Quis custodiet ipsos custodes

[Daala]

((Last two sentences are throwing system into a loop for some reason. If somebody figures it out, I'll add them. If not, eh, such is life.))

I suppose We are bound by some common principles. I would sum them, albeit with my awkward lack of linguistic dexterity. In the end, my words are quite arbitrary as long as meaning is gleaned from them.

As I write these ramblings I sit upon the inner curve of a circular window carved into the wall of the room in which I sit upon the inner curve of a circular window. I am awaiting a critical missive, and am thusly distracted, and I fear it might be unrealistic to pray for something as humble as coherency. My name is Kirtar and I am at this moment no different than a child scribbling nonsensical forms with a stick of charcoal. I am doodling with my quill in much the same manner. Enough inflated disclaimatory ramblings for now, as I regard them with growing disinterest.

There is a fine tradition in this world of burying our problems. The Titans secured their vaults in the earth. Illidan's cherished gift, the succor of the first World Tree at Hyjal. Even in the throes of a second coming, immortality could not be forsaken, and Teldrassil was born upon a second reservoir. Medivh's gateway, the font from which humanity's antithetical force flowed, was not dealt with until the advent of a replenished Horde.

The institution of tradition has forever been a paper cornerstone - the slightest exertion of force and it folds so easily that it might as well have never been. Our historic approach is no longer feasible. There is too much horror and too little grave soil to intern those of a nightmarish essence of being. Were I a more active capitalist, I'd say that we are lagging behind our working schedule, and if things continue in the present fashion I expect a fearsome epidemic of employment termination. For we are rapidly approaching a threshold of sorts, the pinnacle of the mightiest mount. Either we shall fall and our spines shall snap and our flesh be sundered or we shall find the downward slope the far easier thing. Could you blindly plunge your hand into a molten stream if somewhere in those dozens of fiery spans resides paradise's key? The answer, the edge of a straight razor upon which thousands of naive infants reside, along with all the rest.

We have erected great walls to stave off that infinitesimally minute and magnanimously critical moment when we'll see which points the rolled dice proclaim. The watchmen of our great walls are the domain of common knowledge. But who watches the watchmen? Who should catch life's burden should one of our illustrious stewards falter in stride? Before, I spoke of "we," our fraternity of the sentient races. But "we" is newly defined, and you are not amongst Us.

We are the cat stalking the mouse-hole with stoic sangfroid, counting each spidery fissure in the paint of the walls to pass the time it takes for the invisible vermin to come to believe that we have forgotten its presence. And We shall tirelessly exert ourselves, the true ascetics, forsaking not only possessions but the integrity of our flesh, so that every rat's innards are proclaimed to all that would give witness. And so the street leading to Elysium shall be paved with the broken backs of those dead horrors that would seek our racial immolation.

We are the accountants, and the tacticians. It is not so much Our role to fight as it is to provide the impetus, the catalyst, the seed from which great works may spring. Though We were born with political roots We swear no fealty to any man or any creed, for the times are a living creature, adapting and changing on their own accord. We swear only to the mission, simply defined as the preservation of our world in moments of emergency, and to this end We have been graciously empowered.

We do not seek to create a better world, for it would be a better world, a stronger loving world, to die in nonetheless. But fortune is as the tides - a sequence of highs and lows. We seek endurance.

[Daala]

Her eyes, blazingly intense by their own intrinsic virtue, for they lack a particular emblem of emotion. These same powerful, quiet orbs gaze as they do because they believe he will offer some form of validation, some answer to a question that, need it be put to vocalization, would prove him the far meager creature and unworthy of the inquiry. But he is not an unworthy man. And so when he fails to provide an answer it is not born from ignorance, but rather a decision to disregard these powerful, quiet orbs, gazing as they do. So she speaks her mind.

"I knew I'd see you again. I don't mean that romantically, as so many before have so used the phrase. Something told me that I'd see you just before the end of the world, or perhaps after. I'd say that things must be heating up, but that'd be redundant as our eyes clearly witness things. So I won't say it."

She reads on, another log.

