Winds of Change, Act I: A Rising Zephyr

[Circle of Life]

Tara:Blackness. A great sea of blackness, bereft of thought or emotion.

Pain. So much pain. Your head feels as though it is clamped between a great vise, and with one more turn of the crank might explode. But pain is better than the blackness. Pain means you yet live.

Suddenly there is a sense of weightlessness, or perhaps simply a sense of less, as though a great mass was shifted from atop you. This shifting brings with it its own pains, bruised flesh and broken bones that you had not been aware of until a moment ago. Yet still the blackness lingers, dulling thoughts to a muted buzz in the back of a mind that cries for the sweet release of the void. So much pain, so easy to give in to the siren song of that endless black ocean...

Hands clasp your head, and a curiously muted hum reaches your ears. It sounds almost like speech, but as if your head were underwater. A chill ripples through you from head to toe, then another and another, each one bringing convulsive spasms to your entire body. Each ripple leaves behind a burning sensation, like a nearly-frostbitten limb submerged in hot water, yet with the last ripple you realize that you feel nothing but that curious afterburn, and even that subsides quickly.

Opening your eyes reveals a scene out of nightmares. As far as you can see the wide sandstone street is a mass of shattered buildings and torn earth. The banners that proclaimed the winter solstice, each a golden approximation of Sharrah's visage woven on a field of red, lay strewn about the rubble, some atop boulders twice the size of a man's body, others just corners peeking out from beneath sandstone heaps five feet tall.

Were it only banners that lay covered by rubble, the scene might be tolerable. Yet all too often bloody, battered forms hang halfway free of the piles of rubble, already glazed eyes staring unseeing toward the twin suns overhead. Here and there a small hand or tiny foot pokes free from the debris, hanging as limply as the crushing weight of the stones allow. A sight to turn the hardest stomach, and surely what you can see is not the extent of the destruction.

Abruptly a face moves into your field of vision, so close that you can see only slivers of the sky around it. Male, and what some might call handsome, with a strong jaw and pale green eyes, but those eyes are tight with weariness and the jaw seemingly clenched to stifle a yawn. The lips of that face move, but again the words seem to come as if heard through water, incomprehensible to your ears. The man stares at you for a long moment, then shakes his head and sets his jaw again. Hands clasp either side of your head, and a final ripple passes through your body, shaking you so hard that your hands and legs flail helplessly for a long moment.

When the shock of the healing passes at last – that strange burning sensation is not so fast to fade this time – your hearing returns with it, and with it the sounds of the world. Screams assault your ears from every side, some horrified, others agonized. Weeping too, the heart-wrenching sound of men and women lamenting over the dead with their every fiber. Above even that din, the sound of a distant rumbling can be heard, like the grating of a massive gindstone or a perpetual peal of rolling thunder.

“My lady, are you well?” the unknown man asks again, the voice a perfect match to the face – deep and strong, yet tinged with weariness too long surpressed. Abruptly the face withdraws, replaced by another, this one recognizable as that of Damien, though his own face is covered with streaks of dust and no few scrapes, some deep enough to have left dried blood on his face.

“I have done what I can,” that deep voice says from somewhere out of sight. “If she has not recovered soon, I fear she never will. The damage to her head was severe, and such injuries sometimes bring with them damage to the mind that cannot be healed. Tend to her as best as you are able; this is no place for a helpless woman right now. I must join the others in the search for the Archons, Eternal Sun send they yet live. Sharrah watch over you both, and with Her blessing may you find safety from the horrors of this day. Farewell.”

Damien:The Lightwarden steps through his strange shimmering, golden portal in the air and is gone in a flash of a white cloak, disappearing as abruptly as the portal that closes behind him. All around you lay the ruins of Sewing Street – a strange name for such a diverse section of Cherudar, but then, the city was once much more organized – the buildings on the northern side of the street simply gone, reduced to rubble hurled forcibly in all directions. The southern buildings are not much better, some barely standing with large cracks all along the sandstone foundations, others blown halfway away or more, revealing patches of the Market Row beyond. A few banners still hang on the southern buildings, moving fitfully in the faint breeze as if to mock the celebration of life and successes of the bygone year that the day was to have been.

You did not see the creature that destroyed so much in so little time, but its path is easy enough to follow, a great wake of destruction from west to east all along Sewing Street. So many revelers in the streets, following after the Archons' procession in a great mile-long train of drunken merriment. So many now dead for not being just slightly farther behind that procession, seemingly the target of the attack. And then there is Tara, struck down by a stray bit of rubble, buried beneath yet more as a section of a nearby building collapsed over her... Fortunate indeed that one of the Lightwardens checked this area for survivors, and doubly so that he possessed any skill with healing.

