September 19th, 973
The Grand Library of Edicaria had the architectural modesty of a cathedral trying very hard not to brag. Marble lions dozed on the steps. Gargoyles posed as rain spouts. A fresco over the doors depicted the Triumph of Cataloguing: angels subduing a hydra by assigning it subject headings.
Inside, silence pooled like cool water—broken only by the soft thump of stamping, the papery susurrus of turning pages, and the distant, exhausted sob of a graduate student.
Presiding over it all: Madam Scriptra.
Six crimson arms in constant counterpoint. Barbed tail punctuating the air like an editor’s comma splice. Spectacles perched on her nose for emphasis rather than need. A hand-lettered placard beside her read: “You are now in the jurisdiction of the Dewey Decimation System.”
Pfinder took a reverent half-step forward. Scriptra’s top-left hand stamped three books without looking while the bottom-right hand pointed—precisely—at him.
“No singing,” she said, perfectly pleasant. “Not even internally.”
Pfinder shut his mouth. And, somehow, his thoughts.
Ant approached the desk with deliberate calm, the way one approaches a well-bred horse—or a volcano that has learned to file paperwork. “Madam Scriptra,” she said, “we’re seeking scholarship. On pacts. Warlocks. Patrons.”
Scriptra’s pupils narrowed to mechanical slits, then dilated again in interest. Her middle-left hand reached for a bell pull labeled INDEX SPIRITS—DON’T, while the upper-right hand slid a stack of forms across the desk.
“Form 27-B: Purpose of Inquiry. Form 41-C: Attestation of Non-Summoning Intent. Form 10: Promise Not to Lick Anything. Initial here, here, and—” she tapped a tiny line that read ‘—or here if incorporeal.’
“Do we need a blood seal?” Cassyndra asked.
“Not for these texts,” Scriptra said. “Only for theology and cookery.”
They filled the forms under her watch. Scriptra sniffed delicately, as a vintner might appraise a bottle—or a cat a dead lark.
“Hmm.” She addressed Ant. “Your patron leaves an odor of frost and old copper. And there’s a faint… aftertaste. Curious. You’ve met them in a mirror, yes? Mirrors are notorious gossips.”
Ant swallowed and pushed the completed forms forward. “Yes.”
“Very well.” Scriptra flicked one finger. A bell chimed far back in the stacks. The nearest shadows stirred, like dogs roused from naps. Three slips of vellum rose from the desk and sailed away on invisible currents, turning corners as if the air itself had memorized the floor plan. Somewhere deep in the library, a ladder rolled of its own accord.
“While we wait,” Scriptra continued, already signing two citations and resealing a jar containing an annoyed will-o’-wisp, “let me remind you of our rules. No food, no drink, and no beverages that are technically sentient. Do not befriend the index spirits. Do not name the index spirits. And if a book flirts with you, you will report it to me immediately. We’ve had incidents.”
Wolfgang asked, “What about flirting with librarians?”, a touch too lightly.
Scriptra’s tail tapped the floor once. “That would require a waiting list.”
The vellum slips wafted back as if on cue, each trailing a fine filament of light that snapped back into Scriptra’s palm. She read them, nodded once, and sketched a sigil on the countertop; the wood sank fractionally with a thunk as a book coalesced out of the air and landed in front of Ant.
Scriptra tapped the spine with a nail like a metronome for doom. “You’ll read in Carrels 7A–7D, Quiet Hands Section. Follow my directions precisely; the floor has opinions.”
She pointed, and the air obliged by sketching a glowing line on the marble.
“Proceed past Atlases, ignore the weeping globe, left at Local Ordinances, then right at Languages That Resent You. When you reach the bronze lion, tap his nose twice—once for silence, once for civility. He will yawn. Do not look in. Continue beneath the mezzanine labeled Pedantry (Advanced).
“You’ll pass the Umbrella Stand That Bites. It will ask for a tip. Do not tip the umbrella stand. Sign the Silence Ledger on the lectern—print legibly; the Ledger eats flourishes—and deposit any cursed or argumentative items in the red tray. That includes mirrors.” Her gaze flicked to Ant. “Especially mirrors.”
She slid the book toward Ant; the sigil on its cover rearranged itself into punctuation that looked pleased with its grammar. “If the pages try to rearrange themselves, turn them clockwise and say, ‘Not today.’ If a marginal note winks at you, alert staff. If you hear whispering in a language you love, leave immediately. That’ll be the Index Spirits testing boundaries.”
The glowing line tugged them forward. They crossed under vaulted ribs of stone where sunbeams behaved as if they had library cards. The stacks narrowed; the smell shifted from dust to old thunder. A spectral book cart trundled past, pushed by no one, its bell dinging politely at a pile of unrepentant folios.
At the lion pedestal, Hunkle tapped the nose twice. The statue yawned, revealing a starfield and something counting in prime numbers. Everyone pretended not to notice.