I have spent the past several years of my life in relative comfort and security. Regardless of what official records proclaim, any less than firsthand observation is worthless. Since complete firsthand observation is pragmatically impossible, knowledge is so foolish of a thing. I shudder to ponder of how much wasted time for so petty a vacuum as knowledge. Superstition was a far simpler institution than science, and explained things to just as much satisfaction. For a man bearing the official condition that I wear, I have lived in an almost complete opulence, as I see it. Now, I am nestled amongst the roots of something between a stump and a tree, charred near the pinnacle. There is a dead and rotting cow not more than seven paces from me. I do not move, as in the past few days I have come to understand that there is not a patch of our foliage that isn't not more than seven paces from a dead and rotting cow. Slight drizzle of rain, kisses upon my flesh that I haven't felt from a woman in too long to even be sure of my libido anymore.

For every moment of those momentous years I essentially drifted through the days. I received notification of an incoming report by way of a haggard looking Magus seven hours before the parchment itself wandered its way to my grasp, and I knew that my idle times were not wasted, for I was sparing my energy for that precise instance, one of those infinitesimally minute and magnanimously critical times where a man capable of walking the span of the world in a minute would still be far too tardy to pave that all-important path. The Scourge had pierced the first Elf Gate with nearly complete dominance. My correspondent leads the defenders, and performed admirably, considering how little armaments fate deigned to grant her.

Enemy divisions were perhaps four days from our position at the moment I received the report at the Tranquil Way of Life. Now, there is but one day remaining, and those stupid enough to cling to the only world they knew will be exterminated as befits their idiocy and territorialism. I left because my concern was not for the Settlement that was my dominion for so long, but for a number of caches buried throughout our nation.

It was many, many years ago, before the Orcs even sprung from the Dark Portal in the First War, that a considerable number of individuals of fortuitous financial fare simultaneously came to realize how deadly a forgotten threat might be. I forget what precisely birthed this epiphany. They pooled a truly gargantuan sum for the express purpose of an emergency reservoir to fuel an almost spontaneous counter-stroke to catastrophe. Soldiers could arise almost as if from the soil, thousands of them, thousands of thousands. I recall that the proper term for this is millions. Though I am unsure whether or not there are so many available arms men in this world, I may declare with assurance that this fund contains millions of gold currency to such an end. Much was hidden in banks, though the majority was buried in the earth of the eclectic nations of these men. They referred to themselves as the Pantheon, and the fund as their Boon. By the time of the First War, the Pantheon had collapsed, as such confederacies of arrogant men are wont to do, and not a cent of the Boon could contribute to the defense against the Horde. A good portion of the money was spent for selfish reasons, but the stewards of these reservoirs were well chosen. The sheer majority of the Pantheon's Boon outlived its fathers.

Here, there is a gap in my anecdote. I shall write of it later, perhaps, if I feel thus inspired towards reminiscence.

Scattered scraps of the Pantheon remembered. Some have even survived. Fewer still could do both, but I am amongst their number. I was not born into it, as most, but found admittance by slaying the prodigal son of these dead gods whose humanitarianism could not survive their arrogant willfulness. But that is for the gap.

I know the locations of the money caches located within Quel'thalas, though the rest of the Pantheon does not know this. I now swoop towards them, for the alternative is to lose them to the tidal wave of the Scourge, which shall surely devour the legacy in our care. The Pantheon is also unaware of this, for I have received no official clearance, nor any manner of collaboration. It will likely appear that I am acting as a maverick defector, ironic, given our history. But perhaps this will be the tallow that might allow hope's flame to glow one tinge more fervently. A regeneration of the Pantheon, though the name must be changed. But not as a democratic organization, as in days long past, but as a dictatorship. Time is too short for discord, and it is doubtful that so critical a state of affairs shall last longer than the current generation. The perfect candidate, for I have no personal desire to lead. It is my mission to rebuild a chariot and find the one who might grasp the reins fit and fairly.

And hopefully retire to a few country manors. I would consider that fair severance pay.

Every day until then I shall find myself compelled to consolidate as great a portion of the Boon as possible, scouring the lands of this earth until either every last coin has been exhumed, or my time will run out.

Cheers.

[Daala]

A man slinks through the woods as though he believed himself a panther. It is performed admirably, and if there were ever a man to bedazzle all the beastly stalkers of the shadowy avenues, though he would not be the man, he would understand this paragon as a kindred spirit. He is a man and thus bears certain distinctive visual characteristics; however, as an individual's unique personality is in no way defined by face or hands or shoulders or genitalia let it for now simply be said that he is a man and he is acting the silent footfall. Truly, he is the Principle, the star attraction of the show. His audience is a contingent of Elven men adorned in ragged, non-descript armor. They do not proclaim any official emblems of Quel'thalas. They are under-fed and symptoms of malcontent are freely displayed. Those that do not bear weapons seem to be acting as sentries, though more than a scattered few seem inattentive, or squint into the brush. An observer might reasonably infer that they became sentries when they lost possession of their arms as a last ditch rationing of manpower.

