The public boards once again seethe with tedious debate about what is or isn't Good-- and once more, the forces of Good, woe of woes, cannot seem to convincingly articulate their position. There's a certain irony in this sad state of affairs, mostly because this is the best evidence I've seen thus far for the enduring and static state of Creation that Targossas (and the dozen or so previous iterations of that sort of religious tradition) have all advocated.

The Lord's Truths tell us that the process of Suffering, whether you wield the whip or merely weather its wounds, brings us Strength. It is for this reason that I am not unhappy in having endured the uninterrupted abundance of tedium that the public news affords. It is also for this reason that I am choosing to respond now to what might have been the one heathen thought worthy of my prolonged consideration: that of the ties that bind us, and of our attitudes toward them, and freedom as a goal worth pursuing.

You see, Targossas is a prime example of what happens when you sever your ties and go about endlessly rewriting so many books so few found so interesting in the first place. For the Dawnspear, history is 'now,' and 'now' is an endless repetition: there is no future for Targossas, for their future is their past. They eschew the teachings of those who are not Targossian, and in so doing, they lose the benefit of the greater balance of history. They strive and strive toward not only a uniqueness of Good, but also toward an interpretation of that uniqueness that-- in their endless 'now'-- will supercede all other interpretations of Good, both past and future. But they fail to realise that there will never be a uniquely Targossian leader among them: they will spend their time repeating the mistakes of the Shallamese and the Mhaldorians and every other city whence it draws its wayward population.

In Mhaldor, we speak highly of the shackles of the enslavement that every citizen has chosen to don. A symbol of stagnation? Hardly-- these shackles bind us to the weighty matters of the world, provide us both the comfort of perspective and a constant adversary against which to struggle. The chill of cold iron draws us back into reality and the firm ground of conviction, not allowing our heads to be filled with clouds and shadows and fanciful tricks of the day's dying light. In a world filled with so many words, Baelgrim is our bulwark against the aimless, shrill squalling of our enemies.

Caoimhaen, you may trade in your shackles for the freedom to flit about as you see fit, unhindered and carefree. Your movements, however, will amount to naught but a listless drifting, and you will be driven by the biting gales ever closer to the indifferent horizon of obscurity and Oblivion, vast and grey. Do not allow anyone to 'save' you from your past, nor take from you the experiences that are your own, nor deter you from the decisions you make; indeed, even regret is a powerful tool, gifted to you by the Lord Himself, not to be squandered.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Sarapin, in the year 673 AF.