To keep, or not to keep--that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
Heresy and outright offense to the Raven Queen
Or to take prayers and priests to Ship of Fog
And cleanse it, fair ship anew. To pray, to purge--
All cleanse--and by this purge to say we end
The heresy, and the great affront we see before
Our very selfsame eyes. 'Tis a divination
Devoutly to be sought. To pray, to purge--
To purge--sent to Shadowfell: ay, there's the rub,
For once gone, a soul may not return.
When we have truly purged this Ship of Fog,
Our crew is gone. There's the trouble
Created for us in time of dire need.
For who would crew this ghostly ship if not these,
mysterious men, crew of mysty origins
Followers of the Lasher, answerers to none else,
those who shun the towns, yet know this bark
Better than all else who may be swayed to our cause,
When we must go and fight a god
With a flying ship? Who would else come,
To face dread risk and danger and even death,
But these crew already perhaps dead in silence,
The ones who have waited long, and wait yet
To find their fate, and still wait on.
What shall we do with these whose origin
And self and soulish state we know not of?
Thus zealous hearts make philosophers of us all,
And thus the party's hue of resolution
Is shaken in its core by troubled thought,
And quests on which the fate of this planal home
With this argument do flounder and pause
And lose the name of action
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