Hark! In the realm of tankards and throne-loos, rise now the tale of Phil the Provisioner, Ale-Master of the Seven Sections and Lord of Lavatorial Logistics.

From the peaks of Pintspire to the shadowed groves of Chairhold, Phil ventured far—his steed a rattling van of mysterious smells, his quest eternal: to source not merely spirits, but the spirits foretold in the Ale Codex of Eld. Vendors quake at his arrival, for Phil speaks the sacred tongue of bulk discounts and pub-grade sorcery. When the Great Table Crisis threatened the Feast of Midsummer Marquees, Phil unleashed his artifact—the Scroll of Comparative Furniture Costs—and summoned forth 87 banquet tables and 112 stackable thrones at precisely £6.72 per unit.

In the Realm of Logistics, where chaos reigns unchecked and health forms spawn like hydras, one figure stands defiant—Julian, Warden of the Ledger, Commander of Canvas Citadels, and Steward of Sustenance. By decree of forgotten elders (and a very firm email chain), he alone bears the Sigil of Responsibility. His quill balances budgets with the precision of elven archery, while his gaze can silence a misaligned gazebo at fifty paces.

At sunrise, he summons marquees with incantations known only to seasoned tentwrights. By noon, he wrangles food vendors with the authority of a dragon broker. When stormclouds gather and chaos stirs, he draws forth the Scroll of Safety Measures, its clauses etched in arcane bureaucracy.

Let the scrolls unfurl and the horns sound, for this is the Epic of Chris, Warden of the Webgate,  Steward of Scroll-Tickets and Sentinel of the Luminous Leg.

Born beneath binary stars, Chris was gifted the sacred relic of Websmithery—a keyboard carved from moonstone and caffeinated prophecy. He forged the Portal of Passage where mortals dared purchase tickets, embedding runes of security, fluid dropdowns, and captcha guardians to test the worthy. Yet it is known across the realms that his truest power is bound to the relic he bears—a leg of forged titanium, inlaid with runes of light, that blazes in the darkness like a star reborn. But his true power awakens at dawn, when he dons his Cloak of Confirmation and takes his post at the Grand Gate. There he scans scrolls etched in laser light, greets wanderers with a knowing nod, and speaks the ancient phrase: “Your wristband awaits, brave soul.”

In the windswept fields of Valorwyn, beneath a colossal tent stitched from griffon hide and draped with ancient banners, stood Jason the Soundforger. His enchanted decks thrummed with primordial energy, carved from the bones of thunder gods and wired with phoenix sinew.

Each beat he unleashed stirred the soil, awakening echoes of battles long past. The sappers, cloaked in scars and glory, formed a circle—boots stomping, fists raised—as sacred rhythm surged through their veins once more.

In the sacred prep grounds of Tenthalion, where elder banners whisper in the wind and every clipboard hums with power, strides Chris the Prime Arranger.

Wielding the Sigil-Stick of Schedule and clad in the blessed Vest of Velcro, he bends the forces of chaos to his will. Rogue tents? Vanquished. Tangled wires? Banished to the Shadow Coil. And when the sun cast its first golden arrow across the field, all was ordered—each snack stationed like a rune-stone, every cable aligned by leyline.

In the mythic realm of Stockholde, where crates hum with ancient whispers and every ration box bears the sigil of sustenance, walks Colm—Warden of the Grand Provisions.

Robed in inventory scrolls and girded with the Belt of Binding Tape, he commands the Store Sanctum with arcane mastery. His ledger—etched with runes—can summon flapjacks from the fog and socks from the Void. Pallets align as if by spellcraft; tins gleam beneath moonlight, awaiting the sacred consumption rites.

In the hallowed lands of Preparathos, where the earth breathes logistics and the skies whisper duty, rose a legend—Chris, Grand Architect of Dawn and Dusk.

He bore the Hammer of Assembly, whose strikes summoned mighty tents from slumber, and wielded the Broom of Twilight, a relic said to banish disorder with a single sweep. From the first morning mist to the final stars, Chris walked the field with purpose etched into every footstep.

By the time the sun dared peek over the crest of Ridgefield Hollow, Nige had already arrived—his long trailer growling behind him like a chained dragon of logistics.

