Ashan 13th, 718
Ne'hear had changed much since the last time he had been in the holy city. Nine arcs was a long time to be gone from any place, and Zafir could hardly call the docks recognizable. Ne'haer had always been cosmopolitan clashing of cultures and religions that either meshed together or battled it out for supremacy. In that way, Zafir supposed, the city was much the region. So many different factions, people, and places that demanded their agenda be recognized. Conflict, chaos, and killing was just as much as part of Ne'haer's culture as was freedom, faith, and education. Zafir saw that first hand during his time Yurrova.
Stepping off the river boat and onto the docks proper, the Ellune nodded at the captain as he passed. A man of little means, Zafir had spent the twelve trial journey from Yurrova to the city of Ne'haer working for his passage. He would have to do the same for his return trip in the morning. His muscles aching and his mood foul, he headed towards a dockside inn in hopes of alleviating both an ailing back and an unquiet mind. Any alcohol at all would be a welcome distraction, and besides, the work that he had came to do could not be accomplished in this early morning.
He spent breaks just sitting and sipping his ale, watching people as he wrote. He had to pay the innkeep a few nel to borrow an inkwell, a quill, and for a few scraps of stray parchment, but he welcomed the chance to get his thoughts down on paper. He set a blank piece of paper aside for the majority of his writing, as he needed a final copy for his job, but he squeezed as much he could on both side of the thick paper. His mind had been racing since the start of this season, unable to keep quiet since Ne'haer had set down its sanctions. Zafir was lucky, he worked in the gem mines that produced much of Yurrova's wealth and as such was slightly protected from the hardship of the embargo, but even as early as it was Zafir could see the signs of strain in his community. Food would become scarce, wealth scarier still, and no one was really sure how people were meant to survive Ne'haer's politics.
Sighing, Zafir put his quill down and placed his heavy head in-between his ink-stained hands. No one knew in Yurrova knew what to do, and it seemed like nobody in Ne'haer even cared. The Ellune had sat in the tavern the whole day, and not once had he heard a word about his region's struggles. He just felt so angry, so twisted up inside. He wanted to, no, needed to do something.
Night fast approached. Ink dried on the separate paper as he carefully lifted it from the table, leaving behind his other two writs. He needed a statement, not a treatise. He walked out of the tavern, through the night streets of Ne'haer, and into the city square. Emptied out by the very late hour and the cold air, not a stray soul besides the Ellune graced the center of the city. Still, Zafir knew better to count on this luck for too long. He needed to work fast.
He approached the statue of Reasọä Euthik and circled until he found an blank side on its base. He placed his note on the ground beneath the great work, reading it once more.
Yurrova starves while you play at politics.
Taking the pointed end of his pick to the unmarred stone, Zafir began to carve.
