The Axis Custodian

"Where others build, fight, or remember—the Custodian watches."

— Fragment, Stringboard Entry D-Redact/7a

What It Is

The Axis Custodian is not a position you train for. It is not offered. It simply happens to you.

Somewhere between noticing Dave and realising what that means, the role sinks its claws in. And once it does, you are no longer simply a bystander. You are the one who watches him. Not out of reverence. Not even out of fear. Just… necessity.

Dave is too normal. In a place like The Last Home—where gods drink beside adventurers, where narrative laws collapse like flan under scrutiny—that sort of normality becomes dangerous. Or sacred. Or both.

The Custodian does not claim to understand him. They simply notice when he stirs his drink one extra time, or when the foam shifts in a way that shouldn’t mean anything—but might. They are the record-keeper for a mystery that actively resists answers. And the only person who will admit that this is a job worth doing.

Purpose

At its core, the Custodian exists to maintain observation of Dave—the Inn’s most suspiciously ordinary patron. They are not a prophet, nor a researcher, nor a cultist. They are a witness. Their presence helps preserve coherence, not just in the records of The Conspiracy Club , but perhaps in the multiverse itself.

Their task is not to guide, interfere, or reveal. It is to record the strange echoes around Dave. Pint foam that never spills. Chairs that seem to recognise him. Shifts in soup consistency, speech rhythm, or nod patterns that, in any other context, would be dismissed as coincidence. But here, such patterns fold back in on themselves, and someone needs to write them down before they unravel.

How It Happens

There are no qualifications. You are not appointed. The only requirement is that you looked too long and could not look away.

The Inn knows. It provides. Ink appears when needed. Tea boils without asking. Soup arrives with no memory of having been ordered. And the Custodian accepts this, because questioning it leads only to spirals. That is how the last one lost the ability to use adjectives.

Attempts to replicate the role have ended poorly. One man now lives inside a cupboard by choice. Another rewrote his name in an alphabet that doesn’t exist. It has become clear that there can only ever be one Custodian at a time—and only those chosen by narrative weight are allowed to endure it.

The Work

The Custodian maintains the Master Davelog, a journal so extensive that it now occupies three shelves and one sealed drawer. It contains accounts of every nod, every phrase, every anomaly Dave has ever caused—or refused to cause.

Their workspace, Room 3B, has transformed over time into something not quite physical. The stringboard covers most of the walls and part of the ceiling. It maps patterns, impossibilities, and theories that should not be spoken aloud. Some of the string trails into corners that do not have endings. Following them too far can result in nosebleeds, unwanted insights, or minor prophetic seizures.

The room contains a tea kettle that never empties, a desk no one remembers carrying in, and a biscuit tin used to manage theory disputes. The fourth chair changes shape depending on who glances at it. It is not to be sat in without permission.

Time moves normally in the room. It just doesn’t feel like it.

The Look

The Custodian wears academic robes, though “wears” may be generous. They are ink-stained, tea-soaked, and permanently crumpled. Somewhere in Room 3B exists the Official Custodian Hat, a relic only worn during Class Four Theory Emergencies. When the hat is on, no one interrupts. Not even Lars.

Though unrecognised by any Threadworld, realm, or Archive, the Custodian is respected within the Club. Offerings are left quietly—biscuits, carved tokens, coded notes. These are not accepted. They are simply… appreciated. Nothing more is ever said.

The Risks

To serve as Axis Custodian is to slowly untangle your grip on comfortable reality. Emotional spirals are common. Soup exposure is rare, but unpleasant. There is a recognised condition among club members known as “narrative fatigue.” The Custodian displays symptoms regularly but continues, as though stopping would somehow make things worse.

The worst part? No one is sure if Dave has ever left the taproom. Or if he can. The Custodian keeps watching, just in case.

Recognition

There is no formal record of the profession. Not in the Realm Registry. Not in the Threads. Not even in the Grey Archive, which maintains records of things that have not happened yet. The absence of documentation is troubling. Even Seraphis has commented:

“There is no entry in the Archive. That, in itself, is a warning.”

Current Concerns

Since the Old Man Incident, the Custodian has added seven new stringboards to Room 3B. The phrase “Alright, Dave”—casually spoken by the stranger—has since been analysed linguistically, cosmologically, and emotionally. The chair he briefly occupied is now warded and documented in four languages.

New protocols have been added to the Davelog. Statements like “Could use more salt” are now flagged as potential trigger phrases. A drawer labelled Divination Attempts – Don’t contains the aftermath of what happened the last time someone tried to peer too deeply. The mirror still screams, occasionally.

When asked what would happen if Dave ever stood up with intent, the Custodian replied only:

“There are biscuits for that.”

No one knows what that means. But they have all agreed not to test it.

Final Thought

The Axis Custodian does not explain. They observe. They write. They sit in a room made of questions and wait for something to change.

Because if Dave ever shifts, even slightly—if he ever stands, or leaves, or says something he hasn’t said before—

Someone needs to be watching.
And someone needs to remember.