying to suck it dry, the likes of Julius Rothman, Edward Cromwell, etc.

What was promised to you in "reforms" did not meet expectations, and actually made the town worse off than before. How many people excluded from these "reforms" actually give a crap about the town of Troll's Bane?

You need not worry about any of this with Mr. Beothach.

The writing is on the wall, can they read it?

F

Achae, in town from the forests briefly stops to read the board. Her eyes become wide at all the changes she sees, then a smile crosses her face and with an almost teasing expression hovering over her face, she takes a pen from her bag after shaking out some stray torn herbs and writes on a parchment placing it under Brer's announcement. No one could possibly see the note unless they lift up the original to look.

Brer,

Some say "clothes make the man"
I will be happy to make you anything you would like!

Achae



Giggling she turns toward the hospital whispering "things should be interesting anyway"

A tattered rag of leather has been slapped upon the board, with a complete disregard for the surrounding messages. Upon the hide has been scribed, in blackest ink, the message of one whose eerie smile hides, like a watching sea beast, beneath the waves of her cloak. The message reads thus:

You speak of hope as if it were chance. You speak of the heart as if it were more than a mere muscle, drumming itself, struggling to keep you alive from within ribcage prison.
What have your gods brought you but wrath? How have they favoured the just? The kind or the thoughtful?
The hero, speared on a blade for honour,for his people... has still been speared.
Glory is a fool's prize...and it is of no use to the dead.

Take heed, people of Troll's Bane. The drums are beating, and the cries will not stop. A new night shall descend on Gobiath, only the strong shall survive. Be not weak, nor merciful. Extend no hand to others, and perhaps you will survive...


The shadow smiles again, reading her words...Her curling black hair whips around her face, and the shadow by the message board becomes the night...

As your rhythms of war mean nothing, so to do the palpitations of our own hearts. Only the weak wish to survive.

To the rest, our eyes have viewed great ecstasy beyond what this corporeal envelope can lend us. We shall give you this world so that you may suffer.


Brer Beothach

The tattered leather has been overturned, and fresh ink has been applied to the other side.


The rhythms of war are not mine, but they are a warning...

But, perhaps I can help you enjoy your "great ecstacy", by removing you from this "corporeal envelope?" Such fools do not deserve life. Your petty lies of false wisdom are as empty as your head. And if suffering means the lordship of your world, then let me despair! I would gladly take it from you and your loved ones.

This was all I ever asked for

Brer Beothach