A very tall man riding a battle-trained gray destrier arrives from the south with an envoy of Children. His white cloak with a crimson crook and baring the silver clasp engraved with a flaring sunburst denote his place in the Hand of Light and the deferring presence of the populace suggest a prominent position for him in those ranks.
His gaze moves about his audience--from the elegantly dressed citizens of the city, to the Amadacian cityguards, to his comrades who work for the glory of the Light. There is a general sense of confusion to the activity. But, the calm of the Children settles the citizenry and all look up at the figure on the mount in hopes of a better tomorrow.
"As the Wheel of time turns we must take account to what stands ahead and what choices we make to perform our services to the Light."
The Hand looks from Child to Child, obviously glazing over the citizens who bask in the glow of reflected light.
"It seems that the Final Battle is gradually growing closer and the Shadow has edged forward, continuing its attempt to strengthen its hold on the borderlands. Those of us who frequent those areas know the dire need for collaboration to push the Shadow back."
The Hand pats his mount, a war-worn horse, tosses its hair in understanding.
"For this reason, the Hand will not bring Children in for questioning who choose to group with female channelers in the battle against the Shadow."
The crowd gasps in terror and a few Children look between themselves in a mixture of disappointment and surprise. Among the Disciples of the Light a few murmurs of dissent are heard loud enough to suggest a rise in action against such a bold statement.
"Calm yourselves, Brothers and Sisters, listen and heed the words of Lothair Mantelar. The Way of the Light tells us it is the One Source's temptation to corrupt that leads to the Shadows success. It is the manifestation of that corruption that we see in male channelers as they devolve into madness. It is that madness by temptation that led the Dark One to access something of the Creator. We should not be so quick to judge that which aims to punish the Shadow until we have some reason to judge the holder who may have strayed from the path of the Light."
The gray destrier grunts in annoyance at his bridle, but the bobbing of his head suggests a general agreement. The death of the murmurs ring out the sound of silence before the booming voice continues to echo across the square.
"Listen clearly, the struggle against the Shadow outweighs all other concerns. It is your choice in the borderlands whether or not you wish to group with female channelers or criminals against the Shadow. Should you make the choice, though, do it anonymously. Avoid unnecessary explanations to those who would question your dedication to the Light. Follow the laws of the borderlands and keep your head revealed, leave your cloaks, clasps, and bolts at the inn."
The Disciples and the Children at the square look to one another for something to hold onto, but among the dissenters, there are more than a few faces smiling. The Hand dismounts and the destrier finds his way to the fountain and drinks neatly out of a trough.
Two citizens, lost in the dimming dint of the sermon and the growing hum of accord, look at each other with a fair amount of confusion. A traveler passing by the city stops between them.
"My! That was quite a show. And to think I was here at this time for this specific thing to take place! Truly astonishing!"
One of the citizens rolls his eyes at the traveler. The other steps forward next to him.
"Yes, but, quite disappoint for a sermon on a mount. I expected bigger things."
The Hand moves through the crowd before coming to his destrier and pulling the bridle south to the bright shining gates of the Fortress of the Light. He continues through the corridors to the Dome of Truth and kneels in prayer, awaiting a response, and the wisdom of the Creator.