Category: Journal Entry

Alphonse finished sweeping the laboratory, frowning in thought. Each bit of broken glass, sticky residue and ash that he swept out the door mirrored the clarity that had crept over him in recent months. Around him brushes scrubbed and rags boiled themselves, animated by his art.

The mists were clearing. He could feel it. And somehow that was affecting him, too. His listlessness, his cravings and his distractions were all fading. It was time to work.

He considered the bottles on the counter one last time. Then, with a nod of conviction to himself, he scooped them up and stepped outside. Methodically, he bound the burdens of Earth and called upon the beasts of the land and air. Birds and squirrels surrounded him as he continued to cast until finally he had enough for the task. He tied the recently cleaned vials to each animal carefully, not wanting to impede their movement. Then with a gesture, he bade each of them go. Eight directions by land and eight directions by sky.

Each bore the same note, written in a neat hand:

“My name is Dr Alphonse Veneaux. I serve House Beauchene of Luisant in the Lorrasaint region of Capacionne.

All is not well. We have been lost in strange mists for generations. These same mists bind some remnant of the Witchking Chiropoler and ancient malefic created by his atrocities. Our House is fallen and we are without leadership or protection.

The mists are now clearing. Some here wish to make deals with strange spirits to make them stronger, but not I. No devil’s deal can compare to the might of mankind united. Send the questing heroes and knights of House Marseilles. Send the Templars and the Church to guide us in these dark times. Tell them there are monsters here. And tell them there are people, too. People who need their help.”

Sweet standing ones what have I done? They tell me I had a sister but she’s gone. Neatly clipped out with sewing shears. I have the edges, but not exactly what happened.

Someone held me in the dark while I cried and sang me lullabies the nights after my mother died. It wasn’t Papa, he was drunk as a bear and shouting at everything and nothing. I was sad and scared.

Someone tricked me into climbing into a barrel and then tipped it over and rolled me down the hill. I don’t think it was Pascal M, they helped me climb out and get the stains out of my skirts. I remember how embarrassed I was.

I spilled someone’s favorite perfume all over her favorite dress and then threw it into the pigpen. I remember someone being furious at me. This was after Mama passed so it couldn’t have been hers. I felt really guilty, but also triumphant.

Someone cut all fur off the cat’s tail and blamed me for it. I got in so much trouble! Papa beat me black and blue. I couldn’t sit down for three days! I was so mad!

Maybe Axé can help me put the pieces back together. I will go ask him, once I get over how stupid I was.

I knew it would happen.

You do something foolish once, and get away with it, and people expect you to do it again. It was a miracle it worked at all in the first place. It doesn’t matter all the little things that made it work—the quirks of fate, the quick thoughts, and fast hands.

All they know is you did it before. you can do it again.

Right?

Well. I did.

Walked right out that door and at the first yell, slipped into the dark, dragging that blasted box the whole way.

Doesn’t matter we got what we wanted out of it.

Doesnt matter that we dealt a blow to the drug dealers, to the people hurting our man.

No. All they care about is the greed. that golden glint in their eyes.

Not even for riches they ever managed but for the riches they might.

Worst part is.

The story will spread.

You’ve done it twice? you can do it again.

Right?

[Recommended listening: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQQnxm8FNog&list=OLAK5uy_kd3XarZHq7VOt3BXK4ba_05iHa3iB3s14]

Rain poured down from the roiling mass of thunderheads, bouncing and tumbling off of leaves and branches alike, seeking their new home in thirsty soil and sodden clothing, weighing down wool and linen to cling to flesh. It was all the same to Etienne. The dirt, the roots of the great trees, his pale skin shivering beneath the weeping skies, all were numb before the haze in his mind, locking him into a state of reliving the night before as a series of images; no sound, no touch, merely light and shadow, red and hungry. If someone were to come across him in this state, only the slight steam of his breath would reveal he yet lived.

‘Why do I try so hard, when we can’t even agree on something as simple as upholding a promise?’

‘When have they sacrificed anything for this town, this place sacred to us all? We give, and give, and always bow to their sensibilities, and for what? More loss? More pieces of ourselves torn away?’

