Millicent Jones's page

Statement of Archivist Millicent Jones, delivered directly via personal correspondence on 4 Pharast 4719 by the subject in an envelope marked “To Be Read Privately”

Statement begins.

Dear Petros,

I hope that this letter finds you well. It has been over 30 years since we met at the University of Lepidstadt. We have only seen each other twice in the intervening time: exactly one year ago, when you came here to Kavapesta with your daughter Kendra to pay your yearly respects to your departed spouse, and today, when I discretely placed this letter in your hand as you and Kendra were leaving the cafe. I apologize for the shock of such a gesture, but it was necessary. I can reassure you that nothing romantic is meant by this letter, as my preferences have not changed. This matter is purely professional.

For such a complicated situation, I find it easier to first explain the context. I have spent the past thirty years working as an archival assistant at various institutions throughout Ustalav. The work was thankless and mundane, but I have always preferred such tasks, and the sudden estrangement from my family meant I had to suddenly completely support myself financially. Thus, when I heard of a position opening up at The Great Archives in Kavapesta for a head archivist 12 years ago, I leapt at the opportunity. I have never had much use for religion, but the Pharasmins had a robust collection and paid well. I would finish paying off my debts within a decade and could then be free to do whatever I desired.

The scale upon which I was expected to work was beyond anything I had experienced before, and several previous head archivists finding their tenures cut short suddenly left the archives with multiple partly-finished and contradictory organizational systems. The access was marvelous, though, and I learned so much just from simply looking over the artifacts in storage with the visitors, elements of famous and familiar texts that seemed brand new, bringing back all the excitement and rush of those years at university. I believe I explained this to you in more detail last year when you were shocked to learn that these archives were under my care and had only marginally improved.

The following is what I left out of that explanation. My first administrator, a man named Wright, always asked me strange questions about my work. Whether I “found” anything unusual or noteworthy. Where I lived and why. What I did to entertain myself and with who. He would ask the same questions over-and-over as the weeks and months went by, as though he was too scatterbrained to remember. I knew from working with him that aside from his atrocious ability to keep count of anything, his brain was incredibly ordered. He also made the mistake of always playing up his act too much when visitors were around, which made it easy to pick up on with time. I criticize, but he had apparently fooled all of the regulars, including the order of monks that was his personal guest on my one night off.

Those monks were as reliable as the clock, entering at the same time every Wealday evening, a standing appointment from 7-8 that superseded everything else, even those acting on behalf of the Regent. Wright said the monks were from the Order of the Veil, a minor penitent Order, and sponsored the Archive’s creation and maintenance and had thus earned a regular appointment. Simple curiosity turned into an absolute need to know as I realized that the artifact display cases were often tampered with in that intervening time. That the cases would be tampered with confused me even more as the contents were illusions. We would never leave valuable texts just sitting out where everyone could see them. We kept the real copies in the back, safely tucked away in lead boxes, and only let people look at them in private rooms under guard and surveillance.

During a particularly stressful time—having just broken up with my long-term girlfriend and having no place to stay—I had taken to sleeping in the archives while I looked for new lodgings. I had of course not informed Wright. I had already been at the position for 4 years and knew enough to keep myself undetected for a few days until my ex’s ex—I’ll spare you the tumultuous details of the womens’ dating scene in Kavapesta 8 years ago—would have space free. In spite of my personal troubles—or perhaps because of them—I was ready to take a big risk and see what exactly these monks are up to.

Wright kindly kept a wand of true seeing in his desk for authenticating the most important and/or expensive items that passed through our hands. He would sometimes take it and do a walkthrough of the floor as a precaution. Only he was allowed to handle the wand. I had recently convinced him it had 22 charges left when it actually had 27 by altering the note he left on it. It was an expensive wand with powerful applications, and whatever I saw that night, I wanted to make sure I saw what it actually was. While Wright showed his guests in, I snuck into his office and tapped myself with the wand. The range on the spell and the structure of the archives meant that I could safely look down from the upper balcony in a spot I had specially prepared.

