Munth was home to many countries whose histories were written in blood. Rife with conquering hordes, assassinations, and kinslaying. The crops from those countries grew more in mass graves than soil. The history of other countries was written in stone, long faded and relegated to myth. Great statues buried up to their faces, with sneers of cold command begging all who looked upon them to despair. But the history of the Counties was written mainly on tax receipts.

Amoz and Nursing counties belonged to the ‘Counties’, but what were they the counties of or whom? A better question was who hadn’t owned the counties at some point? Why are you asking all these questions anyway? Are you a tax collector or something?

The Counties were a handful of lands too small for a proper invasion, so they had been repeatedly annexed by their bigger, more enterprising neighbors. They used to be the South-Western Counties of Hundaland, the Eastern Counties of the Kenning, and the Frontier Counties of the Eggshell Hordelands at different points in history. And sometimes, on those very special and violent occasions, they belonged to all three at the same time. So ‘Counties’ was the only name that remained.

Anyone who annexed the Counties would also acquire their tax office, the External Revenue Service, so named for the convenience of this year’s conqueror. No sooner would a barbarian chief celebrate his raid than an ERS agent show up to calculate how much loot he owed. Steel was sharp, but even it couldn’t cut through red tape.

A condensed history of the Counties laid before Turpenwile on Orbital Nightwarren’s desk. The lad had dug up nearly thirty-two Nightwarrens so far. Hickory had taken most of the faculty to Ms. Memoran’s house while he was to follow up

“You see Mr. Turpenwile, this is how you dig up information.”

Orbital could be smug, but sufferably so as far as Turpenwile was concerned. Smug was one of the great motivators, and Turpenwile couldn’t have gotten all of this from him without it. He flipped through the stack of legal documents, Nightwarrens flashing through history. Penelope Nightwarren, Terraria Nightwarren, Gargenna Nightwarren. The last one was a temple tax form, that one caught his eye.

In a religiously ideal world, churches and temples wouldn’t have to pay taxes. Spreading the good word of Larganok the Destroyer was the same as a charity, or at least that’s how the priests put it. The ERS agreed, churches could be exempt, but gods couldn’t. What is a temple if not the house of a god, and what was a god if not a homeowner.

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The tax form was nearly 500 years old. It must’ve been one of the last before the new gods, Turpenwile thought. An icy chill ran through his veins when he saw who the temple belonged to. ‘Muudrach’, it read. ‘Greater Deity, Domains: Fire, Destruction, Bakery’. His eyes fell to the signature of the high priest- high priestess it seemed.

“Allele Nightwarren,” he breathed. Allele was a form of mutated chromosome, something that would not be discovered for three more centuries from when this high priestess lived. Even today it was a bit of esoteric vocabulary. It sounded like the kind of thing someone with nearly no scientific knowledge would do. He looked up at Orbital, and knew exactly the kind of person who does that kind of thing.

“Mr. Orb- Mr. Nightwarren, do you have any more documents like this one? I’m very curious to know the name of Priestess Allele’s mother, if that wouldn’t be too much to ask” he said, handing him the document shakily.

Orbital peered at him confused. “We do…but all the pre-new god census forms are in the lower vaults, it might take a few hours.”

“That’s alright, we’ve got time, right? Right?” Turpenwile said. He knew Orbital picked up on his nervousness. In truth, no one knew the relationship between actual time and whatever time travelers used, so it could have already been too late.

After his visit to Cobpleton, Turpenwile theorized that old gods were starting to come to Munth from elsewhere. But every good wizard had to amend their theory with new evidence, no matter how existentially terrifying it was. Space and time were thought to be two expressions of the same thing after all, Cobpleton, home of the Nightwarrens, was getting holes in its space. Spacetime was like a pair of socks, get a hole in one and inevitably you’d get a hole in the other.

Turpenwile smoked nearly his entire stash by the time Orbital returned. The young accountant looked pale as a sheet, holding a single document.

“I have…a few questions about what I just found,” said Orbital. He looked like he hadn’t blinked in a while, like his stare was twice the amount of yards as normal.

Turpenwile proffered his hand, Orbital placed the folded up sheet in it. It was another Muudrach temple document. He dreaded looking at the signature, but knew his theory was already confirmed. ‘Thistle Nightwarren, High Priestess’.

“Why is my mother’s signature on a five-hundred year old document?” It was both a question and an accusation. As if this was all Turpenwile’s fault. He couldn’t blame Orbital for thinking that way. He should’ve seen it weeks ago.

“Because,” he said slowly “I think this Muudrach isn’t trying to get to here, he’s trying to get to now.”