Advertisement
Remove

A note from Wutosama

Voting for the novel :: Voting button  


The trio took the country-line to Limehouse, then a bus to Blackwall. No fare was needed thanks to their Public Practice of Magic Licences, which allowed the Mages free transit on intra-city transports from ferries to busses to the London Tube.

At the station, Gwen bought a copy of the Sun Herald, one of the three newspapers widely available for purchase. When she handed over the currency card, a wide-eyed newsagent stared, scarcely believing that page three had come to life. Flipping through the spread, she could see that the public interest continued thanks to new testimonials coming out of Merthyr Tydfil.

Once disembarked, Gwen studied the locality with a measured eye. In its present incarnation, Canada Square, Cabot Round and Westferry Circus all remained in their pre-developmental dilapidation, with short, squat brick buildings encompassing the length of the waterside, crammed to the brim with town housing for NoM dockers.

For Gwen, who was all too familiar with old-world London's infamous "second CBD", seeing Canary Wharf in an untransformed state was jarring to the extreme. In her plane, since the late 80s, foreign investment from the Saudis and then the Chinese had transformed the docklands into a financial leviathan. Pound for pound, the apartments and commercial spaces around the Isle became some of the most expensive in the city. The irony was that, when the economy of the Isle of Dogs collapsed in the 1980s, the project sold itself as bringing back jobs to the 20,000 dockworkers and their families.

Naturally, by the 90s, all but the fringe-living families on the isle had been priced out by the enterprises. Thanks to Thatcher's union-busting and Blair's public cuts, Canary Wharf had even attained corporate extra-territoriality for its pseudo-public spaces.

On their way to Millwall, Gwen felt giddy that present-day Canary Wharf remained entrenched in the 80s. There were no skyscrapers, only plumes of oily, inefficient mana exhaust adding to London's winter smog.

Amazingly, the old quay still operated— serving the very same purpose it had some century ago, off-loading incoming freight that serviced the city. When she spied at the cargo barges, most of the ferried goods consisted of fruit and vegetables from both across the English Channel and from the northern wildlands.

"It stinks," Ollie observed, wrinkling his nose.

Elvia agreed. The region had been a bog-swamp. Now, as a result of urban decay, nature had reclaimed some of its industrial spaces.

Half-a-kilometer later, the trio passed the Marsh Wall, arriving at what could have been the seventh-five storey Landmark Pinnacle. Disparate from Gwen's recollection, a triple set of steel-gated warehouses, half-rusted with the teeth kicked-in and the windows smashed, occupied the hotel's commercial space.

"Location, location, location." Gwen smacked her lips audibly enough for the others to hear. "What a place this is."

"Does it remind you of Forrestville?" Ollie's lips curled, suggesting that Gwen was nostalgic for the industrial sprawl of her Australian home.

"Forrestville wasn't this bad…" Elvia pulled her sweater lower, even though she wore formless pants that hid her thin legs. "Gwen, there are NoMs here."

"Of course there are NoMs here," Gwen snorted. "This is the hamlet of Millwall!"

And as the trio knew nought of Millwall, there was nothing more to be said.

To their left and right, moving down Westferry into the Outer Docks, sat rows of grey, Victorian terrace houses with shared partitions and dark, conjoined gables. From the windows of these cramped, dreary-looking homes, tired eyes looked out at the intruders.

What must they look like to the NoMs? Gwen wondered. She must appear out of place with her elegant autumn getup. Beside her, Ollie was every inch a Wizard from Hogwarts, wearing grey trousers and oxfords, half-hidden under Cambridge's signature robes. Behind them stood Elvia, whose garish combination of colours was the brightest, retina-searing thing from dockside to the farm.

"Watch out!" Ollie halted the group. There was a puddle, or perhaps a sinkhole, or maybe something disgusting and unnameable, barring their way.

Threateningly, the muddy water glooped.

"We could walk around."

"Not for much longer." Ollie indicated to the patch of green on the distant hill. "This area used to be a bog. Thanks to the snow, the mud rises like water across the tidal flat. Gwen can fly, but WE need to play by the rules."

"Is Levitation too much?"

"There's always Prestidigitation," Elvia suggested.

Gwen looked around. "Ariel!"

"Ee!" A crash of thunder struck the clearing, Ariel appeared a split-second later, hovering mid-air. "Ollie, Evee, you guys Levitate and hold onto Ariel."

