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In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
Yvoise gaze was transfixed on the brittle yellow document held reverently in the old barristers hands. Her eyes widened when she saw the pile of similar written sheets on the desk. I simply must have them, she thought, I simply must. What an addition to my collection of written records! Unique document, absolutely unique. Listen to old Bart, she admonished herself, and with an effort she focused on the old barristers reading of the will.
Cerenise had noticed Yvoise practically drooling over the written paper type matter, and suppressed a grin (in consideration of the occasion), and smiled fondly at the saint she’d known for so very long. Such a confident capable character, despite her private mysteries. As saints go, she’s been a good one really. And as the holy mother of all saints surely knows, the organisers above all should be revered, for where would be be without them. Amen.
I hope this is being recorded so I can watch it later, Yvoise and Cerenise simultaneously thought, Because I haven’t paid attention to Bartholomew since my mind started wandering.
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
It must be two hundred years at least since we’ve heard a will read at number 26, Cerenise thought to herself, still in a mild state of shock at the unexpected turn of events. She allowed her mind to wander, as she was wont to do.
Cerenise had spent the best part of a week choosing a suitable outfit to wear for the occasion and the dressing room adjoining her bedroom had become even more difficult to navigate. Making sure her bedroom door was securely locked before hopping out of her wicker bath chair (she didn’t want the others to see how nimble she still was), she spent hours inching her way through the small gaps between wardrobes and storage boxes and old wooden coffers, pulling out garment after garment and taking them to the Napoleon III cheval mirror to try on. She touched the rosewood lovingly each time and sighed. It was a beautiful mirror that had faithfully reflected her image for over 150 years.Holding a voluminous black taffetta mourning dress under her chin, Cerenise scrutinised her appearance. She looked well in black, she always felt, and it was such a good background for exotic shawls and scarves. Pulling the waist of the dress closer, it became apparent that a whalebone corset would be required if she was to wear the dress, a dreadful blight on the fun of wearing Victorian dresses. She lowered the dress and peered at her face. Not bad for, what was it now? One thousand 6 hundred and 43 years old? At around 45 years old, Cerenise decided that her face was perfect, not too young and not too old and old enough to command a modicum of respect. Thenceforth she stopped visibly aging, although she had allowed her fair hair to go silver white.
It was just after the siege of Gloucester in 1643, which often seemed like just yesterday, when Cerenise stopped walking in public. Unlike anyone else, she had relished the opportunity to stay in one place, and not be sent on errands miles away having to walk all the way in all weathers. Decades, or was it centuries, it was hard to keep track, of being a saint of travellers had worn thin by then, and she didn’t care if she never travelled again. She had done her share, although she still bestowed blessings when asked.
It was when she gave up walking in public that the hoarding started. Despite the dwellings having far fewer things in general in those days, there had always been pebbles and feathers, people’s teeth when they fell out, which they often did, and dried herbs and so forth. As the centuries rolled on, there were more and more things to hoard, reaching an awe inspiring crescendo in the last 30 years.
Cerenise, however, had wisely chosen to stop aging her teeth at the age of 21.
Physically, she was in surprisingly good shape for an apparent invalid but she spent hours every day behind locked doors, clambering and climbing among her many treasures, stored in many rooms of the labyrinthine old building. There was always just enough room for the bath chair to enter the door in each of her many rooms, and a good strong lock on the door. As soon as the door was locked, Cerenise parked the bath chair in front of the door and spent the day lifting boxes and climbing over bags and cupboards, a part of herself time travelling to wherever the treasures took her.
Eventually Cerenise settled on a long and shapeless but thickly woven, and thus warm, Neolithic style garment of unknown provenance but likely to be an Arts and Crafts replica. It was going to be cold in the library, and she could dress it up with a colourful shawl.
In reply to: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“In the name of god amen I Auftreberthe saint of wafhing and water of the parifh of Gloucefter in the county of Gloucefterfhire being weak of body but of sound and perfect mind and memory do hereby commit my soul to the almighty and hereby do make thif my laft will and teftament in manner and form af followeth…”
And so began the reading of Austreberthe’s will to the small gathering assembled in the library of the emporium. Bartholomew Gosnold, the aged barrister, stood behind the large oak desk, clearing his throat frequently and pausing to peer over his spectacles. The library was atwinkle with lamps of a variety of styles and ages, but was otherwise dark and vast in the areas outside of the pools of light. Heavy brocade curtains covered the windows, and a fire glowed in the hearth, for it was winter, the last day of the year, and darkness came early and freshly fallen snow blanketed the town in frigid holy silence.
