Category: Journal Entry

It’s been so long since I’ve seen or heard from anyone at home. I was glad to see Thyre, she looked healthy, and it gave me a little hope that our village was doing just fine. I was glad to hear how she was preparing for spring product and what she was hoping for in the coming season. But her response made a piece of my heart twist horribly.

I miss the family tavern. I miss experimenting with ingredients, the excitement of new things to enhance Mom’s product. I miss seeing familiar faces of the village, the wandering souls passing through and stopping for a night, even the grumpy ones that sometimes were a nice distraction. I miss the stories, the drama, the connections people can share over a moment of peace and nourishment.

Worst of all, part of me actually misses Mom and Dad. I blame that drink test. I blame my opponent for being Thyre. Of all the people to show up, why her in the first place? Then again, why would anyone like her or I be in Runeheim?

The test was a bit entertaining at least. The first drink was sickly sweet like mallow root, that coated the tongue in almost a thick syrupy feeling that was hard to swallow. It was like medicine, not the best tasting kind, but I can see how it’d help someone. The second, it about burned my tongue from the spice of it, though it had a certain warmth and satisfying kick once the flavor settled. Then the third, perhaps the best and the worst. It tasted like home. A gentle warm, vanilla, and honey-like flavor. Like the feeling of being out all day in the cold winter, before returning home to a warm bath, and a freshly made bed to sleep like a bear.

That taste reminded me of the hard nights where sleep was nowhere in reach, and Mom was willing to stay awake with me until I could find peace. It reminded me of Dad, when he told me I’d be a good hunter when I caught my first rabbit, after a morning of frustration that brought me to tears over my first trapping lesson. He must have redone my trap while I wasn’t looking. Either way, having a dad like him, I had to take whatever praise he was willing to tear out of his stone heart when I could.

Part of me regrets letting Clemens join along. I appreciated his presence of course, I barely know anyone in Runeheim at this point beyond a name or startings of friendship. But I wish he didn’t finish the third drink, if it meant I got to hang onto that feeling for a little longer. But he had fun too, at least, I think he did. He’s always nose deep in some mage related business or whatever that I’m not really sure what he’d find fun in.

I think I need to start making drinks regularly again. Mom would be proud if she knew her little girl was making it big in Runeheim. At least, I hope she’d be proud.

Black as night. Its face was nothing more than a white bird mask. Nearly taller than the door as it loomed over the threshold.

And at the worst time of a woman to face a situation such as that. I should have remembered at least one of the tales Mom told me as a child. Tales of strange creatures terrorizing women and girls when they least expect it, and what was the common thread? They were alone and their guard was down. They’d freeze like statues, when they should have done something, anything to ward off a potential threat.

But those were just stories, meant to teach children basic survival skills. What does a grown woman do when she sees something out of a tale, in real life? Was it luck for me, or perhaps the figure just lost interest? I feel a little lucky at least, that hopefully it didn’t see me as a threat and moved on.

Perhaps it was just a figment of my imagination. I haven’t been in Runeheim for long, but one would be a fool to not see the stress and pressure everyone seems to be under. Maybe I’m part of the afflicted, my mind playing tricks as a result. Nothing a good drink and time with familiar faces could fix, I’m sure.

Perhaps I’ll bother Clemens to ramble on about anything at me. So long as it heals my mind of whatever this cursed figure has manifested itself from. And if he manages to keep my attention.

“Hey ma, what do you think we’ll do if the mists lift?”

“Hmm, I don’t suppose I’ve had time to think about it. I suppose Etienne will talk to the Court, and we will figure something out”

“And you believe they will make the right decision?”

“Well, the Court has guided us this long, and we are all alive. And Entienne is a smart man. Why, dear. You have doubts?”

“I mean, some things happened last market that just left me with a lot of question. Just….So Apple had said the last season that, because of the circle’s commitment to the town, and the town’s commitment to the circle, that we were free to adopt Discord to replace sins of Bias. But this market the Court addressed the town in the tavern to have us prove to them that, I don’t know, we were worthy of having that change happen? I guess I just didn’t understand the confusion between the Court about letting it happen? But then Ashe got upset and left, saying she couldn’t stand by this change knowing how many of us died at the hands of the Benalians, and that it was not her way just to simply forget.”

