Brytt Heathard, reporter, returned home from the Cartel Celebrity Death Auction and plopped down on the bank roof. That was one of the most exciting things he'd seen in some time! He started to write down the story of the part of the auction he'd been able to attend.
Things had quieted down, of late. He looked about from the roof of the bank.
Looking down at what he had written so far, he paused. Writing about Felucca was... well... hard! To coin a phrase by TamenAneemals, there were two kinds of people who frequented the old lands: the die hards, and the... well... die easies. Brytt was the latter.
There was also the delicate matter of how to write in such a way as wouldn't erupt in a vitriolic feud afterward. Perhaps that wouldn't be helped. These things just have a way of getting political, and perhaps it was better to attempt and claim as little responsibility for the vitriol as possible than to not attempt at all. One thing was clear: if Brytt was going to start writing about the events of the old land, it would be better if he at least knew something of the ways to survive there. He made a mental note to seek guidance on the subject.
Brytt fidgeted in the chair atop the bank roof. He missed the days when the reporters had a bona fide office. Back in days long gone, there had been a news office just outside the Royal Palace in Britain. Of course, these days, that building went by a different name.
In the months since his return, Brytt had found himself mostly penning the news circulars in places close to home. Most of the reporters did the same. Grab a chair wherever you are and scribble down your thoughts, then take them to the public scribes in town to be copied on parchment and distributed. A good amount of his writing he did from home, in the library.
Of course, any story write-up following a mercenary invasion required the presence of strong liquor within arms reach. He usually preferred to write those stories from the Brew, on whatever he could find.
Maybe it was time to rethink the news desk, he thought.
This wasn't the best way to go about issuing news, you know. From less than ideal writing environments to less than ideal distribution methods. What had happened to having a proper office? What had happened to the legions of scribes of their own, waiting to emboss news logos on proper parchment. In fact, come to think of it....
...what had happened to a proper news identity?
These days, most of the reporters of the land were refugees from the old Britannia News Network, whose staff of chartered reporters had long since been laid off in dramatic downsizing and the privatization of monarchal news. He knew of only a few of the old refugees who remained, and many of those were as isolated as he, writing from wherever they could, whenever they could, and distributing through sheer force of perseverance.
But what if they could be rounded up? He had a little cash, maybe they could even find a little place to lease out as a formal office again.
On a whim, Brytt climbed down from the roof and walked along stone pavers the short trek north to the realty and carpentry office in West Britain. He inquired with one of the property management and realty agents, who was only too happy to take him out to view some of Britannia's finest currently available properties.
After a long, exhaustive search and no immediate candidates anywhere near his price range, Brytt thanked the agent for her time and returned home to continue writing there.
But the little property search had left him wondering....
What if...?
There was also the matter of Felucca and getting past his writer's block. Returning home within the forests known to the locals as "The Fernwood", Brytt walked north from the Golden Distillery to the Cloister of the Order of Pragmatic Wisdom, where he intended to seek the advice of the nuns. In addition to being good counsel, he knew they circulated a newsletter among the Sisters. Perhaps they had some suggestions....
Things had quieted down, of late. He looked about from the roof of the bank.
Looking down at what he had written so far, he paused. Writing about Felucca was... well... hard! To coin a phrase by TamenAneemals, there were two kinds of people who frequented the old lands: the die hards, and the... well... die easies. Brytt was the latter.
There was also the delicate matter of how to write in such a way as wouldn't erupt in a vitriolic feud afterward. Perhaps that wouldn't be helped. These things just have a way of getting political, and perhaps it was better to attempt and claim as little responsibility for the vitriol as possible than to not attempt at all. One thing was clear: if Brytt was going to start writing about the events of the old land, it would be better if he at least knew something of the ways to survive there. He made a mental note to seek guidance on the subject.
Brytt fidgeted in the chair atop the bank roof. He missed the days when the reporters had a bona fide office. Back in days long gone, there had been a news office just outside the Royal Palace in Britain. Of course, these days, that building went by a different name.
In the months since his return, Brytt had found himself mostly penning the news circulars in places close to home. Most of the reporters did the same. Grab a chair wherever you are and scribble down your thoughts, then take them to the public scribes in town to be copied on parchment and distributed. A good amount of his writing he did from home, in the library.
Of course, any story write-up following a mercenary invasion required the presence of strong liquor within arms reach. He usually preferred to write those stories from the Brew, on whatever he could find.
Maybe it was time to rethink the news desk, he thought.
This wasn't the best way to go about issuing news, you know. From less than ideal writing environments to less than ideal distribution methods. What had happened to having a proper office? What had happened to the legions of scribes of their own, waiting to emboss news logos on proper parchment. In fact, come to think of it....
...what had happened to a proper news identity?
These days, most of the reporters of the land were refugees from the old Britannia News Network, whose staff of chartered reporters had long since been laid off in dramatic downsizing and the privatization of monarchal news. He knew of only a few of the old refugees who remained, and many of those were as isolated as he, writing from wherever they could, whenever they could, and distributing through sheer force of perseverance.
But what if they could be rounded up? He had a little cash, maybe they could even find a little place to lease out as a formal office again.
On a whim, Brytt climbed down from the roof and walked along stone pavers the short trek north to the realty and carpentry office in West Britain. He inquired with one of the property management and realty agents, who was only too happy to take him out to view some of Britannia's finest currently available properties.
After a long, exhaustive search and no immediate candidates anywhere near his price range, Brytt thanked the agent for her time and returned home to continue writing there.
But the little property search had left him wondering....
What if...?
There was also the matter of Felucca and getting past his writer's block. Returning home within the forests known to the locals as "The Fernwood", Brytt walked north from the Golden Distillery to the Cloister of the Order of Pragmatic Wisdom, where he intended to seek the advice of the nuns. In addition to being good counsel, he knew they circulated a newsletter among the Sisters. Perhaps they had some suggestions....
