With a thump, the mug of ale comes smashing down onto the counter. The foamy liquid sloshes over the side as the old man balances precariously on the rickety three-legged bar stool. He clears his throat and begins with his classic phrase: “Load of garbage if you ask me”

“No one asked!” yells out the considerably younger bartender. Younger, at least, in comparison to the inebriated gentleman—the bartender, you see, has already lived the better half of a century.

While the chorus of laughter from his fellow patrons fades away, the man clears his throat and begins again. “It’s still a load of garbage, those Holy Imanjar. Ya’ll telling me that we pay those louts to give up free will… the darn nobles took my ancestors’ free will away and are still taking away mine! The only way anyone has any free will in this place is if they have the money. I can’t even afford this swill!”

Another slam of the mug, more sloshing of liquid, and another quip from the bartender follow like clockwork. 

“If you can’t afford the swill don’t drink it! Go home you lousy drunkard!”

Now, the old man would usually grumble to himself as he drags his skeletal form off the stool, fishing around his pockets for a bronze coin or two and promising to deliver enough turnips the next day to cover the rest of the bill. Today, however, a quiet voice interrupts this well choreographed dance:

“Then why do you not journey to the Temple and devote yourself to the deities? There is nothing to lose by henceforth devoting what little free will one such as you possess to the great cause of the Holy Imanjar. Then, once you have been enlightened, you can share your new perspective with your fellow common people.”

The voice came from a twig-like figure draped in a large black swath of moth-eaten fabric, looking not unlike the scarecrow in the old man’s turnip field. Their eyes, however, have a glistening, intelligent light like that of the ravens meant to be scared away.

The stranger throws a handful of gold ingots on the bar. Stretching across the counter to the shelves behind, they grab a bottle of some murky house-made liquor known only for being as vile tasting as it is strong.

“The prerequisite to buying what you want is the ability to actually wish for something. You do not have the means to fulfill your will. Those divine puppets have no will to enact. Perhaps we should consider whether we are paying the Holy Imanjar for their service or making an offering to the dead.”

The bartender huffs. “A bunch of philosophers we have today. At least the pay is good.”

In the tavern, life continues to thrive, loud with the voices spurred on by alcohol and good company. Meanwhile, in the center of the city, the Temple of Lonely Souls echoes only with the slow drips of water falling into the Baptismal pool.