“Well, some members of the Court aren’t immune to acts of impulse. Apple is the spirit who loves the circle the most, so it makes sense that they would be the most in favor of this change, even if it was not solely their call to make”

“Yeah, I suppose that makes sense. The Circle was really torn up about Ashe leaving, and reached out to try to talk and bring them back to the Court. But then Ashe had a list of demands for the Benalians to do to prove to Ashe that they accept us. But, haven’t they done enough?”

“What do you mean, dear?”

“Haven’t the Benalians not bled for us? Haven’t they not been accommodating to our needs? Have they not turned their heads to our activities? When Jo was out in the middle of the tavern yelling ‘My people, it’s time. Let’s meet in our grove’, do you not think the Benalians were playing dumb, closing their eyes, and covering their ears to stay in line with their faith when they had Heresy? And the ones who could not turn their heads to our Mother, they were just shouldering that on their soul. What more do the Benalians have to prove? They could have hunted us a hundred times over by now, but we have chosen to live together for so long.”

“Ashe does hold the memories of the dead from before any of us could comprehend”

“But also our memories don’t work as they should. The mists, which the court tell us to work to strengthen as much as we can for our protection, takes our memories away. So many of us have walked into the forest to be caught in the mists and come back not knowing our families. Last market I found Chevreuil’s body. And Colibri, and, from what Cadence said, Entienne could not remember him. And I think that’s mists fault, and not them not caring about the old leader of our Circle, and, for Entienne, the old head of our family. Yet we are judged for not remembering or understanding how Vecatrans in the region were hunted? I understand that Ashe holds those memories, but that is not the situation we are living through, and the Benalians have done so much already. I am not sure why we are not taking more of a firmer stance toward Ashe, and saying we would love for Ashe to be apart of our community, but if they cannot live under this allegiance with the Benalians then we will remember them fondly.”

“It isn’t so simple, Hadrien. Most of us have lived with the Court our entire lives, and our parent’s lives, and their parent’s lives. Losing of the Court is like losing a close family member.”

“Yeah, I know I haven’t been with the Circle nearly as long as most, and even then I just stood in the back, and didn’t really participate. But we are losing the Court anyway. The Court has said when the Chiropoler died and the mists recede, the Court will fade with the mist. If Ashe wants to leave, and leave with what they believe is their dignity, then why not support that decision? And what are they going to do when the mists spirits fade? When Colibri said this market that Oak was a man who does not change easily, Entienne corrected her and said that the spirits were belief. So will we need to believe in new spirits and create a new Court, or will we be left on our own?”

“I am sure we will find our way. Vecatra will guide us through our crone and through Colibri and Entienne. It just takes a little faith”

“And I want to have faith. I just am not sure how much faith I have. There is so much I don’t understand. I am not sure why Nadia Kruezmoor had to pay for peeing on a tree in blood. I am not sure why Entienne says he cannot help with matters he does not see as pertaining to the Circle if we no longer take the sin of Bias, even though I am awfully sure he was in Gerard’s platoon when fighting the monster in Chiropoler’s bowels last market, and we do still take on the burden of Submission. I am not sure why I cannot help members of my community, like Cadence, Henri, Isabelle, and Sophie without being in Violation of Vecatra. I just don’t understand”

“Honey, were is all this coming from. You never had questions like this before”

“Ma, it just feels like when Chiropoler dies, and the mists fade, we cannot expect the Benalians to protect us. Even if the Benalians in Luisant are loyal to us, we cannot ask them to die to the world’s armies for us, because that will only lead to every dying. We cannot stand up to an army. And so if the mists fade, I can’t see the Vecatrans not receding with the mists and hiding in the forest, on their own”

Sylvaine looks up and speaks.

“Merle, listen to what the boy is trynna tell us”

Merle pauses for a moment, and then a pain expression rests on her face

“Hadrien. If we do have to leave Luisant, you are coming with us. Right?”

“Ma, I……”

Winter 608/609 –

January – I think my father had a dozen names for that damn boar – Tusk, Ripper, Bastard, etc – his old bar friends certainly had hundreds of more colorful names as well. He was supposed to have weighed 200 kilograms, have teeth a decimeter long, and whose blood was nothing but piss and vinegar according to the tale. My father supposedly impaled it fully tip to tail yet it still managed to tear his arm off. I think about those stories a lot now – it seems to be the only thing anyone remembers of my parents. Supposedly, the boar’s jaw was on display in the bar for years, but after the fire the tavernkeep decided to put it in storage – he thought that with my dad gone no one would recall the tale – and yet it persists. So if he didn’t want it, I decided it would be better served in a new role – I liberated it from the dusty attic above the tavern, and saw the truth in it – a jaw around my forearm in length, a small pair of incisors, and stains implying it had been buried outdoors for awhile before being mounted to a tacky plaque. At that moment – I knew it would be a perfect tribute to Aspen – sure the jaw may not be from the boar, but that jaw is central to its story – a part of nature my father and his friends could point at and speak of how the wilds must be respected – of how the truth can become a tale, and how a tale can become the truth.