Another rumble comes from the east, accompanied by a rising dust cloud the size of a city block that you can see over the tops of the remaining buildings. Bursts of golden light blink into being in that dust cloud, fading away a moment later. Gouts of fire erupt from within the cloud, shooting in all directions, though all seemingly aimed through a point somewhere in the middle. Streaks of silver-blue lightning lance down from a clear sky to strike at roughly the same point, over and over again. If there were any doubt in your mind as to where the disturbance had gotten to, you now have your answer.

[RaggedAngel]

Tara's first action was not thought but instinct; she felt her forearms, her boots, her right thigh, the small of her back, her left upper arm, and her belt. She moved as if acting out a ritual, and in a way she was. It was her personal ritual of safety, of control, and despite herself she couldn't help but laugh when she found every knife and hidden blade in its place. She began to laugh harder, still laughing after she ran out of breath, laughing until she cried. Then she just cried, staring at the scene around her.

Damien didn't say anything, didn't make a motion to comfort her. He just stood, watching the street, his hand resting on his gun. He gave her privacy, and after a minute or so she began to compose herself. As she did he turned, and she saw that he hadn't escaped unmarred; his glasses had a long scratch on the left side, and he had a new scar on his forehead, the red line clearly recently healed. He held out his hand, wordless, and she accepted it, nodding in gratitude.

"I'm sorry about that. I just..." Her apology trialed off, but he seemed to get the message. "It would be odd if that hadn't upset you, Tara. I know it upset me." He continued to look into the distance as he spoke, and Tara followed his gaze to the dust cloud and the violent display of power held within. He replied to her before she had a chance to voice her thoughts, in a manner that both irritated and endeared her. "No, Tara. We can't. We don't have anything approaching the power or skill it would take to influence that fight. I'm proficient with magic, but I just can't throw around the kind of power it would take to make those things take notice, let alone hurt them."

Tara nodded, and though her helplessness made her bile rise she didn't argue. "Let's see how many people we can help here, then, moving stone and the like, and trying to organize survivors into a search crew. And if we find any looters or the like..." She took a moment to flick her hidden blades in and out of their sheathes, testing their functionality, before continuing. "Then we'll get to burn off a little aggression." Damien frowned a bit at her last remark but didn't disagree, moving with her down the pile to the nearest signs of people.

I can't match your awesome exposition, but I hope you at least like how I weave both of their thoughts together. I am being a little Tara-focused, but I intend to have that change based on who's currently in the spotlight, so to speak.

Tara's Perception to find survivors: [roll0]
Damien's Perception: [roll1]

Feel free to roll any Athletics checks to move rocks. Damien will be using his Engineering to prevent any collapses, if he can help it, and Medicine to attempt to stabilize any wounded, and you can roll those if you like, or leave them to me.

[Circle of Life]

You set about the grim task with a will, moving stones carefully rather than with abandon, lest the entire pile shift abruptly and put an end to any hope of rescue. Despite your care, you soon amass a dishearteningly large pile of corpses, most mangled beyond recognition save the most basic anatomical differences. Dark or fair, man or woman, adult or child. Perhaps it is better that way, less personal, when their faces are gone beyond recognition. No remembered faces to haunt dreams with their sightless eyes.

Time passes slowly, and sweat soon builds on both of your bodies from the exertion of the task. A dozen dead, and none yet saved. Just as you are ready to quit and move on, a faint sound reaches your ears. You can't make out the words, but the voice sounds faint and squeaky, like a child in distress.

Damien quickly points out a series of rocks, and you set to shifting them in order, creating a stable 'roof' over the area to be excavated. More rubble is shifted, then again, digging out a rough cave through the layers, hoping to find the pocket where you heard the sound from.

With a mighty heave you clear the last of the debris from the entrance, sending the sandstone slab tumbling down the pile and revealing a tiny pocket of blackness. Something stirs within, and then a flash of tan and orange streak out with a yeeow! halfway between pain and surprise. Swiveling your head to follow the blur, you see a cat sitting on a nearby section of flat rubble, one leg stuck out at an odd angle. Short-haired, with a strange ringlike pattern from nose to tailtip, the cat looks up at you with wide eyes, clearly frightened but unable - or unwilling - to move further.

