Category: Journal Entry

[They lied. They wouldn’t even apologize.]

Marinette reminded herself that this market went well, over and over again, as her hands shook. The community stood together, they worked together, and even though all the compromise seemed one-sided, it was still good. Nobody broke apart.

She shuddered to think about all the things that had happened.

***

That elf had walked up beside her, taunted everyone in the clearing, and then he had killed the human following him.. Right in front of her. Nobody had moved fast enough–even her scream did nothing to persuade it.

If she had known all the details. Why didn’t they tell her he was going to be here with ‘food’; why didn’t they tell her what this would look like? She would have tried to stop it. She would have been faster to interfere.

Granny Jo had promised not to offer it honey, not to make a deal with it. That’s exactly what Etienne did, when the danger presented itself. He told him that they would praise him. Hold a feast in its honor.

And when Marinette had told them they had hurt her when they went back on their promises, neither Etienne nor Granny Jo apologized–only Isabel.

***

[They’ll take advantage. They lie. They don’t care.]

Her faith was.. Shaken. Not in God, but in people. She had asked them to close the distance so many times, and they still kept secrets. They still mistrusted one another. They still ignored one another.

***

‘You can sway everyone with your tears, but you shouldn’t.’

Those words from Cole made Marinette raise her voice. “She’s not crying to sway people!”

She shouldn’t have done that. Isabel calmed her immediately, tried to talk to Cole–and then Henri came over. At first, Marinette thought this would bring the tensions down, but Cole began to growl at him. She raised her voice and got more and more angry, and Henri… and Henri wasn’t helping. Not like Marinette expected of him–not the way she knew he always did. He snapped back at Cole. She stormed away.

Theo approached, and asked for an apology. Henri wouldn’t budge. Marinette thought it was reasonable–acknowledging pain and apologizing for pain–but nobody budged. Nobody moved.

They just got.. angrier.

***

These tiny stories and snippets ran through her head.

***

“Hello. Have we met?”

“Hugo! Take him out!”

“This city would burn if your mists came down.”

***

Marinette shuddered at the thought of all of the bad she had seen. All of the mistakes she had witnessed. All of the callous, self-righteous actions… but there were other things, too.

***

She was sitting in a room–with a bunch of her community. With Granny Jo, and Isabel, and Etienne, and Lysenna, and they were talking. They were making plans, and arrangements, and including one another.

When Isabel came to Etienne for understanding, he had agreed immediately. He had sought to protect her, to acknowledge her–he’d taken her seriously. There was no malice.

When Granny Jo had thought we had compromised too much, in that back room–even if she changed her mind–she’d said that she’d stand with us.

***

Everyone was trying their best.

Henri was scared.

Cole was coming from a place of protection for her community.

Granny Jo was trying to balance faith and trust.

Etienne had acted out of a need to save the people around him–to rescue his community. All of them.

That thing had killed someone, casually, in front of all of us. Was there a way to make everyone agree? No. That would be impossible.

[But people aren’t safe, you know. That bandit woman killed her brother. Her own flesh and blood–cut down for her survival.]

Marinette wished time would slow down. She was so… scared. Pierre would never. She would never. Cadence and Henri and Isabel and Lysenna would never. Tiphaine…

Tiphaine cleared her thoughts.

Tiphaine is scared always. Tiphaine will run from anything. But when Marinette volunteered again to walk to the slaughterhouse for her community, Tiphaine had volunteered to take her place.

Tiphaine, shaking and afraid. Not brave. Not stalwart. She knew not what would happen, but she… volunteered anyway.

My community would not cut me down to save themselves.

If I am slow, they will pick me up. If I stumble, they will grab me. If I scream, they will run to me. Gerard would stand in front of me. Bretta would shield me. Isabel would wrap herself around me. Lysenna would pull me up and tell them nobody was allowed to touch me.

Even Alphonse would not let his community be harmed. Even Theo would stand. Etienne and Hugo and Granny Jo–all of them would do their best.

… No, my community would not cut me down.

They would not cut any of us down.

… And anyone who thought otherwise was a fool.

