A year in the life of Tuck Loeb, Governor of Wreckhall

"What follows is an account by the human Tuck Loeb, of the Amellia, as recovered from her logs and journals."Following my supposed inappropriate behaviour during the climax of the Songs celebration, the First Mate Harrison has elected, me to become the acting governor for a year of the next port of call that our Captain Vanboboa elects to install, given his order and consent.

I am set to leave the Amellia, a Waren merchantman upon which I have spent the better part of the last three years with minimal issue. With the turning Age, the Amellia’s hands seem to be shuffling, likely in reaction to temperament of the crew.

Harrison tells me that by the end of Stone, the captain will have chosen a port and I will be delivered with his orders in time for the new year.

While the assignment is indeed one that could bring me prosperous bounty, I am left with the feeling that I’m being discarded in the most profitable way Harrison can justify. I just wish I could remember what happened. The entrie week of Songs is a drunken blur.

Month of Thaw
Bastard Harrison. I’ve been dropped off on a wretched spire in the some north east soar of Hozavi. The town is called Wreckhall, named after the longhouse built out of a frigate’s hull. Many of the buildings here seem to be made out of ship wreckage. It lends the settlement a certain charm, though calling Wreckhall a settlement is generous. A river runs downhill, supplying the townsfolk who tell me there is a small lake in lowsky. Why this hasn’t been confirmed has to do with the swell of thick mist that hangs over the bottom of the spire. None of the souls here—mostly human and ursa—are willing to risk climbing down too far and ending up getting swallowed by the white. I suppose there’s no need to now.

Wreckhall may have been on its way to a town, but one too many raids has left it a shell. The frosts of Stone are melting as I get my feet around town. What few crafters and tinkers we have have a grudging respect for me. Vanboboa left me with funds enough to open a bank, so that’s been my first priority, but with little outside of the farms to the south and the mine to the north of the town, there isn’t much gold to be made.

A flock of jag crows was spotted circling beneath the lowest docks. Amun Nathaniel, of the old skyfishers here in Wreckhall, told me they aren’t uncommon, just a bad omen. I hadn’t heard of that one before, but tried to be consoling. He just shook his head and shambled back to his shack to go over his cables. Hopefully, the jag crows don’t decide to see if there’s anything to eat in town. They’d make quick work of the humans here.

Month of Seeds
The skies are clearing and warm weather is coming in. Light rains are driving off winter’s chill, and the first crops are in the ground. Wreckhall is starting to come back to life. The orchards set up the hillside are starting to flush green. I’ve suggested an inn be built, but we don’t have the materials to raise a new house. Maybe we can get a few more buildings up before The heavy rains come.

The mine north of town hit a fresh vein of copper along with clean shale. I’ve convinced the mine’s owner, an ursa called Grickle around town, to push shale so we can build some hardier buildings.

We were attacked by a group of goats that came up from the mist beneath town. I’ve never seen them act like this, running through streets and ramming anyone they could. A few of the farmers in town were injured. I’m looking into getting gates built, but I’m not sure how effective they’ll be. The goats here could jump a galleon’s mast if they had a mind to.

Bobun Thatch came back to town at the start of the second week, nearly gloating his paws off. His ship, a salvage sloop called the Sapthimble, found a wreck just across the Cerulean in Waren. Plenty of plunder to go around. Thatch is a husky ursa, brown fur and eyes starting to go. He came to my office today to ask if he can buy a plot of land so he can set up a house. After an hour of careful guidance, I convinced him that an inn was a better investment. Blah blah zoning, blah blah bylaws, blah blah King’s requirements. He wasn’t buying it until I mentioned that inns usually have expansive cellars stocked with all sorts of beer. That lit his dim eyes up. Don’t know why I didn’t start there.

Third Winday of Seeds.
A mail runner docked this morning, a Hozavi courier making his rounds. Their avoral captain said he hadn’t known our town was still alive until he received a chest for me. Asking around, it turns out there was a bundle of mail that hadn’t been delivered sitting in a depot at Nov I’bah. Figuring he might get an RCG commission out of the trip, he sailed out to us and wouldn’t you know it, found Wreckhall alive.

