As the new year approached, Minas Tirith grew colder and colder.
Fabian stood on the second floor of a temporary wooden bell tower, looking down upon his "masterpiece."
A serpentine line of people snaked from the soup kitchen in front of the church construction site, stretching to the end of his vision. It was like a great python, devouring the grace he bestowed.
The same workers who had been toiling and sweating on the construction site just yesterday were now craning their necks, their faces a mixture of humility and desire.
All for a loaf of bread.
A warm smile graced Fabian's lips.
He savored the memory of his clash with the young lord the day before.
A pioneer full of arrogance and naivety.
'He thinks he can conjure order and loyalty out of thin air with some "point system"?'
'How amusing.'
Velin wasn't the first lord to try and reform the traditions of rule, but they all compromised with the church in the end.
