An Artisan House, Samsars had thrived in Ar's theater district, within view of the
Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux, for a generation. Situated near the
intersection of Aulus and Wagon Streets, Samsara had been home or hostel to
many a craftsman of fine goods. Envisioned as a commune of sorts by the
father of Varhan and Szol, a poet and political advocate, the House once enjoyed
the magnanimity of Ubars, Administrators and private citizens.
A Home Stone graces its altar.
As sponsorship and patronage trickled, it yet remained, a beating heart, a soul
to those forgetting beautiful things, crafted things, in the wake of the
machinations of fat, gross Lurius of Jad and his puppet, Talena. Free of her
richly deserved internment in the Central Cylinder, she taught men to hate
themselves as she had learned to hate herself. Speechifying, haranguing, she
bewitched them into forgetting what they once were and, even, what their city
truly stood for. Those knowing the truth, those closest to the propaganda but
least likely to believe it, men of Low Caste, were driven away; the Artisans,
makers of fine things among them. When they left, painters and singers,
story-tellers and and craftsmen of all kinds, taking commisions from far flung
cities such as Laura in the north on the banks of the Laurius or south to the
desert city of Tor, the House stood. There was and is a Home Stone. The ideals,
the intent, yet remains though dormant. It awaits the day men of Ar recall their
love of a finely stitched seam, a well wrought piece of iron, a delightfully turned
phrase or even something so simple as a sublimely glazed pot.
Great Theater of Pentilicus Tallux, for a generation. Situated near the
intersection of Aulus and Wagon Streets, Samsara had been home or hostel to
many a craftsman of fine goods. Envisioned as a commune of sorts by the
father of Varhan and Szol, a poet and political advocate, the House once enjoyed
the magnanimity of Ubars, Administrators and private citizens.
A Home Stone graces its altar.
As sponsorship and patronage trickled, it yet remained, a beating heart, a soul
to those forgetting beautiful things, crafted things, in the wake of the
machinations of fat, gross Lurius of Jad and his puppet, Talena. Free of her
richly deserved internment in the Central Cylinder, she taught men to hate
themselves as she had learned to hate herself. Speechifying, haranguing, she
bewitched them into forgetting what they once were and, even, what their city
truly stood for. Those knowing the truth, those closest to the propaganda but
least likely to believe it, men of Low Caste, were driven away; the Artisans,
makers of fine things among them. When they left, painters and singers,
story-tellers and and craftsmen of all kinds, taking commisions from far flung
cities such as Laura in the north on the banks of the Laurius or south to the
desert city of Tor, the House stood. There was and is a Home Stone. The ideals,
the intent, yet remains though dormant. It awaits the day men of Ar recall their
love of a finely stitched seam, a well wrought piece of iron, a delightfully turned
phrase or even something so simple as a sublimely glazed pot.