Milo steps backwards as the werewolves claws swing downard. It cuts the hem of their cloak. Just a bit, nothing that can’t be repaired. Better than it hitting their chest. As their backfoot lands they spring forward, lashing out with their knives. It’s the wolfs turn to back away now, leaping away as Milo advances. It’s learned not to let them close, choosing instead to draw them away from their group and let the other two werewolves flank. It’s too dark for Milo to see clearly but they can hear the sounds of paws in the grass to their left. They cease their attack and begin backing away, daggers at their sides. The would be flankers advance on them now, but Milo is well out of their reach.

Henri pleads with Milo to pull back, but they can’t until the others are back in town. Henri won’t fight, but won’t be attacked. Alphonse hasn’t studied his grimoire yet, so he’s casting at a disadvantage while his book is out.

Milo leaps away from another claw, tumbling across the grass. Their breath returns to them as they stand, daggers ready, “I’ll cover their retreat if it kills me.”

—–

Dinner is being served and the town is eating happily. Milo has just filled them in on their strategy for killing werewolves. Cadence says they shouldn’t kill the werewolves. That they used to be people. Milo frowns. “I don’t care. If a human was trying to hurt me or my family I’d kill them. Hell, if Roger, or Hugo, or anyone else in town tried to kill my family, I’d kill them. Nobody hurts my family. Least of all some shitty dog-people.”

—–

Milo clutches their overgrown rat to their chest, the smell of soap on her fur. Maizy breathes softly, her nose tickling at their hand. This is the first market that Milo has brought her to since they found her almost a year ago now, and they’re glad they did. Henri was threatened by an elf. Apparently the elf wants to destroy humanity. Cadence is real mad now. They’re not good at reading expressions but they can tell that much. Cadence doesn’t threaten to kill as lightly as them, but she’s doing it now. Milo shivers and pulls Maizy closer.

—–

Milo hears a call for help and they’re running before they realize it. Their gloves are on their hands, their knives are out. Hive Zombies. They pull their collar up over their nose and pull their hood down to their brow. The bodies aren’t dangerous, but the bees piloting them are. They sprint forward, knife at their side to cut the body as they pass under it’s wide swing. A small swarm spills out and pursues them in retaliation and they show it their back. As the bees begin to land on them they roll forward and squash them, or at least most of them. The body is still up, but Roger’s spear pierces it and it falls down. As more bees spill out there’s a call from deeper in the woods. Milo locks eyes with Roger through the swarm. They both rush into the woods.

—–

Milo stands next to Leo as his nephew prattles on. The child seems to think that bandits are cool. They feel their heart race with anger. Stupid kid. Their mind flashes back to their first few months with their bandit crew, to all the cuts and scrapes and beatings and stab wounds and hardship and abuse and-

“Could you show him for me?” Leo’s voice interrupts. Milo looks at him in confusion and then at his nephew, holding Leo’s sword. Leo leans in and whispers, “Just knock it out of his hands.” Milo draws a knife and steps forward. They feel their hands aiming for his hip, something that will hurt but be easy enough to bandage. Probably put the kid off of his feet for the rest of the day so he has time to think about whether being a bandit is worth being stabbed or not. But they know Cadence wouldn’t approve. Cadence adopts children, she doesn’t stab them.

With a flash they knock the knife from the childs hand.

“Were you a bandit like my uncle?”

“Yeah, I was. But then I stopped and came here.”

“What do you do now?”

“I kill bandits.”

—–

Milo withdraws their knife from some bandit’s ribcage. These ones are all crazy. They don’t speak, they don’t really listen, they just look for vulnerable targets to kill. Milo tried to give this one a chance like Cadence said, but the moment he saw Marinettes back he charged her. So now he was laying on the ground, bleeding out, while Milo stood over him. Bless her heart, Marinette was kneeling next to him and applying pressure to his wound. Milo began looking around, checking to see if Cadence needed any help with the one she was fighting, but of course she was fine. It was nice to have family that could take care of themse-

There’s a bloody scream near him as the bloody bandit catches his second wind. He starts swinging his weapons (why hadn’t milo thought to take those away from him?) at the girl trying to save his life. Milo kneels, traps the weapons with their first knife, and thrusts their other into his chest. One in the gut. One in the heart. Marinette gasps.

“Milo…. You killed him.” Her eyes are wide. Is that shock? Disgust? Fear? Milo was never good at reading expressions.

