A Bachelor's Daybook

[Random_White_Guy]

A well kept journal is attended to meticulously. It handles an array of dates, times, sums, and more. It would almost appear to be a common ledger were it not for the occasional personal entry and mused thoughts. It also appears to have a number of appendices for monetary conversions in various desert currencies both present and very, very far past.

Mother had often said that the most important thing a young man can do is keep his affairs in order.

While Father certainly believed in such as well, it was swiftly apparent how the nature of those affairs shifted. Particularly when it came to his children. There is a dour sort of melancholy that grips the chest when my thoughts drift away from Mother's intermittent kindness. She was by no means a perfect woman as I recall often her own moodswings. But in the face of attempting to squeeze a smile from a Stonefolk, which my stoic Father so often seemed to emulate, what may she do? For at day's end I can count on one hand the times he expressed even the barest interest in me. I cannot imagine the ordeal she found herself through, having her marriage arranged per oldest tradition.

Tradition though is a word that sits somewhat bittersweet in my mouth. To deviate from such anathema and in fullest fashion did Father bring forth a proverbial gauntlet to, as he does all things, take stock. His Caravansary was not so lauded by happenstance and when it came down to such he assessed his children with the same critical eye as precious cargo. Not for what it contained but for what manner of vessel it would be. We were all subjected upon reaching the age of Six, to his proverbial gauntlet. A rigorous series of tests and assessments ranging from simplest to most complex challenges. What traditional roles would each child, after born and of age, be pushed and molded towards to further expand the family and his already budding Empire.

We each responded in kind.

[Random_White_Guy]

Of my Oldest Brother, the Beloved, I had not the fascination with communion of the divine.

That the first born son would take to the Wheel, and above all rise as Musafir. The beaming smile on Father's face at his appointment at the temple. What greater boon, what more splendid blessing, what greater gift may the Wheel bestow upon a man? That not only does his Caravansary thrive as one of the most prolific in all the Sultanate - but that his heir, his first born, his prized son sits upon the chosen of Warad. The gifts that were borne forth unparalleled from business partners across the sands to honor my father.

Of my Oldest Sister, the Astonished, I could not a Magi shifting the stars to her whim, excelling in her alchemics and invocations spinning both fate and physical disc to command as she could. The way her eyes and thoughts danced across the stars you would think she born with a telescope affixed to the edge of her hands. And the way Mother doted on her first borne daughter, the young gift from B'aara that she had so long hoped for finally to fruition. That from her will drew forth Mother's means of creating more and greater life, as he offspring would serve as vessel to future offspring.

Of my immediate older Brother, the Whimsical. For the wanderings of Warad are hazardous and it is ever vital to have another awaiting should the worst befall the favored. He embraced his role with a panache that would make Gellema blush a ruddy hue of their cheeks. His talents, Mother would often warn me, were the only thing that saved him from Father's wrath. On more than one occasion he was welcomed by Father to entertain distant family, dignitaries, and potential business partners (As well as their slightly obese daughters) with the way his fingers danced across the Qanun. His smile could light up a room and his songs moved Mother and Father in ways I could never possibly contend with. It permitted him no shortage of egregious faux-pas and embarrassing situations. Yet just like Mother, he could find a way to soothe Father in ways few other ever could. And all forgiven.

My immediate older Sister, the Proven. She refused to allow herself to be shown up by our siblings devoting herself to not merely a cause but to the greatest of challenges. When her service in the Janissary concluded, after securing Father a number of choice contracts to see the company transfer both forces and resources, she sought new challenge. She traveled the desert mastering herself in ways Tawla and Military service never could. She shifted from intelligence reports to expeditionary maps and increased her training from that of an Officer to that of the Monastic. To walk the desert discovering secrets, searching for some unanswerable question... or merely delivering antiquities for Father to see sent to his business associates.

[Random_White_Guy]

And what of I?

Mother often tried to console me. That failing a majority of Father's tests was simply because I was the youngest to ever take the test. That of all her children I was the most like Father. Eager to prove myself even when I was not prepared, resulting in my failing. That through all of this though my oldest brother would inherit the family business and prosper with Warad's favor, I would have before me the most robust opportunities. Moreso than any of my Siblings whose paths were so set in stone for them by Father. I was always skeptical of these sentiments. For while she smiled wider than Father it was never exactly a kindness sitting behind her eyes.