I almost groaned in frustration as I saw the artifact display cases down on the ground floor full of books still. The spell should have dispelled any illusions, and I had carefully triangulated the distance, I thought, but the cases must have been out of range. I stopped my breath with a tense hand and focused on the monks. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, until the necklace with Pharasma’s Spiral dangled out of someone’s robes, except the true seeing revealed it as the black and silver of Norgorber. Then I held back a gasp. One of the monks had opened a case and just picked up a book—the confirmed original of Mother Kavapesta’s personal prayer book—and started carefully leafing through it. The thought dawned on me slowly: I had been right about the distance, and we had been keeping the real texts in the display cases this entire time. But why? Why would we do something so reckless and nonsensical? If these were originals, what were we storing in back? As if in answer, Wright walked out of the back carrying the exact same book that the monk held. They laid out the two books next to each other and then carefully began weaving magic over Wright’s copy. I watched, entranced, until they finished and left. I could not sleep without knowing, so I stole another charge off the wand and snuck into the back to examine the stored copy of the prayer book. There was no illusion magic, only light traces of transmutation. I picked the lock on the case and compared the two. The changes were subtle but noticeable: every instance of a word changed, a key phrase changed in a prayer, a person’s name removed. None of it came together into any concrete pattern. I was too scared to keep looking for long, and I replaced everything as quickly as possible and hid the traces of my lockpicking with a mending cantrip over perhaps the most agonizing 10 minutes of my life. I did not sleep that night. Nor the next. If my alternative arrangement had not come through the next night, I may have collapsed from stress and lack of sleep.

I took special care after that incident to do nothing of note for several months. It took all of my willpower to leave the matter untouched, but it was imperative for my safety. When I finally allowed myself to delve into figuring out just what was happening, what I found was sobering. Indeed, the Order of the Veil not only sponsored the Archive, but they owned it, a fact hidden under a maze of legal nonsense. I could not find any connection to Norgorber, though. In reading about his cults, all I found was that his aspect as the Reaper of Reputation enjoys secrets and the control of information, which certainly adds context to the scene I witnessed. We may perhaps never know the full extent of the information manipulation they have carried out. I have included notes on all the changes I’ve been able to find. Since the display texts are ostensibly illusions, there’s no record of what happens to them as they rotate out. Presumably they store all of the untampered originals at their monastery, secret knowledge that nobody else will ever know of.

Ever since then, The Great Archive has just simply become so much more difficult to organize, particularly the back stacks, due in no small part to the untimely demise of Administrator Wright the following year. He had played the absent-minded fool so well that nobody questioned it when he was found in an office of ash, having apparently fallen asleep with an oil lamp still lit. Poor dear. If only he had been more trusting, then he might not have had the catalog and all of his notes on the new organizational system he was planning. All of his notes of changes that he and his comrades hd made as well. We just had to start all over. I would hear from the new Administrator that our Wealday guests would leave in a huff after he misplaced an important text, only for me to find it in the exact place it was supposed to be. It’s just been a matter of trying hard enough, but not too hard. Occasionally an accident or misplaced ledger. But I rarely needed to do anything myself. You know how Norgorberites are, always playing at their schemes nestled in plots hidden in gambits. Every odd misfortune was clearly a play by Some-and-Such disguised as a move by Another-or-Other to...you see where this is going. There is of course more to it than that, close calls and tricks-of-the-trade, but the details are unimportant.

Now why did I send this to you, of all people. Given our conversation and what I have read of your name in the archives—you show up quite a lot, you know—I think you know the practical reason. The other reason is more personal. I always looked fondly upon you for your support during my, shall we say, transitional period. Few of my friends and none of my family survived my choice to become myself, and those who did remain deserve more appreciation for showing their character. You showing up here reminded me of that fact. I hope you can make use of what I have written here, as well as the notes I have included. I have no expectations, only hope, and you will not wound my pride if nothing comes of it. I am neither enamored of my own intelligence nor my importance in this world. I would, quite frankly, prefer to be left alone and unseen. However, I have found myself the right woman in the wrong place, and I will make the most of it. I have little to lose, being a middle-aged spinster with a mediocre reputation in the only career I have ever held. The best I can say is that I am debt-free and thus worth nothing instead of less than nothing for the first time in memory.

Your hopeful—perhaps—friend,
Millicent Jones

PS: I apologize for asking upon your help again, but have also included a separate set of materials (marked as such) relating to my beloved Agnes, who is seeking to study at our Lepidstadt in the field of teratology. Considering your reputation and connections to that department mean your recommendation would go a long way to ensuring her acceptance. I swear that any and all help you provide on these two matters will leave me in your debt.

Statement Ends

My background is thoroughly Varisian, a fact reflected in my olive skin and large pale eyes. My face is long and angular, my lips thin and judging, and my brow expressive. I frankly do not remember that last time I had any length cut off of my hair, and when not done up, it goes down to my waist. The color is a bronzed brown—nothing special—and I usually keep it in a ponytail or bun, depending on my mood. Keep what I said about the length of my hair in mind as I specify that I am well over 6 ft tall. Broadly built as well. Such are traces of my first puberty that have not been softened by the second. I used to mind my size, mostly out of anxiety about how it would be perceived, but I have lost the ability to care at all about what other people think of my personal life and body, and I now rather enjoy my uniqueness. Speaking of which, I tend to smell of bitter mint tea, as I took to the taste of mulibrous tincture quite well. That certain dwarf tribes call women like myself “tea-drinkers” only further encouraged me.