Despite the fire, it was chilly in the library which was rarely heated, and Cerenise wound her ancient Kashmiri shawl aound her neck and shoulders, pausing to finger the cloth appreciatively. It was an exquisite Kani shawl, woven with intricate floral motifs in warm shades of red and plum, soft as a rabbit. She inched her wicker bath chair closer to the fire, accidentally tipping over a small table and sending the contents of a green glazed Tamegroute bowl skittering across the floor.
Yvoise tutted loudly as she rose from her chair to collect all the buttons and stand the little table back up. Luckily the bowl had landed on the Tabriz rug and hadn’t broken.
Bartholomew Gosnold paused until Yvoise had finished, and then resumed his reading of the will, after first clearing his throat again.
In reply to: Finder’s Keepers of the Hoard
Some ideas for the background thread and character profiles for “The Hoards of Emporium 26.”
The Setting: Emporium 26
They live in Gloucester (ancient Glevum), a city built on Roman bones where the layout of the streets still follows the legions’ sandals. They inhabit a sprawling, shared Georgian townhouse complex that has been knocked through into one labyrinthine dwelling—Number 26.
To the outside world, it looks like a dilapidated heritage site. Inside, it is The Emporium: a geological stratification of history, where layers of Roman pottery are mixed with 1990s Beanie Babies and medieval reliquaries.
The Background Thread: “The Weight of Eternity”
Why do they hoard? Because when you live forever, “letting go” feels like losing a piece of the timeline. Hoarding objects is for them an accumulation of evidence of existence.
- The Curse: They cannot die naturally, but they can fade if they are forgotten. The “stuff” anchors them to the physical plane.
- The “Halo” Effect: Occasionally, when they are arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes, or when they find a lost treasure, the stained-glass light of their old divinity flickers behind their heads—a neon halo of forgotten holiness.
The Hoarders & Their Stashes
1. Helier ( The Hermit / The Dreamer)
- Saintly Origin: Based on St. Helier (Jersey/Normandy). He was an ascetic hermit who lived in a cave and was eventually beheaded.
- Modern Persona: A soft-spoken agoraphobe who hasn’t left the house since the invention of the internet. He wears oversized cardigans that smell like old library books.
- The Mania: Escapism & Communication.
- Because he spent centuries in silence on a rock, he is now obsessed with human stories and noise.
- The Hoard: ” The Media Mountain.”
- His wing of the house is a fire hazard of pulp fiction, towering stacks of National Geographic (dating back to the first issue), thousands of VHS tapes (he has no VCR), and tangled knots of ethernet cables that he refuses to throw away “in case they fit a port from 1998.”
- The Secret Stash: Beneath a pile of “The Hoarder Vampires” novels lies his true relic: The Stone Pillow. The actual rock he slept on in the 6th century. He still naps on it when his back hurts.
2. Spirius (The Bishop / The Container)
- Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Exuperius (Bayeux). A driver-out of demons and a man of grand gestures.
- Modern Persona: A nervous, fidgety man who is convinced the world is leaking. He is the “fixer” of the group but usually makes things worse with duct tape.
- The Mania: Containment & Preservation.
- In the old days, he bottled demons. Now, he’s terrified of running out of space to put things.
- The Hoard: “The Vessel Void.”
- Spirius hoards anything that can hold something else. Empty jam jars (washed, mostly), Tupperware with no matching lids, biscuit tins, and thousands of plastic carrier bags stuffed inside other carrier bags (the “Bag of Bags”).
- The Secret Stash: In a locked pantry, he keeps a shelf of sealed mason jars labeled with dates like “1431” or “1789.” He claims they contain the “Sigh of a King” or “The smell of rain before the Plague.” It’s actually just dust, but the jars vibrate slightly.
3. Cerenise (The Weaver / The Mender)
- Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Ceneri or St. Cerneuf. A saint of travelers, or perhaps needlework.
- Modern Persona: She is the “Wheelchair Girl’s” friend mentioned in the intro? Or perhaps she is in a wheelchair now—not because she can’t walk, but because she’s too tired from walking for 1,500 years. She is sharp-tongued and fashionable in a “crazy bag lady” sort of way.
- The Mania: Potential & Texture.
- She sees the soul in broken things. She cannot throw away anything that “could be fixed.”
- The Hoard: “The Fabric of Time.”
