My dear father, whose heart long ago died, was a storyteller.
It was not a life of riches, for while the common folk may slaver their
last meager gold to a Priest in ermine wrapping who pontifications the
enslavement of their soul, they will give only castoff copper pennies to
the man who, with but a tale, uplifts the mind and the heart.

But I digress...

My father told me something of the art of the storyteller, for he felt it
to be a noble vocation, if not one in which might garner respect from others.
While I was young and naive, and had not yet seen the necessity of power,
I believed him.

Sometimes I feel that all of us are like characters in one of his tales,
an epic of great making, of great men and women, none perfect, for in their
flaws is the captivation of the telling.

Achaea sometimes does that to me.

"In an epic tale", my father told me, "there must be conflict!"
"There must be Good that holds true to the very principles of all that is right.
Strong souls indeed, who draw strength from their conviction, who remain armed with
righteousness and armoured with their faith. And they may have failings true,
those of hubris that rises above the humility they preach. But they are one side
of the great conflict that makes an epic."

"But," my father continued, "you also must have Evil. Dark evil to oppose the Light.
For if all of the characters of your tale were honourable and true, there would be
nothing to grip the heart of the audience. But Evil, like Good, oft has flaws...
sometimes shard of honor like white shining splinters in the darkness of their aspect.
Your evildoers sometimes are merely misguided, convinced of the rightness of their actions.
And though all despise them, they continue on. You also have assassins, demagogues, and
rogues beyond count to fill out the ranks of Evil."

"Vendettas and battles delight the heart of the man who wishes to forget his troubles
in the real world that encompasses him. Tales of enemies sworn to fight, houses set against
one another. Embittered lovers who once would kiss each others throats now seek only to
rip open the throat they nuzzled. Ah, it is these conflicts that make the story flow."

"And your actors, they live a double life", he mused, his voice lower than it was before,
"On the stage they may hate and kill with terrible burning anger at their enemy.
But when they retire from the stage, all is forgotten and they step arm in arm to the
public house to exult in their betrayals of one another. For a true actor knows that the
conflict that he lives on stage is one that is needed for the story. Without the fighting
and the arguing, where would our story take us? It would be a poor thing, and your audience
would drift away without even pausing to draw the basest of coin from their purse."

"So when you tell a tale, Son. Tell it strongly and with contrast. The Light is known
by comparison to the Dark. The Good only can be good if it holds to its ideals in the face
of the treachery of Evil."

When I think of my departed father, I praise Eris, for in her I know I can find the conflict
that fires my own soul. And as I look out in Achaea, I see conflict, and it delights me, for
without it, the lands would be barren of entertainment.

and thus, with a Hail Eris!, I end my own tale, and return to my own part in the play that
is our life. For I once heard my father mutter, as he dreamed of far away lands:
All the world's indeed a stage, and we are merely players.

Let is so always be in Achaea,
Brother Thaulan, Kharon Monk

Penned by my hand on the 12th of Ero, in the year 226 AF.