I dress conservatively, though I admit that is more out of habit than preference. My survival the past 12 years has been prefaced on my ability to be inconspicuous, and nobody pays a second thought to a librarian in muted long-sleeved dresses, sweaters, scarves, and cardigans. I even acquired eyeglass retainers for the aesthetic. Though they are dreadfully convenient, considering I actually need the glasses. My secret joy and expression has been in my tattoos. No one ever sees them, as I make sure to wear long sleeves and keep my legs covered. My longest relationship was with Agnes Key, who moonlights as a tattoo artist, and she is responsible for most of them. My entire torso, my upper arms, and my upper legs are covered in a rainbow of flames and Varisian runes. We all have our preferred metaphors for the drastic changes and transformations we go through, and mine is the phoenix. Thus, I am not the burned, but the burner. Only that single lavender flame on my breast above my heart, the one matching Agnes’, can scorch me. A pathetic—in multiple sense—thought perhaps, but I think I have earned the right to a few emotional indulgences after the life I’ve led.

CW: Some implied sexual content

It is late at night. Millicent Jones and Agnes Key are sitting on their shared bed. Both women are nude from the waist up while Agnes works her tattoo needles on Millicent’s back, the latter completely inured to the pain and relaxed. The candlelight is low, and Millicent periodically refreshes a light cantrip on one of Agnes’ needles. They are in the middle of a conversation.

Agnes: I’m telling you, I dressed the same way most of my life, and I never got dirty looks back in Taldor, and that’s f$!@ing Taldor.

Millicent: Ustalav has a tendency to bring out the most conservative impulses in people. Just look at my parents.

A: I’d love to, MJ, but you’ve never said much about them.

MJ: *pause* I suppose I have not.

A: You don’t need to if you really don’t want. Just figured I should say.

MJ: It is fine. I suppose after a year I owe you that much.

A: You don’t “owe” me s!&%. This is a relationship, not a business transaction.

MJ: That you feel such is precisely why you of all people have the right.
*Pause*
My parents were both Varisian, and they had the misfortune to always find themselves in the wrong part of Varisia at the wrong time, right when some plague or overlord or such nonsense hit. As such, they decided that they needed to settle down someplace quiet and away from the “Land of Adventure” and settled on Ardis. They worked hard to keep their heads down and keep us inconspicuous, all in order to counter the stigma against our people. They stifled themselves and expected the same of me.

A: I can only imagine.

MJ: They were especially wary of me given my birth tattoo. *points to the tattoo of a nude, reclining woman on her back* I am sure you know all about those and their significance.

A: It has come up in my job, yeah. But I’d love to hear you tell it in your sexy voice.

MJ: So my normal voice.

A: Hah! What else.

MJ: *turns around and kisses A* Some Varisians are born with tattoos for some unexplained reason, and supposedly such individuals go on to live lives of great drama and import. My parents naturally wanted none of that, and I did my best to oblige.

A: I’m sorry. I can’t even imagine.

MJ: Oh, aside from making me horribly repressed and keeping me from coming into myself into young adulthood, it was not so bad. My self-assertion during my last year at university was far too much for them, and I have not spoken to them since. I simply could not take the dysphoria any longer and bought some new clothes, changed my name, and found some lovely Rivethun adepts to provide me with that marvelous magical tea I drink to give me this fine figure and skin.

A: I can attest that your bosom is—in fact—quite magical.

MJ: Were you not currently jabbing needles in my back, I would pursue that claim further, perhaps ask for some empirical evidence.

A: *laughs* You are a f$%+ing nerd, you know that?

MJ: The nerd you are f%@&ing, yes. It would be a rather awkward state of affairs for me to not know, given the group nature of the activity. And you just called my bosom “magical,” so you can hardly claim to not be a “f$*!ing nerd” yourself.

A: “The nerd you are f&!~ing.” While we’re on the subject, how’s about we put the rest of the tattoo on hold for now so that I’m no longer “jabbing needles in your back?” *kisses MJ*

MJ: Yes. I think that may be for the best.

I miss Agnes. Even after six months, hardly a day passes that I do not imagine leaving with her. She was right to go, of course. I cannot offer her much of a life here, but I swore to handle this matter with the archives as best I could. With Petros’ help secured, it hopefully shall not be much longer that I need to play this dangerous game. Even still, I could not ask Agnes to stay. She will thrive at the university, even as an older student. Two alumni recommendations, especially when one is from Petros Lorrimor himself, should open doors for her. I am not worth her future.

