12-02-2011, 11:34 AM
The broadside is printed on a sheet of thinly pressed paper. While three or four dot the sparsely decorated walls and tables of the Old Town inns, most have been used as folding paper for vendors to wrap their bread and meats in.
While the paper is dotted with greasy splotches from the long-devoured meal, the print is still legible.
My duty, as a Confessor of the Holy Light, is to give alms to those who have suffered the slings and blows of life’s trials. Through my work I sit with these men and women, these cobblers and maids, and listen to their confessions of pain and guilt.
To my superiors, the giving of token advice at the end of these confessions is the recommended cure. And, to the pennant, these pleasant-sounding trifles are often enough. Yet it is a poor doctor who only offers opium to the pained man when a cure is within their means.
There is a grievous wound in our empire of man, a festering plague that rots beneath this kingdom’s flesh. It is a corruption that putrefies our very muscles, that slows our heart and renders our movements sluggish.
The corruption is greed, a hungering that is present in every tier from the peasant to the noble. And the victim of this gnawing plague, for with all evil there always shall be a victim, are the kingdom’s laborer.
Of all the Confessions that I have heard, none are as prolific and heart wrenching as those of the commonly dressed man. Heroes and nobles worry of wounded loves and battles lost. The common man worries only for food and shelter. What cares do they have for battle and ethics when the wife is sick and the daughter starving and work is but another word for slavery that earns but a few copper? They worry of medicine for the sick and money for their pockets.
And while the higher born require soft hands and gentle words to calm their spirits, what do the poor require? Money to pay the rent. Food to fill their stomachs. Clothes to warm their flesh.
These low-born, ungifted with the education and safety of the higher nobles, must work to support themselves. From these labors they are given trifles, just enough to keep them alive, if barely. They are made to thank their bosses, their slave masters, their overlords, and simper and bow when they are given their meager wage.
When these men are driven to fight for their own survival, to fight this injustice, they are labeled as villains. For theft, for pilfering, for pick pocketing, for vagrancy they are all hunted into the earth. The government punishes these survivors, these fighters, and returns to those that would see the poor enslaved all the rights and powers that were wrested from them.
The role of government is not to propagate the coffers of the rich and the egos of the strong. Their role should be that of a nurturing parent, to give to their protectorate the means to achieve success, wellness and security.
Yet we have been told that the Ruling Body, the caring mother, was created to safe guard the Body Politic, the powerless infant. To them, the numberless masses cannot be trusted with its own might and requires its choices and strength to be controlled by a higher power. This is where the fallacy becomes apparent: Simply because government was created by people who believed that the populous is weak does not mean the people are truly weak.
The commoners are strong. They are the masses, the downtrodden farmers and destitute miners. They are the veterans and guards. Only they possess the strength and desire to scour out the corruption from the body of our kingdom.
When this has been done then our kingdom shall give the rights all free beings of sentient thought are allowed, that of joy, security and prosperity.
Signed With A Simple Pen,
Valira von Rosenstiel
While the paper is dotted with greasy splotches from the long-devoured meal, the print is still legible.
The State of Sormwind
A Discourse on the Plight of the Stormwind Laborers,
Written In Simple Common
Written In Simple Common
I found, among the waste
that lay amidst the shadow-lines
a man, clothed, wrapped in coarse
who asked of me a dime.
Such dreadful face! A hungry face!
I turned to cross and flee from there
And hid myself from the haggard beast.
The morrow I walked among the waste
That lay amidst the shadow-lines.
And a man I did not see again,
only empty flesh and milky eyes.
that lay amidst the shadow-lines
a man, clothed, wrapped in coarse
who asked of me a dime.
Such dreadful face! A hungry face!
I turned to cross and flee from there
And hid myself from the haggard beast.
The morrow I walked among the waste
That lay amidst the shadow-lines.
And a man I did not see again,
only empty flesh and milky eyes.
My duty, as a Confessor of the Holy Light, is to give alms to those who have suffered the slings and blows of life’s trials. Through my work I sit with these men and women, these cobblers and maids, and listen to their confessions of pain and guilt.
To my superiors, the giving of token advice at the end of these confessions is the recommended cure. And, to the pennant, these pleasant-sounding trifles are often enough. Yet it is a poor doctor who only offers opium to the pained man when a cure is within their means.
There is a grievous wound in our empire of man, a festering plague that rots beneath this kingdom’s flesh. It is a corruption that putrefies our very muscles, that slows our heart and renders our movements sluggish.
The corruption is greed, a hungering that is present in every tier from the peasant to the noble. And the victim of this gnawing plague, for with all evil there always shall be a victim, are the kingdom’s laborer.
Of all the Confessions that I have heard, none are as prolific and heart wrenching as those of the commonly dressed man. Heroes and nobles worry of wounded loves and battles lost. The common man worries only for food and shelter. What cares do they have for battle and ethics when the wife is sick and the daughter starving and work is but another word for slavery that earns but a few copper? They worry of medicine for the sick and money for their pockets.
And while the higher born require soft hands and gentle words to calm their spirits, what do the poor require? Money to pay the rent. Food to fill their stomachs. Clothes to warm their flesh.
These low-born, ungifted with the education and safety of the higher nobles, must work to support themselves. From these labors they are given trifles, just enough to keep them alive, if barely. They are made to thank their bosses, their slave masters, their overlords, and simper and bow when they are given their meager wage.
When these men are driven to fight for their own survival, to fight this injustice, they are labeled as villains. For theft, for pilfering, for pick pocketing, for vagrancy they are all hunted into the earth. The government punishes these survivors, these fighters, and returns to those that would see the poor enslaved all the rights and powers that were wrested from them.
The role of government is not to propagate the coffers of the rich and the egos of the strong. Their role should be that of a nurturing parent, to give to their protectorate the means to achieve success, wellness and security.
Yet we have been told that the Ruling Body, the caring mother, was created to safe guard the Body Politic, the powerless infant. To them, the numberless masses cannot be trusted with its own might and requires its choices and strength to be controlled by a higher power. This is where the fallacy becomes apparent: Simply because government was created by people who believed that the populous is weak does not mean the people are truly weak.
The commoners are strong. They are the masses, the downtrodden farmers and destitute miners. They are the veterans and guards. Only they possess the strength and desire to scour out the corruption from the body of our kingdom.
When this has been done then our kingdom shall give the rights all free beings of sentient thought are allowed, that of joy, security and prosperity.
Signed With A Simple Pen,
Valira von Rosenstiel
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