I find myself writing for what could be a day. It galls me that I did not join a merchant caravan or hire a smuggler. I am surrounded by farmers and clothesmenders. The occasional traveler joins our line and scoffs as luxury goods and indentured factory workers pass us in an expedited queue.

The last time I came upon Snaggletooth Ridge to charter a ship, admission to the city had been restricted. Then, I was a fresh faced young man attempting to celebrate his eighteenth Nameday in the cups. The Labor Leader then was a large, pale, balding man named Eric Blithe. He was a thug known throughout the city as the “White Whale.”

I met the man when he visited the City Transient, the local name for the large collection of tents beyond the city walls of those seeking admission when the city was closed. He was broad of shoulder and his head reached the branches of a pecan tree. He wore a simple cotton blouse with rough, blue cotton trousers. But for his height, he would be unassuming were it not for his boots. They were supple, steel-toed, and monogrammed with the initials “E.B.”. Tawny brown leather with laces braided and secured into brass buckles at their tops. If it took him ten minutes to dress, seven were spent on clean, dry socks and fully laced boots. “Good work begins with good shoes.” He would say, frequently. He said it so much I started saying it and I won the ire of the guard.

He came bearing food, clothes, and supplies. It’s not uncommon for a traveler to reach the City Transient hungry, having brought only the supplies for the journey and not for the egregious wait to enter the city. I was one of them. He would talk with the adults about Justice for workers and the power of weaponized incompetence. He truly won my silence, though, when he presented us with grain alcohol. The events of that night are both cherished and fill me with anxiety as I wait here hungry again, because I apparently learn nothing from adversity.

This slowed admission is an attempt to control the latest worker’s revolt. Ostensibly, food has been rationed to starve out the rebellious workers and newcomers are being screened to limit terrorist activity. The Lords’ wealth continues to expand as they capitalize on related scarcity.

More than a few fresh farm hands have been misled into dubious contracts and become indentured scabs.

It may be pertinent to review some of Vargo’s trinity as I await admission. Vargo held that all creation myths held common themes that reflect old wisdom on the inception of all observable phenomena. His conjecture is core to magical and religious study within The Lords’ Holdings. It is common here to accept Vargo’s Trinity as a literal description of divinity, but a diligent reading maintains this theory as a framework for understanding the beginning of things.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The figures of Vargo’s Trinity are The Weaver, The Weave, and The Loom. The Weaver represents the role of creator. The Weaver composes the world and ether and is responsible for their continuation. The Loom represents the force and realm by which a creator constructs the world. It is here held all of creation and all errant strands as it is frayed and repaired.

Finally, The Weave represents the world and ether as observable by all creatures. Common magical theory holds that magic is the will and degradation of The Weave as it observes and manipulates itself. Importantly, mortals, gods, and all other mystical creatures held to be manifestations of The Weave’s chaotic whims.

In his dissention, Garl’Eckity asserts that The Weaver is itself superfluous as metaphor, though he fails to explain what besides an entity beyond The Weave could have begun it. Mandotu, his contemporary, asserts that there is no inception or initial creation, that The Weave has existed and will exist in perpetuity. Both are considered less than academic scholars for their orcish backgrounds.

As a final musing, Wild Magic, the seemingly random and dramatic magical effects that seem to manifest unbidden, is thought to be evidence and effect of weathering within The Weave as it is manipulated and becomes frayed.

The fraying of The Weave is thought to be root of The Wizards’ Woe. All students are taught that as the weave is manipulated and pulled upon by a spellcaster, it becomes frayed around the user. This enables greater heights of magic as the fraying weave becomes easier to wield. However, this leads to slips and a loss of control. It is uncommon, but not unheard of, for some dark lord or great wizard to be counterspelled by a novice or simply destroy themselves. This is why most trained spellcasters retire as teachers. The frayed weave that follows them allows easier access for students.

Night has settled and the gates are sealed. I am camped in line for the gates’ opening on the morrow. I hear nightly movers discussing means and ends in hushed tones.

A wizened halfling looks at me now from the poster of the wanted Labor Leader. Blithe was executed some time ago and this halfling, a Rhuba Tenderleaf, has been much more active. Apparently, workers have won the right to twenty minute luncheons and a day to themselves every fortnight by work stoppages and the occasional arson. Now there are a dozen men, “Sweetfeet” they’re called, bringing supplies into the City Transient and warding off predatory contractors. They even bring toys, candy, and macabre tales of workplace incidents for the children.

I have been visited by the Lords’ Guard but “only coin speaks in The Lords’ presence” as the old adage goes. This Rhuba may not have done anything for me lately, but if Blithe told his compatriots anything of that night, she has my begrudging allegiance

* Fifty-Eigth Day of Spring; Isidoro