Entry IV: The Elmployment Tree

My mana—along with most of my confetti—was nearly depleted after accidentally conducting an orchestra instead of, say, conducting business affairs.

The grove was a welcome silence after the chaos I’d just escaped. The orchestra I accidentally conjured had followed me for days, turning every minor decision into a dramatic overture. Ordering soup? Trumpets. Tying my boots? Violins. As much as I liked having my own theme song, things got dicey once they started busking—and one tried to charge me for a crescendo. That’s when I knew the show was over.

What replaced their music was no less magical: reaching into an amber-streaked sky was a towering tree, standing before me. Thankfully, it wasn’t sitting down—that would’ve been weird. Its sprawling branches filtered the light into golden ribbons, and fastened across its ancient trunk were scrolls and notices, bound by ivy and time. They trembled ever so slightly—not from wind, but as though stirred by the tree’s own breath, exhaling secrets inked in sap and memory… or sighing over centuries of unread résumés.

The ink began to swirl across the parchment. A whisper in the wind spoke of forgotten lore. But just before the final rune appeared…

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Every good mage needs a grimoire—somewhere to stash half-finished incantations, character scrolls, and a cursed recipe or two.

We use Scrivener, the spellbook of choice for longform storytellers. It organizes chaos, binds scattered parchments, and keeps plot dragons at bay.

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I had heard whispers of such a place—usually spoken in the hushed tones of folklore and freelance forums. Could this be the fabled Elmployment Tree? A living job board, tended by a whimsical dryad who offered quests in exchange for mana and coin. The kind of place where dreams were hired, not just dreamt.

I approached, expecting ancient insight—or at least a halfway legible font.

Instead, I found its bark plastered with postings—scrolls, flyers, and faded résumés—all layered like sediment in a long-forgotten archive. Each was more cryptic than the last, except for a small wooden sign dangling from a nearby root: “Out to lunch. Be back in 30 minutes.”

One tattered Wand Ad read: “Will pay 5 gold to polish my potion description.”
I reached for the scroll—only to realize, too late, it was the potion instead. In retrospect, that was a poor business move. I lost 2 HP per turn to poison and earned zero gold in return.

I staggered backward, clutching my stomach and my pride. From behind a nearby rock, a figure emerged—casually chewing what might’ve been a toasted lichen sandwich.

“Rookie mistake,” she said, not unkindly.

The dryad snapped her fingers, and a swirl of mint-green light wrapped around me. The nausea faded. My shame did not.

“Thanks,” I muttered, handing over 5 gold.

“Cleansing and sapling fees,” she said with a wink, disappearing just as quickly as she’d arrived—back behind the rock, which I now noticed had a mossy blanket and a cup labeled: “HR’d as a Rock.”

Once the nausea subsided, my staff’s crystal orb began to flicker ominously. Gazing into it, a vision shimmered to life: a talking parchment delivering an important warning.

“Beware of contracts sealed in invisible ink. Some vanish the moment they’re signed.”

That’s when it hit me—bartering spellwork for coin was far harder than casting spells for fun. The stakes were real. The poison, more so.

But I’d come this far, and I wasn’t about to turn back.

I didn’t feel like a seasoned adventurer—not yet. But I was learning new crafts by necessity. I forged a brand sigil. I studied ancient scrolls on affiliate enchantments and recurring incantation subscriptions. I even began to manatize my offerings.

No, the Freelands weren’t exactly shimmering with promise. But compared to the dank dungeons of my former manafacturing job, the path ahead felt lighter. And that, I realized, was worth a few poisoned potions.

I left the Elmployment Tree behind, but not before inscribing my URL into its bark with a magic marker—letting others know I offer free consultations. But first, I had to consult someone myself: The Freelands’ mysterious tea-leaf reader. Perhaps she could offer guidance on navigating this realm—or, at the very least, a warm mug of chai.

As the tree disappeared, sheathed in ivy and a tunic of dusk, wrapped in a whisper, a message reached my ear:
“If it’s clarity you seek, head due east—toward the next steep in the process.”

I couldn’t be sure if it came from the tree… or the last breath of a wandering woodwind, carried off on the wind.