Camelon, The Dramatist
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But with them went all the dreams and the permanence of stories. And now, forty years later, it seems memory is next.
Though an old storyteller with little to your name, you must undertake a long journey to the Grove of the Muses, hoping to rekindle the flames that once burned inside you, before you can't remember them at all.
This morning, you were merely an 8th-tier potter. Your house was small but sturdy, and your work at the wheel and kiln was moderately interesting. There was no need to regret the past - you were thankful that you were not a 9th-tier factory worker or a 10th-tier sewer monitor. And as your thirtieth birthday approached, you'd finally made enough social credit to be put on the match-list for a spouse.
But then, when you were shirtless, sunburned, and sweaty from firing the latest batch of pots, they'd come for you. 2nd-tier officials from the upper city, who would never lower themselves by stepping into circle 8. They'd broken the endless routine, and ordered you to come with them to the city - and to take a bath to wash the filth off.
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