Flying in a sense, but not-flying all the same, the trio forded the encircling ring of mud.

"Ee!" Ariel's senses were sharper than its human companions. Instinctively, it picked up the odour of unwashed bodies ripe with cabbage smells, emerging from the docker's terraces. For a creature of rarified air, the stench of the unwashed masses shivering with winter-sweat was not a pleasant experience.

"Looks like we've got company," Ollie observed drily.

A mob approached, assembled from the flotsam and jetsam of folk emerging from the leaning terraces. Most of them wore work shirts with dark, rain-proof jackets. There was nary a woman among the men, who wore unfriendly scowls, carrying dangerous malice in their eyes.

"Oi, wot're the bleeding likes ef ya doin' in a sheit hole loike this?" The leader, so far as Gwen could see, was a man in his late forties; ham-faced, barrel-chested, and wearing a newspaper cap.

"I am sorry?" Gwen halted Ariel. "What are we doing here?"

"Yeah, wot're chicky Sorceresses loike yos doin' in a hoe loike ours?"

"Sight-seeing." Gwen returned a dazzling smile. "Gentlefolk, please don't mind us."

"Oh, but we do min', young lydy. This 'ere is our 'omes. What's so interestin' abaht a bunch o' wag's hearths?"

Gwen wondered if the workers would at all understand if she simply told them that she would soon bring them new jobs with fair pay for the next two decades. Seeing the isle in such a state, she could almost taste the untapped opportunities— though that could also be the swamp water. Either way, all she needed was a spark, once an investor appeared with the cash to gentrify a single section, other punters followed like hungry mongrels smelling a fresh carcass.

"Rest assured we have no unkind intentions, good sir." Gwen nodded.

"Ya best be garn naw." The dockers menaced them.

"Of course, we—"

Ollie halted her before Gwen could go. Leaning closer, the Praelector began to furiously whisper beside her ear. "Gwen, are you going just to let them… bark?"

Gwen cocked her head at her companion. "Yes?"

Ollie raised a brow. "They're NoMs."

"I know. These are the salt of the docks. The common muck coughed forth by the Thames." Gwen shrugged. "Don't give me that face, Ollie. Are you seriously going to bang spells with yokels?"

"We are Elite Mages." Ollie's voice rose an octave. "Untitled we may be, we remain beyond the NoM's reproach. I am a Magus of Cambridge, and you're a sanctioned War Mage. We are free to go where we please in London. Be it the Tower, or this— eyesore."

Hearing Ollie's displeasure, the dockworkers stepped back.

"Now you're frightening the poor sods." Gwen sighed. "Good people of the Millwall. Pay Magus Edwards no mind. We'll be leaving immediately."

"Gwen." Elvia tugged Gwen's sleeve.

"Yes, Evee?"

"I can sense their sickness." Elvia's eyes darted toward the leader and a few more of the younger men. "Malnutrition mostly, and Diphtheria, Tuberculosis, Mould Lung…"

"Black mould?"

"Quasi-magical toxin poisoning," Elvia whispered. "There's probably Slimes and other Magical Creatures living in the docks, or under the hamlet in the sewers."

"Yikes…"

"Can we help them?"

"Are they dying as we speak?"

"No…"

"Then we'll be back." Gwen waved at the dockworkers to show that indeed, they were merely passing by. "Ollie, be a dear and come away."

The trio skirted the soupy water in the dock, then threaded their way through the dockland until they reached upper Mudchute, once a fishing village on a boggy rise emerging from the swamp. A century ago, the land had appeared as a result of displaced Transmutation overspill from the dock's construction. Now, the mud-hill was the location of Gwen's new address— Lady Loftus' gifted leasehold.

At the gate of what could only be Mudchute farmhouse, Ollie fired off a flare to inform the keeper of their arrival. With the silvery Sigil blooming overhead, a hound call went up, followed by a long chain of howls, barks and growls. A moment later, streaming from the barns and the kennels, some two dozen dogs poured forth.

"Holy hell…" Gwen fought back her lesser instincts.

These were large dogs— wolfhounds by the appearance of their bristly coats, and each the size of a pony. On long, graceful legs, the dogs pounded the sodden turf, bringing up great clouts of icy clod. Instantly they surrounded the trio, forcing Kiki and Sen-sen to hide even deeper inside Elvia's pockets.

"Come-bye!" came a great, booming voice over the hill.