Apparently that wasn’t the case before the winds turned over the new Age. Odd, all the residents I’ve asked say they’ve been living here for years back into the Age of Rule.

Regardless, we have mail service again! The people of Wreckhall seem pleased. I jumped up on a the courier’s rigging and addressed the town. Show of hands confirmed a post office, so I guess that’s what I’m overseeing Firsday.

The chest addressed to me is from Captain Vanboboa. Ten hundred gold pieces, stacked neat and clean as can be. Apparently, the Amellia’s been seeing good times since my departure, enough that they saw fit to send me an advance with instructions to have drinks ready before Lagur hits. I can guarantee Wreckhall’ll be drinking before then.

Month of Lines
Thatch came back from his scouting run and I was able to snag him before he left port again. He hadn’t made much progress on his inn, so I’ve decided to help him along. Vanboboa placed me as governor, so why shouldn’t Thatch place someone he wants to get rid of as innkeeper? I mean, it’s worked out well for me so far.

The days are growing hotter I’ve put up requests for scrapped sails from the boats going in an out of dock. I figure we can string them up between buildings down Main Street. Won’t do much to stop the rain—oilcanvas would be best, but there’s no chance I’m spending gold on that kind of kit—but it’ll keep the sun off our necks. The shipwreck aesthetic’s charm has grown on me, I guess.

We’re starting to get a bit more traffic, with more and more ships dropping into our port. We filled up our docks on the First Firsday, so much that the last merchantman had to offload their merchandise in the tree line uphill. I’ve ordered the same trees cut and the docks expanded. We might never fill up again, but a bigger dock never hurt any village. I’ve pulled out some of Vanboboa’s bank earnings to commission a proper shipwright be installed. He shouldn’t be that upset, but I know Harrison’s give me a hard time.

My inn and tavern has been built! The Sunk Sola. Thatch found the skeleton of a sola sunbird on one of his trips and was going to scrap it for weaponry, but didn’t want to break the skull. Now it hangs on the inn’s outside. It’s a bit imposing, but it adds to the feel I think.

Staffed by one of Thatch’s ursa, a tiny cub called Moony of the Coin, it’s owned by the town’s office, so me. Well, technically it’s under Vanboboa, but it’s Wreckhall’s building. If someone else puts up the gold or iron balls to claim the town, I guess it’ll be theirs, but we’ve been mercifully pillage-free since I’ve arrived. So much for the Age of Piracy.

I shouldn’t hex it. I’ll look into fortification next week. Now that we’re starting to prosper, we’ll be a bigger target.

Month of Jule
Busy month. Jule started with a dry spell that thinned our river to the point where I had to order ships sent down to the misty lake beneath us. They came back up with full barrels, but with several dead. Some beasts live in the lake for sure, but fresh water demands risk.

One of the families of the dead asked me to build a graveyard so they could bury their dead according to the will of the All God. What a laugh. Shot that one down in a heartbeat. If they want to put up a tablet or something, I’ll start work on a shrine, but there’s no way in the white I’m allowing corpses put in the ground. Do they want a gorger using Wreckhall as its personal pantry? Guess they forgot why the old ways work.

The families seemed to understand. I’m running low on gold, but I’ll see what I can pull together. I haven’t checked on our mines recently, so I’ll be doing that.

New faces in town from Hila apparently a convoy dropped six families on our docks. They haven’t got two flans to rub together, but they’re hungry for work. One of the families are avoral, five between them. They’ve asked permission to build a nest, maybe the beginnings of a small aerie just uphill of the mines, where the trees start to angle. I couldn’t think of a reason not to, so I said yes, provided that they set up scouting and a watch. Some warning of black, blue, and yellow sails would be nice. I still haven’t set up much in the way of fortifications.

Good time for new people, as Grickle sent me word that one of his girls struck a thin vein of silver. He’s ecstatic and wants to build a forge. I’ve agreed, but only if he builds in in the mountain side. No sense drawing attention with glowing forges. I remember an airiner out of Ferra spun tales of how every forge in the his sky was underground with vents tunneled up through rock. Grickle liked the idea and is setting to work immediately. More than half of the new faces are headed to either his mine, or the new forge, smithy, and workshops.

