Category: Journal Entry

“No, really, it’s fine. I will take her. I’m a wizard, this is paper writing material,” Solfyre gestured for Hakon to give her back the malefic baby that was latched onto his shoulder.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep,” Solfyre shrugged and again gestured for the baby. Hakon gave her over and immediately the little desiccated corpse of a child bit into her flesh. Clenching her teeth and letting a spell wash over her, she bid them a goodnight and left with the little creature.

Once in her own space Solfyre looked down at the creature and sighed. She had, like Hakon, promised the malefic baby’s mother, a ghost forced to wander on repeat and make the decision to sacrifice her child endlessly, that she would care for the creature. She promised, too, that the ghost had made a hard decision and the sacrifice wasn’t in vain, though she didn’t believe that for a moment.

“You didn’t deserve this, little one. Truly the old gods are evil if your innocence is the only thing that may sate their appetite,” Solfyre said as she climbed into bed with the horrifying thing. She could not bring herself to be disgusted and fearful of the thing, whom she had playfully named ‘Wulfrica’ since so many believed she was betrothed to Wulfric and it seemed a fitting name at the time of the child’s discovery. She had to make light of such a gruesome story, didn’t she? Sometimes a little light is all one has left and she certainly understood that to her core.

Pulling the covers around herself and the coo’ing malefic baby, Solfyre held her close and told her a story.

“I was also abandoned. My mother, god rest her misguided soul, was a runespeaker. Her 18th birthday she rolled the runes of fate and learned that her children would cause her death. Fearing this, she vowed never to have children—but supposedly fell in love, though no one knows who to. She birthed not one, but two children, my twin and I. I was born just after dawn and my sister was born before me around midnight. That’s what my mother told us, anyways, when we finally met her after 20 years apart. After she had us, she was hysterical and truly feared we would be the end of her, but she could not bring herself to kill us. Fearing backlash from the community or perhaps that our father would try and change her mind, she left in the night, but not before branding both my sister and I so that she would be able to see us coming if we ever returned to her,” Solfyre sighed, “she gave us no names, only hot iron that seared our flesh then she dropped us very far from one another. I was picked up by a lovely couple who took me in and loved me as their own. I love them dearly. My sister went to an orphanage but fate had other plans for her and she rose from her station.”

Solfyre smiles a little, “I’m sorry that no one found and saved you, but I am hopeful that I can be the answer to that. I will not sacrifice you to a dark god nor will I leave your side tonight. How about we give you a more appropriate name? One that isn’t a joke, yes?”

“Hmmm…. Adalgild, how about that? ‘Noble sacrifice’. You can’t very well be Quirinsdöttir so how about Solfyresdöttir? Adagild Solfyresdöttir. Ada for short. How is that? It’ll be my secret gift to you. A true name. It was my adoptive parent’s greatest gift to me,” She speaks and the child seems to respond with some sort of babble. Whether it is affirmation of choice or just babbles, Solfyre nods along anyways.

The night passes and Solfyre falls asleep in the early hours of the morning. Just as dawn breaks over the horizon, signaling the end of the longest night in Njordr, she is awakened as Adagild lets out a giggle and touches her face. Solfyre recognizes the gesture instantly and touches her forehead to the baby’s as she slowly fades away in the morning light. “Goodbye,” Solfyre whispers and suddenly the weight of the creature is completely gone. She sighs heavily, staying quiet in bed for a while recounting the events of the night, rolls out of bed with hardened resolve to continue forward, and begins her day.

Theo turns on his ward Sherry as the rain begins to fall around their firepit. His finger wags at her as his voice rises in anger,

“Yes, Sherry, they do have shiny fucking armor, new pretty dresses, people to ferry them around, and personal chefs but don’t think that the nobles care who we are or what we want. The fact that the town is willing to feed us isn’t about the nobles, that’s about other people doing that work, collecting those things. They don’t organize or contribute to it. You owe them less than nothing. You owe them so little that whenever they want something you should think, ‘How are they trying to fuck me over?’

Nobles serve no purpose in the world other than to maintain their power over others, pass that power on to their children, grow their wealth by using that power, and ensure they are remembered. That is what noble blood means; to be a line of slavers and predators whom have done that for generations.