His hat, long since sodden, gave up the fight against gravity and slipped off with a squelch of wool and bark meeting at force, sending the small planter dangerously close to tipping over and losing its precious cargo. The sight snapped him from his thoughts, lunging to save the seedlings, and successful at the cost of a face of mud and loam. The scent of rich earth dragged him back to this time, this place, letting the shades of the past evening finally lose their grip and retreat back into memory.

In their place came tears. Of sorrow. Of rage. Of helplessness and frustration and a thousand things and none, all mingling with and becoming lost in the steady rain that refused to quit, determined to accomplish its goal of returning life to the land after such a harsh winter.

Above it all, a distant cry of a hawk, the voice somehow overlaid with the feeling of [Hunger/Hunt/Prey] as it carried across the forest. It seemed his friend was awake, and starving. A sudden snort of laughter at the thought was cut off by a surge of mud meeting sinus, leaving him sputtering and fighting to clear his face of the invader, before turning face to sky, allowing the cool drops to wash away his tears.

Maybe he had convinced them, maybe he had not, and would soon be an oath-breaker. There was nothing more he could do but to *be*, and hope it would be enough. What was the old saying again? Ah yes: “Faire flèche de tout bois.”

“Make your arrows from any wood, my children, as each is as precious as the last, and you never know which will feed you and which will feed the forest.”

Two seasons. He’d been trapped in two for two. Damned. Seasons.

They had been productive. In addition to rallying the defense of Runeheim and executing the battle plans flawlessly, he had gruelingly drilled Sir Knut and his men. For months. For months they had drilled. This formation, that formation. The movement, that movement. How the enemy might attack differently. How to leverage terrain better. How to get into and out of kit faster. How to form up lines faster. How to dig ditches faster.

The Lord Marshal’s force hadn’t been green, but they’d been little more. Having avoided the bulk of the fighting, they’d grown fat on the barley and meat of Runeheim. And because of that, they were soft.

So they ran drills. And mock battles. And drills. And mock battles.

He trained the Lord Marshalls troops and the Templar forces. He taught the various commanders how best to leverage their own abilities. He taught the Council how the logistics of war operated. For months, for longer months than living memory, Sven stayed in one place. His battles became negotiations over drinks, politicking in dark corners, clandestine meetings and coded messages.

He made deals for horse. Deals for wars. Deals for archers. Deals for more. Was this a better use of his time than leading from the front? Who could say; certainly not him. What was certain was things were starting to happen now. One of the most prominent commanders of the Cold Hands had joined them, and would in time, fall under his command. Ingvar was ready for promotion. The Branded had unofficially demarked him as their leader. They had a single cause, and so much of the previous miasma of bad blood and foul thoughts seemed to have blown clear.

Things were making a turn for the better… which no doubt meant that something dark and evil was coming. Something unsavory. He could feel it in his bones. With Spring not yet done, he once again made war with a pen. He drafts letters to his Knight Commanders, Vindicta, the King, the Templars, everyone. They’d had a good season, nothing more. No lasting victories had been won. They needed to stay vigilant. They needed to stay thirsty. They needed to keep clamoring for aid and supplies and men. They had a toehold, finally, but little more.

The winter was drawing out like a blade. The old knight had had his plans dashed, along with the bulk of his Force, some months ago by the blood thirsty Hollow-Song. They’d come through like a tidal wave, crashing through his lines and scattering his men like so much chafe. Their march back to town had been uneventful, and the rest of the forces of Runeheim, he found later, had all abandoned their individual pursuits to likewise fall back.
He had wanted to winter his men at the land-bridge. To squat there on the maddening shores. To send word to the Overturner about the security of the mythical bridge. To perhaps enjoy a quiet cup of coffee on the hills.
No sense crying over spilt milk, as his mother would say. Sven was stuck in town. And the defenses were poorly maintained. He should have trained the Marshall’s men before leaving the first time. And, squatting in town as he was, he had taken control of the war effort. The commanders had agreed his voice would carry. They had spent weeks going over the particulars of the defensive strategy. They had taken the weakness of the forces into account, the frailty of their commanders, the sum of the tactical knowledge available about their enemies. They had read and studied and prepared. Soon they would take the field.
Though not with Sven himself. His men were… aggressive. And what remained of his center line was Gothic, not known for their snowshoes. So he would stay and coordinate the defensive efforts. The Templars had said they would arrive to our defense come the Spring. They just had to hold the enemy in place. Just… tie them up long enough for hope to arrive. They could do that.