February – For those who have risen to it, responsibility is a gift – for those who have it thrust upon them it is a burden – The standing one’s powers are waning and the evil beneath the ground is stirring. The mists are weakening and our very way of life is in danger. To combat this, Aspen has granted me a stave of power – that should I determine it necessary, I can remove my circle from harm’s way. But doing so would leave the lion folk at the mercy of the enemy, whoever they may be. It is now up to me to decide when to withdraw and when to stand and fight – I do not understand the ways of the sword and pike, nor am I a grand healer – my only weapon in these dread circumstances is my knowledge, and yet – this is not a tool of knowledge, it is a tool of wisdom. With this gift, Aspen implies that they support my ascension to mother – I’m not as wise and commanding as Etienne, nor am I as loving and supportive as Colibri – I do not know what I can do to aid in these times, nor do I know how what the future holds for us. All I know how to do is run.

March – There were a number of strange happenings at market – the straight forward ones – Court of trees in the tavern, werewolf confusion and panic, and the descent into Chriopholer were at least experienced by the whole town – and all can agree on what happened afterwards (though in the moment the events were quite vexing). Yet there were two events in particular that were quite peculiar – the first I experienced myself along with several other gatherers – we stumbled upon a cottage in the woods none of us had ever seen before, being built of candies and baked goods – my musings on the structural implausibility of this were curtailed by a self-proclaimed “ginger-dead-man”, and the unarmed were quite literally forced to seek refuge in the hut. There we discovered a gruesome scene of blood and baking – following this we were able to escape the hutch and aid in defeating the confectionary foe. At this the scene before us dissolved to nothing, leaving more questions than answers – at least I wrote the recipe down, though I know not if it’ll ever be useful.
The second was a man of snow appearing during the stonewise – accounts say it was trying to assault the gatherers, and that it reacted to Étienne’s ritual eye-stone. These absurd events are… perplexing and difficult to explain – could it be fey? A strange malefic trick? Maybe a manifestation by Chriopholer? I don’t really see how these events could be explained by logic, so I may have to ascribe to absurdity and whimsy to make any sense of them.

I’m going to die someday. What do I want to leave behind? Three happy and healthy adults raised by Cadence and I, for sure. A great big hole in space where all disease used to be before I kicked its ass, hopefully. What else, though?
I think of the bandit who I spoke with at market, Guy. Probably a fake name, but who cares. He’s a bit of a bastard. But he could be better. He wants to learn to fight like me so he can be a better bandit. The old man always told me that it was dangerous to just teach just anyone to move like that. Like waves on the ocean. He only ever taught me. I told myself I wouldn’t teach anyone else. I use it to protect the people of the town now, and I’m glad I can. What if I could teach Guy to do it too? Two people who fight like me, protecting this town.
That could be my legacy. A group of people decades from now leaping from tree to tree, fighting the beasts and creatures of the forest to keep the town safe. I’d be honored to teach people if I could guarantee that. But I don’t think I can. I want my legacy to be protectors, to be people who defend the defenseless. I don’t want it to be a new scourge of bandits. All it takes is for Guy, or whoever I teach, to let it slip to the wrong person.
How can I make this decision? How can I rely on a bandit? Is it fair for me to judge him based on what he currently is, instead of what he could be? God, I have no idea. This is too much responsibility, I should’ve just stayed in the woods

I’ll give him another market or two.

‘I’m sorry, I tried looking for them. I just had some important mage things to do.’

Java laid back, flattening the tall grass beneath her. Her brow thick with sweat as she took a break from harvesting vegetables. Her thoughts jumped back to what was said to her at the end of the last market, ruminating over his words.

‘I’m sorry, I tried looking for them…’ she leaned her head to one side stretching the tense muscles in her neck all while taking rhythmic deep breaths, ‘… I just had some important mage things to do.’ Only after a couple more deep breaths into the stretch did she lean her head to the other side and repeat this attempt at easing her overworked shoulders.