Disaster hit finally Wreckhall. On one hand, three days of pea soup left every wooden building pocked and dried to a husk, browning most of the forest around us and poisioning our river and presumably the lake below us.

The canvas I had strung between buildings gave us some protection, but the accumulated mounds of acid sand left the canvas threadbare and burned through in many places. Still, I’m glad they went up.

On the plus side, I got to ring the town’s emergency bell at the top of my building! Dangerous, but also a lot of fun. I think I might be somewhat deaf now, though. It wasn’t a quiet clanging, but so worth it. As soon as the pea soup moved on, we all crawled out of our houses and started cleaning and fixing up the town. If not for Grickle’s silver, Wreckhall’d be broke. His workshop‘s up and running, and I’ve been seeing his flans used around town. Not bad for a town that had trouble rubbing two brass coins together when I arrived. I’ve recommended to everyone I meet to keep their newfound wealth to themselves, with mixed success. People want to spend when they’ve gotheavy pockets. Honestly, I thought people on the ground would be more sensible than gold-drunk sailors, but I guess that’s not the case.

No word from the Amellia. Our ships and scouts haven’t seen flag or sail of them, nor did our monthly mail bring any news. I hope they haven’t met their end, though I’m not kidding myself. Vanboboa is impressive, but he’s no Lindan. Who is these days?

Month of Winds
This month has been the hardest so far. Hard gales tore my canvas coverings away, our river flooded in the second week of heavy rains, and we’ve been pillaged three times in the last two weeks. More convenient pillaging than formal “Let’s bombard your town from the air with cannons and then pick through the pieces” affairs, so that’s something. I’m glad most of our new buildings have at least one shale wall; they’ve stood strong against the wind and rain.

My leg was cut pretty bad in the last raid, and our witc—“physicker” Morana told me I’ve got a broken rib or two. I’m lucky to have gotten off so light. Our shrine has too many tablets hanging from it. These first two weeks of Winds have been bloody. I convinced Grickle to give me some of his workers—we need a militia, even if that means they spend most of their time in his workshops.

As we rebuild and continue our humble lives, Wreckhall finds a few boons brought in with the rain. Our skyfishers and trappers keep hauling up fowl and actual fish from the misty lake. We’ve got food to spare, so I’ve decided a party at the end of the month’s in order. Between the merchants we’ve seen in town, the silver still flowing out of our mine, and those of us prudent enough to have hidden our silver, Wreckhall is limping back to life.

The party was a hit! I got a bit too drunk and apparently agreed to answer questions to whoever asked. I’m no Saint, but I spent most of the night stuck at the table’s end answering small matters and giving advice. Gods am I glad I listened to all the airiner tales of the decisions Saints have made across the skies. Once I improve my reading and writing, I should start putting down every story I can remember so I can look them up easier. There’s bound to be a book of Saint judgements brought in by some travelling merchant. I’ll put a notice up on the job board at the docks.

What a month. The trees are regaining their strength and colour after being burnt by the pea soup. Lumber harvesting can resume.

On a pleasant finish, my rooftop has become a flower garden without any input from me. I never got around to cleaning up the sand from the pea soup storm, and the winds and rains must have made soil enough to sprout flowers. They’re really quite pretty, though I don’t really know what to do with them.

Month of Rains
The Amellia’s come home! She’s looking less and less like a Waren merchantman and more like a Crean hunting dhow. She was put into our single lift dock right away. Vanboboa seemed pleased if a bit surprised, to find me and Wreckhall both alive. Alive and in better shape than them by the looks of it. Reconstruction and improvements on the Amellia have begun immediately.

Harrison is gone, dead during one of their many battles in the time since. The new fellow is tall and twitchy. Wiggly is probably a better description. I’ve seen medua before, and they’re usually more calm than this one, who’s all he seems polite enough. I introduced myself when I was setting up captain and crew at the Sola, and it shrunk down to my height and nodded. Then, I was hit with the sharpest tart of blackberry pressing on the roof of my mouth. Yeah, still not comfortable with medua names.

