Preserved Preservation
Lost & Forgotten Pages
The Hidden Council
Beneath the city everyone thought they knew. Underneath the noise, grit and grind; below the night owls still in flight, those seeking to quench their thirst was a council, and its members were gathering. An impromptu assembly convened. The space, an oval shaped chamber with protruding crown molding on every other wall, walls that curved and rounded at the top and bottom. The chamber's design was never-ending. A huge table sat in the center of the room. It too was oval. Its surface was impeccable, inlaid with symbols and fabrics, preserved despite time and touch. Smells of lavender, rain-soaked stone and old ink both settled and twitched the senses. Sconces made of pure gold circled the room, its light was that of a winter sunset bottled up.
Above the table, hung a chandelier crafted of the finest crystals. Instead of candles were ignited precious cuts hewn from Obsidian Blue Brickbraf, an igneous rock native to the Barcuklaw, an intellectual, massive humanoid species.
The chamber was bathed in what most would refer to as an off-putting light, with highlights of campfire embers and Tokyo Blue. But then again, those who were gathered at this assembly were not "most"! A hum intertwined with forgotten lullabies in languages no longer spoken filled the atmosphere.
Suddenly, materialized throughout the chamber were four doors, each inscribed with text above the doorposts: Condado de Bronx, Condado de Nueva York, Condado de Queens, Condado de Richmond. An otherworldly glimmer shone from under each door. Lively debates echoed from behind the door inscribed, Condado de Bronx. A violent tremor shook the room. Light from the Obsidian Blue Brickbraf flickered—SILENCE. The calm was broken by a willful, raspy voice.
"Why must we always have Obsidian Blue Brickbraf to light the chamber?!"
Like a movie scene dissolving to the next, was the precious rock replaced with wax candles. Swinging open, the entrances of the doors were filled with great silhouettes. A fifth door appeared but remained closed. Instantly, the chamber filled with creatures of earthly and fantastical lineage. The borough masters were the first to arrive followed by the kings of north and south Brooklyn. Preservationists trickled in, quietly taking their place.
Stepping into the candlelight from the shadows was a human-like creature that wasn’t there a moment ago. Budding antlers sprouted from its head. Its body was covered by thick auburn hair from its chest to legs. The creature’s hooves made no sound against the stone. A figure of smoke and ash condensed near a ventilation grate, its heat rippling the air around it. To the right of the hoofed creature was an elderly gentleman who smelled faintly of river water. The tellurian leaned on a cane grown from living wood; however, his reflection moved differently than he. A circle formed. Languages overlapped: English threaded with older tongues, with sounds that weren’t quite speech at all as council members greeted one another. New York politics, current events and sporting teams were discussed and debated. Side conversations carried on in hushed tones and in silence through gestures, through the subtle shifting of air and light. Worries and burdens for the Borough of Kings were shared. Allegiances were questioned with foreknowledge of betrayal—wolves were among us, not just the two or four-legged kind but those who kept malicious intent in their chest pockets.
Good news travels fast, but a negative report traveled quicker and without opposition: Borough Master Pueblo Pablo was dead. Micah, the supposed new borough master of Brooklyn was in the wind. And an unprecedented evil was coming to the Land. Many at the council wore concern and fear like makeup on a Zoo Clown. All signs pointed to one thing, the degradation and desolation of Brooklyn and all of New York.
Callum heard it all! He sensed it! "Thank you all for coming, especially on such short notice! What is the question that burns in most of your hearts?"
He stood alone at the center of the council, boots firmly planted on stone older than human memory. The floor shimmered faintly, etched with sigils that shifted like breath beneath glass. Above, another light shone, filtered through no visible source, changing color as it passed through wings, antlers, horns, and halos of smoke.
This was not a place for the untested or unfaithful! Around the circle gathered members of the House of Brubeatah: colossal gladiators, stonebound elders whose faces were carved by centuries; flame-eyed sentinels who whispered to one another in sparks, and figures whose shapes resisted names altogether! Their power pressed inward; it was heavy and thunderous, a living storm of magic and will. Callum felt the weight of their strength settle on his shoulders. He felt their anguish and sorrow. Nearly buckling, he stood! The great warriors knelt to no one but One. Instead, they lifted their chin, and as they did, their scars caught the light—marks earned not in legend, but by conviction and dedication—in territories, realms, and in the secret places of New York and beyond—places where the universe had begun to fray! And with a nod, they counted Callum worthy! They knew the fallout of nature and culture thinned to nothing: Bitter streams and poisoned bodies of water. The arrival of invasive species! First quietly then boldly, as if testing how much could be taken without recompense. Then came desolation and destruction!
A murmur ripped through the council, a sound like wind through many different worlds. Callum drew a steadying breath. He crossed broken ground and forbidden paths to stand here, carrying news no one wished to hear but that all needed to.