He was a silly man. A silly new mage. Just a silly academic who thinks their personal works are more important than keeping the balance of Folkwisdom. Before he had been initiated he had learned to be woodwise as she is. But now? Her stomach lets out a painful grumble.

‘I just had some important mage things to do.’

It should be an honor to know as much as he knows. To be learned and chosen in the way he was. Had she had the same chances, her life would be different. likely for the better. He was lucky, privileged even.

Java suddenly sat up and shook her head, wishing away her thoughts, “No. That’s not fair.” Rising up she plucks her half filled bag from the ground and resumes harvesting food for the town. She is not a judge, it is not fair for her to judge him at all. Even if it wasn’t fair for him to leave her and the other woodwise to search for all the binding moss. Even if it wasn’t fair that he got to further his studies and met with a powerful Earthmage.

A sudden ache of pain in Java’s shoulder hit her, her thoughts again disrupted as she immediately let go of the bag.Taking a long moment to look about the field, she lightly kneaded her tender shoulder as she looked about.

“Am I a bad mage?” the words fell from her mouth with ease, leaving with the breeze that waved around her. Winter was going to creep in sooner than previous years she could feel it. Again her stomach rumbled.

“And what if I am a bad mage?” Java knelt on the ground and began to rip clumps of weeds out of the ground. It’d be easier to poison the earth, no weeds to pull if everything diseased out and died. Just as it’d be easier if more people choose to fast themselves and fool Vecatra, but not everyone is good at being Folkwise. So what did it matter to not be a ‘good’ mage?

It did matter though. That’s why it bothered her.

“You know what?” Java continued her conversation with herself, her stomach a constant reminder to the knowledge she holds and wields for the community as this year’s Speaker, “I think it’s best if I take time for myself, they will not starve.”

A celebration with The Disinherited sounded like a fun distraction anyways. Perhaps in the next upcoming season’s she will prove herself to be a good mage.

Sometimes I feel as though all we really need is a blueprint.

I freely acknowledge that there is a delightful chaotic uncertainty in experimentation – you know that your first few attempts will be full of mistakes. I imagine it is the same for a baker or brewer trying to create a new recipe – you start with what you know and then you start changing things that seem as though they might be improvements. Often they are not, of course. Theory and practice are two very different things. However, the goal and hopefully the end result is something that is better than where you started.

When I am working in my shop, I’m not hoping for explosions and mistakes. Of course they happen. But all mistakes are supposedly learning opportunities. The difficulty comes when the learning opportunities far outweigh the breakthroughs and successes. The doubt creeps in; the thoughts of time being wasted; materials gone and funds lacking; the fear that maybe this was all for nothing.
And sometimes you need to sleep on it, and sometimes you need a break. However, sometimes you never come back to it.
I wonder sometimes if the human soul is like that. Our morality. Our attempts to be godlike and righteous.

We try so hard – I truly do not believe that anyone started this life thinking that they are going to deliberately make the world a worse place for everyone. I think we start out selfish. We start out wanting the basic tools of survival. But no one begins their journey so consumed by guilt and pain and harbored rage that they seek to harm and commit evil.
But we are faced with difficult choices, and as we age we become not just responsible for ourselves, but also for others. Our actions have wider ripples, and we have no map. We have the Testimonium, and we have the sermons, but again, there is theory and there is practice. The Testimonium does not clearly tell us what to do in all situations. There may be parts missing, mistranslated, misunderstood. My own revelations are a testament to that. We simply try our best to experiment with our decisions, see how much guilt we experience or pain we cause, and attempt to course correct for next time. Sometimes we wildly overcorrect – so horrified are we by the results of our experimentation, and sometimes we don’t see what went wrong until much later.

And then sometimes we simply give up – walking away from the faith, from humanity, from ourselves – too frustrated by our repeated failures and everything blowing up in our faces.

There have been times I have been tempted. I have made so many mistakes. I am making so many mistakes. At times, I truly do not know what I am supposed to do or what the correct course of action is. I lean on my experience, the Testimonium, my studies, and those who have practiced longer than I have, but there is still no blueprint. And in Luisant, I do not have a clear understanding of what mistakes and theories have already been tried. We don’t fully know what has come before, and I cannot shake the feeling at times that we are endlessly repeating the same mistakes of the past because we cannot learn from them…because they are not recorded. Not remembered.