I gave Vanboboa a tour of the town, and for of what I was saying, his eyes were glazed. He perked up when we reached the forges and workshops around Grickle’s mine, as well as at the bank.

“How strong’s your crime?” Vanboboa asked as we were on our way back to the Sola. We hadn’t had much of note, I told him, and that woke him up.

“You’re not in control unless you know how much, to the brass coin, you’re being swindled. Farmers aren’t going to be able to defend themselves when Dark Blues decide to collect the King’s taxes,” Vanboboa sneered. “Thieves will. No need to put a stop to what you find, unless it’s overkill, but see you find out exactly who can’t be trusted and put them in your employ.”

Vanboboa changed over the last few months since I sailed under his flag. He’s cruel, capricious, more cynical than I had thought. Granted, I didn’t know him at all, but that’s my impression any way. I’ll get to work on building barracks and a militia more than converted miners.

Time to start building into the spire. Grickle was thrilled to begin excavating beneath the city. “Who knows what bones we’ll find,” he growled. Despite the heavy rains, he’s had teams of miners going house to house, testing foundations and beginning to dig down. I wouldn’t be surprised if every shack ends up with three or four basements.

Huh. If we tunneled between them, that might not be a bad idea. Build a second Main Street underground inside the rock. That would be protection enough from a wealthy appearance up top.

Month of Harvest
The Amellia left us the first of Harvest. Vanboboa didn’t take any of his profits from the bank, to my surprise. Well, some of it went to repairing his ship, but most of it he left to put back into town. I guess we’re meant to grow more the year’s out.

Every house has stone foundation and at least one basement now. By damn does Grickle’s teams work fast. He wants to get a second level under us before the Hearth stiffens the ground. The people of Wreckhall seem happy to accommodate.

The rains have let up at last, bringing us warm skies and a splash of colour spreading across the trees. All the crops are coming in, every’s cooking and preserving for the cold season to come. Our storehouses are filling, and we’re looking to be in good form.

So, of course we’ve been hit by five pillaging attempts this month. The first two beat us down, but they didn’t look into the deep basement’s, because how often do you see a rickety shack made of sun-bleached deck timber with two basements cut into stone? The third ship burned a block of houses down as they came, and that riled up the town like nothing I’ve ever seen. Someone’s been teaching the old timers how to fight, because I’ve never seen a skyfisher attack with his line like a whip and not lacerate himself to giblets. The last two raids we were able to repel! Some casualties and more injuries than I’ve ever seen—my arm got cut to bone, but Morana’s helping me along. I should be back to form by Fallow’s end.

A colinization galleon stopped in on it’s way out to Damasta’s edge and three of their families decided to stay with us. Two tinkers, a striker, and more miners aren’t a bad addition. The kids might find life here rough, but we’ll bring them up best we can given the bare corner of sky we call home.

Grickle and I both have been putting a good chunk of our combined gold and silver into building a second dock that opens onto the misty lake. Nothing as involved as our shipwright’s place, but something more quiet for more subtle entrepreneurs. We’ve got a house of trappers that work out of misty lake, so they’ve been showing us around the beasts that’ve been our neighbours.

When I asked whether we could simply kill everything and claim the lake, two of the trappers went white and muttered something about grinning water and whirlpools. I guess that’s a no.

The month ended well enough. Despite the blood spilled over the last few weeks and my arm hanging on by heavy stitches, Wreckhall’s never been better, though it still looks a shambles to the passing eye. I’m happy with that.

Month of Fallow
Not planned for, but a quiet, one room tavern, bar, restaurant the size of my office has opened up in the mist dock. Three Brass Coins, it’s called, or maybe that’s admission. I haven’t been yet, as it keeps sporadic hours and the agreement with Grickle was that the dock be kept as secret as possible. Still, I’ll likely go for a drink at some point.