They are ultimately people, and do not have to be self serving, power hungry fools, but it turns out if you give a man power he will use it. She will find ways to maintain and grow it. They will do whatever they can to secure it for their future so that they are never at risk.

Henri and Abella stole food to ensure their power would not be threatened while their son watched. They demanded taxes that they knew the population could not fulfill. They paid someone to have the local priest murdered when he tried to stop their abuses. They failed to teach their son anything about how to look after the city. Ambrose refuses to speak to me, or anyone else he considers below him. Jean Luc is happy to send others off toward danger in his stead, but never risks himself. Thora actively plots and connives to achieve her ends, killed Nadja’s husband, and is willing to do whatever the spiders require of her. Zakar is a torturer who fails in his duty often and has made secret deals with the spiders. Nadja can barely tolerate our backward ways and is devoted to achieving greater power for herself.

The issue isn’t just about them individually though, but also about why the town fucking puts them on a pedestal so that they don’t have to take responsibility for their own actions. They literally give them whatever they ask for, whether they truly need it or not. Clean their own messes? Trap their own fucking food? Walk across town instead of having Tellis give them a carriage ride in the rain?

Sure, Ambrose and Nadja are living as peasants now, but what does that even fucking mean? Half the town still seems to want to suck them off at every opportunity because it turns out they know that ‘peasant for a year’ is the same thing as ‘noble in a year’. And even if somehow they learned something resembling responsibility, humility, or whatever words Cole would use to say they fucking get it, that doesn’t change that they don’t deserve to be given free reign to make us slaves all fucking over again. Respecting someone as a person doesn’t give them permission to think they have control over you and yours.

Our ancestors survived that shit and we will never go back. With the town council, maybe that’s almost possible. You know, if they aren’t just puppets too.”

Severin picked up the empty bowls and stacked them. The bits from the snack board were all but finished, and he had made sure none of it had gone to waste by finishing off what was left. Bowls went into bowls. Utensils went into the top bowl. Boards went on top of boards, and on the top board went the bowls and whatever mugs were left around. The next step was to sneak everything into the kitchen and leave it by the sink before anybody starts asking for somebody to wash dishes.

There was too much to do and he couldn’t think while washing dishes. There had been the Nowhere King which has killed the Lord and Lady. Then the Red Stag from the forest. Now they seem to be the same, and from what the church people say, possibly a child of Benalius and Vecatra?!!?!

Vecatra! Thank Benalius we don’t have Vecatrans running around causing troubles in Luisant.

Worse was the sudden bouts of horribleness that had happened. First, there had been cannibals in the woods. Then one man had said he had been told to eat the flesh of a supposedly malific person and that would cure him of the plague this convocation. This was all strangely similar to the Beastwise ceremony, which had missed out on because they had left early and without him. There they had gone to feed the bear, and found the bear already dead by having eaten himself to death. Then, those that had gone found themselves hungry and ate the bear. Perhaps best that he had missed out on his first official Beastwise ceremony. Maybe he’ll miss the next one too, just till he’s sure he’s go the hang of this Folkwise thing, as it doesn’t seem like these sort of things should be happening. Still, it’s all gluttony, which goes back to the old Witch King of Capacionne, who had servants in this area as well as a mouth, which might also be the Nowhere King.

Plague is bad enough. Thank Benalius that Sophie had been able to help cure his family. He had already turned over all his herbs to Alphonse, who had helped cure his family last market. He surely could have done so again, but Sophie had done so, so he told Alphonse he could use the herbs to help other people. Still, plague was bad enough but people eating other people, or associated possibly spirit bears, is even worse. Luckily, they had enough food to feed everybody, even the refugees. But, what if the bounty fails? What happens then?

Wait?! Where did the refugees come from?

He should have asked more questions previously in the tavern. There was a puzzle here. There were, possibly, cursed items being assembled into a suit of armor nobody wants. Other families sneaking off to do things in family crypts. No overt attempt to communicate any of this to the community as a whole.

If I don’t know, then most people must not know. I’ll have to try and assemble all that information. It’s not a Jovienne thing to do, but my mother always did say I showed signs of her LeBlanc ancestors in me when it came to protecting the community. There is something going on here, and it is not good. Not good at all. No siree.

So I went down to the Long hall to listen to the drunks tell stories. Here is one from the other night…..