“If anyone tries to hurt me or my family, I’ll kill them.” They respond, “He tried, so I killed him… I’m sorry.”

—–

Milo is sitting just outside their cabin relaxing with Maizy in their hood when they hear someone say Marinette is being attacked. They’re off like a shot, slipping their gloves on and drawing their knives as they cross the bridge. Two big green things with huge weapons. Are these trolls? Marinette stands behind one, trying to back away without going too far. Milo can hear footfalls on the bridge behind them and Roger’s voice say “You get Marinette, I’ll distract the monster.” Milo chafes at being told what to do for only a moment before sprinting at the troll and tumbling past it. Roger engages the toll with his spear as Milo checks up on Marinette. No injuries, thankfully.

Marinette manages to make it back to town and Milo and Roger together are able to take down the troll, though it’s a tough fight. Luckily other people had arrived to deal with the other one, because fighting two at once would’ve been a hassle. Milo notes the swords it was wielding. One looked like sharp trash, but the other seemed pretty nice. Fabron would probably like those. Milo lifts them and hands them off to Hadrien as they hear soft squeaking come from their hood.

“Maizy! Oh no, I forgot you were there!” they exclaim, reaching a hand behind their head to feel her tucked into his hood. Her claws are dug into their mantle, but she managed to hang on throughout all their tumbles and cartwheels. Milo smiles, purse lipped and worried. There’s another troll in the woods, and the others will probably need Milo’s help. “We’ll have to make this work. Hold on, okay?”

—–

Milo curls up on the forest floor, thankful for their cloak that blends into the night around them. They can still feel the last whisps of Magic as it adjusts their thoughts, rewiring their beliefs. Alphonse has explained this spell to them before, they think. It binds the recipient to a promise. In this case one that Milo is angry at themself for making. Could they keep it? Are they willing to accept the magically encouraged mental anguish that would come with breaking it? They wish tears would come, but they don’t. The shock doesn’t fade to despair, but to a stark resolution. Milo sits up and takes a breath.

“I’ll kill anyone who threatens my family. Even myself.”

—–

Milo sits against a wall, surrounded by rats and spiders in the depths of what they’re quickly beginning to suspect is one of Chiropolers body cavities. The multicolored lights have faded. Only the dull glow of ghostly light remains. A voice comes to them. It’s their father. The one they didn’t get to choose. Milo can’t bear to listen, but sits quietly while he lists off their sins and ridicules their worst traits. They wish they could deny them, but they can’t. Instead they do what they know. They stand, they cuss, but for some reason they don’t joke. Perhaps the jokes have been beaten out of them.

“Fuck off, old man. That old bitch killed herself. I’m learning how to fix my mistakes. S’More than you ever did.”

The light fades. They’re alone again. Until the fucking bone spider shows up.

——

Milo walks back into the woods as the Market comes to an end. They have so much studying to do, their head was already starting to hurt. Their report on the Leshen is finished finally, but now they have even more to work on. Bog Ghasts to start. Then those Bee Corpses. They also want to get a report on that Rocheaux ghost, but they’ll need to collect more information on it first. A large sigh escapes them as the weight of it settles. A year ago they were a dirt poor, near naked, shit-headed bandit wandering into town. Now they are considerably less poor, and much more clothed… But they still feel like a shit-head bandit. One that was way out of their depth.

Maybe that’s okay, though. Maybe part of growing is just looking at things way above your head and reaching until you get there, then finding the next thing. Maybe you’re supposed to always feel a little out of your depth. A little weary, a little battered. Maybe sometimes it’s more than a little. Maybe so long as Milo has the family they chose for themself, they can ascend to the station required of them. And maybe they can help their family do the same.

Winter never seemed to end this year, by the moon we are in the spring although it didn’t feel like it, the cold air and the rain had been going on 6 months now with no end in sight. Hugo moved through forest with practiced ease the soft earth making squishing sounds as his boots got more muddy and wet, his fur cap trapping the heat and the rain in equal measure. Finally he reached a tree he had been eyeing for hard wood for the last 3 years and decided to trim around it’s base to keep it clear. His axe making quick work of the brush and ferns around the tree, the plants making sounds like rain on a roof whenever the axe met them.

He liked that these didn’t scream when you had to cut them.

“Soon Monsieur Tree you will make something beautiful but not today I swear.”

