Category: Journal Entry

I have no idea what is happening to me. I apparently spend my nights wide awake, dealing with unsavory types and promoting crime. I have no recollection of these events and have only seen the truth of them through the help of Brother Erasmus. He is a kind man, and has been a beacon of hope for the future of the church. Unfortunately, we have not yet been able to fix this issue, nor discover its roots. I have my suspicions, as does Clemens and Sir Knut, but we do not know for sure. Was it that odd crater, or is it something deeper in me? Is it related to this urge I feel and fight, the one I’ve had since that day in the wilderness with the Hollow Song raiders? I have to accept what I saw and did there broke me irreversibly and there is only one way to satiate it, and it is unlikely to be the source of my night time wanderings. What am I doing to satisfy that urge when I should be sleeping? Who am I hurting? How am I violating justice? One person I know has contact with my other self, and that’s the doddering peasant Gor. His unassuming, simple demeanor has to be a mask, and I will break it. I will find him, and I will find out what it is I’m doing, and who else is involved. We will fix this and I will do my duty to Runeheim and House Dragomir, and most importantly, to my dear friends. Clemens, Sir Knut, Sigi, Thadeus, and God rest his soul, Viktor. I haven’t done right by The Grey Company by placing this burden upon them, and the settlement as a whole. I only pray that I can break this curse or whatever it is before someone I care for is hurt.

The runes have been cast

My fate binds me to these cities of bones. Age old secrets whispering along the halls and lingering in the doorways. Some lands leave a lasting impression in your heart, and I am inspired by this untamed wilderness of Njordr, which refuses to yield, which defies the easy footfall of man.

I’ve dreamt of exploring this rugged beauty. It is my fate, tied to grave dust, to muck and mire, for treasures greater than the wealth of an empire, to seek the edge of our beginnings. It feels as though I’m caught between some walking dream of a bloody past and an inevitable future.

The pieces tumbled across the ground

Oh Runespeaker, Runecaster, what is my fate?

The parts of ourselves that came from our parents manifest, as we grow older, and we become a soft echo of who they were. I often wonder if this path set before me was a road other Runespeakers built for us to follow. The small notes and ciphers, the runes we cast, all small hints and memories, reminders of what we were and what we can become again.

Den som venter på høstens vakreste eventyr, venter ikke forgjeves.

My mother spoke these words to me, “He who waits for autumn’s most beautiful adventure, does not wait in vain”. Words that as a child, inspired a deep love for the things around me, the stories and wisdom, and set my blood to excitement. As I have waited for this my entire life, to explore those hidden hollows and paths secreted away for so long.

‘They could understand.’

Java watches The Tempest as he recoils. She hurriedly continues, “I mean, like with my backpack. I wished disease on it and they may bring that back with them and risk others getting ill.” His posture eases with some understanding but the thumping in her chest does not.

‘Am I mistaken?’

“Move!” Java stumbles forward out of the holding ‘room’, her bound hands shooting up to shield her eyes from the blinding radiance of the distant winter sun. How long has it been this time?

“I said MOVE!”, from behind her she could feel the pain of the fallen victim. The harshness of the cold ground was intolerable to their naked feet but they had to bear it. The consequences of punishment is why no one dared to look back at the fallen brethren. It wouldn’t change the outcome here and knowing why they are howling with such joy is sickening.

Unfortunately it was distractions like this she needed to keep herself alive. With a calm deep inhale she steeled herself, during her drawn out exhale a wave of ecstasy washed over herself as she casted. ‘Ease.’ The frigid bite of the cold now felt more bearable.

‘This isn’t right.’

“MEN!” Java gathered with the others and kept her head down as the one leading this pact went into his monologue about the upcoming assault they are planning. A speech that created unsettling cheers and stomping from the clan throughout its entirety.

It was around the time her comfort and ability to stand the cold began to diminish when things were coming to a close, “Now onto you lot, what to do hmm?”.
No amount of cold could compare to the shivers of death. Especially in the hands of these monsters.

‘I made the right choice’

The late night air barely nips at Java as she breathes in the smell of Summer. The town of Runeheim is still, yet she still fidgets with the wrapping on her arm, “We all have our own demons.”

