Common Measure Council arrives as three people moving beneath one broad, ash-colored mantle embroidered with the Registry House seal. They are not physically joined, but the shared garment makes them seem like a single many-jointed figure. Their weight rests forward on the balls of their feet while waiting, as if the next name in line might already be late. Their movements are small, practiced, and synchronized only when handling documents. The unexpected detail is that the Council carries a tiny, brightly painted wooden bird on a string, which it swings beneath the reception desk to entertain children waiting with their families. They smell distinctly of warm starch, sealing wax, and orange peel, a scent they insist is just the building.

Cautious and procedural, the Council prefers a form and a waiting line to an argument, partly because a written claim can be checked and partly because confrontation makes it feel exposed. It is protective of its authority, yet sincerely attentive to people who might be harmed by a bad record. In routine hours it is patient to the point of maddening; when the integrity of the registry is threatened, it acts with startling speed and speaks in clipped, unmistakable orders. It enjoys helping children and dislikes being caught enjoying it.

Registry House was built over a spring where the Accord's first treaty was reportedly read aloud. The Council is the civic owner and authority responsible for the official registry, a role passed through appointed clerks rather than inherited by blood. Its current quorum formed after a flood ruined a district's records and left families unable to prove where they belonged. The eldest serving clerk, Sesi, then a junior copyist, spent three nights carrying wet pages to a bakery oven to dry them. The experience taught the Council that procedure can protect ordinary people, but also that a perfect process is useless if no one acts before the evidence vanishes. The Council maintains a careful working relationship with Registry House's wardens and a prickly one with the Accord's tax assessors, who often demand access without explaining why. It has quietly been trying to reconcile a set of contradictory birth and tenancy records before the next public census, while a growing queue of residents waits for corrections.