So we were down a few men, which was a problem since Sven was spoiling for a fight, and sent Arsebjorn with the boat to pick up some spares from a nearby town. This halfwit tho grabbed the first rough looking bear folk he saw, which turned out to be some rather drunk barzarks. Now, I understand why he was confused. This lot was so drunk, they had somehow gained some sense and spoke all polite like to Arsebjorn when he offered up some gold to come out to fight.

How he got the boat back here was nothing short of a miracle, cause half way through all the bear folk passed right out after drinking all our mead, and Arsebjorn was the only one sober enough to steer his way back.

Now if you’re not familiar with these bear folk barzarks, then I’ll tell you we rushed them right quick into the hall and locked the door. When they started to rouse we rolled another barrel of ale into the hall and rushed right out again. There are three things you need to remember about these njords: Keep them well plied with alcohol. A sober, bored, barzark will find ways to entertain themselves at your expense. Last season, I’ll never understand how they got the goats up there. Feed them often, so they can drink more. One boar and a pot of barley should do the trick and the most important of all; When they ask for women….well send them more alcohol and keep the doors locked.

The mists protect.

Of all the things she had been told by her mother, the one she never doubted was this. “The mists protect us.”

Lysenna stared out the window as the rain continued to fall. The snow had melted, and the ground was back to its soft state. Spring was coming, slow though it may be this year. The cycles continued whether we chanced to follow them or not.

Her hands continued their movement without thinking, so used to the work and process that she was able to devote only a portion of her attention to it. The leonem was almost complete, the finer detail carving work done earlier. She continued to softly sand the back edges to ensure nothing would scrape against the skin or clothing of the wearer, rubbing a nail against the grain, checking for anything her eyes may have missed.

Setting that piece down, she pulled out another chunk of soft wood. The kind she kept for the small animals she made the children. Laying out her tools, she started carving. Recalling the conversation she had with the young Mervaille and chuckling. She never forced wood into a shape. It called. It spoke. It knew far better than her what it could be. She simply gave it form. She thought back to the day. It had been such a quiet day. She had never expected it to turn out the way it did.

Looking down, she noticed a dark spot on the piece and frowned. This was new growth pine, soft and warm yellow. It shouldn’t have any dark spots unless… Turning it over, she realized the discoloration wasn’t disease but blood. She had nicked herself. She stared at the bright drop welling on her thumb and disappeared into the memory.

~The scarlet drops shone brilliant on the fresh fallen snow. The screams of the other townsfolk still echoing in the clearing as they battled for their loves and those of the dead. Cuilon had gone to protect another of those who were walking the old ones back to their resting spots. Sophie and Isabelle were gone as well performing the rites and they were so close to the end. She wanted to sink down to the floor but she kept seeing Cadence by her side, sword out and keeping the ghosts from getting closer than they already had. Marinette’s gentle voice was cutting through the breaks in soft gasps of sound. The hammer was heavy in Lysennas’ hands, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to help for long. Her ribs and abdomen still hurt, and it took all her strength to stand and stay. Henri’s quiet voice came closer, and as he sobbed they pulled out another. In her mind she screamed at the thing that kept taunting her friends and family, but in reality, all that made it out was a rasping growl.
They had made it this far, they. Would. Not. Stop.~

Pulled out of the memory with a snap, Lysenna realized she had dropped the knife. Hands and head shaking, she reached for a bandage in her pouch, recalling the warmth in Granny Jo’s voice as she had bandaged her up and Cuilon holding her hand as she bit through the pain. Corbin’s hand on her shoulder, and Ettiene across the table. Hugo in the Grove, watching and guarding. Ruger making her laugh with those ridiculous eyebrows. Colobri and her songs. Her family had grown a bit more than expected. That was true. And some of them may have scoffed at the idea of her calling them that. But still. They were *hers*. No one hurt them without her noticing.
Wrapping the soft linen around her finger to staunch the blood flow she suddenly remembered the rest of her mother’s words.

“The mists protect us. But remember mon bebe, protection is not an empty threat. The knife cuts you as easily as another.”

Picking up the knife she stared at the blade. The keen edge did cut her as easily as anyone else. That was true.
But she would do whatever she could to protect them.
Damn the blood. Damn the cost.