After quick work clearing he placed his hand upon the tree and tried to feel what the tree was feeling, but all he felt was the rough bark and the cold dampness. He had heard stories that some trees could speak but this was not one of those trees he realized after a while and felt silly so he kept walking. So far Grandfather Oak was the only tree he had ever heard speaking.

He liked Grandfather Oak.

Making his way to the river that would lead him home, he saw a fallen log that had a perfect hiding hole, it reminded him of that horrible night long ago. the memory took over he remembered his lung that didn’t get right till he was older wheezing in the cold air, his small limbs feeling like they were filled with lead and fire after running for hours, and that thing chasing him though the night glowing with ghost lights.

He didn’t like ghosts.

He passed a path that he knew would take him to the grove if he wanted but he knew it wouldn’t hold any peace for him right now. Outsiders and cannibals had stomped through his grove and corrupted it with their presence. how would they like it if we planted a fir tree in the middle of their church? he laughed at the silliness of the question and the image of the great tree bursting through the roof of their place. All of those outsiders with their silly questions, rules that made no sense, and looking at people and places that they had no right to see. We had been fine for generations but now things are changing too fast.

He didn’t like change.

Secrets were now exposed that put the circle in danger. the trees were silent and unclear on their path forward. A crone could save or damn them, there was no good choice it was like getting hit with a light mist deep in the woods and loosing the path back home with night coming on fast. He loved his circle and loved his community but their are somethings that couldn’t be reconciled together. It was like a pitcher that had been in the family for generations that had been dropped and was now in a hundred pieces never to be recovered or put back together. For the longest time he had considered himself a protector of the Circle and of the town, not an attack dog. He had a hole in his stomach were anxiety and fearfulness of the future now lived.

He didn’t like this feeling at all.

The night at home was calm. Grandpa Raimund was no longer coughing and babbling, Pierre was settled into his bed after hours of taking care of him, and Marinette was outside in a rocking chair, listening to the wood creek as she swayed back and forth.

[It’s just us now.]

***

[You can’t take them from me..] It hissed in her ear as she held tight to Gerard’s hand. This first step in was the hardest, but she screamed back at it that Gerard would keep her safe and pressed forward until her hand found bones. Bones she’d pull up from the dirt and decay, broken. They cut her hand with their sharp edges as she was pulled out in a hurry. Her face impacted a rock on the way out, but out she came anyway. It followed her. She wanted to scream for Pierre when it grabbed her. She prepared to disappear then.

Henri grabbed it, instead. Gerard held her tight and would not let her go. She stumbled back as he pushed her behind him and the hammer struck down as she clutched broken bones to her body and shadows tried to pull her back into the black. The first of their family was cleaved free, circling his bones as she handed them to someone to take them to the crypt of her ancestors.

She wanted to fall over. She watched Isabel go in and the lyrics on her lips were as much for comfort of herself as they were for the ears of others. She was exhausted–she was tired–she was frightened. That thing.. it was part of her, and it was scared.. and she felt that fear in her bones. She looked around to all her family and friends around her. She watched Lysenna enter the crypt. Lysenna. Battered. Unable to fight. Lysenna. Bold and brave and unshaken. She took a deep breath and waited.

Isabel next. Henri and Gerard were escorting people in and out. Cadence was to her left. She was singing, but she couldn’t hear her own voice. She just heard the sound of her heartbeat in her ears like a drum.

Something swept around, its claws slamming into her arm and ripping it open.

Cadence rushed around her to defend. Teles stood over her as her legs buckled and she went down. Momentary, she told herself. This is momentary. Teles wanted to bandage her.

‘No. Those are for people who won’t stand back up. Not me. Just wait. Not me.’

She shook. She couldn’t even bring herself to sing. She trembled. Another was brought out with struggling slowness by .. Sophie? She couldn’t see past the blur in her eyes or hear past the sound of screams and whispers.

[Don’t betray us. You are us.]

Her vision cleared finally and she rose. Quilon Jovienne whispered into her ear of bravery and she felt… refreshed. She knew she had to do this. One arm now. She let Henri take her hand, though it hurt to allow it, and she pushed into the crypt’s small tunnel again. She remembered when she was 7. She was giggling while she snuck through with Miette. She remembered this–it was smaller then, when she had come in here. When she had let it out. When it had.. found them.

