Sorrow Streaks My Soul, Like Tears Tear Through My Cheeks, and Whips lash at my back

The cities aren't liveable anymore.

Everyone is leaving for the farms to beg for work, or are searching for their own land to till.

By KESH! Is this your will?

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For us to recoil into, to reconcile with, and rejuvenate our connexion to this beautiful land?

Many villages have taken form in just these early months, but still most fail and die.

A new society seems to be becoming.

With this the lords are shrinking until only the great remains.

Glory to my father, and glory to the star!

All save for Madoc.

From 'Mad Ramblings from the Start of the World', chapter i in “The Endless Pilgrimage” by Saint Tomevel Rayleigh the Suitable