Column Take Over

Hello Holler Folk,

It’s your good friend Al Peppercorn writing today from the home office in Hamitsdown. Eze is out hunting down a new story, so I’ll be stepping in for this column.

Given that this column usually covers interviews and features on notable figures, I thought you all may enjoy some backstory on our favorite intrepid reporter: Eze Clearwater.

I first met Eze over a decade ago, fresh from a rough break with an overbearing employer. Out of a job, lodging, and far from home, Eze was short on cenz and sliding into trouble when we stumbled across each other in the Mittflare marketplace.

Although I am now given to understand that Eze’s species is more in control of their appearance than your average folk, at the time I was stuck by the youth of this kid I’d stumbled into, clearly in need of a warm meal and shoes that weren’t earning new holes with every step.

It took some cajoling- as I can only imagine it should when a strange man you’ve just bowled over offers to feed you instead- but I eventually convinced Eze to follow me to a local tavern for lunch. Yes, I have been called out for being a sucker in my time. Usually by Eze.

After some rough starts, wherein I convinced this grubby urchin that they could in fact order as much as they could eat from the admittedly limited tavern offerings, we got chatting. I mentioned I was traveling for work, Eze asked what I was doing in Mittflare. I explained I was in town to interview a few local counsel members who had recently taken office.

Eze wanted to know why people cared what some fancy folk had to say, and I got to spend the next several hours debating the merits of community and interconnectivity with a creature who spoke like they’d just emerged from a cult. When I asked, Eze demanded a definition of the word ‘cult’, and after pondering for a moment admitted that, while it wasn’t spot on, it wasn’t a far off description from their last environment.

Apparently Eze’s last boss was a bit of what we’ll call a controlling personality.

We spent a mostly pleasant evening getting to know each other: I told Eze about what was then the foundling newspaper I had been struggling to keep afloat for a few years all on my lonesome, Eze dodged questions about what exactly was cult-like and terrible about their past boss, and was equally mum on things like their home life or if there were any relatives I should be contacting on their behalf.

Eze asked if there was any way they could repay me for the meal, and for the shoes that I’d paid the tavern matron to find for them, and, while I’m not in the habit of asking for payment for compassion, I could sense that Eze was feeling uneasy about accepting charity. I admitted that I could use an assistant in my interviews; someone to take notes and keep an ear out while I watched faces and asked questions.

I sent Eze off to bed in a spare room at the tavern, the matron at this point having derived something of the situation and having given me a very kind discount, with plans to met early the next morning for work.

Over the next three days Eze accompanied me on no less than seven separate interviews, two of which were rescheduled for conflicts, and one in which a deeply unpleasant counselors aid went so far as to find it acceptable to lay an unwanted hand on Eze’s shoulder in that smarmy-uncomfortable way strangers do when they think you’ll be flattered by their attention. I may have burned a few bridges if I’d been able to express my outrage, but I needn’t have worried. The interview did have to be cut short altogether once Eze was finished giving the aid his hand back, but we all left the building in one piece.

By the end of my time in Mittflare I was thrilled to discover that I had found a most capable assistant brimming with potential. Eze possessed an attention to detail and a nose for unearthing hidden thoughts that reminded me, vainly, of my younger self. I made a job offer the day I was set to return to Hamitsdown, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Now, years later and with an established, well-regarded newspaper known the continent-over, I can confidently report that bumping into Eze that day is one of the great fortunes of my life. I have been gifted with a brilliant protege, an intelligent business partner, and a good friend who has dedicated a significant portion of their life to supporting my dream while finding their own.

The Holler is what it is today because of Eze’s tenacity, dogged persistence, and belief in the value of knowledge and community. Even if Eze refuses to see the value in a personal assistant in the form of an intern. Which is fine. I’ll wear them down someday.

Last we heard, Eze was up north somewhere in the Ellisax mountains. If you happen to cross paths, give ‘em a wave from us here back home. That means you, Bruge Clair- keep an eye out!

Very much live from the Holler,

Al Peppercorn.