The field, still shrouded in morning mist, trembled as the sit-on mower rolled forth—no mere machine, but a steel steed blessed by the Order of the Emerald Blade. Where others saw uneven ground and scattered crates, Nige saw a battlefield to tame, a canvas upon which the sapper saga would unfold.

In the age of canvas citadels and fire-breathing fryers, where the hills roll like sleeping giants and echoes remember the clash of cups and laughter, Mick emerges—not merely a man, but an appointed Loremaster of Merriment.

His euchre decks are relics from the High Court of Cardonia. His nurdles? Forged in the playground forges of ancient mirthsmiths. From the tannoy—his enchanted Horn of Echoes—rises the cry: “HI-DE-HI!” A spell of jubilation rolls across the field. Sappers stumble from their tents like summoned warriors of fun, eager for battle in the arena of games.

In the mist-cloaked realm of Sudshaven, amidst the great tent-citadels and sacred aisleways of barter and froth, reigns Paula—High Matron of the Barrows and Keeper of the Sacred Sockstone.

By daylight, she surveys the QM Store, where every badge and packet of boiled sweets bears hidden enchantment. Sappers barter beneath fluttering pennants, seeking talismans of comfort and rainproof tops of destiny. But when twilight descends and the revel drums beat, Paula mounts the Ale Throne. With flagon in hand and ledger of truth by her side, she commands the tap, summoning brews brewed in cauldrons older than the King’s moustache.

When the moon hung low like an ancient coin and the final tankard sang its farewell clink, Eddie rose—not from a barstool, but from destiny’s shadow. He was no mere servant of suds. He was the Table Warden, the Wipe Mage, the silent guardian of sticky chaos.

With enchanted tea towel flung across his shoulder like a sash of honour, he glided between revellers, dispensing frothy courage and summoning the ancient rite of Clean-Up. Boots worn from quests past, eyes gleaming with the wisdom of ten thousand coasters, Eddie worked behind the scenes—his path traced in cleared crumbs and grateful nods.

In the windswept realm of Aletentia, where sappers gather beneath canvas citadels to recount wars long past, Des the Barrelborn strides forth.

Cloaked in the scent of hops and destiny, he pours ale from enchanted kegs said to whisper tales of fallen kings. With one arm he hefts the ancient cask—Bräuwyrm—said to resist all but the Worthy. Tables vanish with the sweep of his hand, boots cower in the shadow of his mopstaff, and each flagon he fills ignites the spirit of old comradeship.

In the mist-cloaked market realm of Vetria, beneath vaulted tents stitched from the sails of lost fleets, Andy the Barwarden reigns. By dawn, he stirs the Cauldron of Plenty (locals call it “the beer trailer”) and awakens the sleeping barrels with chants learned from the Dwarves of Sudhollow. Each pint he pours sings with enchantment, each map stroke a ward against the mudspawn that crawl beneath the trestles.

But Andy’s true power emerges in the Quartermaster’s Sanctum, where he trades relics of staggering power—thermal socks imbued with Emberwool, mugs that retell ancient campaigns with every sip, and the legendary Tactical Tweezers of Precision, known to unthread fate from even the tightest knots.

In the tented dominion of Vetera’s Hollow, where songs of old echo through flap and fog, strides Kenny the Wardshield, sentinel of the realm. Cloaked in dusk and duty, his lantern burns with the flame of watchful ancestors, illuminating paths through ale-slicked mud and memory-laden laughter.

Lost revellers whisper his name like a spell—“Find Kenny, and ye shall not wander.” With a grunt and a guiding hand, he escorts the wayward through the labyrinth of canvas halls. Sausage rolls tremble at his passing, pints dare not spill in his presence. Some say his boots were cobbled by the Stonefolk, and his hi-vis vest stitched by the Lightweavers of Isklar.

In the sacred expanse of Medithorne Field, veiled in canvas and courage, dwells John the Vitalist, sworn sentinel of sinew and spirit. Beneath flickering lanterns and battle-sung breezes, he stalks between tents like a priest of fleshcraft, his satchel humming with relics of restoration—the Gauzewrap of Galenor, the Elixir of Mild Alarm, and the fabled Splint of Swift Realignment.

When the cries of faltering knees or overly heroic dancing reach the winds, John appears—cloak billowing, stethoscope ringing like a harp of judgment. He mends the body, so legends may walk again. His touch stills chaos. His eyebrow diagnoses deceit. And some claim his clipboard records the true names of pain.