In my youth I had rifled through the belongings left behind by many of my siblings. Their rooms were ever kept though their arrivals were primarily preserved for Holiday. Bits and pieces left here and there, a fractured mosaic of each of them. Pieces I would in turn begin to take into myself. Not of their gifts of course, for my gifts were few, but of their records and journals and more? Oh yes. I ravenously devoured those. It was one of the few ways I could escape the monotonous doldrums of the Compound.

I would not be Beloved, I would not be Astonished, I would not be Whimsical, I would not be Proven. From the scraps of my siblings I would be free to forge my own path, at least in Father's eyes. Eyes that rarely left his books, his letters, his ledgers. She had said stumbling about the Compound with my nose in a book was simply adorable. For after all, Mother said I was most like Father of all of her children.

A head for sorting figures, an intellect for arithmetic, a head for books, and a shrewd eye for assessment. And perhaps that is why Father so rarely looked at the Mirror I represented. Once Mother recognized this in me she began with vigor to elicit further responses. Going so far as to bring a parade of Tutors through the Compound daily. From this, her handmaids and the tutors alike attended to my education. Putting me rigorously through the paces.

I would be a Scholar.

[Random_White_Guy]

If escaping into the thoughts and pasts of my siblings was an escape from the compound...
Scholarship felt like an entire departure from the Disc itself. I often found myself wondering was this what my sister felt as she wandered her gaze upon the Cosmos above the Celestial Disc?

A day's itinerary would begin with tutoring from my Mother's favored physician. Medicinal scriptures? best to do such on an empty stomach. From there another tutor would arrive and we would traverse to politics and the study of not one self, but multiple selves in communion. Therein beyond we would descend into the past of said communities in differing lengths of the ages depending on the day and how far we were into the studies. Caliphate Coinage would be utilized to parlay into Economic principles and theories on market work as undertaken in Caravanserai. And through such we would circle into the natural sciences of cartography, geography, navigation and more.

In preparation for my attendance to the Grand Academy the Tutors were rigorous and without relenting. I began to find them as multifaceted and interesting as the topics they professed to lecture me on. The sense of enrichment was intoxicating and with a ravenous hunger I devoured their every word, but in time so too did I begin to notice the social tethers between them each. Their interactions, their engagements with one another. It was a delicate dance to say the least, not so different than the Eight Steps of al-Fanoos.

The judgements upon their sartorial decisions, the means by which their coif tended, their social graces (Or lack thereof) signifying how they found their way to the academic space over a more social grace. It established at a young age, the importance of a well and proper tailor. My interest in such a thing lead Mother to securing further and further tutors as the differing disciplines and crafts took hold.

It grew to such a point that between my elocution lessons, my studies of the natural sciences, political science, economics, and beyond I found myself finally at long last beginning to cultivate an identity for myself free of the influences of Father. If he was not to teach me, if he was not going to guide me, I would find a way to do it myself.

Mother's handmaids, the Chef, our Physician, my Tailor, my Haberdasher, my Perruquier, and even my own Valet that was hired on were all so very proud of how I managed to find way in the world by myself. It was not the most pleasant childhood but as I entered into my teens I was beginning to develop fully into the man I wished to be.

It would be years later, in my 19th Qdim, that I would learn the folly of believing familial employees would be "Proud" of me, and how conceited that notion was and sounded, until after I had my first abduction at the hands of some of Father's disgruntled caravan guards.

[Random_White_Guy]

Departing from Baz'eel was a sort of somber affair.
The mixture of excitement and trepidation is a heady blend. I've traveled beyond many times with Father's guards on varied works as I've come into my own as both a Scholar and man of Business. While he may not pay me much stock his name used upon any caravan will secure me safe passage, doubly so if it his men guarding a shipment.

The refugees continue to pile at the gate, a never ending tide that seems to grow larger than ever. The ride to the Outpost was quiet enough with little interruption, though the sunfolk scribe processing my arrival was less than cordial claiming his duty was only to attend the Camel and that I would be on my own.

My first impressions were somewhat skewed by encountering a Prelate - A second in command of the governance I have been told. I inquired if she knew where the Customs Office was and she could not tell me a correct answer, differing instead to a Waradim. It did not exactly fill me with confidence to hear such a thing. Customs was the usual process and procedure. A few cursory question, a few palms weighed with Dinar, and I was free to secure my Voice and commence with my business.

Entertainment is few and far between, majority of the Refugees proving as hungry and bloodied as the tales shared beyond the Golden Gates. I did manage to find a den of inequity that hosted a game of Royal Dragon. My first hand - Royal Dragon.