The darkness closed around her and she stopped. She couldn’t even hear Henri in that moment. She moved and sung and stepped on rote as she saw that moment fifteen years ago. He detached from her. She let him go. She was alone. To her knees she went and she dug, but she didn’t really want to find anything. She thought if she crawled in, maybe she wouldn’t be so lonely.

Isabel? Pierre…? Bretta…? Where are you? Are you in here? If I dig deep enough–if I crawl inside.. will I find you?

She was 7 again, scared and alone, suffocating. And then Henri’s hand grabbed her back to reality. She could hear him crying. Something had happened. She had to get him out of here. These bones–those ones. Grab them. The pain shot through her arm as she pushed rocks out of the way, but she grit her teeth and used them anyway. She was pulled out with Henri and a pile of a corpse in her hands, and the people of the town had grown so thin while she was in there. No Gerard. No Isabel. No Lysenna or Sophie.. No Bretta. Just Henri, crying, and Cadence at the door, comforting him. Marinette wanted to hug him. Her hands were so full. She only managed a thank you. What a useless gesture.

There was no time. It came for them again, grabbed at her and Lysenna rushed around the corner into sight with Sleepsong. She slammed into it as Henri pulled it forward. Another soul salvaged. Someone had to take these–she was tired, and useless. Someone had to take them. She started to walk away, as Cadence declared she would go inside for the next.

She walked not five feet before she was surrounded by Bretta and Gerard once more, with Teles leading ahead. They weren’t gone. She wasn’t alone. She kept walking forward–kept walking as they were ambushed on all sides, kept walking. She stepped ahead too far, and a claw whipped out–her arm that wasn’t harmed was grasped and crushed in its grip. She screamed and dropped the bones to the ground as Corbin rushed to her aid, along with Bretta. The creature was driven off, but she was useless again. They had to be taken.

She made someone take them–who was it? The ghost was so frightened, he couldn’t stay here–was it Corbin? Bretta walked with him. She was in the snow. Her heartbeat in her ears, slamming, over and over. Nothing else.

Focus, focus. You’ll get better.

She was starting to get her vision back when she was rushed, lifted like oh-so-much lace off the ground as the creature started to run with her. She screamed. A shot went off and she tumbled to the ground and rolled. The creature was rushed and taken down, as her vision cleared, skirts over her head. It knocked her back into her body. She slowly rose again–back to the Crypt. The walls had collapsed. Nobody could get through.

Marinette groaned with both her arms busted and pulled the pick out of the bag she carried. She started picking away, whining with each stroke. The rocks came out. One of them landed on her foot and she staggered backwards and nearly fell again. People were coming back to move the rocks away. She moved forward and continued.

The door opened again–slowly. So slowly. The black tunnel screamed at her.

[You can’t take them! They are with us! Our family! You belong here!]

In.. in again, and again. Henri held her hand and she winced.

Until finally, with Milo’s heroic effort, the last was ripped away, and they loaded the bones into Marinette’s broken arms, and she.. lead Rogier with a host of protectors. She paid more attention now. She didn’t walk ahead of her guards. Not this time. Slow. Every step was so much pain. Tiphaine would scold her for all the blood on her dress.

Until they were laid to rest. Isabel there, giving the last rites. They were done. She was free.

[Well…. It’s just us now.]

Marinette’s whole body shuddered and she stood in the dark, alone, again. The people who moved around her didn’t exist. She was isolated. She.. was the problem now.

***

Marinette swung the rocking chair. She could still hear it, whispering. The porchlight held off the darkness, and she searched for Sebastien for any level of safety. She couldn’t hear or see him, now. Cadence and Isabel had told her no. They had said they could fix this, but what if.. what if it started again because of her? What if she gave it power? What if… it hurt people.

Marinette had asked if they would kill her.

Cadence said only if her sword said so. Her sword, that Marinette could not appeal to.

Pierre would have been mad to know she asked such a thing, so she hadn’t told him. She didn’t know what to do, though. She pulled her knees up to her face and buried her head in her skirt. She sobbed.

She hated being alone.