The stage is the camp of this undefined contingency, not as transient as a ground dotted with tents. These men roam in and out of four walled, roofed buildings, albeit hastily and shoddily put together. This certain camp strains against a certain winding river, as the man in the heat of passion strives to so totally press against the woman as to become a single flesh. Burnished sun-flares upon sparkling diamonds that think themselves a stream frame a smallish island with near perfect symmetry. There is a manor upon this island, only partially constructed. It is not abandoned, and manual laborers may be seen. They ignore the manor, instead focusing upon a menagerie of fortifications. Oddly, these measures seem to have been exclusively erected upon the island, with no attention afforded the contingent occupying the shore. A bridge spans the distance between these two locales, seemingly crafted with more care than the defenses or the soldiers' abodes.

Our attention now returns to the slinking man who has not yet been afforded features. However, in the moments we have exhausted in order to gain a more panoramic intelligence of the audience and the play, he has since made his way to the river. With steady pacing and robust endurance he swims a looping arc to the supports of the bridge, dedicatedly keeping his course directly below a rising sun. It may be reasonably inferred that he is attempting to avoid detection. To each wooden pillar upon one of two sides of the bridge, he straps a dusky red bunch of cylinders, tied together with a cloth string that also connects each bunch. An experienced tinker would recognize these contraptions as bundles of dynamite. So that the majority of you faithful readers shall spared the venom of ignorance, I shall take this opportunity to remark that dynamite is a most potent and incendiary explosive. The slinking man blows a soft breath upon the untied length of cloth on the riverbank opposite the soldiers and across from the island.

With a deific explosion the bridge is torn asunder, a deluge of splinter and sawdust, the intact remainder crashing into that which was once so serene. Oddly, the arms men do not seem to panic. Of course they are surprised, and startled, but seem more irate than anything else. One begins to shout something quite enthusiastically, extending a certain gesture of quite an obscene nature, thus un-mentionable should one of you beloved readers suffer poor constitution, towards the island manor. Progressively more and more of his comrades begin to match the first's actions, and slowly trundle out from the settlement.

After ten minutes of visible inactivity from the contingent grounds, the slinking saboteur commences his arduous tread to the freshly abandoned setting. When he begins walking upon the sands and soil it seems to be with a clearly defined destination in mind. However, he seems to become distracted, and wanders into a building exhibiting traditionally accepted traits of a tavern. There is a clanking sound from the second floor, and he immediately takes a generous step back into a shadowy corner, minimizing his visibility. The source of the enigmatic disturbance does not reveal itself. Slinking down to a stealthier pose, he spots a hint of a patch of flesh - a slender neck. A hand crossbow strapped to his wrist cries out as a man whispers when struck in the gut, and the woman hiding on the second floor falls to the ground, dead with a three inch quarrel lodged just to the side of her throat. He gazes at her from where he stands, as she fell to a position of visibility on the other side of a railing. Telltale signs of bruises murmur through a heavy application of rouge and powder. She is a pretty girl, though not remarkably attractive. She seems surprised. The man's eyes settle upon her stomach, which bears a very slightly pronounced swell. He moves as though he intends to strike the wall with his fist, but stops himself, and turns without checking the bar.

He stops roughly two paces from the cornerstone of an ambiguous edifice, and speaks.

"La-Li-Lu-Le-Lo."

A warp of sorts, an eddy in the dirt manifests a slight distance to the man's left, and a moderate distance behind him. He speaks again, this time lacking the conviction that purpose deigns to provide.

"Close enough."

Without hesitation he steps into the new chasm, descending as in a free fall.

Minutes pass. A dog curiously sniffs a clump of weeds, taking a bite and promptly losing interest. As it trots off indiscriminately, it burps gently. A sparrow stalwartly pecks at a worm of elusive stock. Two dragonflies tumble about in an aerial loop, either masticating or fornicating. The man emerges, and returns to the tree line he initially emerged from.

[Daala]

Renna is a human woman of middling age and homely features. Her dress is of faded red and blue, and common wildflowers have been pressed into the weaving. She is a robust woman, robust in this instance a euphemism for overweight. It would not be inaccurate to declare her likeness that of the quintessential village midwife. Renna is a camp cook and an acolyte of the Cult of the Damned. That is the who.

