There are few who have seen the Parchmentbearers with their own eyes, yet their work lingers in the corners of every village. Contracts sealed with strangely coiled handwriting, debts repaid with coins that seem older than the sun, and warnings etched into doorframes before disasters strike. These are the marks of the Parchmentbearers, scribes of the unseen order.
They are not spirits of guidance, nor guardians of the wild. They are record-keepers, bookkeepers of fate itself.
Tall and cloaked in stitched skins that rustle like dry leaves, their heads hooded in sagging parchment, they walk barefoot across fields and marshes with staff and ledger in hand. They speak little, if at all, their faces half-concealed beneath the folds of their covering. When they arrive in a village, it is never with fanfare. You may catch one standing at the edge of a well, running a finger down a list of names. Or pressing a wax seal to a doorframe before a roof collapses in a storm. They move before events unfold, documenting what is to come, their presence a prelude to both ruin and relief.
A Debt to the Parchment
The Parchmentbearers do not cause calamity, they record it. They balance ledgers that no human can read, ensuring the world’s debts, be they of coin, blood, or harvest, are paid in full. Those who cheat their neighbors, who hoard while others starve, who spill blood without offering something back, these are the ones who find the Parchmentbearers at their threshold. Not as punishment, but as accountants settling an imbalance.
When they leave their mark on your home, you will know your due is coming.
A failed harvest.
A stolen heirloom.
A child who will not return from the woods.
But the Parchmentbearers are not without mercy. They respect offerings, especially those that speak to the oldest exchanges, the promise of something for something.
The Herb of Fair Trade
Frankincense is said to hold their favor.
Its resin was once burned in ancient halls during oaths and contracts, the smoke binding words to truth. Those who fear the Parchmentbearers, or wish to bargain with them, burn frankincense at their doorstep when debts feel heavy. The scent drifts into the folds of the Bearers’ parchment cloaks, reminding them that not all debts must end in loss, some can be repaid in honor.
Traveler’s Remembrance
If you wake to find a strange symbol scratched into your door, do not panic.
Do not run.
Stand in your doorway, light the frankincense, and whisper:
“What is owed, I will pay.
What is broken, I will mend.
What is taken, I will give.”
And perhaps the Parchmentbearers will adjust your ledger, just slightly. For they are not cruel. They are simply keeping the world from falling apart.
