There he sat, another day down and several bottles of brandy litter the office. It had become medicine. To remember, to forget, to just make it another day as his homeland is broken, without her, without the very things that he fought for, and now... well the fight is all he has left. The desk cluttered with reports, intelligence reports he needed to read. Reports of actions taken to maintain the peace he needed to review and write. Reports of apologies to the nobles. Excuses to the citizenry. Yet this madness was his life. He was the justice of the people. To suit the madness of the state of things, this justice was drunk. He slumped in the desk, his armor scattered about, his tabard in a wadded mess on the floor. He had become quite the apologist, this creature of war, this creature of peace, he picked up his pen and began to write. ~Regent Lord, Lorthemar Theron, I, your humble sworn sword, do beseech you as all reason to give your people a sense of themselves once more. I know your oath to never again let a king sit the throne of QuelThalas, and yet are you not? Would that you were just a lord of the Convocation once more. Then we could reason with you. We could sit as a republic of congress and say with one voice, NO MORE! No more will we suffer our lands to be blighted with the touch of monsters. When did we become so afraid of death that we could stoop so low to strike these cowardly bargains. Are we not the same sons of Anasterian SunStrider that would follow him into the darkness without hope of returning to merely say that we were there. In the end of the days with our king. Are we not... Lorthemar, are we no more your brothers.
Posted on: Mon, 27 Oct 2014 19:18:27 +0000
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