Of Feast and Famine

Anton SavorAnton Savor, Promo

The scene opens in Elysium, the kitchen alive with quiet purpose. The scent of fresh bread lingers in the air as Anton Savor stands before a worn wooden counter, kneading dough with calm precision. Beside him, a loaf rests, golden and whole.

“There is a simple truth in this world.

A man must eat to survive.

Bread is the foundation. The simplest, purest form of sustenance. It fills the stomach, strengthens the weak, carries the weary forward. It is not a luxury. It is a necessity. A gift that asks for nothing in return.”

Anton lifts the finished loaf, weighing it in his hands.

“And so, I give.

I bake. I provide. I ensure that the people of Arcadia do not starve—not for nourishment, not for meaning, not for something real. Because when a man is starving, he does not need distractions. He does not need flashing lights, painted faces, or hollow laughter.

He needs to eat.”

Anton sets the loaf down beside him.

“But then, there are men like you, Klaus Way.

You do not give. You do not nourish. You do not offer anything that fills the stomach or fortifies the soul.

You take.

You dress your thievery in spectacle. You hold out your hand, not to feed, but to collect. And the gullible line up to pay, their pockets lighter, their minds filled with momentary wonder—before the hunger returns.

Because nothing you offer lasts. It flickers for an instant, swallowed by the emptiness it never truly filled.

You would have Arcadia believe that you are an escape. That your circus is a gift, a reprieve from their suffering. But it is nothing more than a mirage, a hollow indulgence that sustains no one. You do not feed them, Klaus.

You starve them.”

Anton takes the bread knife beside him, pressing the blade lightly against the crust of the loaf.

“But you see, I do not deal in illusions. I do not trade in fleeting joy. I give because I understand the truth: that Arcadia does not need another man siphoning what little they have left.”

He slices, the bread parting effortlessly beneath his hand.

“You call yourself a showman, a master of spectacle. But what happens when the performance ends, Klaus? When the lights dim, the music fades, and the audience is left with nothing but the echo of their own laughter?

Do they remember you? Do they thank you?

Or do they simply move on, as empty as before?”

Another slice. Another division.

“You see, that is the difference between us. I do not ask for applause. I do not take from them under the guise of giving. I offer them something real.

And you? You bleed them dry with every ticket sold, every promise made, every illusion wrapped in the shimmer of the spotlight.

But sooner or later, Klaus, that curtain must fall.”

Anton brushes the crumbs from the blade, his gaze unwavering.

“And when it does, they will not remember the man who shamelessly took from them.

They will remember the man who gave.

Which is why, at Warzone… the act will end, and so will any trace of you.”