The dog-swarm obeyed, forming a clock-wise wheel as they encircled the travellers.

The silhouette of a man emerged, stocky and stout and with the air of a military man.

"Stand!" A shrill whistle followed the order. As one, the twenty-odd dogs stood to attention, a few scratching their ears while the rest panted, sniffing the air to taste the intruders.

Gwen and her two companions waited until the man was in speaking range.

"Gwen Song, War Mage," she introduced herself. "This is Magus Ollie Edwards— Peterhouse's Praelector, and here is Elvia Lindholm— trainee Cleric from Nightingale's. Master Samson, I believe?"

"Right you are, Miss Song." The man saluted, despite Gwen possessing no official rank. "Excuse the pups. They are still in training."

"They're plenty well trained." Gwen drifted forward, just skimming the earth. The ground underfoot alternated between waterlogged grass and ankle-deep ice-sludge.

"Aye, it's a wee wet after the snow thaws." Wally Samson put on a knowing smile. "I brought a few pairs of Wellies."

Together, the group made for the house on the hill. The veteran was older than he looked. The man's wheat-coloured hair was interwoven with strands of grey, giving him a grizzled demeanour.

"Wally Samson, at your service."

"Thank you, sergeant."

"Just Samson will be fine." The man brushed off their politeness. "Got early supper prepped if yer mind. Just simple, farmhouse fair."

"I love a good farm to table." Gwen was entirely serious. The fish and chips had been a bit too lite and a bit too rich; a paradox made possible only by fast food.

"EE!" Ariel expressed a desire to play with the dogs. Gwen obliged by cutting the Familiar loose, allowing Ariel to hover over to the panting hounds hungry to take in the newcomer's scents.

"Caliban!"
"Shaa!"

The dogs bolted, instantly recognising a predator who could consume the lot of them and still have the stomach to spare.

"EE!" Ariel lamented, glaring at Caliban.

"Shaa!" Caliban considered chasing the hounds.

"Aww." Gwen tossed her Familiars a few HDM crystals. "Poor Cali. Don't mind it."

"Shaa…"

Wally said nothing, though he did keep a safe distance from Caliban.

The farmhouse itself was a brick and flint cottage in dusky red, with mossy-tiled roof and a lichen-covered fence surrounding the outskirts. To the rear sat two enormous barns, both taller than the house itself. The kennels were located in the eastern quadrant, taking up more space than both the main building and the barn, looking drier and better furnished as well. Here and there, Gwen could see Black-faced Suffolk sheep, the curly-haired Irish Auroch, and stranger creatures halfway between horse and goat. Atop the roof gable, a pair of ravens looked down on the gathering with cold, unblinking eyes.

The voyeuristic birds and the dour stench of the swamp aside, the setting very much reminded Gwen of an episode in "Escape to the Country".

Inside, Gwen was surprised to see an unsealed ceiling older than the Mageocracy, left exposed so that the fireplace could bake the moisture from the wood. With a Firebolt from Wally, the hearth roared into life, casting the dining room into shades of warm orange.

"That er guess?" A woman emerged from the attached kitchen, her face white and round as a full moon. "Time ter service supper, ser?"

"Almost, Mary, thank yee," Samson gave his orders, then shooed her from the dining. "Please, yer honours, sit where ever ya like."

Ollie and Elvia sat on either side of the large, oaken table, while Gwen sat at its head. Wally Samson then left to retrieve a bundle of documents, returning to the desk with printed parchments and an expensive fountain pen.

"Yer lease-holds, my lady." Wally presented the documents. "Sign here, and you'll receive custodianship of the lower Isle's estates, as well as care over Cubitt and Millwall for the next five years."

"Thank you, Wally." Gwen read through the documents carefully, a paranoid habit inherited from an earlier life. "… it says here I have to pay a levy?"

"Ten per cent of what the estate produces." Wally nodded. "Mind you, other than the kennels. We don't produce much of value. Just enough to eat."

"I assume our benefactor receives the levy?" Gwen asked if the tithing was to the London Tower, the Commonwealth Government, or the Lady of Ely.

"Yes, the tithing is to the Lady of Loftus," Wally clarified, apparently more in the know than Gwen gave him credit.

"Of course." Gwen felt better for the fact. It came as no surprise that Lady Grey's kindness wasn't without her slice. "And the rent?"

