Category: Journal Entry

Solfyre packs her things, swaddles the baby, tucks the tiny girl against her chest and under the cloak for warmth, and leaves. While it was unlike her to leave in the dead of night, she had had enough for one market. Her heart hurt, her disappointment mounted, and she was growing weary of the people at forum.

Leaving the forum proper, Solfyre trudges out into the wilderness to find comfort amongst the familiar paths and scents of the wilderness around Runeheim. Not long into her walk, she could hear the shuffle and grunts of a ghoul not far off. Glancing at it, she sighs, not in the mood to fight it off and wake the baby that was sleeping quietly beneath her cloak. Solfyre turns to meet the creatures eye’s and glares. Solfyre stills, waiting for it to catch up.

“Well, come on then. If you’re going to shamble my way, I’m going to put you to use,” she says aloud as the malefic growls hungrily. It stops rather suddenly as it is psychically assaulted and then shambles forward, staggering and falling to its knees in front of Solfyre.

Solfyre takes off one of her packs while being careful not to jostle little Calanthe too much and places a bag around the malefic. If a ghoul could look confused, she imagined this was what that looked like. The ghoul looks up and just watches her. Yet again, another psychic assault, and the creature’s disgusting, lifeless eyes glaze over with a sense of admiration, perhaps more.

“Come, come. I don’t have all night and honestly, I could use a good walk and talk—you know, before I put you down,” she grouches.

The ghoul groans and shuffles along behind her like a pack mule.

“Ugh…Tell me about it. Everyone is like ‘Solfyre, please give us influence’, ‘Solfyre please buff the towns people against the oncoming invasion’, ‘Solfyre, please, could you buy this sword for me?’ And you know what? I always say yes. Why? It’s so thankless and if something happened to me, who would shed a tear? They hardly like me if they do at all. They take what I have given, turn around and ask for more, all the while they accuse me of killing babies or being so untrustworthy and—get this—mercurial! If I were mercurial, based solely on the value of my services I have rendered to people of this town, you’d think I’d be wealthier! When the fire guild is hired, it is often at a cost. I work for free and you fucking know what?? Does this baby look dead to you?!” Solfyre turns to the ghoul and brandishes the sleeping infant. “No!”

The ghoul grunts. And looks at the baby. It starts to reach out for it and Sylfane baps it hard in the snoot while simultaneously hitting it with some magic. It recoils and so does Sylfane, shaking her hand. Like it hurt.

“No, bad ghoul, anyways, they’re just objectively rude and no matter how much I offer or sacrifice, it never feels like enough…”

The ghoul lets out a long groan.

“EXACTLY. And there is just No respect, no reciprocity, no acting in good faith. I Fed like a thousand people and the town comes knocking at my door for three copper. Three copper despite me getting the city food. The church told me it was something they really wanted but no one could pay. I could, I did, they basically forgot the word they gave to me that they would at the very least make some mention of my contribution since I wanted people to know I am on the side of the people. Nahhhh. I Paid the mages’ taxes before and, holy shit, instead of a thanks—the complained that they shouldn’t *have* to pay taxes—well, they didn’t, I did it for them. a couple weren’t even in my guild. Good faith. Ha, For fucksake. Sven said it would be nice if warfare got the fire mage units back and I felt bad for Hans for losing his men and our comrades, and so I worked for like six months to get those men back on the warfare map only for Ser Sven to do nothing but complain about me to the nobility, side eye me, huff and roll his eyes every time I speak, and tell me it’s not enough because the mages aren’t under *his* command. I’m not perfect, but I’m not worthless.”

The ghoul groans.

“I know, thank you, that’s so validating. Well, I have Hans… He reciprocates at least. But I see him only when he is around which isn’t frequent honestly. My own company threatens me, lies, and takes things away and hides them from me… very welcoming, really. Perhaps next time I get spice I shouldn’t share. Perhaps next time I have influence I shouldn’t feed the town and selfishly buy a tome or something instead. Perhaps next time a ghost merchant offers to increase my innate magic that no one anywhere can tell me about aside from the person who abandoned me, I will accept it and *not* help the town resolve him. Fuck it. What do I have to lose? Wulfric turned me down for tressertag and seems so distant, Caito left me and never returned with my heart he stole, my own mother abandoned me, I gave up my sister to Vindicta who I have been dedicated to who dismissed me with a hand wave as though I was an annoyance, my best friend left me and died—for a love mage I certainly have a terrible track record. If only I were willing to MAKE people love me… but… I don’t want that. You know? Have you experienced heartache like this when you were… you know… not…. well… ugl—I mean, dead?”

The ghoul grunts and then groans.

“Terrible, isn’t it? I have been trying to drown myself in my work. People get in the way of that too. I think I need to reach out to my mamì about coming here with papì. They could set up shop around here and at least I would have some company that I don’t feel wants me out of their presence. Have you ever worked in food business?”