The where is one of several tiny way stations erected by Scourge forward scouts in order to gather foodstuffs. The notion behind them is that when the main battalions arrive in the region, they will have rations waiting them and will not have to periodically stop for sustenance. While it is true that the mainstay of the Scourge's ranks is unliving, there are considerable numbers of cultist acolytes and necromancers, not to mention Arthas and his lesser Death Knight lieutenants, that are quite living. The nature of this way station marks it as a low security priority, and the camp consists of six food hunter/gatherers, three ghoul sentries, and Renna's son, Lucla, aged seven and diligently raised within the Cult's ethos. Incidentally, that is also the why, and an elaboration of the who. The when is implied and the how is readily inferred.

The resultant synergy of these considerations, who, what, when, where, why, and how amongst them, marks the sum of all background knowledge that an observer would be well served to possess.

Renna softly hums as she mashes the flesh of slain elves. Such elves have their throats slit as Scourge outriders blaze through the countryside. Their mostly intact bodies are slung onto the meat wagons, and as their flesh just barely begins to rot, their taste is so precisely aged that when ground up into a sort of gooey paste, it creates a congealed substance that the ghouls take to quite nicely. She does not realize it, but she murmurs the same harmonies that she sings Lucla to sleep with. Gathering just enough gore to provide for her camp's three sentinels, she quickly slips a tight canvas material about the stock corpse. Flies and miscellaneous carrion eaters are ever vigilant, after all. It used to be difficult work, given the sheer intensity of the smell, but the body in its infinite wisdom adapts with startling swiftness when the situation demands. A shout sounds, stemming from her young child.

Renna opens the door at the precisely opportune moment to witness an Elven man slip a stiletto into Lucla's kidney. Her child falls with his face contorted in a raging rictus and a kitchen knife clutched in his tiny fists. She has a moment to bless Ner'zhul and Kel'thuzad's promise of life eternal at his feet. She thanks her son's fortune to worship such a God. Had she another moment, she might have thanked her own fealty. Instead, a screaming bullet tears into her collar at the base of her neck, blowing apart a good portion of her figure, and she is quite likely dead.

There is a dull thud as a ghoul catapults its body weight against the door, and the wood begins to crack. Kirtar's lip twitches. A stupid thing, to close doors here. Nobody here should have cause to suspect another, and those cumbersome claws are better suited for shredding and tearing, and lack the finesse to manipulate knob or handle. Another thud. Kirtar takes stock of his surroundings. He notes cooking implements, pots and pans. Too metallic. Thud. The occasional cabinet. Likely nailed to the wall. Thud. A dead woman. Too heavy. Thud. A dead child. Crash.

As the scrabbling savage squirms its way through the fractured frame, Kirtar grips Lucla's hair at the roots, spinning a half circle to pick up momentum, letting loose to send Lucla flying. Kirtar does not retract his hands, and instead insistently mutters. A fireburst of garnet starlight and Lucla's body bursts into flame roughly two thirds of a second before crashing against the ghoul. Kirtar's right arm now dips down to his side, where a powerful rifle is strapped against his body. Flicking his wrist up, he propels the firearm up, swiveling in its bonds to press against the pit of his underarm. His left arm moves to an angle roughly perpendicular to the weapon, and fearsomely flexes, forming a brace. The rifle is quite customized, its trigger mounted halfway down the barrel with its stock at the top, rather than the rear. It is designed for the sort of stance Kirtar now employs, and would surely seem ridiculous out of context. This process has taken two and one-half seconds. A second bullet shatters the ghoul's sternum in the middle of its rampaging charge, delayed by the diversionary flaming boy, and it slides to the ground, ramming into Kirtar's shinbones.

He sags, grasping a countertop to save him from falling. He is halfway through raising himself to his feet as the second ghoul passes through the defunct doorframe. It has learned from its predecessor, ducking and dodging and bobbing and weaving to confuse Kirtar's targeting pattern. Biting his lip with such force that it bleeds, Kirtar steps forward, exposing his position and readies his gun. He is aware that the ghoul's preferred method of assault is to pounce forward, ripping and tearing within the opponent's inner ring of defense. He presents the quintessentially appropriate target of this tactic by presenting a ranged weapon without cover. Predictably, the fiend leaps forth. Kirtar bends at both knees, himself pushing away and springing, twisting towards the ground to sail beneath his foe. His scimitar makes a sound as though slicing through leather as it disembowels the thing from below.

