A Drafty Room with a Falcon’s Eye View
JoFro sat at the top of the extremely tall St Regulators Tower in the heart of the East Neuk, overlooking the Blood Bowl pitch that would be the home to the Fife Falcons. The tower was a tall, monolothic structure rising storey upon storey. It was also in need of some repair in places and totally devoid of any modern conveniences. He shook his head thinking to himself; What have I done. This tower was to be his new home, since accepting the job as head coach of the Falcons for the inaugural season of the MML Blitz league. Being assigned these quarters was supposed to be an honour. It felt like he was a prisoner. The Fife Falcons’ draft was complete, but it had been an onerous task in the extreme. He reflected on his arrival and the day itself.
He had arrived with all modern luxury to the Kingdom. Admittedly the train he had ridden needed to plow through snow, upon snow, steeped against sidings with yet more snow, to actually reach the East Neuk. But it hadn’t been that awful. Upon arrival at the East Neuk he had been met by a full honour guard of twelve clansmen on horseback and ushered from his modern conveyance into a golden horse drawn carriage. It was uncomfortable and the horses could pull it no faster than at walking pace due to it’s bulk and weight. Easy on the eye but agony on the bones. The carriage itself bore the crest of the King of Fife and all the way through the East Neuk the populace waved to JoFro and he felt obliged to wave back. Such a strange place he had thought and was still thinking now. Access to all the modern luxuries and wealth, but so steeped in tradition that they feel the need to use bygone methods nontheless. It’s insane.
Upon arrival at St Regulators Tower a fanfare had sounded and a man dressed as a footman had arrived to open the carriage door, with a quick bow. JoFro had been ushered up the two hundred and ninety-nine steps to the top of the tower and was severely out of breath by the time he had got there. The footman seemed to manage it with ease, whilst also carrying JoFro’s baggage.
“There be beautiful views from up here my laird,” had uttered the footman. JoFro had tried to object to the title with which he was being addressed.
The footman had looked furtive as if he was worried there may be secret spies within the walls of the tower itself. “No M’Laird, I have seen the royal decree, you are now a laird, M’Laird.” He said it very affirmatively.
The ‘office’ which JoFro had been assigned was at the very top of the tower, within apartments. These quarters had all the finery of royal chambers from centuries past. The first item he had been shown was a golden bell.
“Just ring that any time you want service my laird.” Had encouraged the footman. “Someone will come a runnin’.”
He had then been shown his desk complete with quill pens, inks, stacks of velum and sealing wax. He was then cordially presented with a signet ring to seal any documents bearing a very stylised ‘JF.’
“How does this all work then?” JoFro had enquired.
“You will receive boxes of official documents pulled from the magical electronical computing devices M’Laird. You will then write and seal your responses and return them to the boxes. Any other instructions and requests may be dealt with in the same manner M’Laird.” Was the reply he had received from the footman.
“I will get to see the team though, once they are drafted, right?” JoFro had enquired.
“Oh aye, M’Laird, most assuredly. You will be able tae make your way to the pitch from the tower, under escort of course, M’Laird.”
JoFro didn’t seem awfully keen on that idea. “Why escort?”
“Why tae keep you safe o’course M’Laird.” The footman spoke these word, most earnestly. “His Highness does nae want you to be left alone, tae ensure your safety o’ course.”
“But, just how do you expect me to make draft picks and to actually do anything from up here, with quill and ink?”
The footman gasped, looking shocked. “You cannae question the methods M’Laird. All modern electronical or magical or computational devices are banned in the tower M’Laird. When you want tae make a pick you will write it down, seal it and put it in the box, as I already described. Then I, or another of His Highness’ royal household will take the box, wi’ all solemnity, and transfer it to a runner on the stairs. They will then run it to the next runner and so on. It will then be entered into a magical, electonical computational device and any responses will be conveyed back to you.”
“But it doesn’t make sense for me to be here then?” Frost had noted. “Why can’t I be somewhere where I could use these ‘magical’ devices?”
The footman gasped again. He hurriedly held his hands up submissively, and then waving them frantically. “No M’Laird. I assure you it will all run very smoothly and be very efficient indeed. Most efficient.”
Indeed it had worked, of a fashion It was a very new method of working. Totally archaic and utterly inefficient; but JoFro’s draft had seemed to be the envy of a number of coaches. The responses he had received had indicated that quite a number had blamed JoFro for taking their picks at the very last minute.
JoFro looked out of a window. It was raining. It wasn’t just raining normal rain, it was raining Fife rain. Heavy droplets of water, descending from the heavens in torrents, battering against the tower and the East Neuk below. He could see the Blood Bowl pitch and stadium where his choices would play. He could see for miles around. It was a cold, wet and miserable place. He was pleased with his team, but all he could think was; what have I done.