All our crops have come in and our End-of-Autumn party was a good pick me up. Our new faces have become family, and my arms back to working again, though a bit stiff. I’ve spent most of Fallow acting as Saint between the businesses and townspeople. I’ve started to buy books from traders and merchants whenever I can, and I think my reading’s been getting better. Not sure if it’s helping, but I figure it can’t hurt.

I gave orders to turn away a collinization frigate before it reached our docks. I didn’t have time to weigh the merits properly, but my gut always tells me to be wary of any who willingly fly under yellow sails. I know it’s a regional flag, but I can’t see past it: I won’t have any slaves in my town, not so long as I’m breathing.

Cold winds have been coming through, and everyone’s been keen for winter clothes, though apparently the way the deep basements have been built, they’re modestly warmed by the spire. No one’s worried about the snap colds for a change. Flying in the skies during winter is always tricky, but I guess it’s not so bad when you’re grounded.

Five raids this month. We fought off some, got banged up by the others, but in each case, all our real stores have been kept out of site. I swear, I should’ve had these basements dug out the moment I got to Wreckhall. Independently of pay, some of the houses have begun digging their own passages from basement to basement. Would’ve saved more than a few pieces if they’d dug them free from the start, but that doesn’t seem fair to complain over.

We had our first visit from the King’s Blues. Surprised it took so long. They took an annoying amount of gold out of the town’s pocket, but they well behaved and upright for the most part. A few warnings here and there, a few of ours decided to leave and join up with the King’s men. Can’t really blame the younger ones. There’s consistent coins under blue sails, and you see the skies. Escape from a life stuck on the only spire in your soar.

No help with the raids, but I was strongly suggested to fly blue flags from our docks if I wanted to avoid pirate attacks. I politely nodded with no intention of doing anything of the sort. Blue flags are the first to be pillaged, don’t they know that? They must, the naive fools.

We’ve had a more than a few battered airships scraped in our docks this month. I’ve bought up most of the scrap to have our Main Street buildings reinforced and covered for when the snows start to fall.

My term under Vanboboa was as Governor of Wreckhall for a year, and while it’s been a pretty good time, I’ve got a feeling I might be headed out to the skies soon. A courier brought note from Vanboboa that the Amellia should be back by the third week of Hearth. I’ve started to stockpile beer and liquor for Songs. I might not be here a few months from now, but I’ll be throwing a party to remember, that’s for sure.

Month of Hearth
First snowfall hit us early this year, covering Wreckhall in powder on our first Sonday morning. I dug out my oilfur coat, so I’m cozy and warm, but more than half of the town doesn’t have the clothes to go out and about, or at least, that’s what I thought. Turns out the network of passages between basements has gotten much more intricate—everyone’s moving under the rock where it’s warm. Custom is apparently to keep the second basement a storefront or at least a public access point. Apparently no one saw fit to tell me. I borrowed a few of Grickle’s most trusted miners to tunnel from my basement to the Understreet, as everyone is calling it.

With so much much effort and activity underground, oil’s been getting more and more expensive. I’ve left notes for my replacement to contract several skyfishing vessels and suggestions on where best to install an apiary up the hill come spring. Oil might be brighter, but beeswax and honey will be better in the long run, as I’m thinking.

Our second and third weeks were warmed by bright sun, but the cold winds kept us all preoccupied. Visits from several heavy merchants making their last runs before finding a warm fire to wait out Songs.

News of our silver is starting to spread; the most recent merchant didn’t even blink when one of our farmer’s paid for goods with a case of silver flans. I’m not sure if this is good news. We’re going to be getting more unwelcome attention come more favourable weather, so I’ve put up notice for more hands to join our militia.

A frost wyrm was spotted riding thermals in HighSky just south of us. By the time I was informed, it had passed on west. Thank gods, as confident as I am in our fortifications, I have no illusions about our chances buried under several feet of thick ice.

I’ve sent word out by post to request a Saint’s guidance. Not for any particular judgement, mind you, just that I would like to know whether my decisions over the past year have been merited. Wreckhall’s grown, well and true, but I still feel bad. Should I have turned away the Ferra transport? I doubt I’ll ever find out what happened to them. They probably found landing in Waren somewhere.

