The Gold Exchange shuts its gates this day. The mints strike three percent Sovereigns anew and pour them into the union's hands, now.
The Gold Exchange shuts its gates this day. The mints strike three percent Sovereigns anew and pour them into the union's hands, now.
Heathens picked the union's bones clean. The vaults stand hollow, gnawed to splinters by men who smiled while they robbed us blind. Caeroyna does not haggle with thieves, it buries them.
The Gold Exchange is a corpse already, heathen rot still crawling through it. Close it before the sickness spreads further.
Let the mints answer instead, three percent more Sovereigns struck fresh and spent into hands that still work for the union, not against it.