I left feeling rather smug until I made my way back to the Krak de Rose to discover a local band of refugees partaking in a local game of Dice. Newly created. It has the potential to be a sizeable fortune with the appropriate adjustments. In my inaugural attempt a few were enjoying the show and kind enough to prop me up to win, it felt quite the bit of fattening me up but that the Refugees take to Izdu's lessons on Charity in stride. A sum of 2,400 dinar won.

In our second endeavor though was when matters grew interesting. The crowd grew larger and with it more gamblers into the game. One gentlemen particularly vocal raising the stakes even higher.

As he and I made our way to the final efforts he grew even more rambunctious, altering the game to his own whims. It inspired some of the locals to stake me even further still with charity. As I had saved him in an earlier round it only felt prudent to oblige his new alterations to the game further. These actions, they tend to tip the scales. While I was unable to win what was by my cursory accounting over four and a half thousand Dinar, losing a thousand of my own, he was not without civilized manner.

The game concluded, and I confess it was a more pleasant evening than expected. There's no shortage of dinar flowing in this Outpost and it seems opportunities for diversion and distraction are few and far between.

Sadly I do not have The Whimsical's talent for busking. But that does not mean I am without my own considerations.

[Random_White_Guy]

Code Select Expand

Illul 5th, IY 7789

A contract of Consultation for the sum of 500 dinar.
Client wishes Political policy draft
Incentive upon completion
Bonus for further diligence

Code Select Expand

A contract of Consultation for the sum of 2,000 dinar
1,000 upfront, 1000 in estimated three weeks time
Client wishes bookkeeping and Political tutoring for Candidate

Code Select Expand

A contract of Management for a duration of two week's time
1,000 upfront, 40% of take
If satisfactory, 50% of take, claim of stock, incentivized for expansion.
Amenities gratis

Code Select Expand

A contract of Tutoring for a brash pupil
Pupil requires assistance in surviving the Desert.
Pupil requires assistance in surviving homeland.
Pupil requires assistance in navigating politic
Pupil requires assistance in bolstering reputation.

Services exchanged upfront of other business, Larger Reward upon completion.


Code Select Expand

Sum of Wares purchased this day absent of Client
2650

250 dinar, Buster Grimes
1800 Dinar, Skink
600 dinar, Flint

Code Select Expand

Gambling Winnings

Hang'd Heron: 80
Glaziers Unionhouse: 0 - Avoided today

After my last visit to the Glaziers it is somewhat bland.

A small personal note in the margin

Two suggestions:

Dark navy blue
Muted Scarlett

Additional suggestions:

Inverse Monocrome
Tertiary Monocrome

Secure estimate from source.

Additional suggestions:

Scribe
Janissary
Nadiri

[close]

[Random_White_Guy]

No day is boring, but this an outlier even by those conditions. The Barbarism on display in Ephia's Well by the Refugees is a different beast all together. Among the Golden City we would of course have our woes. Ring Runners and others from time to time would come through and cause a stir, usually though Father and his fellow magnates would profit highly.

This afternoon taking a break from sales I heard a clamor. A call for Physician, Student Orin shot. As we were in negotiation for Wand Sales and potential Alchemics just the day before I sprung to action. In no uncertain terms, nothing in my training at The Great Academy prepare me for this. The amount of screaming from the crowd, my heart pumping in my ears, the smell of the blood. The sucking noise from the flesh around the bolt in his chest as he attempted to draw in breaths. It is a far different thing to perform surgery in a sterile clinic. Another to do so in a bloody cobblestrewn street. I have procured some more tools should it occur again but I would likely sit out the next  time to avoid the inconvenience.

It was grotesque, but oddly thrilling, in the sense of a man's life in the palm of my hands as I cut and stitched. I have ever enjoyed gambling but these stakes - they were higher than high. Unfortunately I was dealt an abysmal hand, made a fool of myself, and was reminded why I always made so many rules.

The best way to approach gambling is by a system. Losing your head and racing forward to act is a very, very amateur move. I simply am not used to so much noise. The noise in the Krak is one thing. That crowd in a panic... deafening. It distracted me and I found myself moving before the crowd before I could even think twice. It was a mistake. Fortunately not a costly one.

It is not all bad though. After I cleaned the blood from my suit with some of Mother's salves and balms I turned quite a bit of profit in the Hall, carefully avoiding a Janissary's shakedown attempt.

However not all of the Refugee accept charity - And I found myself arrested by the second soldier to visit a few hours later. Narcotics charges from the ill-drafted laws of the Refugee Legates of past administration.

