To the Hand That Holds the Dagger,
I do not waste words, so hear me plain. Friar grows soft. The Explorers strut about with their relics and their victories, and the people cheer them as if they were saints. But saints they are not. Their triumphs rob us of something far more important than coin - they rob us of struggle.
A town without hunger forgets gratitude. A man who fears no thief forgets to pray. With the Wolves prowling and the Guild boasting, even the beggars speak boldly. Do you not see? This lack of misery is a danger. Without small pain, the people will never be ready for the great pain. And when the Soluna Reaper rises again - as it always will - they will fall screaming, unprepared.
So I tell you this, rogue: sharpen your Red Beards. Find stronger men. Train them if you must. Put fear back into Friar’s streets. Not ruin, not slaughter. Just enough shadows to remind the folk why they need the light. When they cry out for safety, it will be the Theocracy they turn to. The altar will be full again, and our power - our protection - will be made firm.
You may call it cruelty. I call it mercy. Better that a merchant loses a pouch to your men than his life to the Reaper’s hand. Better that a child learns caution from a cut purse than despair from a world reset.
Do this, and you serve more than your creed. You serve Solunus itself.
-T.