With a moment's respite, Kirtar wraps a silk face-wrap upon his features, partially filtering his precious air. Anything to avoid Ghoul Rot. The third charges through, not as intelligent as the second, for it seems to have ignored the lessons of its peers. Kirtar again intones, this time a slitheringly slurred succession of syllables. His hands dart forward, then snap back, sequentially, not unlike a boxer's practice of punches. The ghoul's muscles quiver and shudder and with each motion of Kirtar's hands a tendon of its leg snaps, flopping freely. Soon, very little anatomy remains to carry it forth, and it collapses in a snarling heap.

The threats are neutralized, and Kirtar coughs, trundling off to do what he came to do in the first place, raking his fingers through his hair in a gesture of the release of nervous energy.

[Daala]

((This post is mostly expository, sorry it's not as interesting as I would've liked! Just wanted to get it over with in one go.))

"I'll be brief, Daala, in this, because this is the crux of the rest. I'm not the one to bear this. It isn't my purpose. I'm better suited in the field. I amassed this legacy so that I might impart it to one with a better notion of how to use it. I'm an evil man, I have no place in the "End of the World." It was with this philosophy that I designed the Tranquil Way of Life under my direction. A secret compound sequestered from the rest of the world, as Azeroth is separate from the other worlds of the Nether. A collection of relative younglings who have been given their paradise should they choose to make it, or break it, as with the races of this world. A motley crew of Nuij, the beast that waits in the dark with slavering jaws embodied in the guards and representing the dark lurkers of this world that this Pantheon was born to combat. From this simulation of the state of our worldly affairs would emerge a collection of individuals uniquely suited to thriving in this life. It was a holistic judgment narrowed by the Scourge's invasion but for this aim I have selected you to hold regency of this money that might shape a civilization.

There was a certain young man one certain year who in time of a certain war who was, as most men of his age and vigor, called to lands foreign to his understanding of the world to take up the sword for a war he held no true understanding of. To commemorate what would surely be the defining cornerstone of the story of his life he purchased, at great expense, mind you, a fine Gnomish pocket watch at his port of departure. Progress in the seas of time by three months. This certain young man is stationed at what had recently become the front-line. The nature of war holds that soldiers are routinely cycled to keep them sharp, well honed. Fearing death, he entrusted the watch to another certain young man who was leaving the fort in accordance with such a cycle, to deliver to a grieving family. True to the idiom of the thing, the first young man is shot in the thigh and in the gut with an arrow for each, acquiring a grievous infection and dying soon after, while the second young man marches faithfully, chivalrously, to deliver his most precious of cargo, which he held in the only container that he could manage to find; a crate of cheap and partially rotted wood. He is three days from his destination when a fearsome cascade of rain occurs in mid-travel. The wood is considerably weakened, and gives out whilst this certain young man cautiously fords a shallow yet tumultuous stream. The watch is washed away in the current and lost forever. I told that story so that you can truly understand what I mean when I tell you that the greatest gift in all the cosmos is not worth giving if it is not accompanied with a suitable packaging. My gift, the immense legacy to do with as I believe you will do, and my packaging. That is what I will now speak to you of.”

It’s a disconcerting sensation, to feel that one is not in control of one’s destiny, and to be surprised. While it is true that people delight in one or the other, the juxtaposition is rarely held in an optimistic regard. The sheer…bigness, of it all. But it feels like a case of gastric discomfort. A few hearty poofs, and it should pass. For the time being, Daala sits, and watches as Kirtar spreads a breathtaking array of architectural blueprints.

“First and foremost, it had to be somewhere quiet and unassuming. That’s a problem. Somewhere near the Maelstrom would fear nothing of factions within the Horde, or the Alliance, but I rejected that notion when I learned of the Naga. Not to mention the logistical nightmare of transportation, no thank you to that. Ultimately I selected Un’Goro. It’s odd and backwater enough to chase off just about any major interest. It’s neutral ground, almost exclusively occupied by venture capitalists who don’t know what the hell they’re doing and scientists who don’t know what the hell they’re doing. It’s right in between two Silithid-infested deserts, which was a problem until the Qiraji became such an international concern. Now, there are enough strike teams to keep the buggers off our asses, and the once-dilemma is now a rather attractive supplement. People entering the region have thoughts of conquest on their mind, as people leaving think of only rest, or cooler climates. Hardly an idyllically perfect region, but perhaps a practically perfect region. I chose the mountain range in the south-west, as it has not been over-run by the buggers, it’s near a sea that nobody travels, and you won’t find people wandering through it.