“Our land is not dying all at once,” he began; his voice clear despite the weight of his assignment. Callum continued, “It is being taken piece by piece. And if we wait for certainty, there will be nothing left to defend!” The council fell silent and magic was stilled. Even the oldest beings leaned closer. The war had not yet been named but everyone present felt it’s approaching.
Solari Bark was the first to respond. Members of his order surrounded him. The air shifted—leaves trembled where there were none, heartbeats slowed, and a low, living hum threaded through the chamber. He stood tall despite his age (1,500 years to be exact!). His bark-brown skin creased like ancient roots and his long, silver beard woven with vines glowed faintly. Moss crowned his wide-brimmed hat, and a staff of living wood rested in his palm, pulsing with a patient, watchful energy. When his pale, luminous eyes swept across the assembly of humans, dwarves, gods, and half-forgotten legends, it was not judgment but measure.
“Solari Bark, member of the Order of Nocturn Fauna, wizard over a section of Prospect Park, including the pond. I do not come for dominance,” Solari declared. His voice mild yet strong, like a gale carried through a forest canopy. “Nor for praise do I come! I come because balance falters!” He inclined his head to the tellurian delegates first, acknowledging them as earth’s stewards then turned to his mystic compatriots: elf nobles shimmering with a fantastic glory and impatience; a herd of centaurs, intimidating and immovable. A hulking minotaur in silent appraisal. Looking around the chamber, the minotaur unfolded his arms. “You feel it as I do. The roots are strained. Old wards are thinning. Wickedness does not always roar—it whispers!”
As murmurs and side chatter rose, Solari lifted one weathered hand, and a small green shoot unfurled between his fingers, glowing brighter as the room stilled. “This council exists because we declared an oath to Brooklyn, its people and to each other!” He continued. "Never has there been a demilitarized zone since the Great Folly, and never will there be!” His gaze lingered on each faction. “If we are to endure, we must be vigilant together! Not as glory-seekers! Not as legends! But as caretakers! This is who we are!”
The Red Warrior stepped forward from the edge of the fireplace. Cinders slid across his mantle like falling stars. He did not bow but acknowledged Solari. His arms remained crossed, not in defiance but restraint.
“Forest-Keeper,” he said, his voice low, scarred by battles survived. “I have watched cities burn because no one stood early enough! I have learned that ruin is not born in flame—it is born of neglect.” He turned briefly to the council, the smolder of distant fires reflected in his eyes. “I was shaped by war, but I am not its servant! Strength that answers too late descends into apathy and oblivion. Strength that stands idly by becomes petrified then mummified—it is remembered no more!”
The Red Warrior’s gaze returned to Solari, steady and unflinching. “You speak of vigilance. I agree! Balance is not preserved by hope alone, nor by power unchecked. It is preserved by those willing to endure blame, wear scars and remain when others turn away.” He loosened his arms, letting his red cloak fall. “Where roots must be defended from fire, I will stand. Where wickedness creeps in shadow, I will meet it without glory or excuse. Not as a conqueror—but as a watchman!” The enchantment around him dimmed slightly, as if it were listening.
“You have my accord, Solari Bark. May we all act before Brooklyn is remembered only as a mountain of ashes.”
Sophia Regent rose. She wore no crown. Her posture was effortless, practiced—the stance of someone long accustomed to being obeyed. Where other creatures bore signs of age or erosion, she appeared preserved, as if time itself had learned better than to touch her carelessly. She smiled before speaking. Her smile was something other than kind.
“You speak of decay as if it were a tragedy,” she said; her voice velvety, almost amused. “As if something has gone wrong.”
The council bristled. Wings shifted. Stone scraped against stone. “Brooklyn,” she continued, pacing the circle slowly, “is not dying. It is being emptied. And an emptied place is rather a most useful place!” She stopped near the center, eyes glinting. “Culture is loud! Memory resists. Communities argue. But remove them gently—raise the cost, soften the language, rename theft to opportunity—and the land stops fighting back.”
Many protested. She raised a single finger. "As a native, and one with power, I have a right to speak here before the council."
“You mistake my intentions, if you think I want chaos,” Sophia Regent stated. “Chaos burns too fast. I prefer order. Clean lines. Clear-cut shapes. Stringent shades and colors… again, nothing too loud!” She moved again. Her hands behind her back. “Predictable growth. I prefer people who arrive grateful and who leave quietly.”
Her gaze swept the council, weighing her associates. “Moral decay is a myth,” she added. “What you call decay is simply the shedding of inconvenient attachments.” She leaned forward slightly, conspiratorial now. “And once attachment is gone, power can move easily.” The glare of distant towers flickered in her eyes, reflected like stars. “I do not rule by force,” she declared. “I rule by comfort—by aspiration! By convincing everyone that what replaces them is better than what they were.” Her smile returned, sharper this time.
“Brooklyn is only the beginning,” Sophia Regent concluded. “It is proof of concept.” She sat back down, composed, satisfied, already preparing for the next place that would be made soft enough to take.