**YOUR PURPOSE WILL NOT BE DENIED**

The voice had been so beautiful and loud, his head vibrated and his ears rang. Tears had sprung from his eyes and the ground had suddenly leapt up at his face. He had seen it laid out before him so clearly. Emptiness, endless, unassailable emptiness. Then in that emptiness, he had floated. A light familiar but different, like a brother, had echoed far away. That same light burning warmly within his chest aching to seep from his pores. Cupping his hands around his lips, he exhaled light. It grew to a small candle-light orb, floating above his palm. As he’d moved his hands away, a lantern had formed, then a crook for it to nestle against. And the emptiness parted around him. Behind were shadows, figures without faces, but dressed in familiar garb and manner. He’d seen the fiery hair of a figure he presumed to be Isabel. The veil of Cadence, perhaps? The tri-corner hat of Theo floating above an empty coat. The pale blue bodice with wisps of songs around it that must have been Marinette. They had followed him through the emptiness on a path of light that he left behind him.

The way was fragile, though, and the thing that had broken the world was hungry here. Darkness clawed at it, vengeful and fiery. It grabbed at clothing and tried to pull his flock into the darkness off the path. But he knew- *knew*- that he could guide them. The Mists were no barrier to him. Not anymore. Not with that warm glowing white light held aloft for all to see.

**YOUR PURPOSE WILL NOT BE DENIED**

The elf was beautiful, there was no denying it. Dangerously so. Ancient, powerful, and evil beyond measuring. Perhaps its nature wasn’t evil. Perhaps its nature was just so foreign that the concept of Good couldn’t contain it. It had spoken honeyed words and made subtle gestures with its striking eyes and flowing hair. Henri could only remember snippets of the things it had said, so distracting was its features and manner. The alien creature had almost seemed… hurt at his rejection of it, in that dark grove, surrounded by its seemingly mindless guardians.

Then it had moved, slain one of its own, and ate of its flesh. It had shouted words of summoning, and a skeletal stag had appeared. Even the blood running down its chin had seemed as if loving artists had painted it there simply to accentuate the litheness of its neck. As their party turned to ruin and foul magics battered upon them, again Henri had felt that light. He had poured it into Arbor’s lantern, and the battering had stopped. They were safe. And he had waited until the last of them had fled the woods before he had allowed himself to return himself. His flock, they were his flock, and none would be allowed to stray.

**YOUR PURPOSE WILL NOT BE DENIED**

The warm white light had flickered in his breast as Cole had shouted her defiance at him. The patience and love that had been so easy to feel, so easy to cling to just a few short months ago wavered. The Community, his Purpose, was fracturing even as it bonded. He could not remember the words, but he had remembered the look of hurt on her features as she’d turned away and the warmth of righteousness had swept through him.

Theo had manifested in his vision, as he swam in the light. The voice had been grating and persistent, a cloud of mosquitos trying desperately to annoy and demean. The light had shifted, turning shades of red. He could see with absolutely clarity phantom flames of black and green lifting from his hands. He knew- *knew* – that all he had to do to silence the annoyance was reach out his hand and touch the human before him. And his Purpose had suddenly felt as if it a lodestone, and the light a lake he was treading water in.

The weight of it would pull him down so far that none would see him again, not as this, not as he was. His eyes would blaze with red and green- all would love him and be terrified of him. Instead of a shadowy elf pulling at their fates from the shadows, they would have a priest in white telling them how to live and how to find harmony. There would be peace, an eternal, terrible peace.

The buzzing had passed and the light was white once more. But he could see the red in it now, just beyond his sight. A red that hadn’t existed before. A light that was so… deeply comforting. So easy to reach for. So. Tempting.

He’d fled to the woods. Deep, deep to the woods. Under a tree, by the side of a creek, he’d sat and shook and wept. Life had been so much simpler in ignorance. With each step down this new path he took, the world grew more complicated, more rigid, more inevitable. What peace was there for him now that he could see his Purpose laid out before him? What escape was there in simple pleasures? What existed for him beyond this thing now?

As his tears dried, he prayed. And the prayers didn’t stop until well after the sun had set once more.

This winter was bitterly cold. Clemens still shivering as he sat down at his study. A window had blown open from the cold winds forcing themselves inside his humble abode. He gave the pane a slight shove and made sure the flimsy hinge was secure. He was growing quite tired of winter’s chilling touches on his cheeks.