It was not the least pleasant place I was ever taken hostage, I am reminded again of the time Father's guards abducted me as leverage against him. So I did as one does. I endured my patdown by the soft but firm gloved hands of the woman, requested a Sergeant or Magistrate, opened a chilled bottle of Ring 82 vintage, I poured a glass. I enjoyed the reprieve from the Demon in the dark as I languished upon a subpar constructed bench swirling the glass.

I offered to pay visit to the Courtroom. But then, I awaited.

Soon there was a knock on the door and the Soldier called aside by the Magistrate.

Then he informed her that I was to be released. I heard no protestations, but they were quiet for a time. I can only presume there was much in whispering. Of what I can only speculate. But in the end I was informed I was to be released.

I requested word from the Magistrate of his judgement, he informed it was written upon the license. The sale of narcotics legal with license. Bellow stating the same rang out.

A half a bell later furthering my consultation to help the Ashen Conclave turn their business around, sealing a deal with the Janissaries. 15% may seem little to some, but consider: Items from the Legion's storage, moved to their Storage, to be liquidated. It does not matter if I am sitting in a jail cell or behind the counter of the cashier stand while this occurs. Many refugees are desperate to get out of jail, calling for advocate, making threat, resisting arrest and being beaten, striking deal compromising themselves.

I?

I walk out of prison unfined, unmolested, unperturbed, uncompromised and losing none of my product - and paid for my inconvenience.

This is the teaching of Izdu.

[Random_White_Guy]

But, having dwelled too much on current events. It is important to remember the past.

As written previously, att the age of 19 years old I found myself in a vividly unfavorable position.  One never realizes the taste of blood in their mouth at first. It presents as an oddity not so different than a mucus-thick saliva. Like awakening with a terrible terrible cold and headache. Only the headache is your Father's Caravaneer using the hilt of a sword across your cheek.

It is disorienting at first. But once the shock wears off the brain begins orientates itself. Small parts first. Step by step. The ringing in the ears, the whites in the eyes, then from the mucus-thick mixture in your mouth does the taste finally hit. And it is that - that is what makes it real.

You are bleeding. Your heart starts racing. You are bleeding so much your mouth is filling with the stuff. You try and spit and cough but there is a cloth gagging you. The blood seeps into the cloth. You can't breathe. Your skin, it begins to feel tingling. Panic sets in. Breathing short. You want to flail your arms, but you cannot. You are shackled. You can't move. Everything spins.

What they do not tell you, however, is the lesson of simple botany. Sooner or later if you do not water your plant it will perish.  And that the removal of the gag so they can give you a jar of brackish water to sup from is also a moment of panic. What is in the water. At that point though you do not care. You drink, swish, spit. Get the blood out of your mouth. Force down what of it you can, if need be vomit.

What they do not tell you is that in that brief moment after the vomit when the captor is groaning, you have a chance.

A chance to apologize. To cough out the words "Eugh, I am so sorry, that...that was unpleasant." and from that small kernel of rapport you can use your next opportunities to try and build further rapport. Finding a way to extricate yourself.

Of course that is what I would have liked to have done. Instead of pissing myself and sobbing like a child curled in the corner until the men Father hired kill them for infringing on his reputation.

What they do not tell you though is the second time you are kidnapped, it is an easier ordeal. You become accustomed to it. Not to say it becomes rote, but you begin to compare the two experiences to try and cope with them.

Who did what, what made you more scared, what made you more shocked, what elicited what response. What can you hear, what can you smell, what in your limited bindings can you feel.

...and that is Izdu.

Taking the moment to put the pieces together. It may well save your life.

[Random_White_Guy]

Few things are as exciting as gladiatorial combat. I remember the first time Father took me to Ka'esh. It was one of the, if not only times, i ever felt he was truly not disliking of me. At such a young age assessing the fighters and listening to his musings about laying odds. It elicited from him a degree of emotion to watch the fights I had never seen in him. The Heir joked often that it was the same cut-throat nature that made him thrive in business, but now he could live vicariously through the Ring Runners and Beasts drawn before the great crowds.

No small pride he had in watching one of his sales to the Ka'eshi, be put on their large tome of treasure in display of challenge. And when announcement rang out that his business was the one that sponsored it, and the woman fighting the Bassilisk was killed. Pure, unadulterated, elation.

