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In the heart of an old watchtower, an important-looking man sat at a venerable oaken desk. Its surface was worn and weathered, pocked here and there with age but smoothed by centuries upon centuries of oil and polish. New plaster covered the walls, and from them hung old relics that once had been abandoned. Tender care did what they could to restore the bronze frames and the cracked paint. Yet for all of that the wear of ages could not be fully hidden, the tarnish of centuries of neglect could not be so easily washed away. Though with the right affectations, that neglect and wear could be made to thrum with the centuries for which the tower had stood.
The floor was clear of dust, covered in carpets imported from the west and furnishings that the man took great pains to collect. Where the old relics could not be restored, they were replaced with new ones. Bravant's <span class="mu-i">Domiciles for the Children</span> hung across from the portrait of an old Leiningen Matriarch, depicting a view of the marble halls of Alfheim sung into existence amidst the forested vale of Alvenwald, as seen from the upper branches of the Irminsul. Markorias' <span class="mu-i">City of the Bridge</span> covered the far wall from his desk, depicting the great bridges of Lygos that stretch across the Black Channel that separates East from West, Alagonia from Assuwa, and divides the Heartlands of Daedalium in twain.
And many more such relics joined them, all purchased at the man's personal expense.
His hand cradled his head as he surveyed the mountain of papers that sat on his desk, a monument to the bureaucratic order that he had brought to the lands that bordered the Heart of Daedalium. The peasants who tilled the land were simply happy to have someone to reign in the bandits. Even if many of them now worked in his service, the work he gave them kept them too tired and full of cheap beer to harass the smallfolk who tried eking a living out of the Goldengrass Wastes. The neighboring nobles eyed the old banner of Leiningen with some suspicion, but no one <span class="mu-i">truly</span> cared, so long as he stayed out of their lands and kept the monsters from the wastes out of their borders.
Which he did. Most of his revenue came from selling the carcasses of the beasts his men killed. Goldfeather Rocs had the finest down for pillows, and their meat ranked amongst the most delectable out of every monster born of the wild magics of the waste. Rich bachelors of the far west would pay good coin for the pelts of the Fire Rats that swarmed from the pits of Dragonfire, for their soft and everwarm fur was prized as a wedding gift for their wives. Tamers from Lygos paid much for capture Shade Wolves as well, for they made for powerful and loyal companions if you managed to break one in.
Plus, dogs bred with them inherited their cleverness, and were absolutely <span class="mu-i">adorable</span>
A smile cracked his lips open ever so slightly as he went about his work with a manic look in his eye, scrawling his signature on the papers with one hand.
