"What am I thankful for? I ask myself this question far more often than a reasonable man of society should." The young man straightened his suit, breathing in the cold Alterac air. The chill stung, pain wracking his lungs. He coughed, lighting a cigar.
"Be thankful that you're not buried yet, kid." A voice said behind him. It was high pitched, sounding like the shrill of some northern banshee. No doubt the barmaid from the inn he'd been renting.
"You've smoked more packs of cigars and drunk more whiskey in a week than my father ever did in a year." Her words weren't cutting, he did not pride himself on his reliance on substances, though he did not ignore it either. He was a politician, a cleric, a man, and a user of many things. Though, above this all, he was an idealist.
"What am I thankful for?" He started again.
"I am thankful for freedom. For this ability to stand in the cold and feel the pains that any other man may, and does." He paused, taking a long drag of the still lit cigar.
"I am thankful for my forefathers. I am thankful for those who have already understood what works and does not in a modern society. Men and women who see the failings of monarchy and other such vile means of rule." The man took a look at the town that was before him. Gorgeous, defended, and, in some regards, in other disrepair. He grabbed the pistol on his side, touching the cold metal,
"I am thankful for the future I will bring by bringing villains to the flame, and spreading justice, for the Light wills it..." The young man holstered his weapon, before reaching for a paper. It was a letter, made out to some higher official, with concerns over taxation,
"And I am thankful for the future I will bring by weaving opportunity for my countrymen with paper and ink." The barmaid looked back to the well-dressed young man,
"The bards speak fancier." The young man turned,
"You're not wrong, however, I speak more truth."
"Truth doesn't pay."
"Well, I intend to make it." The man finally gained the courage to take a few steps outside the tavern, delivering the letter still wrinkled in his hand, and starting the career of a madman.