Yeeeeow.

Suddenly you realize that the distant rumbling has abated, though dust still rises like a great storm in the distance. The cat yowls for a third time, and as if that were the catalyst for some great reaction, a dozen shimmering golden portals open up along the length of the street, each a span tall and nearly as wide. From each of the portals steps a man or woman clad entirely in white, white cloak with a clasp of twinned golden suns at the throat pulled tight around their bodies, the hem of each of those cloaks lined with tiny dangling crystals of different hues, some clear, some yellow, some blue. Several of the men wear thin white blindfolds across their eyes, yet curiously none of the women do.

While the others fan out along the street, moving with unnatural lightness over the rubble, one approaches you, hands moving to her cowl as she carefully climbs the heap. She lowers the cowl, revealing a delicately featured face with wide brown eyes and auburn hair set into three intricate braids. She turns her hands over her chest in a curious gesture, first two fingers of her left hand held vertically over her heart, right hand held horizontally across her sternum.

"My lady," she says, bowing slightly across the strange gesture before returning her hands to her side. "Captain Alhena, of the Ninth Archon's Watch. My apologies for leaving you unprotected in these troubling times, but we had no idea where you might be in the chaos, and it seemed... prudent... to bring down the creature before more of the city could be lost. Only once I spoke with Ryosh did I realize that you had been found already. I am ashamed that one of my Watch could not recognize you, my lady, but do not take him to task for the failure. He acted with speed and the best judgment he could muster, and I would very much regret having to order him punished for such."

Alhena pauses briefly, seeming to think carefully on her next words. "Have you been... informed of anything yet, my lady? There are things you should know if not, yet I would not wish to twist the dagger in the wound..."

[RaggedAngel]

I'm sorry that I haven't actually made a story-form backstory for Tara and Damien; between learning Legend and re-imagining them in the new system it seemed better to let them live for a bit, organically, before I bound them down with my words. I hope that isn't going to mess anything up.

Tara and Damien watch the woman approach with mixed feelings. Tara's reaction is one of both apprehension and eagerness; she dreads the kind of news the Watch Captain might bring to her, but the fact that the Captain would address her at all means that she matters. It reminds her that despite her ignoble birth she is still important. Still worth something to people with obvious power and influence, enough to garner respect and concern. Despite herself, that little bit of recognition is important.

She stands up tall, adjusting her armor, surreptitiously making sure that all of her blades are concealed save the ones on her hips. The hidden blades feel heavy on her arms, but they remind her of another thing; despite the fact that she has had nothing but good intentions, Tara has broken the law more than once. Even with the best of intentions, authority figures still mean the threat of punishment.

Damien's reaction is less emotional, despite the fact that he has no noble blood to protect him. Emotion, fear or otherwise, is mostly pointless in this situation. The large number of Watchmen means that resistance is more or less futile; teleportation, while certainly feasible for a moderately-powerful mage, is well beyond him right now. He flexes his fingers, and bit of jealously clouding his thoughts, detached though he may be. He has talent, to be sure, but precious little experience using it. It feels wrong, deeply wrong, for him to be so helpless, unable to act on the scale he wants to. Damien is meant for more.

After the woman finishes, the pair look to each other for but a moment before Tara replies, her demeanor calm and her eyes steady. She had seen the look in Damien's eyes, and it had been enough to make her foreboding crystallize into words. "I have an uncomfortable feeling, Captain Alhena. If you've come to me to make sure I'm safe, it means that there is a reason I wouldn't be. I-" She hesitates for a moment, her voice catching.

Damien continues the thought, his voice far less polite. "It means that this wasn't a random catastrophe, a random act of destruction. That's extremely unlikely, in fact; you called that a creature, and any living thing with the power to do this," he spreads his arms wide, "wouldn't throw it's life away for no purpose." Tara holds up a hand, and he frowns, but yields the floor to her.

"Just tell me, Captain. Is my father..." She trails off, her emotions mixed and her head still throbbing from her injuries and exertion. Her father had never been cruel to her, but he had always been very clear about one thing: she would never be his child, not in his heart or in the public eye. She didn't want to think that he may be dead, but it would change little for her.

I may be entirely off the mark here, but despite herself Tara seldom goes an hour without a thought about her father; it's the first thing she'd think of, and Damien is grasping for anything he can to make the situation make sense.

