### What you are Life before Polis tended to be interesting, exhilarating, and above all, deadly. Every trip was an expedition, every meal a gamble, every night a showdown with the dark. When those walls went up and the city was born it didn't just mean safety for the citizens, it meant that for the first time in history it was possible to invent boredom. The acquisition of food or shelter, once at the front of everyone's mind, became routine. *Expected*. It was in that expectation that a new kind of life became possible, one calm and quiet, rooted in the security that every day would be, more or less, like every other day. You are a clerk of Polis, and your life has been, by and large, amiable. You have not known any great success, but neither have you suffered any great misfortunes. You are blessed with many friends, though you may suspect that none of them know your inner heart - even so, what is an inner heart for, if not keeping silent and hidden away? You have never distinguished yourself at work, but then, work does not need to bring glory for it to be vital. And your colleagues would all agree to a man (should they recall you) that you are diligent, eager, and above all, friendly. In short, you spent your time in this world doing what was expected of you. You say your prayers at the temple, you offer alms to the poor, you go into your office each day and exchange the sweat of your brow for the right to future work. And then, with each obligation met, each box checked and ledger balanced, you turn towards home: your son, Adam. The small miracle that made every ordinary day feel complete. He was the quiet joy you returned to, the laughter that filled the narrow rooms of your home, the one part of your life that felt wholly your own. In a world finally safe enough for tenderness, he became the center of yours. ### What you want What else could you possibly want, but your son back? You have no need or desire that is any larger or simpler than that. No, that's a lie. There is something else. You want it to be you. Your voice, your call, your invocation. You don't want this problem solved by some doctor, or for your child to get up at the appeal of a mayor, or the command of a spirit. You want him to hear your love echoing across whatever distance it is that separates you, for him to turn around and return home. ### What you fear That this was your fault. That you missed something, or said something, or gods forbid, _did_ something that opened the door for this horror to enter the city. That some tiny, accidental cruelty or moment of inattention has flowered into catastrophe. You fear that this is not just tragedy but punishment; that the gods have judged you and found you wanting, and that the death of your son is the sentence. You fear the others know. That they can see your guilt in the way you stand, or speak, or breathe. That they will name you the one who brought the first wrong death into Polis, the one whose weakness broke the protections of the city. You fear they will remember you not as a grieving parent, but as the author of the worst crime in history. And beneath all of these terrors, there is the one that will not let you sleep: that no matter what anyone in this room does, no matter how loudly you call, you will never see him again. ### Character Notes Relations - [[Priest]] - You want desperately to trust them — they speak with such confidence, such serenity — but part of you hates how calm they are. If the gods truly listen to them, why did this happen? Why did the heavens not warn anyone, not shield your son? Their riddles and reassurances feel like evasions, and every unanswered question fans the embers of your anger. - [[Physician]] - You have always respected their skill. Their certainty is comforting, or it should be. But their calm explanations sound like excuses, and every time they hesitate you feel a fresh spike of terror. If _they_ can’t fix this, then perhaps no one can. Still, a part of you clings to them, hoping they will suddenly realize what they overlooked. - [[Politician]] - You barely understand the scope of their power, only that the city listens when they speak. You want them to fix this the way they fix everything else: with a command, a decree, a gesture that forces the world to comply. Their confidence can soothe you or infuriate you, depending on the moment. You're not interested in being managed by them. Questions for the player to consider - What do you need the most from the people in this room: comfort, explanations, solutions, someone to blame? Do you welcome their aid, or do you resent their intrusion into the worst day of your life? - When someone gives you a reason for hope, do you cling to that hope or do you throw it back in their faces with fury? - Is the expectation that a parent must be perfect something your child needed, or was it wasted violence upon your soul?