The seven years we were together was joy enough, one I never thought I would experience. Even with the ten year age difference, we always just felt perfectly in-sync, as though our entire lives were balanced and arranged to put us together at the same time and place. I can still smell the leather she wore when she walked into the archives that day. I can see the way she sensually played with the pommel of her rapier while we talked. I feel the touch of her two short fingernails against my cheek.

Gods damn it I miss her.

I dream of fire, you know. It has kept me sane all these years. I have burned a thousand evil men with that fire that crackles in my heart and pumps through all of my limbs. There is such evil in this world and I want for nothing more than to watch it melt. I was always fond of the last Runelord of Wrath, Alaznist, you know. Even as I hate the evil she did, I cannot help but feel drawn to her. I feel I have spent my whole life quiet and restrained when truly I yearn to scream and rage and burn. I would be the righteous flame purging the skulking murderers, the restless dead, and otherworldly terrors from this world. That path has long since passed, though. I doubt I shall ever have the opportunity to have such adventure in my life.

Millicent Ardenia Jones
Human Sorcerer (seeker)/3
CG Medium humanoid (varisian)
Init +2 Senses: Perception +11 (+12 vs traps)
--------------------
Defense
--------------------
AC 12, touch 12, flat-footed 10 (+2 dex)
HP 23
Fort +3, Ref +3, Will +4
--------------------
Offense
--------------------
Speed 30 ft
Melee Dagger +0 (1d4-1/19-20)
Ranged Dagger +0 (1d4-1/19-20)
Special Attacks Blood Havoc
Sorcerer Spells Known (CL 3rd; Concentration +7)
1st (6/day)—Burning Hands (DC 16), Mage Armor, Identify, Heightened Awareness
0--Detect Magic, Light, Mending, Prestidigitation, Ray of Frost
Bloodline Sage
--------------------
Statistics
--------------------
Str 8, Dex 14, Con 14, Int 18, Wis 12, Cha 10
Base Atk +1; CMB +0; CMD 12
Feats
Spell Focus (evocation)
Skill Focus (perception) (b)
Varisian Tattoo (evocation)
Traits
Inspired by Greatness (burning hands)
Seeker
Street Wary
Drawback
Loner
Alternate Racial Traits
Comprehensive Education
Focused Study
Skills
Conditional Mods: +2 sense motive to get a hunch, +1 perception vs traps
Acrobatics +2
Appraise +4
Bluff +4
Climb -1
Diplomacy +0
Disable Device +11
Disguise +0
Escape Artist +2
Fly +2
Heal +1
Intimidate +4
Knowledge (arcana) +11
Knowledge (dungeoneering) +8
Knowledge (geography) +8
Knowledge (history) +8
Knowledge (local) +8
Knowledge (nature) +8
Knowledge (planes) +8
Knowledge (religion) +8
Linguistics +7
Perception +11
Perform +0
Profession (librarian) +5
Ride +2
Sense Motive +5
Spellcraft +12
Stealth +2
Survival +1
Swim -1
Languages Taldane (common), Varisian, Thassilonian, Elven, Osiriani, Celestial, Varisian Sign Language, Necril
SQ: Tinkering (+1), Seeker Lore
Gear
Cold Weather Outfit, Mwk Thieves Tools, Mulibrous Tincture (6 doses), Traveler’s Outfit, Scholar’s Outfit, Scarf (pocketed), Canteen, Teapot, Journal, Inkpen, Ink, Grooming Kit, Ear Plugs, Chalk (2), Backpack (common), Mess Kit, Tea (10 cups worth), Spell Component Pouch (2), Dagger, A Hell of a Lot of Tattoos, 0 gp 3 sp 5 cp

200
(Free) cold weather outfit
-100 mwk thieves’ tools
-30 six doses of mulibrous tincture
-1 traveler’s outfit
-5 scholar’s outfit
-8 pocketed scarf
-2 canteen
-0.1 teapot
-10 journal
-0.1 inkpen
-8 ink
-1 grooming kit
-0.03 ear plugs
-0.02 chalk (2)
-2 backpack
-0.2 mess kit
-0.2 tea (10 cups)
32.35
-10 spell component pouch (2)
-20 tattoos
-2 dagger

0.35

HP: 23/23
AC: 16/12(16 vs incorp)/14
Saves: F3/R3/W4
Spells Active: Mage Armor, Heightend Awareness

0: (Detect Magic, Light, Mending, Prestidigitation, Ray of Frost)
1: 4/6 used (Burning Hands (DC 16)x0, Mage Armorx1, Identifyx0, Heightened Awarenessx1)