The slips are selling swiftly, and the odds continue to shift back and forth. It has stirred some civic pride for "Ephia's Champion", and a few unexpected patriots have lain Dinar in support of the Skargrimssons. It was unexpected for Legate Faith to attempt to berate me over gambling on the fight. I anticipated such from Magistrate Dudley. But of the Purple League? A Legate? She should be well familiar with the civilized customs and activities surrounding therein. I did not hold it against her though, it was hardly the most incandescent harassment I have received for some of my gambling ventures.

It is fundamentally jarring to me how the Purple League is supposedly the "Traditional" league, aspiring of the Crown of the Sultan's Turban herself, the highest Princess. And yet they staunchly time and again deviate from tradition. Does Tradition mean something different in the Common Tongue, where the Refugees hail? Conservative measures and expansion of the Sultanate is scribed on their very walls. But these humans seem so convoluted over the notions.

But, I have yet to attend assembly or even a single White League meeting yet. And I hear they are truly volatile.

[Random_White_Guy]

It is said Izdu is the god of craftsmen, and that to build a library is the highest honor. Doubly so if it is a Library of the mind. A cultivation of skills, crafts, undertakings, experiences that in time push forward and outwards and upwards expanding your vision.

I am reminded this day why an expanded vision is vital. Hours after I opt to conclude my contract with the Ashen Conclave, though they do indeed very good work? The Legates do, as I am told, the legates are wont to do and begin to throw a hammer through all matters.

Rather than renewing properties that remain held by the deceased or the departed, rather than raising the price of Voice, rather than slashing the comically inept redundancies in the "Titled" of Ephia. Property tax, wages of the Titled, sales tax. Enmur stormed past livid, having lost both his symbolic gift from the Pyramid and further dinar out of his already strained coffers to continue operating the shop. In one fell swoop they have effectively nearly undone all the adjustment to his margins I had undertaken.

But. The luxury of the Consultant's life. These things? The problems of others. My problem now is simply wondering what day I shall go pick up my very fine Carpet from Ramieton. And what to do with all this Dinar I keep winning on games of Nines. Even when I lost, a side bet netted me enough to recoup my losses and make a profit. With the games to come this weekend despite not making a profit on them, it should lend well.

The election announcement is on the horizon, and laying wagers upon who shall be Legate will be quite a delightful undertaking. For now I simply indulge and await the investments to mature.

A study in patience, but Izdu teaches it is as the Disc spins.

Inevitably I will get where I belong.

[Random_White_Guy]

Father always said I was too soft for his businesses. Spokes forbid a young man find himself unpleasantly soiled after a Hostage situation. So he had a very simple solution: My 21st Kanon Hray he shouted as the doors all opened to comers, so too was it open to leave. That I could invite myself to get the hell out of his Compound.

A small stipend for travel was all I was given and he set me on his Caravans. Not as his son, not as his employee, as a drifter. I would travel for an entire season across the Great Ash Desert. Not partaking of any of his businesses, nor the lavish villas, nor the secure outposts. He wished me to become hardened to the lifestyle. Some grit and sand in me.

...It would be then I found my second love after Scholarship.

Gambling

To watch, to learn, to listen, to use your senses to take in it all. I would come to joke with people that it is merely a matter of Applied and Manipulated Statistical Analysis. I learned swiftly that if you are careful in how you look, a woman's coinpurse hidden within her cleavage may be discerned. That a gentleman who claimed to have no Dinar, you could hear the rattling in his boot. More than a furtive glance you could see just how keen someone's eyes were, how they carried themselves.

To read people. It is a skill of many uses but in gambling if you are able to read someone, truly read someone, it becomes an entirely different matter all together. My physician's training useful in watching the moisture around the mouth increase or dissipate as silktongue took hold. The straining of the eyes as they attempted to conceal their excitement and joy at a favorable hand. The slow breathing before posturing that they with false bravado were glad to raise the stakes. It was so curious watching the denizens of the Desert gamble. They would grow so nervous, so giddy. The anticipation.

For a time I worried I was broken, that I did not feel such a thing. It was only after I began a losing streak did I realize. They do not have generational wealth to rely upon. These people, of all walks of life, of all Spokes, of all backgrounds. For them to gamble isn't a time passing game. It's a risk. Their entire day's wages can be lost. Their familial heirlooms hocked. The dream of striking it big, making it, no more worries, it fuels them to risk more, and more.

For them it is a vice. For me, it slowly became a narcotic. In my quiet hours during scholarship I found it the simple and most purest way to clear my mind. Surrounding myself with that manic and depressive energy, the ebb and flow of the table, the streaks of hot and cold of the dice. It became an escape.