Beyond, a cloistered alcove opened into Carrels 7A–7D—oaken desks warded with etched silver sigils, each accompanied by a squat reading lamp whose flame burned with the discreet light of a butler. A placard read:
QUIET HANDS SECTION
Hands quiet, minds quieter.
If your thoughts become audible, please think in italics.
They signed the Silence Ledger (which nodded, satisfied), stowed steel and mirrors in the red tray (which burped), and took their seats. Ant set the volume down; the lamp brightened in recognition. At Scriptra’s ribbon-mark, the book sighed open to a title page embossed with the bureaucratic gravitas of a tax audit:
On the Socioeconomic Habits and Civic Utility of Pact-Bound Citizens…
—and the text marched crisply down the page from there.
On the Socioeconomic Habits and Civic Utility of Pact-Bound Citizens
Commissioned by the Ministry of Moral Hygiene, Bureau of Useful Aberrations
By Lemia Vast, D.Metaph., Chair of Moral Statistics, Archean College of Orderly Conduct
Assisted by the Office of Divine Correspondence and the Department of Internal Revenue
(Filed under “Class B Thaumaturgic Populations: Potentially Profitable, Moderately Flammable.”)
Abstract
This report represents the first comprehensive attempt by the Crown to classify, tax, and potentially employ pact-bound citizens (“warlocks”) in accordance with the Moral Hygiene Act of 951. Previous efforts were hampered by the subjects’ tendency to vanish mid-interview, dissolve into vapor, or insist that “the voices said no comment.”
Drawing from census records, confessional transcripts, and several intercepted letters to unnamed “benefactors,” this paper assesses the social reliability, economic productivity, and patriotic potential of the warlock demographic.
I. Demographics and Distribution
Warlocks constitute approximately 0.07% of the recorded population, though the number fluctuates due to unlicensed summoning, spontaneous self-initiation, and “sponsorship relapse.” The majority reside in metropolitan centers where plausible deniability and artisanal candle shops abound.
When asked to name their “sponsor,” 78% of respondents appeared confused, believing they had been enrolled in some form of mutual-aid program. Several even described weekly meetings in basements where “fellow initiates share coping strategies, perform minor rituals, and promise not to summon before breakfast.” These gatherings are currently under review to determine whether they qualify as religious assemblies or pyramid schemes.
II. Economic Behavior and Tax Compliance
Warlocks demonstrate erratic but occasionally lucrative productivity. Their work histories are marked by cycles of intense employment, sudden resignation, and cryptic last messages such as “My true calling whispers from beyond the cubicle.”
The Department of Internal Revenue (DIR) notes difficulty collecting taxes due to:
- Income paid in favors, secrets, or unsanctioned miracles.
- Patrons located outside standard extradimensional jurisdictions.
- Frequent spontaneous immolation of accounting records.
Nevertheless, the DIR proposes the Pact Levy, a two-part system wherein:
- The warlock is taxed 10% of all boons received.
- The Patron remits a “Summoning Duty” proportional to the number of active clients (three per region maximum).
A pilot program in Stenia recovered thirty-seven gold pieces and one eternal soul, later reclassified as “non-fungible.”
III. Loyalty and Security Concerns
Preliminary interviews suggest that most warlocks believe themselves loyal to the Crown—provided their patron has no immediate objections. The Ministry expresses mild concern that loyalty to an omnipotent extradimensional being may, under certain circumstances, supersede loyalty to His Majesty’s Government.
Case Example:
One recruit in the Archean Army’s Arcane Auxiliary Brigade refused to salute on the grounds that “kneeling is reserved for my sponsor.” Another attempted to requisition an entire platoon for “a personal side quest.”
The Warlock Enlistment Evaluation Board (WEEB) therefore recommends that:
- Warlocks be restricted to non-command positions, preferably ones with minimal paperwork and ample ventilation.
- Each inducted warlock undergo Patronal Alignment Assessment (PAA) to determine whether their unseen employer holds pro-, anti-, or neutral-government sentiments.
Testing methods include:
- Asking the Patron (results: 0% response rate, 12% thunderclap).
- Observing flag reactions during invocations.
- Measuring thaumic resonance against standard patriotic hymns.
To date, no patron has expressed explicit anti-government rhetoric, though several have described the state as “adorably temporary.”
IV. Employment and Occupational Stability
Warlocks exhibit high rates of occupational drift. A majority report hearing “direct career advice” from their sponsors, usually recommending abrupt job changes (“you were meant for something greater,” “the office walls are watching,” etc.).
Common professions include:
- Freelance investigators of “disturbances they may have caused.”
- Motivational oracles.
- Unlicensed miracle consultants.
- Adventurers specializing in “ethical gray areas.”
Employers describe them as charismatic, tireless, and “difficult to fire without fire resistance.” Job retention beyond three fiscal quarters is rare, though productivity during manic phases is impressive.
V. Patronal Networking and Franchise Management
Thaumic cross-referencing indicates that many Patrons maintain multiple simultaneous warlocks, often under different branding:
- The Whisperer Beneath also operates as The Mentor of Mists and Auntie Grace.