[Circle of Life]

"Dead?" Alhena finishes for Tara, then shakes her head. "I do not know. There is much left unsearched after the attack, though I have my suspicions. Your half-brother was slain in the attack however, of that I can be certain. I do not know whether you and young Jalal were close, but you must understand, you are now the sole heir to the Ninth Archonship, my lady. If your father yet lives, the title remains his, but if not..."

Alhena spreads her hands, as if to say she knows no more of the situation than that. "As to whether or not this was random?" She barks a mirthless laugh. "I can assure you it was not us that called the beast. The three of our number dead in the attack should attest to that, if nothing else. Beyond that certainty, who can say? I have suspicions here too, but they are for other ears at other times."

Tipping her head to one side, Alhena regards Tara over fingers steepled over her mouth. "This must come as a shock. If you feel you need time to recover from events, I will not press you. But as heir, if not Archon, there are things you must see, and others you must be told. Least of all, as closest kin, it is your right to speak the Rites for your brother. I can take you there now, or you may continue your work here until you feel ready. I understand that physical work can soothe the mind. It is your decision, my lady. I will be nearby, whatever your choice." She bows over that curious gesture again, drawing up her cowl again to shade her face, setting herself for a wait, however long.

I don't mind the lack of a concrete backstory, so long as you don't mind me taking small liberties where needed due to the lack. The brother's name, for instance.

[RaggedAngel]

Tara takes in the captain's words quietly, revealing little in her reaction. She could barely even picture her half-brother; he was... he had been a fair child, as energetic and capricious as Tara had been when she was younger. She had not truly known him, though, and while she was saddened by his passing she could not bring herself to truly grieve. Perhaps when she saw him it might mean more to her, but for now she would simply have to accept that he was little more than a stranger to her.

"Thank you, captain. I need but a moment to consult with my friend, if it is no trouble." She nods to Alhena respectfully before turning to Damien, keeping her voice low. She was barely shorter than him, and she didn't have to try very hard to look him in the eyes. "I'm afraid, Damien. Afraid of what is to come. My head is still spinning from that attack, my body still hurts from the rubble, and my heart is as confused as it has ever been. I need council."

He held her gaze for a moment before looking away, abashed by the intensity of her pain. So many different kinds of pain, in someone who deserved none of it. It made him angry at his weakness all over again, but he put those feelings away. They would be of no use right now.

"I understand, Tara. This is a lot to take in all at once. If you'll trust my advice... then I recommend we go with them now. We can do little good here, and after this much time even those who survived will likely have passed. You're as strong and hale as anyone I've ever worked with, and you barely survived the collapse. I was nothing but lucky; had our positions been reversed I have little doubt that I would be in the beyond." He hesitated for a moment before continuing.

"This is the most callous thing I have ever said, but this is your chance for recognition. For respect, and yes, power. You aren't starving on the streets, but you are not in the place you should be. I'll miss you, Tara, but this is something you were meant to do. You can enact real change as the heir of an Archon, and eventually, as an Archon yourself." He smiled, though his eyes looked torn. "I have faith in you, and just I ask that you do not forget me."

Tara laughed, and cuffed him lightly on the head as she turned back to Captain Alhena. "For someone so bright you can be quite the idiot. You're not getting away that easily." He raised his brow at this remark only to wince; his new scar was still quite raw, it seemed. "Captain, I'm ready to go. My only request is that Damien accompany me. I sustained a serious injury in the attack, and though I have been healed my mind is still foggy and my thoughts are reeling. I need a confidant, and he is only one I have."

To clarify, their general motivation is that they disagree with the insularity of the city. They feel that stronger connections to the outer world are vital for magical and social growth, and that the other races have much to offer. They believe that the only way to fight the resistance to change is take offensive action, and that the good of an interconnected world is worth any blood shed.

[Circle of Life]

Alhena inclines her head a fraction, indicating acceptance. "It is good that you accept duty without hesitation. Know that those of the Ninth Watch serve you as well as your father, loyal to our death. Heart and soul for the Archons, honor above all." That last has the sound of an oft-repeated mantra, spoken with conviction but with no thought required to find the words. Extending a hand to one side, she makes an upward sweeping gesture and a shimmering oval portal looking like nothing so much as a heat distortion appears inches from her fingertips, the top easily a foot overhead, the bottom hovering a scant inch above a flat slab of rubble several feet across.

"By your leave, the others of the Ninth Watch will remain here to search for any who may yet live, my lady. You have my assurances that you will be quite safe under my protection for the time being, and our duty to the people of this part of Cherudar must be fulfilled." With that, Alhena steps into the distortion, disappearing in the space of a step.