The swamp was silent, absent of the usual whine of bugs, chirps of birds, belching chorus of frogs. There was beauty in the silence, but a pervasive sort of sadness dominated it. Snow didn’t tend to linger in the swamp. The water never quite froze here; the roiling decay of underbrush and plant detritus kept things warmer than the rest of the region most of the year. Still, some pristine white clung to the top of the taller trees. The air had a crispness that was only slightly colored by the undercurrent of scent that labeled the region so very clearly a bog.

For generations beyond counting, the Chasseur family had lived in the depths of the swamp. Most folks tended to consider the area unlivable. It was hard to travel, if you didn’t know the ways, and eking out a living was harder here than most places. The Chasseurs were a stalwart sort of people, though, and rather than working hard against nature, had simply learned to be more content with less. At least they had. The last of them stood muddy on the largest little hill in the muddy region. Houses could be built on stilts, but the family graves didn’t have that luxury. Generation after generation had been laid to rest here. Markers ranged from coarsely chiseled stone to simple woodened planks. Most lacked writing, but had a picture carved or some symbol to indicate who lay buried there. Land was precious, so once the eldest forgot who was buried where, the markers were collected on the edge of hill, and a new body was laid to rest over the bones of the old. In typical times, this was a slow process, as the dead slowly overtook previous generations for dominance of the little hill. Today was different.

Over a dozen plots had been dug. Bones decorated with scraps of skin and hair had been wrapped in rotted sheets and gingerly laid in each their spot. The peat-rich soil had been replaced. A section of relatively clean wood had been carved with a symbol for each person who slept there now. Many had come out to help with the burial; more than had ever come from outside their swamp for a funeral before. More faces than could reasonably be remembered. They were gone now. The only living soul was seated at the edge of the smallest of the plots, legs tucked up to his chest, forehead resting on knees, tears streaming down face.

***
The darkness of the crypt was clinging, like a cold fog that set everything soaking with icy water. Each step was treacherous and forced a small, almost timid stride. The… *thing* that had spoken from the shadows had been cruel before. It had thrown rocks, or shadowy tentacles, or sharp pains at those brave enough to weather the assault and liberate the souls of the fallen. Henri had gone in several times, shrugging off some of the attacks, absorbing others. It was exhausting work, but Marionette had refused to quit. And Cadence had refused to quit. And Isabel had refused to quit. So Henri had refused to quit. Again and again, he guided someone into the dark, protecting them from what he could, and pulling them out again. The thing had called him light-bringer. The thing in the darkness had hated him. Then it had levied an assault against him that he couldn’t shrug off.

“What do you know of family, outcaste?” it had hissed, while Henri clutched a collection of assorted bones to his chest. “What do you know of a family staying together even in the darkness?”

Then it had grown quiet, mocking sympathy had colored its tone.

“Oh, but you do know. You know what it is like to lose family… and it broke you,” it had laughed quietly then and it was as if someone had ripped a warm blanket from the old man’s shoulders. A comfortable bulwark against the cold darkness had been shredded and discarded. Months of reflection happened in moments. He had been forced to see the truth of things and his own terrible cowardice.

He had seen, in full color and horrid sensation, the plague that had swept the town finally rolling over the swamp. His father was the first to succumb, a man who had never so much has had any sickness worse than a cold, had taken a fever and died within hours. Then his mother. Aunt. Brother. Sister. Cousin. Each had fallen as quickly as the last. Too quickly to bury. All Henri had been able to do was sequester the dead from the dying and pray for any hope of cure or succor to come. Alas, no panacea had presented itself; no divine miracle to save them. As his family fell one by one, his panic had grown, and his efforts to care for the dwindling survivors had grown frantic.

And then the unthinkable had happened. The dead started to return. For three bitter days, the family he had tried so valiantly to save would rise at night to try and claim the rest of their humble clan. His spear and fierce refusal to submit had kept them at bay, but he couldn’t stop the tears as his Aunt’s rotted face had dominated his vision, her boney claw-like hands grasping for her own son and shrieking a non-language at him.

Noémie had been the last to fall. She had been so frail and thin by then. Hollow cheeked, but bright of eyes. Lips chapped. Perfect blonde hair coming out at the roots in clumps. She’d smiled at him as she lay dying in his lap.

“We just need to rest now, Uncle Henri,” she’d said, in a whisper so small he could barely make it out. “We’s tired is all. Just let us rest and we be raat as rain.”

