Author: Alexander Brown

As we organize ourselves for court, I scanned the crowd.

That god damned mother fucking scumbag dares show their face again.

A breath, two more calms me, and I take up a position near them, eyeing the integrity of their rifle, judging how easily I could ruin it over my knee.

As Felix made his presentation, the depth of how we were fucked began to set in, how much food we were behind, and what it would take to survive.

“If you mention drudgery again, I’ll kill your house”

All the Valerians present snap their gaze to the speaker, A lazy warlord content to let scum steal from hardworking peasants, who insisted on building a pub before an almshouse.

We look to Lady Dragomir to bring order, Our Lady for orders. The knights begin to draw their blades.

But no, no violence at court. Vindicta bends to the will of this commoner, the insult to our house, the open threat unpunished by word or sentence.

suddenly *we* are admonished for this brazen threat. No “Rogalian on Dun violence” in that order, as if we would instigate such a fight, to lower ourselves to that level.

My blood boils, I look to the bounty hunter next to me and think about how easy it would be to break their fingers.

But no, our Lady in her eminent Wisdom, stays our blades. She knows it would sully the court to stoop to violence. I take another few breaths.
…
Ha, they were almost forgotten, the bounty hunter makes their case.

Theophania murdered someone in Rogalia, and is going to be sent to trial? outlandish, ridiculous to suggest that this person of no name or status would command such an ask. I told the court of the events the night before. How I saved tiff from being abducted.

I also knew she was handing out baked goods, as she often does just before court. Nothing to worry about, unless that rifle dips.

Their time to speak ends, and they shuffle out, a failure.

This will be a trying time.

Naught but Glory

-Alfred Black

Einsland dead, the njords turn against each other. Civil war.

History echoes.

Wandering Rogalia has given me perspective. Perspective these kindly folk seem to lack. Civil war by its nature means you are surrounded, forces that were once allies look to you for strength, and if you fail to impress you become more chaff for the scythe.

I have not seen impressive things from these leaders. Dragomir seems uncertain, but I am sure that our Lady Valerian will prove to be a steady hand and a disciplined voice. She will guide us through, and who else better to fight a war such as this than the Roaring Swords?

Bless our blades, sharpen their edge. bring its Justice without Mercy.

-Alfred Black

Alfred tends the forge, ruminating on his past.

He thinks back to his childhood, learning the stone and iron from his parents, hefting a hammer at the forge just a soon as he learned he was no use with a bow. The hammer blows are clumsy, uneven, the blades brittle.

His father smiles, and says, as he frequently does “The next one will be better”. Alfred took this to heart, each mistake was carefully addressed, each imperfection beaten out of the red-hot iron.

Alfred is a young boy, nearing 14, making finer blades than his aging mother and father. His father is becoming ill, His mother not as strong as she once was. A familiar face comes to town, the Steelsmith. Thomas Stone always had a smile to share in the bleak lands around blackforge, the children often flocked to see what baubles he brought along with him. His calm grey eyes fell on the latest blade, appraising it.

That night, under the slim crescent moon Alfred stepped out on his first of many adventures. On a slow mule cart rolling out of Blackforge, the dim torch-light fading away past the hills of Rogalia and Alfred had hope in his heart for the future.

Alfred looks at the fine blade, shining bright and sharp, and a smile falls on his face, remembering the campfire stories Thomas told that night in the dim light of the morning over breakfast.