The ghoul groans, grunts twice, and growls.

“Hmm, yeahhhh… [obey] tell me more about that,” Solfyre says and with that, they continue into the deep forests around Runeheim.

Hexxenacht. A time to turn your back to the door, to refuse the velvet hush of night. Yet even when warned, when argued, when pleaded they choose to walk with him. His chilling presence, like a cruel ray of moonlight, unsettled every step. His alabaster robes a draw out the long shadows weighing heavy on all our bones.

Petya watched in mute horror as he moved among those who can not see. Our heroes, our hopes, our hearts, ignorant of their hooded attendant. The fragrance of his impassive consideration hung in the air, a lullaby that clung to souls he marked for his embrace. The nightmare played out in the recesses of Petya’s mind. Ruined and broken bodies cast aside. It leaves Petya with an unbearable weight.

His approach was subdued, an owl to whom we all await. His favored, unbeknownst to them, to became his children. Ordinary folk, innocents, and warriors alike, unaware of the fate that was their sheppard. The horrors of war, of monsters and traitors, had already claimed too many lives. Petya recoiled at the thought of innocent souls sacrificed to feed such sinful perversion.

The darkness of our situation deepened, like the ceaseless nights of war. His presence grew constant, fevered, Petya knew that he would not remain idle. That he would snatch any who were too close to sinners, innocent or otherwise.

Wards against malevolent influence, to distract and save the lot of them. A decision, painful, like cutting out ones own heart. Petya searched among the ranks. Petya prayed until he saw the evils that clung to their soul, the fractured artistry of their façade. Petya weighed the sins within their hearts.

Those who had transgressed would be require much attention, he would be forced to care for his broken child as they are ferried into the abyss. It may occupy his attention long enough for God’s light to return, to warm the hearts of humanity. One can not ask forgiveness of such a task, only acceptance. If he came to collect the sinner and demanded Petya as well, there would be no protest, no bargaining, just rest.

Petya had learned in the monastery that the path of righteousness was often paved with thorns. The weight of Petya’s actions, the sin, nearly drove the will from the body, but it was a stone only Petya could carry.

The last bit of dirt fell from his shovel. All that is left for Petya is to work and pray, to seek redemption, knowing that there is no forgiveness, only acceptance. “I swear before the Archangel Lurian, bearer of the fallen, and before the Almighty Lord God, to never harm thee, to protect thy body and thy soul, from this day, until my last day.” The countless, silent graves offered absent gratitude.

Speaking the names of those he remembered Peta felt regret not knowing the letters across some of the graves. The graveyard of Runeheim was already too tragic, too large, too full. In a pleading whisper to his alabaster companion, “In the aftermath of these times, gaze upon the work that Petya’s hands have wrought and wondered who has been my guide.” Their gaze rose and landed on a pile of recent overturned earth out in the forest, a child of Lurian had been plundered.

This world could be a paradise.

If not for the wretched influence of the demons worshipped as the Old Gods.

They offer up to us, and we protect them. United under the light of Benalus.

Much weighted on his mind. The North was an unforgiving place. For every boon it granted, it took something away. It was the way of things here. For the last fifteen years, he had yearned to found an Imperial Order dedicated to the pacification of the North. His home had a stark beauty, but it was fractured. Corrupted. Perverted by the worship of these demonic things.

Solace had had a theory. Prove their false gods powerless and they will turn away.
Ingvar had a different theory. Kill them. They weren’t God. They could die.

Sven liked the knight’s approach better.

Before him lay the corpse of a horned figure. It had been a man once. The muscled bulged grotesquely. One eye was red, the other yellow. Sigils and runes were carved into its flesh. Even dead it seemed fearsome.

One hundred of the Sons had repelled four-hundred of his men in Spring. He had returned with seven hundred this time. There had been no quarter.

“My Lord,” Troels said, rousing the highborn from his gazing. “We have received word the Saenger fort is about to be raided.”

Sven nods. “Right on time.”

“Shall we engage?” his right hand asked.

“They are too far,” the knight replied absently. “We evacuated as much of the populous as we were able. The Saengers are aware of the hopelessness of their remaining position.”

Troels clears his throat and nods, waiting for orders.

“Crucify the survivors,” he said after a long moment. “String these twisted remains up for the world to see. Cut off each one of these fucking runes.”

“That will take time, my Lord,” he answered.

“Have the bulk of our Force erect the palisades and set a parameter,” the knight continued, wondering if the unnatural rage that had infected his soldiers from the Hollow Song had lingered in him. Even crucifixion felt… too kind. “I want to see this done properly. In a few weeks we will ride South and engage the Doghearts. Cowards that they are.”

Troels gave a confused look, “Not the Stormhammers? Won’t they fortify through the winter? And in striking distance of the settlement?”