Wrapping himself in a blanket to warm up gave him time to ponder recent events. Most notably Stein. That man never failed to get under Clemens nerves. Mostly because the man wielded words of criticism like a master swordsman. Efficient, deadly to the ego, and unwaveringly correct.

Clemens had been doing what he could to leverage his knowledge to aid his friends in Runeheim, but clearly he needed to be doing more. Ask more questions, get to the heart of the matter, confront threats to the academic integrity of Runeheim… That last point made Clemens shiver. That entity made of pages troubled Clemens deeply, but what exactly did he do about it? He didn’t release it, so why should he have done anything? Wasn’t it Quill’s fault that thing went on a rampage stealing away knowledge from books and people?

Excuses. Clemens should have taken far more offense at that thing’s greed. Knowledge is meant to be shared and enrichen the lives of all; not hoarded like piles of coins or jewels. Clemens felt a fire rising in him; a twinge of anger and frustration. He was starting to become sickened by his own lack of willpower and courage.

“What would have Hakon done? He’d probably tear the thing to shreds with his bare hands if he could! Ha ha!”

Suddenly the window shuttered, a sudden gust of icy wind forcing it open again. Clemens yelped in surprise, then laughed.

“I guess I still have a long way to go before I can be as bold and fearless as my friends” he remarked, standing up to secure the window again, this time with just a bit more gusto. Then he sat at his study again, and returned to the archaeology report he was working on and noticed his handwriting seemed ever slightly more stable… As if his hands were shaking just a little bit less. Perhaps a sign that spring would return to Runeheim just a bit sooner.

The bellows of the men shook the ground beneath Ragnar’s feet, moments ago his karls had spotted the enemy through the trees and he’d given his first and likely last command for the length of the battle: charge! The ground was uneven and their were trees all around them but Ragnar’s enemies where exhausted and still recovering from their defeat, all he had to do was finish them off. Ragnar’s bellows joined those of his men and their opponents as he ran towards them, leading his troops packed in shoulder to shoulder with his men. Soon their enemies where put a few paces away and time slowed Ragnar looked into the eyes of the men he was about to kill, he saw hatred, resolve… and fear. With a mighty roar Ragnar crashed into his foes, a wild swing of his sword connected with as head, crushing it beneath the weight of the swing. Ragnar felt weapons bite into dearly, not quite piercing his scarred and toughened hide, terror crept into the eyes of those that struck him as they realized what they faced, a Barzark. Ragnar’s karls crashed into the line just behind him, overwhelming their opponents and driving Ragnar forward into the fray, the ferocious bellows quickly turned into screams of pain and despair, a red mist descended over Ragnar as the screams all joined into one charnel chorus, quietly he let the rage take him. The bodies around him ceased being ally or enemy, or even human, they simply became objects to direct his wrath towards.

Later, Ragnar’s foes retreated into the forest, his own karls where too exhausted from their over-eager assault to give chase. Ragnar himself sat on a rock, looking over the bloody field he’d helped create, he felt sick but he knew that this was what he had to do, this was the path of a Branded man that he choose to walk, this was his destiny and his right, blood, battle and glory until the end of days. but was this really what he wanted, he wished to build something, though perhaps destruction is the first step to creation. Ragnar sat on his stone and thought deeply while his karls collected themselves, preparing to continue their march.

I had previously considered the pervasive Mist throughout Luisant to be a threat or at best a neutral entity. It provided some degree of protection against those who would threaten us, but at a great cost. Those who wandered off the path in the Mist, lost so much. Their Memories, time with their loved ones, and even in some instances their lives. I had some hopes that with time and effort, it might be possible to remove or at least somewhat lessen the effects of the Mist. I can lay much blame for my troubles on the Mist, and I have always feared it would take the rest of my family to me.

After the events of this last Market, I need to reverse my opinion. As much as it pains me to say, the Mist must be preserved. While it has taken much, it has at least returned Pascal to me, and that matters. Of greater concern is the fact that the Mist seems to be protecting us from grave dangers. If what we learned from Saint Arbor is true, the Mist is part of the prison holding the Feasting King. If it was to weaken it is entirely possible that his influence could spread throughout the town. Naturally this cannot be allowed.