- Her rooms are draped in layers of textiles: velvet curtains from a 1920s cinema, moth-eaten tapestries depicting her own miracles (she thinks the nose is wrong), and buttons. Millions of buttons. She also hoards broken appliances—toasters, lamps, clocks—insisting she will repair them “next Tuesday.”
- The Secret Stash: A mannequin dressed in a perfectly preserved Roman stola, hidden under forty layers of polyester coats. It’s the outfit she wore when she performed her first miracle. She tries it on every New Year’s Eve.
4. Yvoise (The Advocate / The Bureaucrat)
- Saintly Origin: Evocative of St. Yves (Patron of Lawyers/Brittany/Normandy). The arbiter of justice.
- Modern Persona: The “Manager” of Emporium 26. She wears power suits from the 80s and is always carrying a clipboard. She loves rules, even if she invents them.
- The Mania: Proof of Truth.
- She is terrified of being forgotten or cheated. She needs a receipt for everything.
- The Hoard: “The Archive of Nothing.”
- Yvoise hoards paper. Receipts from a coffee bought in 1952, bus tickets, expired warranties, junk mail, and legal disclaimers torn off mattresses. Her room looks like the inside of a shredder that exploded. She claims she is building “The Case for Humanity.”
- The Secret Stash: A filing cabinet labeled “Do Not Open.” Inside is not paper, but Seeds. Seeds from the trees of ancient Gaul. She is saving them for when the paper finally takes over the world and she needs to replant the forest she misses.
Starter: The Reading of Austreberthe’s Will
The story kicks off because Austreberthe (The Saint of Washing/Water) has died. Her hoard was Soap and Water.
- The house is now flooding because her magical containment on the plumbing has broken.
- The remaining four must navigate her “Tsunami Wing”—a treacherous dungeon of accumulated bath bombs, stolen hotel towels, and aggressive washing machines—to find her Will.
- The Will is rumored to reveal the location of the “Golden Key,” an object that can legally terminate their lease on Emporium 26, which none of them want, but all of them crave.
Topic: The Hoards of Sanctorum AD26
“The girl in the wheelchair that visited sent me pics of her friend’s house… she is a hoarder…”
Helier put down the enthralling new Liz Tattler’s novel “The Vampire Hoarders of Varna”. He wondered if she’d done the topic any justice. But as with any good Liz Tattler novel, you were sure to be in for a ride.
Helier tended to lose track of time; it wasn’t as if anything was urgent, what was a few years of waiting for him.
But it wasn’t often one of them died —almost two hundred years that Audomar had left. Now Austreberthe had left her mortal coils too, just at the eve of the New Year. She must have grown sick of counting them.It was a mixture of pain and joy. Not as you’d think — Austreberthe had accumulated centuries of treasures, and after the ceremony, there would be the reading of the will, and they would know, the surviving ones, who would get the access to her trove.
Spirius, Cerenise and Yvoise would surely be there too.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
JOHN BROOKS ALIAS PRIESTLAND
1766-1846John Brooks, my 5x great grandfather, was born in 1766, according to the 1841 census and the burial register in 1846 which stated his age at death as 80 years, but no baptism has been found thus far.
On his first son’s baptism in 1790 the parish register states “John son of John and Elizabeth Brooks Priestnal was baptised”. The name Priestnal was not mentioned in any further sibling baptism, and he was John Brooks on his marriage, on the 1841 census and on his burial in the Netherseal parish register. The name Priestnal was a mystery.
I wondered why there was a nine year gap between the first son John, and the further six siblings, and found that his first wife Elizabeth Wilson died in 1791, and in 1798 John married Elizabeth Cowper, a widow.
John was a farmer of Netherseal on both marriage licences, and of independent means on the 1841 census.
Without finding a baptism it was impossible to go further back, and I was curious to find another tree on the ancestry website with many specific dates but no sources attached, that had Thomas Brooks as his father and his mother as Mary Priestland. I couldn’t find a marriage for John and Mary Priestland, so I sent a message to the owner of the tree, and before receiving a reply, did a bit more searching.
I found an article in the newspaper archives dated 9 August 1839 about a dispute over a right of way, and John Brooks, 73 years of age and a witness for the complainant, said that he had lived in Netherseal all his life (and had always know that public right of way and so on).
I found three lists of documents held by the Derby Records Office about property deeds and transfers, naming a John Brooks alias Priestland, one in 1794, one in 1814, and one in 1824. One of them stated that his father was Thomas Brooks. I was beginning to wonder if Thomas Brooks and Mary Priestland had never married, and this proved to be the case.