Their misery, their successes, such emotional breadth. Utterly intoxicating. I could lose 5,000 dinar in a hand of cards and laugh, knowing I could make that back in two days time if I applied the right skills in the right leverage. I could lose 10,000 dinar in a game of Banafsian Snail Racing, knowing if I found myself truly in trouble I could hop one of Father's caravans and flee to the next Caravanserai. I could lose 15,000 dinar on a boxing match... and it was like lightning in my veins to watch that man beaten to a pulp cheering while the man who bested me shouted until hoarse and danced like the trajectory of his entire life had changed.

But I could always simply send word to Mother if I required a shipment of jewelry or otherwise, to arrive in a week or two, to settle my debts.

These people, these Dwarves of Kulkund, these Elves of Spring's Gift, these Demon-Touched Halflings from the Outer Rings, these Ring Runners, these... these "Dreamers". They aspire to so much. So much I already have. So in the labor of loves it became indulgence.

Musing that One day, it would be my hope, I may find a lovely wife to present with a well won and suitable dowry.

To wager with her our fates. In victory she would receive the dowry and a life she may enjoy as only Father's wealth can provide. In failure... well, I do not even know what would be comparable. I hope that when the moment strikes I shall have a better sense. But if she refuses, know she not the one.

But if she accepts...

Oh, if she accepts and bests me. What a beautiful life indeed we would lead.

I could not tell that to Father of course, I returned dour and dutiful and certainly more well traveled and better at lending him a facade of my business mien. And I by no means could tell Mother who is adamantly wishes for grand children, and me to find a good and honest woman who can "Tame my wild streak". I certainly could not tell her that I was awaiting a woman who loved to gamble just as much as I.

It would be a few more years before I met the third love of my life.

And it would be a few more years after that I made my way to Ephia's Well.

[Random_White_Guy]

It was unexpected. Like watching a porcelain vase shatter. Her features twisting. Her composure fading. The mask slipping.

I have come to know Deputy Chief Scribe al-Samir to a degree in my time here on the Frontier. While I enjoyed the conversation with Lady Shabani, and the occasional encounter with Legate Qari, I find myself a degree of difficulty connecting with Magician. Perhaps it is too much a reminder of The Astonished. The way she could bend the world to her whim with such approval from... well. bloody everyone she ever met. Mother loved her first born daughter as if there was no other care in the world, Father thrilled she proved adept, her Professors, people on the street. Everyone. Everyone.

Watching her veil slip as she lost her temper with not one, but both legates in the Garrson before Legate Qari and myself. I found myself legitimately unprepared and aghast at how to react to such from the Legates upon her.

And I suppose, in my own childish way, realized how my affections had grown towards her in our previous meetings. What began as humble drinks in the Trade Hall, to sharing business in the Scribal Office, to our afternoon of drinking and quiet gossip at the Champion's contest at the Illul Bloodpool...

She is not some meek creature to be smacked about and tossed aside at Legate Vellyn's discretion. Nor to be filled with the pitiable frowns of Legate Faith. These Refugees, they know nothing of what she had to go through to flourish in the Sublime Garden in Baz'eel. The hours at the Academy. The works undertaken. The degree of bureaucracy she had to cleave through with nothing but her wits and her fangs. And in twenty days of leaving home, aside from the puttering ramblings of Rashid al-Rashid while I tend my works in his upstairs study... I realize how much I have been projecting upon her.

She a lifeline. A tether to what Ephia could, should, and likely will be. Legate Qari has his merits but regardless of his claims he has found himself changed. I wonder if it would have been different had I met him back in Baz'eel but his works kept him in far different circles than mine own. But he is so much adopted to the Frontier's ways. Not in an insulting or disingenuous way. Merely the way one who is upon Safari too long may find themselves going native in ways unanticipated. The little ticks, the twitches.

It is not as if I anticipated finding myself heavily engaged in courtship upon the Frontier, but I shudder to think of what Mother, my Sisters, or any of their circles back home would say if I allowed myself to go so far as Qari has allowed himself to drift astray. I've hardly a dowry worth considering and my prospects are far from glimmering at present. But if I let myself be dragged so far from tradition, gracious. They'd have such a fit. For now however I remain...

Annoyingly, poignantly, and to a degree feeling profoundly alone. I move my fortunes around, I diversify my investments, I widen my scope, and I grow my portfolio. As Izdu wills I study and seek to understand, spread that understanding, and earn a pleasant bit of Dinar in the process.