- The Luminous Architect has registered with the Church as a minor deity and with the DIR as a consultancy firm.
- The Great Old One (designation unpronounceable) currently claims three warlocks in Archea, five abroad, and one “under observation.”
Such distributed operations present difficulties for regulation, as most warlocks believe themselves to be in an exclusive relationship. The Ministry refers to this as “Pact Polytheism” or, in less formal memoranda, “The Patron Harem Problem.”
A proposal to require Patrons to disclose the number of active warlocks per plane was met with silence, laughter, or inexplicable tides.
VI. Recommendations and Future Policy
- Registration and Licensing.
- All warlocks must obtain a Pact-Bearer License (Form 47-A) renewable upon “major life changes, death, or worse.”
- Each license shall list Patron name(s), known aliases, and previous employers.
- Failure to register may result in confiscation of spellcasting privileges or soul foreclosure.
- Taxation Reform.
- The proposed Patronal Income Clause would classify boons as taxable gifts.
- A special deduction may apply for infernal damages, ritual expenses, and replacement robes.
- Public Education.
- Distribute pamphlets titled “So You’ve Been Chosen: Understanding and Monetizing Your Pact.”
- Establish Pact Recovery Circles for individuals attempting to “cut down” on communion.
- National Security Oversight.
- Create the Office of Patronal Relations (OPR) to assess each Patron’s alignment toward the state.
- Any extradimensional entity deemed “insufficiently patriotic” will be subject to sanctions, prayer embargoes, and selective exorcism.
- Further Research.
- Investigate cross-patron communication among warlocks—early signs suggest shared dream channels, possibly constituting an “unregulated interplanar messaging service.”
- Assess whether certain Patrons operate as corporations or franchises (see Appendix C: “Demons as Start-Ups”).
Conclusion
Warlocks remain a volatile yet potentially taxable population. Their unpredictable devotion, limited shelf life, and frequent scenic disappearances render them poor long-term investments but excellent short-term contractors.
While the Crown acknowledges the utility of their services, continued monitoring is essential to ensure that no patron achieves majority market share in mortal souls. As one internal memo summarizes:
“By all means, let them channel their unholy power—so long as 15% of it goes to the Treasury.”
Ant closed the book with a soft thump, as if to prevent any of the words from escaping.
There was a brief silence—then Wolfgang leaned back, hands behind his head. “So,” he said lightly, “we’ve learned that your… benefactor is probably seeing other warlocks.”
Ant blinked. “Excuse me?”
Cassyndra smirked. “You might want to ask where you stand in the hierarchy, Ant. Are you the primary warlock? Or just… the Tuesday invocation?”
Vren made a sympathetic noise. “Don’t be cruel. Maybe she’s in an open pact. Perfectly healthy arrangement, as long as everyone communicates their boundaries.”
“I’m not in a relationship,” Ant protested. “It’s a strictly professional bond founded on mutual—”
She hesitated. “—terror.”
Lavleen tapped the report with one finger. “Professional? The Ministry calls it ‘pact polytheism.’ Apparently your patron is running an interplanar franchise.”
Wolfgang grinned. “Congratulations, Ant. You’ve joined a pact-polycule. Do you all meet on Thursdays? Bring snacks? Compare sigils?”
Shamus, deadpan: “She’s committed, body and soul.” Beat. “Mostly soul.”
The group chuckled. Ant folded her arms, trying not to smile. “You’re all very amusing. I’ll have you know my patron values me uniquely.”
Cassyndra: “Of course they do. You’re probably their favorite warlock this week.”
Ant rolled her eyes skyward. “If they so much as send me a group message, I’m unsubscribing from reality.”
Wolfgang: “Too late. You already signed the terms and conditions.”
Their laughter rippled through the carrel—warm, conspiratorial, entirely out of place in the cathedral hush of the Grand Library.
A shadow lengthened across the table. The laughter died.
Madam Scriptra loomed in the doorway, all six arms folded in perfect parallel. Her spectacles caught the lamplight like twin gibbous moons of judgment.
“Conversation,” she said softly, “in the Quiet Hands Section constitutes a Class B infraction.”
The group froze. Scriptra’s upper-right hand extended a slip of paper already stamped WARNING ISSUED. Her middle-left hand gestured toward a sign none of them remembered seeing before:
Excessive levity shall be reshelved elsewhere.
Her tail made one final, editorial tap on the floor.
“Carry on,” she said, voice honeyed and lethal, “but do remember—whispering patrons are still considered noise pollution.”
Then she vanished back into the stacks, her footsteps muffled by the sound of books nervously reordering themselves.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Finally, Pfinder whispered, “I think I like her.”
Cassyndra: “You would.”
Wolfgang exhaled slowly. “Right. Let’s never get caught laughing in church again.”
And with that, the party returned to their studies—quiet hands, louder thoughts, and one warlock now profoundly suspicious of group contracts.