Neath the mountain Einjallar, on the Wolfchaser river,
Winter’s ice thawing, the river-banks swelling,
As village-gates opened to spring’s first endeavors,
A wild man descended the rime-covered mountain.

He came to the meadhall, calling for guest-right.
His trunk as a barrel, limbs stout as tree-trunks.
The hair on his chest mixed with blood long forgotten.
Hallbjorn his birth-name, scion of Greywolf.

On the mountain he trained, through windstorm and blizzard,
The fire of his rage overcoming the winter.
His mentor surpassed, now he came to the lowlands
For bloodshed and glory, the hunt never-ending.

The men of the village met these words with a challenge,
The warrior’s way, a test of the stranger.
Should he prove himself strong against the warrior chosen,
Then he would be welcome, with shelter and feasting.

Seven men stood before him, the pride of the village.
As guest he could choose the one he must challenge.
Hallbjorn emptied his ale-horn and met them with laughter.
“Every one will I fight, and be done by the sunset!”

The circle was drawn, the warriors made ready,
Cast lots for the honor to be first to the blood-pit.
They took up their axes and sharpened their daggers,
Each eager to fell the arrogant stranger.

As the first fighter entered, the crowd roared to greet him.
Just as quickly the crowd fell back in stunned silence.
The mirthful great man, the wild man of the mountain,
Before them transformed to a terror of bloodshed.

The blood of the first still steaming, he pointed
To the second in line, and called him to come forward.
As a starving man given the key to the feast-hall
Was Hallbjorn when faced with the chance to do battle.

Seven entered the pit to bring down the stranger.
Seven men carted out, bloodied and broken.
Hallbjorn squinted against the sun not yet setting,
Looked to the crowd and called for more ale.

This was witnessed by Erik, the Skald branded Treehide.
In the feast after battle he stood and declared:
“This unstoppable power that comes down the mountain,
I name thee the Avalanche, and call for the Branding!”

Summer 608 –

I lost my sister, my brother, my sibling last weekend – I watched her final breath, held his cooling form in my arms, and spread their remains to the forest.

I never had any siblings.

My sister never lived – he spent his life bound to another, their essence woven together deep underground. The only time they truly had to herself was those final moments. Did our grandfather put him there? Was this punishment or purpose?

I was an only child. I don’t even know if I remember my grandfather?

I and a few of my other siblings were there to witness the death. My grandfather refused – perhaps out of principle, perhaps out of shame. I don’t know if I’ll ever learn one way or the other, they have only spoken to me once.

I recall going down to the cave, I remember the battle, I remember mixing the ichor and the essences to make the poultices (my cloak also remembers this – will need to talk to Colibri on how to clean it), I recall Rowen awakening – weakened to near death.

After this point – I’m not sure if I can trust my memories as solely my own – nor my emotional state. This experience with Aspen still lingers with me occasionally – a day dream when I should be focusing on my work, or a nightmare when I should be sleeping.

I choose to answer Aspen’s call, and I need to be able to live up to his challenges, but his focus on Justice leaves me wondering about her focus of truth – after all, it is these truths that I think Luisant needs if we are to weather the coming storms.

I have filled nearly a dozen pages with questions for Aspen, ranging from historical information to immediate pleas, but underlining it all is just one:

Have you awoken to help us?

Under the weight, I shall become as incompressible as the Jewel.

“Relix… Narez…”

Under the weight, I shall grasp the Wheel of my destiny.

“Relit… Mamuri…”

Under the weight, I shall Seal away my doubts.

“Worum… Sicun…”

Under the weight, I shall be the Knot that holds tight to the bonds I’ve formed.

“Gundavult…”

Under the weight, I shall learn to Control my fears.

“Vorug… Ta…”

Under the weight, I shall hold my ground and be as steadfast as the Crown Tree.

“Verg… Tyra!”

Under the weight, I shall become the hero I always imagined I could be.

Games. “Games” they call them.

A constant clash of wooden equipment, bruises, headaches, pain, victories and losses.

Months of brutal training. I hear the mumblings. The resentment of a new commander.

I am not Sir Der Ritzen, and only am covering for his work out of necessity.

The Væringjar are brutally efficient warriors and are truly trained to a steel’s edge, but the steel is only as good as the hand that wields it.

