You speak of fairer times. You speak of different places. You've not traveled long the streets of Bastone.

Ambition? Ambition is the currency of the rich. A comfort and luxury not afforded here. 

Hopes? To hope the wall holds. To hope they are never asked to step outside. To hope the outside never steps inside. Hope the guards stand strong. Hope for a meal. Hope to wake up tomorrow. Or maybe for some, to hope not to.

Dreams.

Now would come a thing to say.

Would I could say the same of dreams I have of hope. That there were none. But lately. Something is wrong in the dreams in Bastone. Everyone knows it, but few speak it. Grown men cry out in the night as children would. Others still sleep and sleep on through the day come dawn through supper. Some dreams stay with you when awake, and you still feel them. Still hear them. Still see. They claw at your waking moments.

I myself swear upon animus, Pot's Peace and oath. I've seen within my dreams something watching. Eyes like sunset. Breath like dust. 

You could blame witches, you could blame a turned potato, you could blame the rain. I blame the Deepwood. These walls may be holding out the razorvine and the trees, the Ravagers and mire. The walls may make the scar chieftains take a step back. But something is feeling it's way in. Through crack and crevice, every chip and hole. Something presses at the back of the mind, like so much dirt on a cellar door.

Don't ask of dreams.

You want to know the ambitions of a Bastonian? To become someone who never dreams again.