"No rent. But, as our custodian, you will be liable for the estate's land tax, stamp tax, corporate tax and income tax during your occupation. Other than that, the levy is all."

Gwen performed a few quick calculations. If her tax code served, up to thirty per cent goes to the man, plus lump sums throughout the year, plus another ten per cent of her gross goes to her benefactor. After that, whatever she portioned out to herself lost another thirty per cent to the state. Compared to her forming a party and going out and farming for Cores and crystals, it was a bland affair. If so, there was little wonder that adventuring, with its hard-to-trace income streams, was a principal avenue of profit.

Studying the next few pages, she puckered her lips while scanning the documents. For someone without the means to circumvent the economic barriers, the Isle of Dogs was a problematic piece of real estate. For herself, who had seen it all happen, the matter was more so an issue of how to kick-start the transformation.

First, she desired tax cuts.

That was the catalyst she needed.
She could effortlessly bring the cash, but the city of London had to guarantee her profitability if it desired advancement from the private sector. In exchange for bringing employment and rejuvenating the local economy, there had to be tangible benefits; not just for herself, but for her future investors.

One of which was Lady Loftus, naturally. Once the isle's potential could be realised, the Marchioness of Ely would be the envy of all. Then, assuming she could bring onboard new friends with vaults full of HDMs, it was entirely possible to recreate some portion of the isle's commercial landscape within the span of five to ten years.

Of course, she would need a trustworthy and wily manager to oversee the operations, at least until her Spellcraft course finished. If there was one thing she looked forward to, it was that few would dare to short-change Magister Song, War Mage. In time, she could then funnel the profits into a Tower— if not in the Commonwealth, then a commercial one in the USA.

And as for the NoMs— Gwen paused when she reached the last page.

NoMs weren't Mages. No matter how much they worked, the distance between Demi-gods and mortals could not be bridged, not without unbearable upheaval. If there must be change, it must come gradually, slowly, trickling from below, seeping through the stratum of society like the moisture-seeking roots of a rock-tapping cactus.

That, or ride in high upon the crashing crest of profit.

With a flourish, she signed her name, then pressed her Glyph into the contract. The paper briefly flashed while the Divi-invocation took hold.

Wally Samson bowed deeply. "Ma'am. The thirty employees of the estate and I, await your pleasure."

"Thank you, Wally." Gwen packed the papers for safekeeping. "I look forward to working with you."

"Nary a title, and yet already the mistress of a domain," Ollie said, his lips sultry with longing. "Maybe you can start by teaching those dockers a lesson in propriety."

"You're still mad about that?" Gwen gave Ollie a sideways glance. "Wally, what's the state of employment in Millwall and Cubitt?"

"Idle, Ma'am," Wally replied without any particular emotion. "Ever since the upgrade to the Royal Albert, the Royal Victoria, and the George V docklands, Canary Wharf has been neglected."

"From that prefix— I take it the 'Royal' docklands are operated by folk with long names and blue blood?"

"Correct. A coalition, ma'am. Each of the Factions has their cut. Norfolk, Camden and Exeter have controlling stakes, among others."

"I see." Gwen's nostrils flared when Wally spoke the familiar name.

With some disappointment, she realised that market regulation in this world didn't come in the form of government intervention. The state itself spearheaded the spirit of anti-competition. If so, then the proposals she sold in China would fail to net her the same portion of profits. Different to the economic wild west of the Frontier, London beheld itself to "Royal" robber barons and resource tycoons. In turn, all sycophants must offer perpetuation perpetual tithing to those at the top.

Feudalism-in-reality.
Democracy-in-name.
Fascism-in-practice.
Cronyism by design.
— all sustained by the perpetual threat of extinction.

Gwen found it ironic that a Brit— the late novelist George Orwell— warned the world that the purpose of conflict was to consume the products of human labour. In Oceania, the repressive fear of annihilation made the gifting of all power to a small caste seem the natural, unavoidable condition of survival. Fighting down an impulsive fancy, Gwen wondered what would happen if she quoted Orwell on a pamphlet and rained his wisdom over London? Would she be in Stasis by the end of the week?

"I am sure even you can see these are desperate folk," Gwen invited Ollie to consider the NoM's circumstances. "Who cares for propriety when there's no gruel for the babe? Manners? Can manners nourish a dying daughter?"

Ollie formed a slight frown.

"And they're sick," Elvia aided her companion. "These are hungry people, Ollie."

