The best bricklayer in Silton is undoubtedly Jan Maurer. It may seem strange that a common tradesman would carry a family name when even the mayor does not carry one, but the Maurer family had been bricklayers for as long as anyone could remember. At some point in time, they had been given the name Maurer. Out of all of them, Jan Maurer was arguably the best. It is said that, in good weather, he and his company could construct a house in four months while others required at least five. And, though he is the priciest bricklayer one could hire in Silton, his buildings always stand the longest, with the strongest pillars, straightest bricks and most level steps. Jan Maurer himself took to chiseling ‘Maurer’ into the bottom front step of each house he built, and it became a thing of pride for the owner of the house to show off to his visitors whenever they complimented his magnificent dwelling places.

The inn I am residing in is built by another bricklayer called ‘Morty’. I know this because it is chiseled into the bottom front step of the building. Apparently, it was not long after Jan Maurer began marking his buildings before every other bricklayer began doing the same. In time, only the oldest buildings whose builders had died were without mark, and their numbers decreased as they fell apart and were rebuilt. It is said that City Hall only escaped being marked due to the obstinance of Mayor Hasey, who had personally relaid the front steps himself so that the building could not be claimed by any one person.

Gestalt was a highly respected scientist in his time. Even the king admired his work, and found benefit in keeping him close by and offering him any supplies that he needed. In return, Gestalt created inventions that guaranteed the king victory in battle against his enemies. One particular weapon, a sort of bow that fired up to five shots in rapid sequence, proved so effective that the entire bowmen division was cut in half and every remaining bowman was equipped with one.

Invention fascinated Gestalt. It was not the military inventions that he enjoyed the most, but the regular, everyday inventions, like pails and brooms, which fascinated him. On a clear day, he observed a broomstick and the shadow it cast on the ground. The idea struck him to create a giant sundial in Silton City Square, so that every citizen would be able to use it. To his surprise, it was one project that the king did not approve. “There is no need for peasants to tell time,” King Walther had reportedly said.

The prince, however, admired science and funded the project in his stead. Thus, a giant golden pole was staked into the centre of City Square, a large circle drawn around it, divided and marked with the times of day. Gestalt was very pleased with the result, and it told time as it should.

But the villagers complained. Some had walked into the pole by mistake and injured themselves. Others felt it was an abberation upon their view of the clear sky. By far, the worst complaint was this: any idiot could look up at the sky and know the time of day, as accurate as was needed. The days when the clock would be most useful, on days of rain and heavy cloud, the clock was, inevitably, completely useless. Worse still, as buildings rose around City Square, they shaded the sundial from certain angles and rendered it partially useless during good days as well. It wasn’t long before the giant sundial became known as the Giant’s Toothpick in City Square, then, one day, the Giant Flagpole. After all, according to Mayor Hasey, it had to be useful for something.

I was called to Knoll Castle on the Eighth of Peat Month, in the middle of summer. King Walther had requested a “person good with keeping record of things” as I was told. Somehow, I was recommended to him. From my home in Sandale, I was ejected from my humble job as an economic and welfare reporter. My editor told me that no one should refuse a job from the king, and promptly fired me. Thankfully, I was employed by the king immediately upon my arrival. Lumis Cosimi, the National Secretary of Welfare and Humanity, explained to me that the king had recently read his son’s history textbook and was aghast at the lack of detail it contained regarding modern history. The accomplishments and hardships of his kingdom as it stood now, under his rule, were at risk of being forgotten forever. Therefore, my new job was to keep track of occurrences within Mound Kingdom: major events, economic events, national and cross-boundary disputes, as well as town events, celebrations, mundane details of peasant life, anything I deemed important for history’s sake, from anywhere I chose to wander within his kingdom. I should be impartial and objective in in everything I write, never interfering with the citizens’ activities, doing nothing to suggest partiality, only reporting what I observed. There were a handful of us charged with this task, I was also informed, reporters from every corner of the kingdom, though our names will remain hidden from each other.

The pay is fair: 50 frits a week, paid monthly, an average pay for average reporters. Additional expenses for travel and accommodation are reviewed and reimbursed by the kingdom, with my mailed correspondence to Knoll Castle once a month to report my findings. This, then, is the first record I make as Official Record Keeper.

Walther Mundt was king of Mound Kingdom. His son had a secret. Every day, Arnault Mundt would take a stroll over a corner of his father’s territory, observing what he knew would become his one day. His hands would pass over the rocks and heads of the people he met, “This will be mine, this will be mine,” he would mutter under his breath. Behind him walked Hunter, his companion and personal guard.

King Walther’s subjects were not all happy. On an otherwise normal spring day, thirty-four peasants wielding long spears and kitchen knives tracked mud into the king’s fine court. Their leader took the throne and Arnault fled. But he was not alone.

Hunter had been a guard in the royal court before becoming Arnault’s companion. He had pledged loyalty to King Walther when Arnault was six. He had been only twelve years old at the time. When the king charged him with protecting his only son, Hunter felt pride in being entrusted such an important task. Naturally, with Walther’s death, that loyalty was passed on to Arnault. So he thought nothing of it when Arnault made his request: to cut off the heads and hands of every one of the thirty-four men who had killed his father.

It was done.

The kingdom was returned to Arnault Mundt within a year of the rebellion. He took the throne with the grace of one born to be king. On his left lay thirty-four heads and thirty-four pairs of shriveled hands in a pile, on his right stood his faithful Hunter. Until the day he died, King Arnault ruled that kingdom which spanned towards the ends of the earth.