I want to speak to Arbor more, and the Crone, Sophie, Alphonse. There are so many more that I wish to speak to. Henri. Cadence. Etienne. Valentin. I can list everyone in Luisant. They all know so many things – such an array of different foci and function. Maybe we are the blueprint. Maybe I’m just too small to see. Maybe all of our stories and knowledge form the map. Or maybe that’s madness.

I am tired. In the quiet dark of the night I feel inadequate and dim. I feel like a child that just wants my mama and papa to tell me right from wrong – to be secure in the knowledge that I am protected, I am warm, I have their arms around me, and if I simply follow directions, then all will be well and calm.

But this is the weakened thinking of a lonely, stressful evening. My parents need me to shelter them. It is my turn to give the directions and it is to me to see the options before me, make the decisions, and advise others of what they should do. This is my role. This is my atonement. This is my grand experiment. May I please learn from my mistakes, and may the only harm they do be to me.

There are creatures and monsters greater than I which lurk in the night and seek to kill me and mine, or worse. In these moments, I recognize a need for aid.
Drugs, magical though they are, are not enough.
Magic, though powerful, is insufficient to stop Chiropoler, Rat Wizards, and whatever else the world will put in front of us.
The spirits of the Vecatrans are weak, only capable of using their followers to their own ends.
The god of the Benealians is strong, but only seeks to conquer.
Much as I deride Alex for failing to embrace his role in this world, I cannot help but see myself in him.
I am a blade in the night, I have no place fighting a monster that can see me.
Cadence, Milo, Alphonse, Hugo, maybe even Fabron and Henri. They are the warriors who will stand in front of whatever lies at the end of this, but they are not champions of my family. They pretend to care for those who choose to live apart from them, but they are not a part of us.
Just as Isabel and Marionette refused to leave as the rat wizards came ever closer to cutting them down, I cannot help but feel like leaving is giving up, but staying is in its own way, foolishness, if we are only awaiting whatever fate others would find for us.
These are desperate times, and if I am too weak to protect my family, then I guess we will have to find a way to change that; even if it means looking outside of myself.

Corbin Jumped down from his hiding spot in the canopy and set to continue after the fleeing stag on foot. He chased the wounded beast with determination and fervor, his arrow still protruding from it’s hidequarters. A voice in his head told him this was foolish, that chasing wounded prey off the paths and into the underbrush would be dangerous and risky. He knew better then this, but still refused to let his prey escape. A second arrow leapt out from his bow, striking the panicked beast in the neck. This seemed to do the trick, and the beast crashed into the underbrush before falling to the ground. A moment later he catches up to the stag, and gives it the quick death he failed to provide with his first or second shot.

Even just a year ago he would not have left his hiding place in the canopy to give chase. Rather he would have merely cursed his foul luck and allowed the beast to flee off into the mists. The difference, he mused, was his relationship with fear. He had always been careful. Cautious, and warry. Fearful and respectfull of the power that slept within this forest. He knew better then most what was actually in these woods, and a healthy dose of fear had kept him alive through the many, many trials faced living within them. Truthfully, it had always felt more like prudence and respect for the dangers of the wood then outright fear. But recent events had forced him to re-examin his hesitations. And their sources.

After a quick look around to confirm he was not in immediate danger, he started working on the stag before him. Field stripping it and preparing it for transport would take some time, but it was large enough to feed many hungry mouths. It was a really fortunate kill. His hands moved with deft skill the practiced movements he had done a hundred times before. His mind wandered once more.

As a boy, mother had often lamented that he could stand to have more fear. The dark didn’t scare him. Monsters didn’t scare him. Falling out of a tree and breaking his arm barely slowed him down. He had reveled in tales of gallant heroes and brave generals of far away lands, often declaring his intention to one day take his place among them in history.

My how things had changed.

Watching his mother grow ill, frail, and eventually pass away was his first real taste of fear. The hopelessness in his father’s eyes as together they watched her sickness progress was something he had never seen before. The seed of fear was buried deep in his heart the day his mother died. It sprouted and grew in his heart as he watched his sister soon fall to the same sickness. By the time his father began to succumb to the sickness, it had fully blossomed, and the cold tendrils of uncertainty and despair had found deep roots in his heart.

As one by one his whole family succumb to plague and death, he could do naught but watch and despair. When the specter of death was finally finished, it left him alone amidst the ashes of all he once held dear. There in that quiet, empty, loneliness was the biggest fear of all.