Beyond the issues with the Feasting King, which I honestly cannot believe I just wrote. The Feasting King is at least the most direct problem we are facing. The Mist might be preserving us from an even greater problem, which is the Church of Benalus as a whole. I cannot deny the truth that Saint Arbor told us about the original nature of Heresy. And this is a truth that I have no intention of trying to hide. In the eyes of the majority of Faithful, spreading that truth might just make us Heretics ourselves. I am worried that if other Benalians were to learn of this, that the Church might attempt to purge our home. I wonder if inquisitors would view us as no different than the Vecatrans.

I can only conclude that while it brings difficulties, the Mist must be preserved. Of course protecting the mist brings with it a plethora of questions. If it was in fact created through the combined efforts of Benalians and Vecatrans, do we need to work with Vectrans to have any impact? Will the Spider Wedding strengthen the Mist? What other actions will either strengthen or weaken it? And those are just the critical questions, there are in fact many others. And I have answers to none of them. Every question I get an answer too, just leads me to more questions.

There are many large things to regret in life – enabling my mother’s obsession, not seeking help for my father’s alcoholism, trying to forget my problems while the fire claimed them both will be with me my whole life. But those are the easy things to regret – the things that anyone can regret. It’s the small regrets that fester, the things that are hard to put to words, the things that others will never fully relate to.

Running back home that night – falling into the mists: I regret not having paper, ink, and quill on me.

I think it was the fourth night in the mists – trying to fall asleep in the cold dark forest. I thought it first a dream – an amalgam of gears and springs slowly coalescing, until I woke up – a sudden bolt of inspiration going through my brain like lightning. Instinct had me scrabbling for my journal, but alas, no such luck. I set about trying to draw it in the dirt, scratching it into bark, making a model of it. I found that I eventually had memorized the device fully, down to the last excruciating detail, and satisfied, I moved on.

The next such bolt came maybe two days later, this time for a completely different device. Then another the day after, two the day after that. It wasn’t long before these bouts of inspiration were coming near each bell. Never before was I so single-mindedly obsessed with the mechanical – coming up with systems that could keep time to the second – that could ambulate of their own will – that could transport more people than in Luisant – of nature both benign and malignant.

Each inspiration had a price though – it wasn’t long before I realized I was forgetting things about Luisant – first it was small things like the menu at the tavern or the paths through the forest. Soon it evolved into forgetting bigger things – people’s names, the layout of my own house – by the time I had enough schematics memorized to fill ten tomes, I couldn’t recall the faces of my parents.

And yet the torrent of inspiration continued – I tried to record it as much as possible – I’d imagine that half of the mists is covered with trees showing gearing ratios, of engraving patterns drawn in the dirt, of moldering models depicting frameworks and enclosures. I never felt like I needed it though – my memory was good enough.

Or at least – so I thought. I heard stories growing up that people who spend too long in the mists forget names, places, and experiences, but what I did not know was that the inverse was also true – that your memories of the mist will also begin to fade, that you will recall broad strokes, but never specifics.

As soon as my foot left the mists I could feel the ideas begin to unravel – starting to forget what must have been seasons worth of these ideas. In a panic I sprinted through the snow to Luisant – trying to remember where I could find ink and paper. By the time I recalled the path to my house, I had completely forgotten most details – the gearing ratios, alloy choices, dimensions, and other minutia were gone. By the time I was rounding the final bend I had forgotten most of the major concepts. By the time I made it to the burnt out remains of the building that was once my home I had forgotten everything, leaving me hollow.,

I’ve been digging through the snow and ash covered remains of my home for who cares how long. I’ve managed to find a few remnants – some of my father’s wine stash, some of my mothers tools, the only thing of mine I could find was my calipers. I traded the wine for some paper and ink, but it was far too late. I know I should be mourning the loss of my home – of my parents, but I can’t focus on those things – instead I mourn the loss of the inspiration.

I’m still deciding if I should stay in Luisant or not – maybe the Veneaux have the right of it – going back to the mists to reclaim the inspiration is just as alluring as seeking the truth. I’m not sure what Luisant has for me anymore, I haven’t recognized anyone yet, I have nowhere to live, and I’m not sure if I can contribute in any meaningful way. I’ll see what I can get at the market day tomorrow, maybe I can find some more supplies and advice for wandering the mists, maybe I can find a reason to stay here.