The “A” Warehouse

Written to 2 prompst from this page, which are the bold-italiced sections of this ficlet

Yes, I owned the “A” warehouse. “Owned,” you see, because while I still hold the deed to the property, the property itself is gone, and where it’s fallen, I don’t think there’s anyone who cares about things like deeds.

This is a story about infamy, marriage, and being an arch-mage, although I’m forced to admit that the arch-mage part is still in the future – in the hopeful, potential future at that.

The infamy part, unfortunately, is very much in the “now,” and in all potential futures available from here, too. And the marriage – well, here’s fingers crossed and hats off to Marvipost and Tannibaun that that doesn’t turn out to be in the past.

But you were asking about “A” warehouse. Down in the lettered streets, which are now quite a bit more “down” than “streets”, may Tannibaun and Ornigzar have mercy on the souls of those poor denizens. I owned it. I kept it stocked. I understand the regulations, maybe better than most people. I helped write half those regulations, after all – and now we get back to the infamy part.

Now I see that you recognize me. I’m told my face isn’t done justice by those portraits, and I’ve never been the public one in our marriage.

But I owned the “A” warehouse – and the “C” and “F” as well. And I stoked them all. What the inhabitants of the belowland will be doing with them, now that the entire sector has fallen, I do not know. What they will do to any survivors, I can only guess. I know only that they are gone, may Marvipost and Ornigzar forgive me.

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