Sven shrugged. “Can’t be helped. We might be able to push them out. But not before the first winter snow.”

The knight looked up once again, “These Southerners are good at killing, but soft as cheese. How many would we lose to the ice of the mountains?”

Realization dawned on Troels, who struck a sharp salute and nodded before turning and going to issue orders. Lord Sven álfrblóð Brynjar turned and strode towards the men collecting the carving knives and rope. The long nails forged for a single purpose and the long handled hammers to swing them properly. Standing stock still, cloak flapping slightly in the wind, he watched as the men started collecting the brand of the Ulfrandr. As a small collection started to pool at his feet, the rest of the last market filtered through his mind.

A letter from the King saying the very thing Sven had dedicated his life to was about to come to fruition.
A very dear friend called away forever.
A charming walk with pleasant company.
One of the most trustworthy warriors tossed dead at their feet.
Stealing something back from under the nose of the Sons.
An unfortunate series of murders.
This glorious slaughter of the Sons of Ulfrandr.

It was enough to give a person motion sickness. The hammering of vulgar iron through flesh, bone and bark sounded in its oddly muted way through the trees in flapping fading echoes. Further south, he could hear the phantom cracks of cannon, and a part of him wondered how Markus Fafnir was faring against the dwarves on their third front.

“My Lord,” Troels said, holding up a note. “Word from the East. Ragnar Stoneskin’s forces were decimated.”

“Does Stoneskin live?” Sven asked.

“No word, sire.”

“Fuck.”

Approaching the mountain, once moved and back again it’s proper place, Clemens swallowed hard.

He had a suspicion who lived… No, who owned this mountain. Semira and Sygrun all but confirmed it.

This mountain belonged to a Archmage of the Earth Guild.

Hakon led the front, Rosto just behind him, Sygrun and Clemens in the middle of the formation, Sigi a reassuring and steady hand at the back.

But the dread was still there. He hadn’t really considered what he would say to the Archmage.

What does a pebble ask of a mountain? Why would a pebble ever deserve a favor from the mountain?

He was worried that this trek, far from Runeheim, was a folly. Nothing to be gained, but everything to lose.

But he had to try. He couldn’t turn back now.

Rosto, despite nearly being brought to death’s door by Hakon’s nightly condition was lending his eyes and crossbow to this endeavor.

Clemens couldn’t abandon such sincerity and willingness to trust even the man who nearly murdered him.

Clemens couldn’t abandon his closest friend, the one who gave him the courage to get this far to begin with.

Clemens meant it when he would do anything for Hakon when questioned by the Archmage.

Clemens didn’t care that the Archmage found his willingness to do anything for the life of a non-mage “worrisome”

Hakon had bowed before the Archmage. Hakon does not bow before men who simply ask.

Clemens knew that the wizard in front of him only saw Hakon as a curiosity, an potential experiment.

No different from the malformed animals and human bodies on the side of the trail his crew and carved through to get here.

The Archmage offered Clemens a challenge. “Scale my mountain, and maybe I can see if I can help your… friend”

How does a pebble demand a favor from the mountain?

The pebble scales the mountain, and proved that determination within will make him something more than just a pebble.

This mountain belongs to the Archmage.

But one day Runehiem will be a towering city that stands in defiance of the harsh lands the pebble calls home.

The earth mage may see the people and animals of Njordr as nothing more as stock and cattle for his experiments.

But for Clemens, the people of Runehiem would be his cherished flock.

He would do anything to see them live in peace and flourish.

He would do anything to cast out the wolves, monsters, and men of cruel ambition who dared to threaten his flock.

He could still feel the vines that grasped at his throat, the stones that clenched his leg, and the voices that laughed at his feeble attempts to grasp at strength beyond his understanding.

Twice he had failed. Twice had had been cast down.
Twice he had nearly succeeded. Twice he had used all the strength his body could muster.
A failure thrice would be the end of him and his story.

But he had to try again. He had to stand once more and declare to all the powers that be that he would succeed or die trying.

But this time… It worked.

Something changed. The world seemed more clear. As if the schematics of reality were always around him in clear view. His eyes ran red with his blood, his throat hoarse and weak. But Clemens had never felt more in control of his fate.

He finally could truly do something. Could truly put himself between innocents and those who would harm and exploit them. He could do something worth remembering.

“But were any of your heroes… Mages?”

That last lingering question of those disembodied voices…

A warning?

No.

For Clemens it was a challenge.

He is now a mage.

He will be remembered as a hero.

Humanity calls to humanity. I wonder what that feels like. Do you sell your soul in one big chunk, a deal with malefic as they say? It seems that way with the dark forces. Trade away your humanity in a lump sum for nearly limitless power.

Feed the evil, and as the night grows darker, malefic forces drive you. Strengthening your flesh. Melding yourself with death, twisting the minds around you.