"It's the lord's responsibility—" Ollie began, then quickly realised what he was about to admit.

"I have taken too little care." Wally bowed his head, saving the young man. "Please inform Lady Loftus of my ineptitude."

"That's not what I meant. I say, your dogs look wonderful," Ollie added quickly. "Incredible coats, very robust, superbly fed, I—"

The young man stopped when Gwen and Elvia's gaze shoved the words back down his throat.

"Well-fed Wolfhounds and starving villagers." Gwen sighed, turning away from the wisdom of Cambridge's esteemed Magus Edwards. "Not the best combination, Wally."

"The hounds have claimants." Wally's voice grew stiff, "Many of them will grace the estates of the nation's foremost Lords and Ladies. The genealogy of these dogs harkens back to the time of the Virgin Queen."

"I know." Gwen reached out to deliver a reassuring pat on Wally's shoulder. "I am not admonishing you, Wally— but we are going to do things a little differently in the next few months. Please bear with me and trust in Lady Loftus."

"I shall." The ex-soldier, now dog-man, doggedly bowed.

On cue, more than likely listening for her entrance, Mary the kitchenmaid entered with a troop of maidservants, bringing in a stream of Mudchute's finest produce. Toad in the hole, Shepard's Pie, Scotch Eggs, Steak and Kidney Pudding, and of course, a famous, farmhouse Sunday Roast.

Elvia professed to have lost her appetite thanks to growing concerns for the villagers. Ollie's hunger was repressed by his earlier misstatement. Gwen partook in the early supper with her usual professionalism, pounding down unsaturated fat, creamy starch and baked carbohydrates without so much as a visible belly bulge.

When she finished her third portion, Wally coughed politely.

"Yes, Mister Samson?" Gwen looked up from her plate, a sausage sitting on a fork.

"It's customary to leave enough for the staff," Wally hinted in a low voice. "And for their families as well… for, you know, bubble and squeak. It's a rare treat."

"I am sorry— for what?" Gwen put down her sausage. "Leftovers? They eat our leftovers?"

Her gaze swept over the mostly empty pots and pans.

"My apologies…" She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a serviette. "That said, ever heard of the wonders of SPAM?"

Gwen and her party stayed the night at Mudchute Manor, a place that Mary intimated was known to the locals as "The Kennel".

The cheeky moniker aside, there was ample room, as Wally had cleared Lady Loftus' master bedroom for Gwen's occupation, as well as two guest bedrooms, a study, and a section of the barn should she wish to stow a vehicle.

The next morning, after a farmhouse breakfast of bacon and eggs, the trio, joined by Wally, made a tour of the farm.

Caliban and Ariel had spent the night wandering the extremities of the estate, harassing sheep and playing with the dogs, eventually sleeping in the kennel, where it was nice and cosy. In part, thanks to Ariel's intervention, the Wolfhounds accommodated Caliban's presence, tolerating the slithering beast in their midst.

After morning tea, the men, the women, the Familiars and the dogs bounced their way across the snow down to Cubitt. At the farm's edge, the dogs returned. Gwen packed her Familiars away, not wanting to frighten the NoMs eking out an existence under the shadow of London's Elite.

Cubitt itself possessed less history than Millwall, though no less sorrowful. During the Pan-European Conflict, Canary Docks saw the launching of a dozen ships from Westwood & Baillie, Samuda Brothers, J & W Dudgeon, including the Dreadnaught HMS Royal Albert.

After the Beast Tide, the shipyards and the freight-docks unilaterally migrated eastward to the five-kilometre stretch that made up the Royal Docklands. Canary's owners, unable to find investors, allowed the facilities to rust, then rot.

"What's that building over yonder?" Gwen pointed to an enormous warehouse some two blocks across that looked like shipping containers plastered together with glass, concrete and sheet metal.

"The West Terminal Printing Press," Wally advised. "It's all but abandoned, I am afraid."

"What happened?" Gwen's profit-senses tingled. There was an opportunity here; she could feel it in her bones. "I thought the tabloid-rags did well in London."

"Not all. Here lies The Observer's final stand. Lord Mulholland, the first Earl of Halifax, built the press-factory originally in the thirties. The German blitz had damaged the press when they launched strategic spells at the docks. His grandson, Charles Wood Mulholland, third Earl of Halifax in the late 80s, hoped to revive the business through volume-production. Unfortunately, his business could not compete."

