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n the course of my travels, I have often been called upon to defend the city of Tarant, not only in war but in mere conversation: everyone in Arcanum seems to hold some opinion on my place of birth, which he or she feels compelled to share once some fool lets slip that I am a Tarantian. Extracting myself from such a conversation can prove to be nearly impossible, especially if my persecutor has never actually visited the city: for then they simply must know if the city is really run by gnomes, and if orcs are really allowed to breed unchecked in the poorer neighborhoods, and if the river is as dirty as they say, and if the typhoid and cholera are still very bad in White Temple, and if there is really a fledgling gryphon in the zoological gardens, which anyone can see for a tupence-! I confess that I am more at ease when my enemies are more surly than curious. When a man puts himself squarely in my path and demands that I answer for all the death, disease, and distress of my native city, it takes me very little time to find similar fault with the place he calls home! And I then take pains to remind him that for all the horror of Tarant's factories and slums, there is a balance in the glory of the great theaters and museums, the parks and gardens, the fine houses and universities. Along with what is new and modern, there are also ancient traditions: the city's police still make their headquarters in the Court of the Executioners, and the prophetic ravens still live all year round on the grounds of Tarant Keep.
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As to the rest- the plague, pollution and politics which have become so famous the world over - these things are the price my people have paid to develop Technology and Science so quickly, and to such a high degree. One can only hope that the woes of the city are a passing thing, like the pangs of childbirth or the bloodshed of a Revolution, and that one day we Tarantians will rise above them! That great thick lake of fumes and suspended ash, which now hangs above us like a dreadful curse, simply cannot hang there forever; some solution will be found. The same is true of the poisoned Hadrian river, which now empties its black mouth into the bay like a plague victim, and of the burning coalfires and gaslit streets which have earned our city the name S'ai Tana Revenas, among the elves: in common tongue, "the Pyre of Millions"...