But this place...

The Refugees say the words of the Sultan. They speak the names of the Spokes. They espouse such grandeur and there is a glimmer there of hope. But at the same time I truly know what it is to be homesick, and in watching the way they treated the Deputy Chief I feel it struck a nerve. Legate Qari says she may need our help soon. I say far more likely we shall need hers, but it is a Magicians way to never need anyone.

I miss sipping brandy with like minded gentlemen. I miss smoking on balconies listening to music. I miss watching the Demon crest on the horizon knowing it was soon time for the party to move indoors. I miss luxury, I miss philosophy, I miss...

...I suppose I miss Baz'eel.

Which is a very strange thing to consider. I've left home before. For weeks, for months. But that was always with Father's retinue or company hired to keep me tended and occupied. Sparring words with my Valet to pass the hours on the caravans across the dunes, Ephia is not. Raising weeks worth of wages among the Guards during their evening campfires as I rouse from my sleep to start my night.

And yet watching her lose her temper, even though it was so pained and vulnerable. Visceral. It was strangely beautiful. Because both of them do not know how far past their ninth step they were, if she reacted in such a way.

And in all things, when it comes to bureaucrats against dragons, one bets on bureaucrats. If she decides to move with even half of her reputation's skill, it will be a lovely slaughter to behold.

And a pleasant reminder of home should she choose to tight itself twisted.

[Random_White_Guy]

It is curious how swiftly one goes to ruin a good thing. Even now I find myself wondering what was it that possessed Recluta Carver. His words etched in my mind. How he didn't mind about me selling bets on the fights, since he was curious how much interest it woud generate. But any business in the Krak they would need a five percent "Bump" as he called it.

We had done good business in the past, I had secured his... I know not, paramour? Kana a job with Enmur as one of my final actions before leaving the Ashen Conclave. I had attempted to conjure up a fight with he and the Legion that he may showcase his strength.  Where in the shifting scales of matters, tipped his thoughts away from good business and towards petty strife?

On principle I enjoy the paying of taxes. It is a robust, even endearing sign of one's success. To have an Accounting Ledger that is so dripping with grease that it makes the Government, the Criminal, and all in between salivate. Yet in response to his demand - I received nothing in return. Protection is not required as I am not in a business that requires protection. No additional support of my business ventures, no assistance in advertisement, none of La Banda helping encourage the patrons to buy slips. Even in the dealing with wanton and blatant criminals they at least are civilized enough to offer you some manner of assurance for your "Invesment" (read: robbery, extortion, et al).

But nothing? Merely Five Percent? And when to showcase my wealth further, an countering raised. Ten Percent. A far more charitable sum. So long as La Banda Rossa and the Citadel knew that their initial extortion was insulting low.

Yet matter pushed further. A Thousand Dinar for being "A little shit". Another threat that if I did not give, I would be cut, or severed from doing sales of slips in the Krak de Rose. At which point my patience evaporated. I am not a Boardworker, I import finer wines than the Modni Eel-Monger Piss they all fawn over.

Many have asked if I wished violence or vengeance upon them. It feels strange how quickly so many are to think that sort of thing is a hindrance to my works. Though I suppose the gesture welcomed. Even some of his fellow Recluta reached out which was a nice enough gesture though equally suspicious.

In the interim as contract work has slowed and the ruckus at the Krak has left me a bit soured on the institution, despite my own misgivings of the Rose otherwise, i've made my way to joining the Scribes. A nuisance that other companies and organizations are not hiring, but one does as one must. It is not that I am not good at the duties. Certainly educated enough and versed.

As Father always said, Civil Service is the most gracious Charity one may offer.

As both Legates seem to distrust and find my presence unwelcoming though, it is certainly a fairly rote and boring job. It gave me plenty of time to prepare the bindings on my book for Knud, as well as sell a few more betting slips.

I even rather quite enjoy the title of Junior Scribe. It alleviates most of the broader expectations and ambitions that the Magistrate Scribes and others put upon themselves in aspirations of getting more engaged and more involved in affairs. For the most part I am paid to mind my own business and when I ask the Legates if they need aid, nine out of ten times they do not trust me or wish to have a private meeting.

...Not the worst way I have passed my time.

[Random_White_Guy]

I find myself hearing their answers swirl in my head. I took care to note them as they answered my question on Frostport's increased influence in matters, of the failed Kha'esh operation inside the embassy. It is baffling to me, their mindset and mentality. One will not tame the wild frontier with good cheer and optimistic well wishes.