"Who did it lose to?"

"The Sun Herald and the Telegraph, ma'am. The London Observer performed well for a time. It faced criticism from Minister Thatcher's government, for its socialist outlooks. Once sales began to slip, and the advertisers left, there was little Young Master Charles could do. In the end, he chose not to continue his grandfather's legacy."

"I take it." Gwen twisted her lips with pleasure. One man's garbage was another transmigrant's treasure. "That the Earl of Halifax thought Page Three was a sham, Page Five was for fools, Back Page sports was worthless and that the news should only report the truth and nothing but the truth?"

"You've read him like a tabloid, ma'am."

"Do we own the press?"

"No, ma'am, just the land."

"What's in there now?"

"Abandonment, I fear. Most of the machines are inoperable." Wally shook his head. "There's been vandalism as well."

"But the operation has remained," Gwen stated. "The system is there. The streamlined paper printing, I mean."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Is the lease released?"

"The estate has outstanding rent." Wally coughed uncomfortably. "The Marchioness has instructed us not to pursue the balance… for now."

"Okay. Well, that's just wonderful. I want to see inside," Gwen announced. "Wally, take us over."

"We're not going to the city?" Elvia butted in. Today, the Nightingale Cleric chose to wear a bright-red, knee-length jack with a rabbit-fur stole. She looked like a little Santa, or perhaps a young Missus Claus. They were three days off Christmas, mayhap Elvia was feeling festive?

"Oh, museums can wait." Gwen's eyes were positively aglow. She was feeling festive for an entirely different reason. There could be no better Christmas present than what she had just uncovered. "Wally, who used to work at the press?"

"Locals from Millwall, Cubitt and Blackwall. The dockers can at least cross the river to work at the Royal Docklands— the print labourers, I am afraid, have taken up either vagrancy or menial labour down in Dulwich and Greenwich."

Fuck me! Gwen breathed out. Her heart had not palpitated like this since Tonglv went into business. It was amazing how, sometimes, things just fell into place of their own accord, as if a higher power directed her with a guiding hand. The isle, the printing press, the labour-ready workforce desperate for any work, the indebted owners...

Through further confirmation awaited, she now knew London was a different beast to China. As a century-old ocean-fairing superpower, her desire to tap into the profits of the docklands was likely in vain.

But, as Ravenport had demonstrated, the nobility's economic prowess was wholly focused on the acquisition of tangible resources within the Mageocracy and its colonial heartlands. Ingredients, Crystals, Magical Beasts, Demi-humans, land itself— these were its heart's desire. Comparatively, against intangible forms of currency generation, the inbred nobles may as well be cross-eyed.

"Wait, we're NOT headed for the National Museum?" Ollie affirmed Gwen's sudden change of plans, previously verified at breakfast, flabbergasted by his ward's fickleness. "I was going to instruct you regarding the Mageocracy's history!"

"HA!" Gwen had to hold onto something to still her untamable pleasure. She found her stress ball in the form of Evee's pliant, wincing shoulders. "The past can wait, old man! We're going to see the future!"

 

Advertisement
A note from Wutosama

Chapter Ref ::   
Glossary and Magic System Explained 
JOIN OUR DISCORD SERVER FOR CATS
Metaworld Wiki made by Readers

Voting for the novel :: Voting button  
   
Volume 1 Amazon (US) the book is in all markets as well. 
Volume 1 Paper Back Link (US, Japan and most of Europe) 
Google Play, iBook, Kobo, Nook and Playster Link
Please leave a review or just copy / paste your RR reviews!

Metaworld-Meta-fics :
"Strictly Caliban" From the always catty @Wandysama
And "An Islander's Meta-Journey" from young gun @Bartimeus
The Mysteries of Fudan, and Other Rumors From the Metaworld
Strategic Magic by kjoatmon
Farewells - The Strange Life of a Quarter-Elf From Sydney

Metaworld Audiobook : 
AGROSQ Audio 

 New Fan-fic is up! 10k word monster! 

Farewells - The Strange Life of a Quarter-Elf From Sydney

Thanks Izetta 'Quarter-Elf' Fleur for your support! 

BACK TO BABY POOP! 

Vol 2 Cover DRAFT ONE 


About the author

Wutosama

Bio: I write on the phone and edit at home. Times are tough!

Achievements
Comments(126)
Log in to comment
Log In

Log in to comment
Log In