The Australian owner of the other tree replied, and said that they had paid a researcher in England many years ago, and that she would look through a box of papers. She sent me a transcribed summary of the main ponts of Thomas Brooks 1784 will:
Thomas Brooks, husbandman of Netherseal
To daughter Ann husband of George Oakden, £20.
To grandson William Brooks, £20.
To son William Brooks and his wife Ann, one shilling each.
To his servant Mary Priestland, £20 and certain household effects and certain property.
To his natural son John Priestland alias Brooks, various properties and the residue of his estate.
John Priestland alias Brooks appointed sole executor.It would appear that Thomas Brooks left the bulk of his estate to his illegitimate son, and more to his servant Mary Priestland than to his legitimate children.
THOMAS BROOKS
1706-1784
Thomas Brooks, my 6x great grandfather, had three wives. He had four children with his first wife, Elizabeth, between 1732 and 1737. Elizabeth died in 1737. He then married Mary Bath, who died in 1763. Thomas had no children with Mary Bath. In 1765 Thomas married Mary Beck. In 1766 his son John Brooks alias Priestland was born to his servant Mary Priestland.
Thomas Brooks parents were John Brooks 1671-1741, and his wife Anne Speare 1674-1718, both of Netherseal, Leicestershire.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
John Brooks
The Father of Catherine Housley’s Mother, Elizabeth Brooks.I had not managed to find out anything about the Brooks family in previous searches. We knew that Elizabeth Brooks father was J Brooks, cooper, from her marriage record. A cooper is a man who makes barrels.
Elizabeth was born in 1819 in Sutton Coldfield, parents John and Mary Brooks. Elizabeth had three brothers, all baptised in Sutton Coldfield: Thomas 1815-1821, John 1816-1821, and William Brooks, 1822-1875. William was known to Samuel Housley, the husband of Elizabeth, which we know from the Housley Letters, sent from the family in Smalley to George, Samuel’s brother, in USA, from the 1850s to 1870s. More to follow on William Brooks.
Elizabeth married Samuel Housley in Wolverhampton in 1844. Elizabeth and Samuel had three daughters in Smalley before Elizabeth’s death from TB in 1849, the youngest, just 6 weeks old at the time, was my great great grandmother Catherine Housley.
Elizabeth’s mother Mary died in 1823, and it not known if Elizabeth, then four, and William, a year old, stayed at home with their father or went to stay with relatives. There were no census records during those years.
John Brooks married Mary Wagstaff in 1814 in Birmingham. A witness at their marriage was Elizabeth Brooks, and this was probably John’s sister.
On the 1841 census (which was the first census in England) John Brooks, cooper, was living on Dudley Road, Wolverhampton, with wife Sarah. I was unable to find a marriage for them before a marriage in 1845 between John Brooks and Sarah Hughes, so presumably they lived together as man and wife before they married.
Then came the lucky find with John Brooks place of birth: Netherseal, Leicestershire. The place of birth on the 1841 census wasn’t specified, thereafter it was. On the 1851 census John Brooks, cooper, and Sarah his wife were living at Queens Cross, Dudley, with a three year old granddaughter E Brooks. John was born in 1791 in Netherseal.
It was commonplace for people to move to the industrial midlands around this time, from the surrounding countryside. However if they died before the 1851 census stating place of birth, it’s usually impossible to find out where they came from, particularly if they had a common name.
John Brooks doesn’t appear on any further census. I found seven deaths registered in Dudley for a John Brooks between 1851 and 1861, so presumably he is one of them.NETHERSEAL
On 27 June 1790 appears in the Netherseal parish register “John Brooks the son of John and Elizabeth Brooks Priestnal was baptised.” The name Priestnal does not appear in the transcription, nor the Bishops Transcripts, nor on any other sibling baptism. The Priestnal mystery will be solved in the next chapter.
John Brooks senior married Elizabeth Wilson by marriage licence on 20 November 1788 in Gresley, a neighbouring town in Derbyshire (incidentally near to Swadlincote and the ancestral lines of the Warren family, which also has branches in Netherseal. The Brooks family is the Marshall side). John Brooks was a farmer.
I haven’t found a baptism yet for John Brooks senior, but his death in Netherseal in 1846 provided the age at death, eighty years old, which puts his birth at 1766. The 1841 census has his birth as 1766 as well.
In 1841 John Brooks was 75, and “independent”, meaning that he was living on his own means. The name Brooks was transcribed as Broster, making this difficult to find, but it is clearly Brooks if you look at the original.
