Chapter Text
The poets love to tell stories of Roshar. Why wouldn’t they—it’s a land of abundance. An abundance of prejudice, of wrath, of grudges, wars, rocks. A perfect setting for starving artists seeking their nightly meal ticket. But I ask you to ponder this: is Roshar really so much more tragic than any other world in the Cosmere?
Taldain has genocide and sand both. People on Scadriel starve and suffer and rage against oppressive regimes, just as Rosharans do. By the colors, we are no better; our puppet gods accept the breath of our poorest, call it an “offering” and delude themselves into thinking because it is given without fight, that it is given willingly. We have no highstorms, no spren. Our suffering is the common sort, so it is less romantic to sing about, correct?
I disagree.
We focus so often on the warriors, the rulers, the inventors, that we forget they are, first and foremost, people. For every great person living on in mythology, there is another without so much as a postscript. Are the only worthwhile figures the ones we deify? Have we convinced ourselves that the life of a fisherman is lesser than that of a general because he feeds armies instead of commanding them? Is a mother’s life uninteresting unless she births the next God King?
I’m exhausted by the notion that the only stories worth telling are the lofty ones. List the tsunamis which have managed to strike T’telir. Now count them out—see if it takes more than a single hand. Tsunamis instill terror through generations, but it is the innumerable smaller waves which erode away at us. They have no names we remember, yet leave their mark all the same. Is that not a form of greatness?
But of course, you all came to hear about Roshar. So I will tell you about it. Not about the Radiants, or Urithuru. I will tell you about the things you don’t already know. How, during the Weeping, rain fierce enough can split older stones, and the smell when that happens is warm in a way I have never found a better word to explain. Or how crem crunches–strange, I agree, that it’s not soft like shore mud, even if it is quite slippery–it crunches beneath your feet like eggshells.
I understand this is not an ecology lecture, don't worry. There will be people too. Their names, you’ve never heard. They’re ordinary, a few of the millions that were not picked to be mouthpieces to the gods. Still, I ask that you listen to their stories. They matter, after all, if only because they exist.