The shimmering portal remains, obviously awaiting your passage. Picking your way across the rubble, you step through. For the span of a heartbeat your vision becomes filled with a blinding white light and you feel a thick liquid warmth all around you, as if you had been submerged in a vast vat of honey, then your feet touch solid stone and the sensation is gone.

Blinking away the blindness, you find yourself in the middle of a scene of, if not greater tragedy, then at least as great as the one you left. All around you are the ruins of a city square, many of the nearest buildings reduced to little more than their foundation blocks. Debris fills the wide streets spreading away from the square in all directions like the spokes of a wheel, and the roofs and siding of the buildings that yet stand are covered in a fine, pale dust, which you recognize after a moment as powdered sandstone, ground to a consistency like flour and hurled away from the center of the square like a great blast wave.

A fountain once stood in the center of the square, the fruit of some artisan's years of effort with chisel and exotic stone brought back from the northern lands, but the fountain and any other distinguishing features of the square are simply gone, destroyed as thoroughly as if they never were. In their place is a great crater, the edges of the thing ringed with slabs of sandstone jutting five feet or six feet into the air, the center a blackened pit some twenty feet deep. Something lies motionless in the center of the crater, a form as black as its surroundings, sprawled beside three slightly lighter patches with the disturbing likeness of human shapes.

The keening of men and women grieving for the dead is less here, though sobs and murmured prayers still reach your ears. People are clustered all around the crater, some staring blankly at nothing as if incapable of registering the events of the day, others kneeling around the battered forms of the dead. Four of those present wear the rich robes, stoles, and maniples of the Archons, the red and tan silks tattered and dirtied more often than not, the ribbonlike accessories arranged with obvious haste.

The Archons, three men and a woman, stand around the body of a young man, barely more than a youth in truth, and it is there that Alhena leads you. Though battered and bruised, the face of the youth has been cleaned of blood and dirt, and Tara recognizes him as her half-brother. The face has aged since she saw him last, but the features are the same, and it could be none other to attract so many of the Archons.

At the sight of Tara the Archons exchange quiet murmurs, giving her looks ranging from curious to appalled. They retreat a few steps from the body at your approach, a sufficient distance for the Rites to be spoken in private. Alhena stops an equal distance away, hands folded at her waist, allowing you to continue the final few yards alone.

[RaggedAngel]

Tara moves to the body of her half-brother quietly, the long sleeves of her over-shirt brushing over, and concealing, her bracers from view. She looks to each of the Archons in turn, her gaze calm and steady. She knows that this is her only chance to make a good impression, and that the acceptance of these men and women as one of their own may mean her life.

Damien remains several paces behind her, almost blending into the crowd. He folds his hands into his robes after adjusting his scratched glasses, the image of a patient seer. He watches the Archons carefully, attempting to judge their reactions to Tara, but he does not focus on them overmuch, splitting his attention to the crowd around them, looking for threats. Despite the protections on the Archons the current chaos is an astounding opportunity to kill four, or possibly five, of the current leaders of the city.

Tara looks down on her brother for a long moment, taking time to memorize his face. She wondered what kind of man he would have become. A good man, she thought, judging by the little time she had spent with him. His face looked honest, and calm, and it was beginning to show signs of strength and valor, though now it never would.

"I will remember you," Tara murmurs to herself. "I will remember your face when I am asked why it is important that we look beyond the walls of our city. If we had known more, seen more..." Looking down on her brother, something inside her moves, and her tears finally begin to flow. Not simply for him, the half-brother she had hardly known, but for what he represented: purity and goodness, potential, torn randomly and violently from the world. Her brother's death was a sign of nothing but entropy and pain, pain that could have been prevented.

Tara takes a steadying breath, and then she begins to chant the Rites of the Dead. She speaks with a clear, strong voice, a voice filled with both pain and hope, sadness and love. "May the passing of your spirit allow you peace. May the journey of your soul bring you to completion. May the ascension of your heart grant you absolution. May the sleep of your mind permit you rest. Rest now, my brother, Jalal Firellia, and leave us to grieve."

[Circle of Life]

The four Archons wait with varying degrees of patience as Tara speaks over Jalal's corpse. The three men - Muhtadi, Archon of Justice, Rayhan, Archon of Faith, and Faruq, Archon of Judgment - share glances that seem to speak volumes, while the woman, Tharaa, Archon of Trade, sniffs with open disdain.

