Oh, hells, you're looking to me for answers? Why we're all here?
Look ... see that? Goldhill is a city that looks behind itself and sees only the radiance of itself in its prime. We sit uncomfortably in the rocky grasp of the Dragonhorn, with millions of hard draklanar eyes gazing down on us. King Jerethor sits there, the other direction, up north in his pretty palace, and doesn't know or give a lick about a single stone in this place any longer. We served our purpose. We had it all, once. The gold and silver flowed like the waters of the Escape, but that was back there, in the past. See it? We had something then. What do we have now? You know what's ahead of us? A growing shadow, pushing out into our future. We have fallen to decadence, we have fallen to decay, and we have been struggling to maintain relevance in an increasingly complicated and dangerous world.
The Duchess Acarisa? She means well, sure, but what can she really do? She's surrounded by mining guilds, wealthy business owners, racial tensions, and an underworld that grows in power every day. The Binders may as well be called the Blunders for all the good they do. And that's just inside the 'Hill! What do we have do look forward to outside these walls? Bandits? The restless dead in the Slate Lands? Her dear cousin certainly isn't sending any help. He's got his own issues, what with all the talk of insurrection. She's barely holding on up there on her Highedge.
Alright, sure. The beer is good. We make good beer. I'll give you that. I seem to recall you saying that you owed me a round, yah? I'll go ahead and cash that in.
The date is Narif 10th in the year 1639 AC. Winter (ruled by Kerne, the masculine aspect of the One God) ended nearly two weeks ago, and farmers pray for the end of deep frost so that the first seeds can be sown.
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Oh, hells, you're looking to me for answers? Why we're all here?
Look ... see that? Goldhill is a city that looks behind itself and sees only the radiance of itself in its prime. We sit uncomfortably in the rocky grasp of the Dragonhorn, with millions of hard draklanar eyes gazing down on us. King Jerethor sits there, the other direction, up north in his pretty palace, and doesn't know or give a lick about a single stone in this place any longer. We served our purpose. We had it all, once. The gold and silver flowed like the waters of the Escape, but that was back there, in the past. See it? We had something then. What do we have now? You know what's ahead of us? A growing shadow, pushing out into our future. We have fallen to decadence, we have fallen to decay, and we have been struggling to maintain relevance in an increasingly complicated and dangerous world.
The Duchess Acarisa? She means well, sure, but what can she really do? She's surrounded by mining guilds, wealthy business owners, racial tensions, and an underworld that grows in power every day. The Binders may as well be called the Blunders for all the good they do. And that's just inside the 'Hill! What do we have do look forward to outside these walls? Bandits? The restless dead in the Slate Lands? Her dear cousin certainly isn't sending any help. He's got his own issues, what with all the talk of insurrection. She's barely holding on up there on her Highedge.
Alright, sure. The beer is good. We make good beer. I'll give you that. I seem to recall you saying that you owed me a round, yah? I'll go ahead and cash that in.
The date is Narif 10th in the year 1639 AC. Winter (ruled by Kerne, the masculine aspect of the One God) ended nearly two weeks ago, and farmers pray for the end of deep frost so that the first seeds can be sown.