How tempting it must be to have the price of the exact thing you want within your grasp, carrying you easily, hewing gouts through your foes and preventing your harms from slowing down.

God asks us to take the high road, the hard path. I can feel him falling further away with each terrible choice I am forced to make. I know he still guides my hand, he carries me through situations no man should be able to survive, as a parent protects their children and the army carries its commander.

I see her. Shes warped and twisted already, spitting venom and becoming more powerful with each passing moment. I’m terrified of her.

The worst part is I helped make her. Dozens of my choices led to the death of her family and I can almost understand how she felt this was her only recourse. I carry so much shame for those choices, and find it impossible to not feel terrible over it.

Perhaps if she can find the deserved release I can find some modicum of peace.

We both have our gods guiding our hands.
Let us see whose is stronger.

The runner had approached the mobile camp in a huff. Still pleased with their victories through the Spring, his men were eager for anything resembling action. Blood was in the air. They’d heard rumors of Storm Hammers to the East and Dwarves to the West. More foolhardy than wise, the fighting men and woman of the Obesegrade Krigare were eager for either. But then, that was often the raw vibrancy of youth and a siloed experience. Most had never faced down a line of riflemen, or seen the small metal punching through line and armor like a knife through cheese. The scent of sulfur paired… poorly with the offal of the slaughter it inspired.

“My Lord,” he began having jumped off his horse in short order and performed a sharp salute. Sven turned to the voice, registering the face. Emil. One of the scouts attached to his vanguard, the much vaulted Flamberges, the pride of the Krigare.

“Emil,” he said. “Report.”

“Sir Ingvar rallies for aid,” he said. “Storm Hammers. A thousand or more with cavalry. He’s outnumbered, sir.”

“Well,” the older knight said, pushing himself to his feet from the camp chair. “We must indulge him, mustn’t we?”

Then to the rest of camp.

“Break camp! Sir Ingvar and his men are outnumbered by the Storm Hammer Clan here to make war. There is no malice here. They have invited us to play. Are we to sit back and let the Ice Fangs have all the fun?” his voice boomed across the encampment. His beloved Karls had died some months ago to the Hollow Song. But his levies, the soldiers he had acquired when he first entered the theater, along with a hundred or so fresh men, they had fought and bled with him for well over a year. They were as fine soldiers as he’d ever had the pleasure to serve with.

Freshly rallied, Sven gestured to Troels Hadvarson to oversee the breaking of camp. Another gesture summoned his horse. Hadvar had served his uncle for years, and his son hadn’t left his side for decades. The ease of the military routine settled well on his shoulders, and it was with a happy step that Sven and sundry wheeled their force South, marching threw the woods east of Runeheim. A stretch of trees that had affectionately been dubbed ‘murder alley’ for its tendency to host and hide enemy forces.

Unfortunately for the Krigare, the woods lived to its name.

A few days from Runeheim, as they trekked through the woods, calls and screams started to sound from deeper in the woods. Confusion yielded to an ambush. From the darkness leapt dozens of figures. They had horns and spikes and their flesh was adorned with horrid jewelry and scars. They fought savagely.

At first, Sven thought the Hollow Song had returned, such was their ferocity. But as they fought a hurried retreat, the sigils adorning the flesh of their foes was more abundantly clear. These were the Sons of Ulfrandr.

Amid the chaos, they were pushed back and well and truly routed. Four hundred veterans repelled by a hundred or so enemies. Ingvar’s attack when unaided. He was likewise repulsed. A flurry of letters back and forth to coordinate another attack on the Stormhammers, but by then they had bunkered down and were able to repel the combined forces of the Knights Fenris.

Retreating together, a dark glow settled on the pair of knight’s shoulders.

“I am going to kill every one of these pieces of shit, and anyone that has given them aid,” Ingvar fumed. To which the older knight simply nodded.

“No quarter,” he agreed. No quarter.

Fear is a part of us all – it does not have to rule us. We are all children in the dark, with a storm raging outside, yet when we understand that the storm is a normal part of the world, why should we fear it?

Arrivals are not always this dangerous, yet in the time of Hexxenacht, the shadows are strong in this land where the days grow dark far faster.

By the Lights of Lurian our arrival was heralded in blood and shadows, and by that Light we survived our arrival.

——

Here, it seems, the dead keep walking when they die, the ground does not keep them. Not without help.

——

She stood over a dead man, standing in front of creatures that unceremoniously dropped it in town. She knew they could have killed her those creatures, yet the one down behind her meant more in that moment. Others came and fought them out of town.

She did not fear dying, for she knew what would be waiting for her. She knew that her tasks, no, her purpose here was to aid these people and show that fear and death can be healed and changed through small actions of Faith and health.

A pebble in the pond, a butterfly effect.

——

She did not expect to make friends through leeching so many people.