His wife Elizabeth, born in 1762, is also on the census, as well as the Jackson family: Joseph Jackon born 1804, Elizabeth Jackson his wife born 1799, and children Joseph, born 1833, William 1834, Thomas 1835, Stephen 1836, and Mary born 1838.
John and Elizabeths daughter Elizabeth Brooks, born in 1799, married Joseph Jackson, the son of an “opulent farmer” (newspaper archives) of Tatenhill, Staffordshire. They married on the 19th January 1832 in Burton on Trent. (Elizabeth Brooks was probably the witness on John Brooks junior’s marriage to Mary Wagstaff in Birmingham in 1814, although it could have been his mother, also Elizabeth Brooks.)
(Elizabeth Jackson nee Brooks was the aunt of Elizabeth in the portrait)
Joseph Jackson was declared bankrupt in 1833 (newspapers) and in 1834 a noticed in the newspapers “to the creditors of Joseph Jackson junior”, a victualler and farmer late of Netherseal, “following no business, who was lately dischared from his Majesty’s Gaol at Stafford” whose real estate was to be sold by auction. I haven’t yet found what he was in prison for.
In 1841 Joseph appeared again in the newspapers, in which he publicly stated that he had accused Thomas Webb, surgeon of Barton Under Needwood, of owing him money “just to annoy him” and “with a view to extort money from him”. and that he undertakes to pay Thomas Webb or his attorney, the costs within 14 days.
Joseph and Elizabeth had twins in 1841, born in Netherseal, John and Ruth. Elizabeth died in 1850.
Thereafter, Joseph was a labourer at the iron works in Wednesbury, and many generations of Jacksons continued working in the iron industry in Wednesbury ~ all orignially descended from farmers in Netherseal and Tatenhill.In reply to: The Precious Life and Rambles of Liz Tattler
“Whatever happened to Miss Mossy Trotter, Finnley?” Liz asked, conversationally. She had a good idea what had happened to that innovative story writer, but she wanted to hear what Finnley had to say, before she mentioned it to Godfrey.
“What to YOU think happened to her?” Finnley responded, in her customary rudely intuitive manner.
“Sit down on that stool for a minute, and put the feather duster down,” Liz instructed, “And let’s have a talk about this because we both know that the possible ramifications don’t bear thinking about. Now then, sit still for five minutes and tell me everything.”
Unseen by either of them, Roberto had sidled up to the French windows and was peering inside, listening.
In reply to: The Elusive Samuel Housley and Other Family Stories
Gatacre Hall and The Old Book
In the early 1950s my uncle John and his friend, possibly John Clare, ventured into an abandoned old house while out walking in Shropshire. He (or his friend) saved an old book from the vandalised dereliction and took it home. Somehow my mother ended up with the book.
I remember that we had the book when we were living in USA, and that my mother said that John didn’t want the book in his house. He had said the abandoned hall had been spooky. The book was heavy and thick with a hard cover. I recall it was a “magazine” which seemed odd to me at the time; a compendium of information. I seem to recall the date 1553, but also recall that it was during the reign of Henry VIII. No doubt one of those recollections is wrong, probably the date. It was written in English, and had illustrations, presumably woodcuts.
I found out a few years ago that my mother had sold the book some years before. Had I known she was going to sell it, I’d have first asked her not to, and then at least made a note of the name of it, and taken photographs of it. It seems that she sold the book in Connecticut, USA, probably in the 1980’s.
My cousin and I were talking about the book and the story. We decided to try and find out which abandoned house it was although we didn’t have much to go on: it was in Shropshire, it was in a state of abandoned dereliction in the early 50s, and it contained antiquarian books.
I posted the story on a Shropshire History and Nostalgia facebook group, and almost immediately had a reply from someone whose husband remembered such a place with ancient books and manuscripts all over the floor, and the place was called Gatacre Hall in Claverley, near Bridgnorth. She also said that there was a story that the family had fled to Canada just after WWII, even leaving the dishes on the table.
The Gatacre family sailing to Canada in 1947:
When my cousin heard the name Gatacre Hall she remembered that was the name of the place where her father had found the book.
I looked into Gatacre Hall online, in the newspaper archives, the usual genealogy sites and google books searches and so on. The estate had been going downhill with debts for some years. The old squire died in 1911, and his eldest son died in 1916 at the Somme. Another son, Galfrey Gatacre, was already farming in BC, Canada. He was unable to sell Gatacre Hall because of an entail, so he closed the house up. Between 1945-1947 some important pieces of furniture were auctioned, and the rest appears to have been left in the empty house.