Addressing the assembly once more, Callum stood before the gathered council, his helmet tucked beneath his arm, eyes bright with urgency.
“In other news tied to larger events, word has reached us at the Borough Master's residence in Brooklyn—and I am sure most of you are aware that a werewolf and tigress are on the loose—both escaped from Mishka's traveling circus which passed through Cobble Hill just a few hours ago. We are all well aware of the dangers that this poses—especially with the full-moon approaching! A team has already been dispatched to quietly capture the werewolf. Once he’s captured, council for judgement will be held, and he will be extradited back to Russia. The second team is already searching for the tigress—hopefully, we are not too late!” Callum paused. “Mishka will be dealt with accordingly!”
Callum paused again. This time the pause was different. A degree of anguish and worry scored his face. The assembly took notice, most already knew. They felt it.
“Another issue with the potential to become volatile are the BrookNaw Canines. They are in mourning and restless! Sasha, their alpha female was murdered in Pennslyvania—details of her death are currently unknown. And Hakim is currently MIA.” Comments and reactions spread throughout the chamber.
“Therefore, we must watch the pack closer than ever! Magi are already predicting chaos and bloodshed! We know that Hakim and Sasha reared the pack in a particular manner, steering them away from human flesh or blood. Coexistence under the former alphas was mild, but their son is new, new to leadership and power. He’s grieving and so is the pack. The emotional state of Matsi will determine what we do and whether or not Brooklyn is tossed into a bath of blood! We will do our best to keep our relationship with the BrookNaw Canines cordial. I myself will be paying respects to Sasha at the funeral which is scheduled days from now. I spoke with CeCe, the pack’s advisor and the funeral is for family, close friends and associates.
Callum paused, letting the weight of his words settle. He drew a slow breath before continuing. “Mongreg magic lives!” Members of the council turned irreverent and violent. “Morin Murrow, long thought gone beyond the veil has returned! He's been traveling with Mishka, ringmaster of Mishka’s Sideshow Caravan. Mishka, who is also affiliated with the prominent Russian family led by Oleg Volkov. We believe his work is honest, but then again, this is Morin. A source has relayed he's returned for his lover, bound to him by a magic older than any order or faction.
“You’ve done well to bring this to us early,” an old commander bristled. “A grieving pack is more dangerous than a hungry one, and escaped beasts always draw attention. If Morin has taken up his mantle again, he would have broken an ancient law and the consequences would be swift!"
“There are deeper stirrings still,” Callum interjected. “Two entities have awakened, each tied to a residence on Wyckoff Street. The block appears ordinary, but my compatriots and I are unnerved by what lingers in that house. A terrible power resides there!”
A robed figure nodded slowly, eyes unfocused as if listening to something unseen. “The awakenings align,” they murmured. “Grief calls to power. Love calls louder still! Should Morin search for his beloved and they be joined, he can be taken off the board all together! Love is a great tool which has the power to disarm and transform..."
“True, but we cannot afford to take that risk—not with Morin!” cried Solari Bark.
“You and I will speak further on the matter, Solari!” said Callum. He took another few steps. “I regret there is more.” His tone dropped and his facial expression became more grave.
“Mountains of brick and poured concrete tremble! Wagru, a fire drake who earned the byname, ‘the Slumbering Dragon’ wakes!” Callum straightened, meeting the council's eyes one by one. “These are not isolated events! They are threads of the same weaving! For what seemed an age, has Wagru slept on buildings of the Gowanus Houses—unbothered and bothering no one! We stand at the edge of something vast—and if we do not act with wisdom as well as with strength, we may become part of the storm rather than those who weather it! I cannot stress the seriousness of the manner!”
A noble scoffed, shaking his head. “Stories stacked on stories,” he said. “A circus animal, a fairy tale wizard, a dragon above our heads? This sounds less like intelligence and more like a bard’s rehearsal.” He waved a hand. “We cannot mobilize forces every time the wind carries a rumor. Bring proof or be silent!”
Callum held his tongue but indignation burned within him.
In reserved fashion, a young woman stepped forward. “My name’s Nachelle. My people are aligned with Order of the Leo—I myself, am of Order of the Leo! I’ve trained with Callum,” she proclaimed then nodded at him. “He doesn’t ‘imagine’ threats! If he says something is stirring, then it already has claws in the earth realm and a foothold in the unseen realm.” She squared her shoulders. “I stand with him!”
Above the council, a train roared past, unaware. A siren wailed then faded. The city breathed. When the council ended, there were no handshakes, no farewells but rather commitments to Brooklyn and the other boroughs; a resolve to meet and stand against whatever evil that would come. One by one, members and Preservationists dispersed—into shadows, into service tunnels, through portals into unknown dimensions, back onto New York streets. By morning, the chamber would be empty again, just another forgotten space beneath millions of footsteps. And the City went on, oblivious that for a few hours, its future had been argued over by beings who understood just how fragile life really was.
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