At the time he claimed it was a desire for a ‘fresh start’ that spurned him to act. But in truth it was just common fear. Horrible unsurmountable fear of losing anything more caused him to flee his friends and distant relations. Caused him to step into the mists and become lost.

Fear in the forest of mists soon played a very different role in his life. He learned quickly enough that traveling through the depths of the wood were far more dangerous than anything he had ever faced prior. Here there was much to be warry of. Fear became his cloak and wrapping it about him kept him safe and alive in a world all too full of hunger and darkness. His father taught him to track, his fear taught him to be silent. His mother taught him how to find the edible fruit, and fear taught him when not to risk exposure just for a full belly. Ghosts haunted his every step, and delighted in tormenting him, sometimes causing him to run in terror for nights on end.

The stag was coming apart nicely, almost easily under his skilled hands and sharp blade. It was sectioned, bound for transport, and would be ready to haul home in only a few more moments. The smell of blood was already on the wind and would soon draw the attention of any number of unpleasant beasts. Still, his mind could not help but wander as his body moved about its work.

“LIES…lies…liiess…. Tell us manling. What do you really WANT?” The voice of the elf Struk him like cold steel, piercing deep past his pious and deferent guise. It saw past his fear, past the air of false reverence he usually hid behind. Anger surged within him, as he strained against the truth buried in his heart. He was tired of false deference, of bowing to the powerful and cruel just to avoid their wrath. Tired of being unable to help his friends and family face the dangers that plagued them. He was tired of being afraid.

He cried out in pain as the scales and hardened chiton erupted from his body at the Elf’s touch. His flesh ached and his body strained, but his mind was sharp and ready. Finally, he would not have to risk getting himself killed to help his friends. Now he had nothing to fear but…her disapproving stare.

Shaking that thought away he quickly got back to the present. Most of the trail back to town was blessedly downhill, so the trip would be easy. He hefted his prize over his shoulder and quickly fled the area. The Elves mystical protections were long since gone and he was back to being just as vulnerable as before. In truth he had been a monumental fool for accepting it in the first place. Clearly there would be more consequences further down the path, but he would meet them head on. The taste of brief immortality had left him in high spirits, and he was starting to take more and more chances in his daily life. The fear had loosened its grip on his heart ever so much, and he was running with it.

“Isabel isn’t here.” Lunette sobbed in his memory. The words rung in his mind like a bell shattering a perfect silence. His steps faltered, and a chill shot down his spine forcing him to shudder. That simple phrase introduced him to an entirely new fear. One he never would have conceived himself vulnerable to. It wasn’t a fear of death, nor a fear of pain, or loss. It was the fear of living in a world without her. A fear so strong he turned around and walked back into the literal realm of death and suffering to prevent it. Like most things in his life, he was a monumental fool for doing it, and only caused more trouble in the attempt then he solved. But he also knew that he would do it again without hesitation if he had to.

Seems fear still had its grip firmly on his heart after all.

It is done. A year’s work culminates in this. Patronage and Motherhood. After I lost Glycine I never dreamed I would be a mother again. I felt that stirring pain deep in my womb for a moment with Gorse’s touch, that promise that I could bear a babe inside me. But it would have been a spirit’s get. Not the seed of a lover buried in fertile ground. I am barren and I know this. I’ve accepted this truth about myself. The temptation to devote myself to him was so strong but after all I’ve done pursuing Apple, it just turned to ashes in my mouth.

I told Apple that my conflict was wanting to hold my childhood in one hand and my womanhood in the other. I so deeply want to honor both Apple and Gorse. Both the union and the fruit it bears. But I have courted Avalon Apple, and she has risen to meet me. They will give me a child to care for and I can raise another of our scared ones and teach them the ways of Vecatra.
Twofold shall I become a mother. I will protect and guide our circle to the best of my ability.

I tell myself all of these things. I will be strong. I will be brave. I will be wise, patient, and endlessly supportive. I will earn the respect of my community and my circle. I will stand side by side with Etienne and together we will move mountains. But what if I fail? With so many people counting on me, there is so far to fall. Apple, Etienne, my Crone, my circle. There are days the doubt consumes me and all I want is to walk into the thicket or hide in the woods forever.

But Vecatrans do not run in fear. We look upon our duty to each other, to the spirits, and to Vecatra herself, and know that challenges help us to grow into the very best people we can be. Just as a dandelion grows through the stones on the path, so too will I strive to reach the sun.