Arodus 8, 4719
Breachill
Night
We offered Warbal the role of the citadel’s seneschal today, and it makes a great deal of sense.
We are already granting the Bumblebrashers the right to live in the part of the citadel they occupied before (my memory is hazy here, as I didn’t see these sorts of documents often, but I believe the legal term is a “perpetual servitude of occupation”…which sounds far less welcoming than “you can have your home back”). This means Warbal would not only run the day-to-day affairs of the fortress—once we have any, though “cleaning” will do for now—but also serve as the point of contact between the Bumblebrashers and the rest of us. She already fills that role as the tribe’s ambassador to Breachill, so making her our seneschal felt like a natural fit.
She enthusiastically accepted, and even refused the stipend for the first month as a gesture of gratitude for securing the tribe’s future. She also wasted no time in getting started, preparing a comprehensive cleaning schedule, with a level of organization that bordered on frightening.
More power to her. I am all too happy to have someone just tell me what needs to be done, and when.
The city also requested our help with inventorying Voz’s shop, which, in retrospect, was probably inevitable. We’re the ones who uncovered her schemes, and then unraveled them (at least in part). They wanted to know who she had been corresponding with, and how deeply those people were involved. Honestly, so did we. There was no way we were turning down the opportunity.
I had my own reason for wanting to help. Voz had a book on Breachill’s history, and she had written notes in the margins—most of them pejorative if not outright vitriolic—that contradicted the generally accepted narrative. She even went as far as calling its founder “that lying wizard”. Where had these suspicions come from? Someone had convinced her the official history was a lie. I wanted to know who.
On the city’s investigation, we didn’t come away empty-handed. Voz’s business records looked ordinary at first glance, but after spending years copying ledgers and official documents, you develop a feel for when something is off. Ordinary-looking ledger entries concealed instructions relating to certain shipments, all handled through a courier service called Tabir’s Exotic Wares. Each one lined up almost perfectly with the letters she had been exchanging with her contact in the Scarlet Triad.
On paper, the shipments were completely unremarkable, but the hidden notes told a different story. They instructed couriers to bypass the tax master. They referenced payments from a Scarlet Triad account. Most alarming of all? One decoded to the words: “client requests update on ring’s condition”.
She wasn’t merely corresponding with the Scarlet Triad. She was reporting to them.
The history book, on the other hand, was a complete disappointment. I looked through every note, hoping she’d cite a source, even scribble the name of someone she’d spoken to. Nothing. Just insults, accusations, and certainty. Not a single book or document in her shop supported her allegations. It was as though she’d arrived at all of these conclusions by divine revelation.
Why does this bother me so much? Because I have found myself asking the same questions. Ever since I heard the story of the magnanimous wizard in Isger, I had my doubts about it. And Voz’s questions echo my own: Why did he help them? And where did he go? Lamond Breachton seems to exist only in this one slice of history.
Questions are easy. Answers require evidence.
And right now, all I have are the former.
Arodus 13, 4719
Breachill
Night
We’ve spent the last several days cleaning. It is soul-crushing work.
It isn’t the work that’s getting to me, but the memories of home that it’s dredging up. I know that what we’re doing here is moving in the opposite direction, but I can’t help but draw parallels between the two. With every hour spent scrubbing, sweeping, and mopping, removing grime and stains with soap, sweat, and magic, it gets a little bit cleaner and a little bit nicer. Slowly, the citadel is shifting from despair toward promise. It’s like watching my childhood in reverse.
I’m tired, and everything hurts.
It’s not as though the work is unfamiliar to me. In Macridi, I was a server in The Forest’s Drake, and cleaning at the end of the night was part of the job. Pretty much every surface would end up soiled in some fashion, including the ceilings (don’t ask). In the months before that, I occasionally found work cleaning homes, flats, and businesses, all in various states of repair. But I have never done so much of it, so intensely, for so long.
I think this is what people mean when they say “reality has settled in”. A few days ago, I was hopeful, even excited, about the prospect of owning something. Some place. But that glamour has faded. This place is work piled on top of work, and while it will get better, it will never stop.
We can’t do all of it ourselves. None of us has the experience, materials, or magic for stonework, so we are contracting it out. There are two stonemasons in Breachill, and we have one of them rebuilding the exterior wall of the training room this week. With more holes to patch and stairs to rebuild, I suspect we’ll be keeping both of them busy for the foreseeable future.
And then there is the deed. Every morning, before heading to the citadel for my cleaning duties, I spend time trying to understand our options. I’ve reviewed a fair number of deeds that are registered with the city—accessing these records just takes time and patience—and met with an advocate. I laid out what I think are our options.
“Right now, we, as individuals, own this property,” I explained. “This opens up the possibility that, should something happen to one of us, family could make legal claims on the estate. I don’t know where my mother is, if she is looking for me, or even if she’s still alive, but I prefer to assume the worst. I don’t want her showing up and taking anything more from me. Even if I’m gone.”
I proposed we form a charter company. We’d determine our purpose, create a charter, and establish voting procedures for everything from membership to property sale, including the sale or transfer of our individual seats in the company itself.
“The citadel would then be owned by the institution rather than us as individuals, stopping any claims of inheritance or kinship. It would also prevent theft and illegal transfer of the deed, since a vote of existing members would be required to do so.” We could even establish procedures for vacant seats in the event of incapacitation or death of a member. That might be wise if we continue on our present course. “And, we’d need to give ourselves a name.”
Failing that, we could establish a Trust. Given how my life was shaped by one, I don’t particularly like the idea. But worded properly, it would provide similar protection.
No one objected. Everyone seemed to settle into the idea that this wasn’t just a temporary arrangement anymore. We weren’t merely sharing ownership of a building. We were building an institution.
After a long silence, Trip said, “It was Fate that used the Harrow to bring us together. Such a name can be crafted from this common thing.”
And so the Seven Card Consortium was born.