I have spent my life on a small team. Fighting, Hunting, Hiding. We had become like ghosts in the woods, extricating, learning, and killing. But I had never developed the strategy. I still lose to academics in Tafl and Cyess for the love of Benalus!

In the heat, in the very moment I am competent. I still have so much to learn in tactics, but I know them. But when it comes to strategy I am green. I have a wonderful tutor, but I do not know enough and I worry I’m not learning fast enough.

I hope when it comes to be steel and not wood that the hand is ready.

You often don’t recognize the normal sounds of life until they are disrupted. They fade into the background, forming a symphony that scores your highs and lows, your successes and triumphs: The ringing of bells to tell the passage of time. The calls of kith and kin going about their daily business. The grinding buzz of crafting tools, steady beats of axes, and the soft scraping of hunters dressing their latest kills. All dance in time to the pumping bellows of the breath and the swinging of limbs directed to their tasks, but beneath it all, the steady dance of the heart, softly moving humors along their way to maintain the balance of life.

You never realize how important something is until it’s gone.

You can never truly understand the meaning of silence until you rest like a tree, your arms outstretched to the morning sun, the rays soaking through your flesh and filling you with light. The thoughts and passions that drive creatures seem insignificant compared to the songs of birds, the dance of winds, the slow seeping coolness of rich, dark soil full of moisture and tiny seeds of life below…

It is a gift; one unasked for and unearned.

It is a curse; forced by a greater power and paid for in blood.

It is a duty; taken up with zeal so that others may yet grow stronger and the balance be restored.

They say that the songs of a Maiden are pure and full of the joy of discovering youth, while the voice of a Mother is silent, yet full of the memory of song. I think this deceptive, as Mothers can still sing, if merely following the rhythm of a different drum. Lost is the fire and passion of Spring, the yearning desire to Know and Name, instead given over to the steady determination of Summer, where tasks *must* be done lest disaster come.

Gone is the birdsong, sweet in the morn, and remains the hunting cry, sudden and shrill.

You don’t know what you have until it’s gone.

Severin Journal – Game 7

This market had been a time of revelations to Severin. Two things had happened to shake him up. First, he had been unable to do anything about the malefic hunters that arrived to threaten Luisant’s Lady and the Beastwise ritual. Second, the village had been emptied to go fight in the tunnels under the mountain against ancient evil. Both were dire circumstances that threatened the village, his family, and himself.

He had never been a fighter. When the malefic hunters showed at the beginning of the Beastwise ritual, he could resist their fear, but would not have considered fighting them. He was a hunter and rarely used his bow against things other than woodland predators. The one leading them was a ghost and no doubt his arrows would have just gone straight through him with no effect. His sword skills were also trivial at best. When given the choice to declare himself as predator or prey, he knew the only safe answer, and that is also not one he was willing to commit to. He backed away and withdrew from the Beastwise ritual as at that point, letting it fail by getting the Lady back would be better than being forced to hunt her down as he was sure the creatures would demand. He felt he was unable to do anything in this situation.

Later, when the village was called to go into the tunnels, he had a different experience. He had found himself in the depths of tunnels he hadn’t even realized were there. Finding out there was a mountain nearby was also sort of a shock. Still, the tunnels were strange, evil things left over from the days of the Witchking, Chiropractor. There, at the end, was a large room where he found himself fighting alongside a saint that had been trapped there guarding something from the creatures the villagers now fought. There he used a season’s worth of arrows, all he had, shooting at the monstrosities.

It helped that was fighting near the saint in a region others couldn’t enter for some reason. Any time the creatures came towards him, the saint would attack and send them fleeting. He was working on trying to lure them in as that was probably more effective than his efforts after he ran out of arrows. Once, a creature got in and landed a blow that sent him flying. The saint had inquired if he was ok, and he found himself unhurt due in his fevor. She even asked for his name.

It was a formative day for Severin. He had seen himself as a defenseless hunter, and as an effective fighter against evil. Things had been getting worse for Luisant lately. Lords had been killed. The dead walked, sometimes covered in bees. The plants walked even. He saw that it was no longer enough to just try and keep the village fed. Instead, he saw that it was needed for him to step up and learn the skills needed to make a more active defense of Luissant.