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You emerge from the solemn cool of the town’s chantry into a morning as hot and heavy as a baker’s oven. A one-armed beggar stands on a haycart in the square, preaching to the poor who had gathered to beg for alms.
"The Maker made us all alike!" he cries. "But the highborn build castles so they can stand above us! Pride is the worst of sins. It turned the Golden city Black." He points at you. "We have all suffered under Serault’s Shame - brought about by the ancestor of our own Marquis! But the Iconoclast has come! She will free us from our bonds, and we will make the world anew!"
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