Ample dinar I have won tonight gambling, but there is only so much drinking and gambling that may be done before it grows stale. Especially when you continue to win. Even when I try not to count cards at the table, I cannot turn off that piece of my mind that Izdu has blessed me with. To see the angles of the dice as they are thrown, of the cards in the deck. Even the fight with the Champion, it was a long shot but it was a shot I knew I could hedge.

Drunkenly stumbling around the Outpost I find myself again with the same thoughts. I am bored, I need stimuli, I crave something esoteric. Drinking, Smoking, Gambling, Creme Brule, reading, it only satisfies for so long. In the last twenty four days I have eclipsed 75,000 dinar. Majority of it of course reinvested in projects that shall pay off in the short or long term. Moving dinar from place to place.

I had three people ask me if I killed Carver because he would not allow me to sell betting slips in the Krak de Rose. Their lack of imagination and their misunderstanding of culture will never cease to amaze me. One does not need to kill someone like Carver. You need only stoke the flames. The situation, inevitably, fixes itself. And if you can profit off of such, doubly the better.

Watching them talk about the Elections, and the sums of dinar discussed. It is like Children discovering their appendages. 20,000 dinar in a month for an allotment deemed sizeable. Legate Lujayn's 50,000 dinar for an Election deemed a "War Chest" at Legate Faith's disposal.

I am left to wonder. Is this what I always truly feared?

...Is this place turning me into Father?

I walk around this Outpost, wondering if he did the same in the countless other hovels and backwater satrapies before Ringfall. The tiny fishing villages along the coast, the Isles, his trips to Il Modo...

To bare witness to the world around you and see the lines that are pulled, while so many overlook them. Either willfully or ignorantly. It is egotistical even to dip this feather to parchment and ink these words. If they view 20,000 dinar split three ways as a sizeable sum, what will happen if I offer La Banda Rossa 30,000 dinar? If they view 50,000 dinar as an Election War Chest, what will happen if I offer them 75,000 dinar?

Is this how Father built his empire, running circles around competition that aimed no further than their nose in ambition?

How many times would Father have sat across from a hardened killer, only to have them ask for his aid? How many times would Father have sat across from a Legate, asking for assessment of their business and character? How many times would Father have sat across from a Wizard, asking for appraisal of their new device?

Those who take lives with ease seeking assistance. Those who Rule and govern wishing counsel. Those who bend reality to their whim - still so fundamentally unskilled in the basics of rudimentary education.

Is this Izdu's will?

Father always said:

"It is B'aara who sprang forth life to the Disc. It was Izdu who took life's will and broke it. Beneath taxation, beneath the bureaucrat, beneath the abacus".

There are nights I wish nothing more than to ask a Djinn to erase my memory of the man. Of mother. Of my siblings. Free me from all the undo agony he has brought upon me. I hate him. I hate him with such wanton abandon. Words escape me and I would have to give patronage to a Poet to truly encapsulate.

And there are nights, like tonight.

Where my eye catches in the corner of the mirror. And just ever so slightly I catch our resemblance.

And between my smoke, and my drink, it almost looks like him smiling at me.

These are the nights I rather hate myself.

[Random_White_Guy]

I forgot how much I missed The Salon.

There's just something about individuals who have power and have seen the world from the angle beyond the common that lends itself to such engaging debate and dialogue. To sit with a Soldier who holds ambitions and discuss at length what it is to build a proper military campaign for over an hour's time. To sit with a former legate for Two hours, discussing the geo-political climate of the Great Ash Desert. It is the least nostalgic I have been for home in months.

Some brandy, some mizzar, looking at maps, talking of the future. So many Refugees I feel find themselves mired and constrained. The few though who manage to break free of such things? It brings such an excitement to life.

Today though not one, but two of Ephia have pleasantly surprised me. The only matter becomes how to continue to invest in their efforts to see them yield fruit, and in tandem - see their Comet's rise. Or at least profit on my investments before they crash into the Disc.

What would it be, to bring those two individuals into room together? What would it be, to bring any they might consider potential like minded ally into such discussion?

...What would it be then to take that room of individuals, and tell them in no uncertain terms: Whatever you desire, I am prepared to lend considerable fortune to.

That?

That, blessed Izdu, would be called Civilization.

"Tutor the ignorant; spread the light of wisdom to the dark corners of the world.
O Izdu. If the Mother is the font, you are the pipe by which her civilizations flow."