Grand Master Vane walked to the center of the Parliament floor, his purple silk mantle trailing over the black dark rock flags, his blued-steel armor clanking with the rhythmic power of a conquering warlord. He stood with his legs braced, his left hand on his sword-belt. His gaze swept the gallery of commoners with an expression of high-born pity.
“Members of Parliament,” Vane began, his voice deep, ringing, and practiced in the art of noble rhetoric. “You’re being asked today to dismantle the very foundation of great realm. For three hundred years, the Grand Adventurers’ Guild has been the shield that stands between this kingdom and the howling dark. The Frost-Wyrms dropped from the northern glaciers in Year 620. Then, was it a committee of draymen who drove them back? When the Silt Demons breached the Southern Barrier in Year 680, was it a brigade of washerwomen who held the line?”
He turned, pointing his steel-clad finger at Tomas Reed.
“It was the knights of the Winged Sword! It was men who took the vows of chivalry, swore their lives to the Crown. Then they bled in the mud so that these artisans could sleep safely in their beds! An adventurer quest isn’t a commercial delivery of butter or turnips! It’s an expedition into the unknown, fraught with mortal terror and divine uncertainty! If a quest fails, it’s because heaven willed the sacrifice, not because the hero was negligent!”