***********************
The battles had been infuriating. Skirmishes and dread battles happening *miles* away. Scattered reports coming in. Some, finely drafted and proper, as with Sir Ingvar. Others, sloppily delivered vocally, like with the Avalanche. The forces had divided neatly into two. Sven and the Lord Marshall’s forces in Runeheim, along with the mercenary captains forces. They weren’t as well fortified as they seemed, but there were enough bodies on the battlements to ensure the enemy wouldn’t see them as an acceptable target. The offensive force had formed up around Sir Ingvar’s strong center and archers.
Into the woods they had poured. The Hollow-Songs, still reeling from the loss of their commander couldn’t muster an effective assault. They were pushed back twice, deeper into the woods. Sven had summoned back Ingvar’s forces, the design to reclaim the archers for Runeheim in case the Iron Bloods designed to take advantage of their relatively weak defensive stance.
The Avalanche and Stoneskin were left in the woods. A powerful force of Gorm’s Lionslayers was north of the river. Another was in the woods, and they’d lost track of it. The old knight had surveyed the landscape again and tapped an area of plains north of the Land-bridge.

“There’s going to be trouble on this one. Not much in the way of farming up there; if I was in the Rime, I’d have planted something here to hold the line,” he muttered, rubbing his chin. “Tell the Branded to cut off pursuit and prepare to spend the rest of winter in the trees. Those raiders will be back; we need a screen to dissuade them.”

Since coming back to Luisant I’ve tried to dedicate my life to progress – towards learning new disciplines, towards inventing new devices, and towards enlightening others of the ideals and practices of a modern era. I’ve had my setbacks here and there – trying to rebuild my life here has slowed me down immensely – boarding with my uncle helps, but it comes at the cost of privacy. My community also tends to look down upon my inventions – a practice that I’m trying my damndest to remedy, but I feel like I’ll be fighting uphill the whole way. At least a few in my community have started to see the merits of my work, I just hope I’ll be able to convince them all in my lifetime.

That said, while it’s been hard for me to come to grips with – Granny Jo and the others are right – there may need to be a line drawn somewhere on these innovations.

For me, the line was drawn at the last market. The line starts innocently enough – humorous even – I was out gathering with Marinette and a few others when we happened upon Henri. As usual, he was busy sticking his arm down mama snapjaw’s mouth, when he managed to pull out a gun that presumably belonged to a guard. He handed it off to me, still dripping in whatever snapjaw had had for breakfast, knowing that I could fix it up. The day passes on – it seems like the guard who lost it isn’t currently looking for it, so I fixed it back up in the meantime, and left it in my backpack, where I quickly forgot about it after the fun of the blind mason’s trial, the spring sovereign contests, a rather intimate conversation with Ellie, and the maypole dancing.

I may have forgotten about it for a lot longer had it not been for the crisis of the grove that night. Fear reminded me to bring the gun, but it was madness that caused me to draw it forth, level it against the man who had given it to me to begin with, and to pull the trigger.

I will forever be grateful for the distractions of that day – had the spring sovereign festival not occurred, I may have had time to find powder and shot to actually load into the infernal device, and the event of the grove may have gone… differently.

I’ve always thought of firearms as just impractical weapons – their high metallurgical demands, their neigh-impossible to craft fuel source, and needing to collaborate with a noble to acquire and supply them always had them feeling like their applications and usage were too niche and limited to be as useful as a bow or sword. After that ordeal in the grove though – they’re not just impractical, they’re too dangerous for their own good.