"An old form," Tharaa says, looking down her beak of a nose at Tara, haughty as an eagle watching a mouse from its perch. "I would not have thought one without a formal education would know the words, let alone the chant. Still, even rats can sometimes show a spark of intelligence..." She sniffs again, her upper lip curling contemptuously.

Muhtadi places a hand on Tharaa's shoulder, shaking his head ever so slightly when she turns to look at him. "She is heir now," he says, his voice a low rumble despite apparently trying for a whisper. "She must be treated as such."

"She is heir, and nothing more," Tharaa replies, the emphasis making clear how much she values the title. "We will find her father, and that will put paid to this nonsense then and there. Until then, you see that she has her guard. That is as much as the laws require, is it not?" She barely waits for Muhtadi's reluctant nod of the head before plowing onward. "Then I will not soil the title of Archon by so much as imagining the robes on this... creature. Sharrah's humor is not so twisted as to allow that, I think. Myself, I am leaving. My guard will report back any moment. You three stay if you wish, but pray nobody higher than a street urchin sees you converse with her, or you will never live it down once the rightful Archon of War is restored to his seat."

With a final sneer, Tharaa turns on her heel and strides away in a flurry of billowing robes, back stiff as a post. The three male Archons share another long look, but make no move to follow Tharaa. At last, after much stroking of his short, oiled beard, Rayhan speaks in a voice as frail and wheezy as that of an elderly grandfather, despite appearing no older than his middle years.

"By law, Tharaa is correct... we need not do anything to ease the pains of your new position. So long as your father's guard appoints a watcher for you, no more need be done." He pauses for another long moment, still stroking his beard, apparently without noticing. "By custom, however, the heirs are included in nearly every meeting of the Archons. Your late sibling knew much that you do not, nearly all of it not to be spoken in the streets where any ear at all might catch the conversation. Some of that knowledge has risen vastly in importance after the events of today. You should know of these things, and what they mean for all of us. I for one will follow custom by instructing you in these things, even if Tharaa will not." The two others nod in agreement, if a little reluctantly.

"Now may not be the best time," Alhena announces, suddenly at Tara's side. "The girl has endured much today. If I may be so bold, I believe it wiser to delay placing more burdens on her shoulders for the time." She places a gentle hand on Tara's shoulder, lowering her voice for Tara's ears alone. "By your leave my lady, I would bring you to the apartments of the first heir. The secrets of the Archons will be there tomorrow, and quiet contemplation might bring some solace to a troubled mind. Forgive me if I overstep myself my lady, but you seem more troubled than most would be over the death of one they hardly knew. The choice is yours, however. I will take you wherever you wish to go, you need only speak the words."

[RaggedAngel]

Tara stands there for a moment, stricken and confused, both desperately wanting rest and famished for more information. She looks to Damien, who is standing unobtrusively off to the side, just close enough to listen to the conversation, but far enough away to offer the illusion of privacy. He turns and meets her eye, holding her gaze for a moment. He says nothing, but his meaning is more or less conveyed. We can rest when we've made things better. Now is not the time to give up momentum.

Tara smiles, and returns her attention to the Archons and the captain of the guard, her composure stead and her continence sure. "I thank you for the concern, captain, but I must learn all that I can for the very same reason that my brother's death troubles me so, despite the fact that I did indeed know him very little. It is not just his death that pains me, but the fact that he was able to be killed, here in the heart of our city, by an outside force."

She looks to the Archons with a sudden fire in her eyes, and conviction in her voice. "It would be wrong of me to rest now, to look away from what has happened, when there is clearly so much work to be done. We live in an amazing and beautiful place, but it is not perfect, and if those of us who have the burden and blessing of responsibility fail to act to the best of our ability then we do not deserve that responsibility in the first place.

No matter what Lady Tharaa thinks about me, I am an heir to this city by blood and by right. I am not uneducated, and my life has taught me more than enough about this city to make up the difference in quality; I have lived like most Archons never do, among the people that they rule. I love these walls and spires, Lords, and I will do anything to see that they always stand." She pauses for a moment, to let her words take hold.

"So I graciously accept your offer of knowledge, and I thank you for the respect that you have treated me with. I am not a ruffian or a fool, and I will not stand to be treated as such. I am a heir, Archons, and I intend to learn to lead this city as any heir should."

I'm not sure what she should call Tharaa, "Lady", "Archon", "Lord", etc, but I went for a safe bet. If it's wrong, I would assume that Tara would know what's right.