The family didn’t suddenly flee to Canada leaving the dishes on the table, although it was true that the family were living in Canada.
An interesting thing to note here is that not long after this book was found, my parents moved to BC Canada (where I was born), and a year later my uncle moved to Toronto (where he met his wife).
Captain Gatacre in 1918:
The Gatacre library was mentioned in the auction notes of a particular antiquarian book:
“Provenance: Contemporary ownership inscription and textual annotations of Thomas Gatacre (1533-1593). A younger son of William Gatacre of Gatacre Hall in Shropshire, he studied at the English college at the University of Leuven, where he rejected his Catholic roots and embraced evangelical Protestantism. He studied for eleven years at Oxford, and four years at Magdalene, Cambridge. In 1568 he was ordained deacon and priest by Bishop of London Edmund Grindal, and became domestic chaplain to Robert Dudley, 1st Earl of Leicester and was later collated to the rectory of St Edmund’s, Lombard Street. His scholarly annotations here reference other classical authors including Plato and Plutarch. His extensive library was mentioned in his will.”
There are thirty four pages in this 1662 book about Thomas Gatacre d 1654:
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“I feel like I’m talking to myself, Kit,” Amy said but Kit wasn’t listening. “Where is Helper Effy?”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“You’ll never guess what the gazebo landed on! The Lost City of Zed!” Breathlessly, Amy told her father the exciting news of Chico’s successful mission.
“Saddle my horse, Crumpet, we must go at once. The Gazeba must stay there, and we go there for the character building, ” Sir Humphrey replied, struggling to his feet. “Tell everyone to pack.”
“Padre, calm yourself, there’s no rush. Did you just say Gazeba?”
“Of course I said Gazeba, don’t be dense, girl,” Humphrey said irritably, “Your mother was dense.”
I don’t even want to know. Amy shuddered, and went outside to look for Kit.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Ricardo!” Amy said with a raised eyebrow and a note of surprise in her voice. “All I’ve ever seen you do so far is lurk in bushes sending secret messages. But I admire your bold assertiveness, I can see you are on a sudden quest to discover your true potential.” Amy smiled encouragingingly and patted his shoulder. “The sooner we get the gazebo back the better, The Padre is recovering and anxious to host The Character Building Party.”
His chest swelling with pride, Ricardo replied that he was very grateful for her support and attention, and would do his best to restore both the gazebo and his independence, but that he was in a quandary about the conflict of interests between his role in the story, and his value fulfilment as a developing character.
“Yeah that’s a tough one,” Amy said, “But it’s a good question to ask at the party in the gazebo. Hurry and get the gazebo back!”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Ricardo noticed, with growing unease, that he hadn’t been included in recent events.
Had he been written out? Or worse, had he written himself out?New characters were arriving constantly, but he couldn’t make head nor tail of most of them — especially with their ever-changing names.
He contemplated slinking back behind the bush … but this tree business, all the crouching and lurking, was getting embarrassing.
For goodness’ sake, Ricardo, he admonished himself, stop being so pathetic.
It wasn’t until the words echoed back at him that he realised, with horror, his internal voice now sounded exactly like Miss Bossy Pants.
He frantically searched for a different voice.
It’s a poor workman blames his tools, Ricardo. Miss Herbert, Primary School. Her long chin and pursed lips hovering above his scribbled homework.
Really, Ricardo. A journalist? Is that what you want to be? His father’s voice, dripping with disdain.
Any hope for a comment, Ricardo? Miss Bossy Pants again, eyes rolling.
Ricardo sighed. Then — brainwave! If he could be the one to return the gazebo, maybe they’d write him back in
Or … he stood up tall and squared his shoulders … he would jolly well write himself back in!
He’d have his work cut out to beat Chico, though, with the elaborate triple-reverse-double-flip of the worry beads and all that purposeful striding. One had to admit, the man had momentum when he made the effort. It was uncharitable, he knew, but Ricardo decided he preferred Chico when he was spitting.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Well, I think that proves my point,” remarked Carob with a smirk.
“What do you mean”, Thiram said crossly, which sounded more like a resigned sigh than a question.
“Remember what I said? You can’t order a synchronicity, or expect one. They always just happen when you don’t expect it.”
“She’s right,” Any piped up. “We can’t just sit here waiting for a coincidence. We have to just carry on regardless until one appears.”
“Aunt Amy?” Kit asked, “How do we carry on regardless if we don’t know what our story is yet?”