The next issue was the nature of the stronghold. Not so difficult – mountain ranges don’t provide many options. Nobody knows mountains like Dwarves, and nobody knows subterranean networks like Nerubians. The former were simple enough to contract. I know, I know, in the stories there’s always some dramatic anecdote in which the client of a particularly illicit contract slays his contracted workers, usually for no narrative purpose more than an immoral characterization of the client. But they’re bloody contractors. They build things all the bloody time. There are many contractors in the world. What are the odds that an enemy could firstly become aware of our presence, secondly become aware of our location, thirdly identify our architects, and fourthly acquire blueprints? That fourth one isn’t particularly improbable, excepting the fact that strict supervision has prevented little backdoors that we don’t know about, and will conclude in the destruction of all plans outside our possession. It isn’t easy to build a fortress. Nobody could memorize the schematics. The latter, the Nerubians, fell into my lap from some documents lifted off a Scourge envoy. That was some charming luck. We now have a fortified heart of a subterranean network nestled in a mountain range untouched by civilized creatures. A good start.

The third issue was the most vexing. Little ants build vast and glorious empires because of the sheer dedication of the creatures themselves. Fortresses need soldiers, cooks, maids, tanners, smithies, stable-hands, bowers, clerks, a majordomo, a captain of the guard, and such things. Just a corrupt one would be catastrophic. I have hand-picked various trusted individuals met through my works and travels, as well as former denizens of the Tranquil Way who have achieved an understanding similar to your own, that they have been blessed with the perspective and tenacity necessary to deliver this world. Leaks are still a worry, but a good management works wonders daily. Make sure you keep them fat and happy but ready to kill for you. Happy bastards don’t fuck their bosses over.

The rest was miscellaneous. Traditional architecture means that there’s virtually no eldritch signal. Magic’s like a beacon to a good arcanist. Aerial strikes are hard because the redoubt is hewn into the mountainside, which also saves the cost of walls – they’re already there, and thick as hell. A few watchtowers obscure enough to avoid detection. A mine to acquire materials, reduce supply trains, which can be traced. Gardens for special plants that don’t need so much sunlight for food. As self-sufficient as possible, minimize outside contact. The money itself should be scattered throughout world-wide banks, with an emergency fund held in the finest of vaults in the fortress in case you need a bang in a pinch. A nice cozy wing to keep those tittering idiots who think they’re entitled to legislative authority because their grand-pappies made a mint happy. A bar for the men, a library, trophy room for you. Such things as this.

I’ve been building it for years, feeding it money from my stipend in the Tranquil Way of Life. The entire redoubt costs something around one hundred and fifty thousand gold pieces, so there were a lot of installments. Unfortunately, I was forced to commandeer things before construction concluded. It’ll still take a fair amount of time for a finished product, so things will be sensitive for awhile.”

The sight of the fortress plays itself out like a great drama before Daala’s eyes, tactical concepts shining before her, marching to parade formation for easier observation. Three entrances. The front gate, the subterranean entrance connected to Kirtar’s proposed network of tunnels, and the mines. The mines would be a problem, better keep an axe next to the picks. The gate walls are ten feet tall, six feet thick, enough to withstand anything short of siege engines. Not that they could traverse the mountains. Two watchtowers, manned by two guards a piece, flank the main gate, manned by six, who determine whether or not a visitor seems safe. If the front door is compromised, an iron portcullis drops, trapping the attacker within so that he may be riddled with bullets and bolts. The entry hall may be similarly barred from within. Barracks are sizable enough to house as many as a hundred guards. A drill yard, immense enough to practice formation for open plains fighting, or mountainous or tunnel combat. An armory, the office and quarters of the Captain of the Guard, and the Majordomo, and the Owner, storage for the guards, room for twenty guests in luxury, two bath-houses (one for VIP’s), privies of varying quality, a dining hall for every denizen, a kitchen capable of feeding three-hundred at any given time, room for thirty six servants, a sprawling vault, a tavern, brewery, chapel, cleric’s rectory and office, dungeon, ore and tool storage, library, trophy hall, smithy, quarters for ninety-six miners. A lovely place to live. She takes quill in hand and begins making revisions as Kirtar simply watches.