“Thank you, sir. Happy Veturtide to you!” And like that, the child was off, trudging through the muddy slush, grinning from ear to ear for the little sweet he had gotten.

It was a cold day for Rothon, which was a warmer place than most of Glimmer. Snow fell lightly on the day, but it was dark and gloomy. Veturtide of 822 had been a dreary one. The ground had been uncooperative of late – the snow melting into the once-dry dirt. It was nigh impossible to dig any coal or iron from the ground once the moisture had leaked in. But that didn’t stop Errik van Werne from digging.

No, what stopped Errik van Werne from digging was his enormity. Instead, he would send his workers down to stumble and struggle and freeze in the ruddy mine. He sat in his home, eating cakes, perhaps even ten a day, counting guilders. Perhaps he would indulge himself with his wives and husbands. Perhaps he would eat the raw heart of a goat, and wear its flesh for warmth. Perhaps he would stoke the fire with the corpses of the babes he tore from their mothers. Perhaps he would piss upon the head of a priest while bathing in the tears of the maidens as he prepared to rape them! Carnatak permitted these things. It even exulted them. Nothing could even describe the ecstasy it took in sinning, and not only that, but in also knowing no one else would dare to deny it: Achintya looked the other way, and sit silent in a dank corner. Novo Elephante protested, and yet ultimately did nothing and say nothing. Julio Elephano never came to begin with.

And Glim, poor Mother Glim, toiled in the mines with her dear children.

An outrage, perhaps. An injustice, certainly. Sin of this scale brought misfortune and despair down upon all. But van Werne was rich, and the people were poor. Worse yet, not all the people believed. They didn’t know what to believe. Achintya had forsaken them. Carnatak had plagued them. And mother Glim was weak, and her voice soft. She was not loud enough to halt work on this dismal holy day.

But her children still listened to their timid mother.

They worked through the night, and toiled away, and dug deeper and deeper through the mines. They whispered among themselves, they whispered and spoke of the Glaun and their creation, and praised the name of their creator. Even on this most ill of days, even in the worst work, even when the mines threatened to come down upon their heads for the sins done by the villain van Werne, they loved her. Some even began to sing.

They sang of justice, and cheered for salvation. They hoped and prayed for the better times ahead, because they vowed that they would bring them, even from the depths of the wet iron mine. Even the children, even the sick, even the old. On this Veturtide, all had brought hope from their hearts to share with eachother: a hope for better times ahead.

The mines didn’t seem so bad any more. They weren’t as filthy or wet. They weren’t as toxic or forlorn. And they certainly didn’t seem as dark. There was but a glimmer of light.