The Amellia returned on the last Fifthday of the Hearth. The ship’s had a go of it, apparently running through storms to escape several blue crafts that chased her from Hila’s southern tip. I’ve never seen Vanboboa so happy until I directed him to the mist dock after he unloaded his hull. Our shipwright’s got his work cut out for him. The Amellia might need a full squibbing from what little the captain has said.

Vanboboa was impressed with Wreckhall, doubly so when I brought him to my basement and walked him along the Understreet. He said we’ll talk about what comes next in Stone, so I guess I was right. Vanboboa definitely has something in mind for me.

Month of Songs
Songs is here! I’ve got a week of fire and booze planned, this year a full nine days of splendour and celebration. Between the Sola’s and my cellar, our hall’ll be filled with rosy cheeks every day.

I wasn’t sure what to say, whether I should say anything as a speech to open up Songs, but the family of avorals din’t give me the chance. They began singing in the hall as soon as the first night opened. It was this tragically beautiful sound. I felt their hardships, their pain, and then their peace and happiness once they moved here, their gratitude that I’d let them build their home up on the hillside. Half the hall was in tears by the end. I was grinding my teeth to hold back from sobbing. It was a stunning, incredible song. They each bowed to me, and then Grickle stood up and bellowed for attention. His speech was thankful and heartwarming. Morana spoke for our dead. Thatch spoke for his fleet.

Everyone looked to me. I stood up, wavered, and all I could get out was “Thank you all for everything. Happy Songs.” The hall nearly exploded with laughter and applause. Vanboboa clapped me on the back. I guess a few words are better than too many. I don’t remember much more of Firsday.

First Sixday of Songs.
Who in the white pillages during Songs? Gods help the poor bastards now, the entire town jumped to arms as soon as the first cannonball slammed into our buildings. When the idiot pirates landed, they found an angry, boozed up town and a crew of veteran airiners fighting for the only rock in the skies that welcomed them unconditionally. This is the bloodiest day of Songs I’ve ever heard of since the King’s Feast. Is this the true face of the Age of Piracy, where no days are safe and sacred? Well, we bought our own peace and safety by the end of cutlass and pistol. Every last invader was cut down or tossed off our docks down to the misty lake below. Their gunship will Wreckhall’s first skyfishing vessel.

Vanboboa made a gift to me of a bottle of Bramblebush, and we finished it together by Winday’s end. I remember none of Falday and Sonday.

Month of Stone
Most of Songs is a hazy, head-throbbing blur in mind, but I don’t think I insulted anyone notable at least. I definitely agreed to something though, and I found out by week’s end as the winds drained out to a painfully quiet whistle. Stone sits dead and still on Wreckhall, a town I’ve grown over the last year, through error and effort, but it’s a place I’m proud to say I led.

I’m bound back to the Amellia, which is being rebuilt, retrofitted, and rearmed during the month. Once third spring arrives, I’ll be back out on the skies, serving as the ship’s quartermaster. I’m not sure if I want to be back in a position to slip on the rigging and tumble soundless beneath the white, but Captain Vanboboa insists. He’s got that gleam in his eye that screams schemes for the future.

The long nights of Stone are chilling. With an empty bed and guttering fireplace, I’m filled with dreams of a cold breeze. Wind whips around me as I lean over the precipice. Chill air pulls goosebumps up along my skin. I shiver uncontrollably. Something is close. Someone is close. Each night I wake wondering, feeling something out in the skies begin to tug at me. Perhaps it is time to leave Wreckhall.

I meet my successor, a twisted strip of a man with a scar over his face. I go over what I can, answering his few questions. I introduce him to Grickle, Morana, the heads of the farmers and miners, everyone I can think of. I debate bringing my meagre collection of books, but decide against it. They won’t do me any good sitting in the ship’s hold.

I pack and say my farewells. The Amellia is stripped and shined new. The new year is coming and I’m onto new adventures. Goodbye, Wreckhall. I hope to sleep safe and warm in your arms some far distant day.