And so I’ve drawn a line – a line across my life’s work of ceaseless innovation in the name of improving our lives at Luisant, with the hope that this line will prevent us losing the lives of Luisant. I need to get rid of this gun.

“Bad things happen to good people” was what Valentin Marveille had said to him, Pascal remembered that while telling the other man about his wife he could feel his chest tightening. He had no idea how he had kept his grief to himself for so long, regardless it felt good to finally release it onto someone who understood.

Lord knows he couldn’t do it with Teles, everytime he brought up his wife was in a delusional happy tone and Pascal wanted to shake him until he saw reality. Part of him felt jealous of Teles, living in such a blissful delusion that he sometimes wished for himself. Part of him felt sadness that the man has to relive the news that his wife has passed. It filled him with anger and sadness. Teles was a good man, Valentin was a good man…why were they given such grief to cope with?

“Bad things happen to good people” repeated like a mantra in his brain, he was still trying to understand. He had always been such a devout man to the one true god, he did everything a good Benalian would do and so the idea that the dreadful Vecatra had taken his wife and baby from him made sense to him. Valentin had told him it was likely not Vecatra that had made him lose his wife, Pascal still wasn’t convinced.

But why hadn’t god stopped this from happening to one of their devout children?

Was Vecatra stronger than God? Not possible, he was sure of it. Maybe it was a test. He still feels slightly irritated that during the forum the priests all seemed busy, he wanted to speak of faith but he also felt like there were bigger matters going on in their important lives. It felt selfish for Pascal to want a priest to pat his back and tell him it was going to be okay, but sadly the more he thought about it the more he realized that is what he needed at the time.

His faith had been wavering lately because of his loss, and was searching for a hand to guide him towards the righteous path again.

Pascal’s father had always expressed to him the importance of knowing his place, and he knew that his issues weren’t the issues of the town. There were bigger things at hand that needed to be taken care of, like an ancient being and a terrifying stag walking into a grove where he had found a girl flayed alive a few days before. In the grand scheme of things, the voice of his father would say sternly, a gravedigger wanting to be comforted is not anything of importance.

Pascal agrees with this thought.

Valentin had said something about living on to be able to resolve his grief, he was willing to try it if that made the knot in his chest a little less tight.

With a sigh he snapped out of his thoughts and continued attending to the graveyard. There was work to be done, maybe that was enough to keep his dreadful thoughts away for now.

“forever never really felt so right, but it feels so safe when you dig my grave”

Everyone was alive and well. As she worked the oil into the wood Lysenna kept telling herself that. If she stopped, if she started thinking about what could have happened, how everything could have become even more wrong…
She couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“I know you know we both see the end of us”

Sanding the wood, she kept seeing all the ways everyone she loved being taken from her. The stricken faces of the ones who trusted her, who looked to her. She saw the blood splashing out onto the dark earth as it spilled from the man the elf had murdered.
Had sacrificed.

The twisting growth of the heartseed and Chropolar’s apprentice enterwined. Pallid light pulsing, a bright green but wrong somehow in a sickly imitation of life. The chalky dust of the remainder as it fell through Henri’s clenched fist.

“follow my lead, take my hand, things don’t always go to plan”

She kept seeing the fear and agony in Isabel’s face. As she pushed against the presence that had worked to alter her.

The rage and disgust in Granny Jo’s voice as she order Hugo to take action against Alphonse.

The despair in Marinette’s pleas to everyone to think things through.

“close your eyes, let’s misbehave, while you dig my grave”

The strange dreams with their dullness and emptiness were nothing now compared to the reality of the gathering. The luminous colors and exuberant music of the maypole dance all seemed so far away now. As far removed from the bloody shadows of the night before as the Throne was from their meager village.

“tell me why I tried so hard to hold you so it wouldn’t come, can’t keep pushing all the weight of everything that came undone”

She couldn’t undo the past. Or do the impossible. But she could do everything in her power to keep those she loved from harm. She could continue to stand up. To speak up. To shout. To scream. To fight. To bleed. To live. To die.

“I’m no hero, babe, but I can take a punch”

If all she could do was live and die, she could at least make it count.