“What I want to know is this,” Chico said with a twirl of his worry beads, “Who’s coming with me to fetch the gazebo back?” Chico squared his shoulders proudly, glad that his new colourful beads had replaced the urge to spit. He felt in control, a new man. A man to be respected. A leader.
With an elaborate triple reverse double flip of the worry beads, Chico turned and strode purposefully into the sunset, in the direction of the gazebo.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
The hat was gone.
Kit stood blinking in the sun, the shape of his new self cooling around the edges like a half-written cookie losing form. Without the cowboy hat, the lasso made less sense. His accent wobbled, then vanished completely. The sunglasses stayed, but now just made everything too dark, even tinted pink.
Behind him, the gazebo creaked again. But no trapdoor this time—only a faint whirring, like a film projector syncing spools.
“It’s reloading,” said Thiram from the sidelines, tapping at something that looked oddly like a pressure-gauged Sabulmantium. “Every time someone hands off a narrative object—like a synch, a hat, a horse even—it updates roles. We’re being cast on the fly.”
Chico looked up from Tyrone, who had snatched one of the Memory Pies and was now attempting to hide the evidence behind a flowerpot. “So… Kit’s not Trevor anymore?”“No,” said Carob, arms crossed. “He’s Trevorless. That identity didn’t bake fully. We have to stabilize it.”
“But with what?” asked Godrick, who had returned carrying a second cocktail, coffee with a glass of water and a slight wry smirk.
Amy, now balancing the cowboy hat on her head as she crouched next to the still-disoriented Padre, called out without turning:
“Bring him another Synch. That’s how it works now, apparently. Hat or otherwise.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Amy rushed over to Kit when she saw what had happened and said, “Kit, give me your hat!”
Tentatively Kit put his hand on his head and sure enough he felt a hat upon it. Carefully he removed it and wonderingly gazed at the cowboy hat. He loved it! Just looking at the hat was already giving him ideas for his character, newly baked memories were starting to slide in like a tray of chocolate chip cookies on a baking sheet, pulled out of the oven at the perfect golden melting moment.
But Amy wants it! I can’t say no to her, but I want to keep it. It’s my first hat! Kit was close to tears.
“Oh poppet,” Amy said kindly when she noticed his face. Giving him a quick hug she explained. “I only want to borrow it, just to keep the Padre happy. He keeps asking where his hat is. I’ll bring it back as soon as we’ve settled him back at home.”
The releif was immense, and he graciously surrendered the hat to Aunt Amy. “Did you call me Poppet?” he asked. “Because Thiram just called me Trevor.”
“To me, you’ll always be Kit,” Amy said as she rushed back to her father. “See you later, Poppet!” she called over her shoulder.
“What does that mean?” asked Kit, but Amy had gone.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
As Chico carried the Memory Pie over to Kit, a breeze shuffled the pages of the script lying abandoned beside the gazebo. No one had noticed it before—maybe it hadn’t been there. The pages were blank. Then they weren’t.
Kit blinked. “Did you just call me Trevor?”
“No,” said Chico. But he looked uncertain. “Did I?”
There was a rumble below them. The gazebo creaked—faint and subtle, like a swedish roll turning in its deep sleep.
Then—click-clac thank you Sirtak.
A trapdoor swung open beneath Kit’s feet. But instead of falling, Kit froze mid-air.
The air flickered. Kit shimmered.
And now they were wearing sunglasses, holding a cowboy lasso, and speaking in a faint Midwest accent.
“Sorry, I think I missed my cue. Where are we in the scene?”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Buns and tarts!” called a street vendor from the street outside the Gazebar. “Freshly baked Memory Pies! Nostalgia Rolls! Selling like Hot Cakes! Come and get ’em before they run out!”
Chico realised he’d hardly eaten a thing since becoming a new character. Maybe this is how character building works.
“I’ll take one of each,” Chico said to the smiling round faced vendor. I need to stock up on memories.
“Are they all for you, sir?” the vendor asked. Chico couldn’t help thinking he looked like a frog. Nodding, Chico said, “Yeah, I’m hungry for a past.”
“We normally suggest just one at a time,” the frog said (for he had indeed turned into a frog), “But you look like a man with a capacity for multiple memories. Are you with friends?”
“Er, yeah, yes I’m with friends,” Chico replied. Are the other new characters my friends? “Yes, of course, I have lots of friends.” He didn’t want the frog vendor to think he was friendless.
“Then we suggest you share each cake with the friends you want to share the memory with.”
“Oh right. But how do I know what the memory is before I eat the cake?”
“Let me ask you this,” said the frog with a big smile, “Do real people choose who to share their memories with? Or know in advance what the memories will be?”
“How the hell would I know!” Chico said, roughly grabbing the paper bag of buns. “I’m new here!”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Chico poured grenadine into an ornate art nouveau glass filled with ginger ale. He hesitated, eying the tin of chicory powder. After a moment of deliberation, he sprinkled a dash into the mix, then added the maraschino cherry.
“I’m not sure Ivar the Boneless, chief of the Draugaskald, will appreciate that twist on his Shirley Temple,” said Godrick. “He may be called Boneless, but he’s got an iron grip and a terrible temper when he’s parched.”
Chico almost dropped the glass. Muttering a quick prayer to the virgin cocktail goddess, he steadied his hand. Amy wouldn’t have appreciated him breaking her freshly conjured aunt Agatha Twothface’s crystal glasses service.
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Chico a tad too quickly. “Do I know you?”
“I’m usually the one making the drinks,” said Godrick. “I served you your first americano when you popped into existence. Chico, right?”
“Oh! Yes. Right. You’re the bartender,” Chico said. He fidgeted. Small talks had always made him feel like a badly tuned Quena flute.
“I am,” said Godrick with a wink. “And if you want a tip? Boneless may forgive you the chicory if you make his cocktail dirty.”
Chico pause, considered, then reached down, grabbed a pinch of dust from the gazebo floor, and sprinkled it on the Temple, like cocoa on a cappuccino foam. He’d worked at Stardust for years before appearing here, after all. When he looked up, Godrick was chuckling.
“Ok!” Godrick said. “Now, add some vodka. I think I’ll take it to Ivar myself.”
“Oh! Right.” Chico nodded, grabbed the vodka bottle and poured in a modest shot and placed it back on the table.
Godrick titled his head. “Looks like your poney wants a sip too.”
For a moment, Chico blinked in confusion at the black stuffed poney standing nearby. Then freshly baked memories flooded in.
Right, the poney’s name was Tyrone.
It had been a broken toy that someone had tossed in the street. Amy had insisted Chico take it home. “It needs saving,” she said. “And you need the company.”
At first, Chico didn’t know what to do with it. He ended up replacing some of the missing stuffing with dried chicory leaves.
The next morning, Tyrone was born and trotting around the apartment. All he ever wanted was strong alcohol.
Chico had a strange thought, scrolling across the teleprompter in his mind.
Is that how character building works?
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Still visibly shaken, Sir Humphrey blinked up at the canopy. “Is it… raining? Is it raining ants?”
“It’s not rain,” muttered Thiram, checking his gizmos. “Not this time. It’s like… gazebo fallout. I’d venture from dreams hardening midair.”
Kit shuffled closer to Amy, speaking barely above a whisper. “Aunt Amy, is it always like this?”
Amy sighed, pinched the bridge of her nose, and said, “No, sweetheart. Sometimes it’s worse.”
“Right then,” declared Carob, making frantic gestures in the air, as though she’d been sparring the weather. “We need to triangulate the trajectory of the gazebo, locate the Sabulmantium, and get Sir Humphrey a hat before his dignity leaks out his ears.”
“I feel like Garibaldi,” Sir Humphrey murmured, dazedly stroking his forehead.
“Do you remember who Garibaldi is?” Chico asked, narrowing his eyes.
“No,” the Padre confessed. “But I’m quite certain he’d never have let his gazebo just float off like that.”
Meanwhile, Madam Auringa had reappeared behind a curtain of mist smelling faintly of durian and burnt cinnamon.
“The Sabulmantium has been disturbed,” she intoned. “Intent without anchor will now spill into unintended things. Mice shall hold council. Socks will invert themselves. Lost loves shall write letters that burn before reading.”
“Typical,” muttered Thiram. “We poke one artifact and the entire logic stack collapses.”Kit raised a trembling hand. “Does that mean I’m allowed to choose my name again?”
“No,” said Amy, “But you might be able to remember your original one—depending on how many sand spirals the Sabulmantium spins.”
“I told you,” Chico interjected, gesturing vaguely at where the gazebo had vanished over the treetops. “It was no solar kettle. You were all too busy caffeinating to notice. But it was focusing something. That sand’s shifting intent like wind on a curtain.”
“And we’ve just blown it open,” said Carob.
“Yup,” said Amy. “Guess we’re going gazebo-chasing.”