Then her unblinking eyes had stared off into nothing and his wails shook the house.

If only the horrors had ended there, perhaps the old man could have forgiven himself. But that wasn’t the end of it. He could see and not see. He was aware and unaware. The corpses of his family, too many to bury, too many to mourn, had seemed whole once more. They called to him merrily. He had blinked back tears and kissed each one. They were sick, obviously, but safe. They asked him for help, and he put them to bed. Each was tucked in and kissed goodnight. He hunted for turtles and made soup. The thick stew had dribbled down chins and caught in bedsheets.

He saw and didn’t see as his family’s eyes sunk away. How their lips and gums pulled away from teeth. How the flies collected. How they bloated and released their putrescence. He saw and didn’t see how the swamp consumed them. The heat of summer bringing their torrent of feasting insects. How discolored and rotted the sheets and bedclothes became. Every so often, one would rouse itself and attack him in an effort to eat of his flesh. He saw and didn’t see how he laughed at their orneriness, gently holding them until they were still again, and placing their diminishing remains back to bed.

The dark spirit in the crypt had taken away the didn’t see. Now he could only reflect on the horrors he had survived and the sad consequence. Noémie’s sweet angelic face had turned pale and translucent, floating after him to speak at times. Other times he had spoken to her bones. Other times to a compelling shadow that had been nothing. He saw himself speaking to the bones of his mother, soup coating exposed teeth, as he had provided her answers to himself.

This was monstrous. He was a monster. It had broken him; he knew that through and through. The tears had blinded him. The sobs robbed him of breath. He wanted to curl up until he was so small he would just disappear into nothing. But Marionette had worked through her blood. Cadence through her exhaustion. Isabel through her fears.

Wiping away his tears and wrestling his sobs to sniffles, he had gone back into the crypt again. And again. And again. One by one, the ghosts had been pulled from the gestalt darkness until only Roger had remained. The door had been nailed shut with spikes of silver and priestly rites. He had gathered his belongings, wounded and bloody, he’d shuffled to the place where he slept to weep until he had no more tears to weep.

***
There he sat, exhausted and alone, among the buried remains of his family. He’d gone to the other family homes and found them all in a similar state. They’d all been collected and buried. They’d had words spoken over them. They’d had stories told and names remembered, they would for as long as he could remember.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered weakly against his knees. “Nonna this shoulda happened. Y’all deserved somethin’ better than what I done and what I couldn’t do.”

He’d sleep here tonight, he knew that much. His friends had given him the space that he wanted, but someone would come looking for him if he didn’t go tell them he was alright come the dawn. The exhaustion went beyond the physical- it has soaked past his bones and into his soul. He’d never been so tired in all his life. Shifting, he flopped to the wet moss covered earth and closed bloodshot eyes. Cuddling his knees against his chest, he cried himself to sleep. The morning would be cold, so very cold. But it would also be bright. And with the dawn would come hope. That sweet tingle of God’s light would set him right once more.

“Relix Nah….riss?”

Milo opened their eyes and looked down at the journal in their hands. Nah-rez. Narez. Relix Narez Relit.

Words were always hard for them. Motions were easier. The handsigns came quick, almost without meaning. Just fun motions they could copy from Alphonse or Ludovic.

“Relit. Maahhhh…. morum?”

Their eyes dart to the page again, scowling. Mamuri. Worum.

Words were always hard. This was harder. Nonsense phrases that could launch javelins of stone or pull a person into a ground. Or maybe kill disease. Their eyes closed again.

“Relix. Narez. Mamori. Orum.”

No, that didn’t sound right. Their eyes opened again. Relit. They forgot relit. Ludovic’s voice came to mind. ‘A mispoken phrase can cost your friends their lives.’ Milo sighed and read the page again. Relix. Narez. Relit. Mamuri. Worum… Not Orum. Worum. Eyes closed.

“Relix… Narez… Relit… Mah-Mah-Rii…. Wor-Uum.”

Eyes open, look at page. Relix Narez Relit Mamuri Worum. Mam[U]ri. Mamuri. Not mamari. Mamuri. This was stupid. Nothing was getting done. Did they even really need to know this stuff? They’d seen Alphonse cast with just his hands before, they could surely afford to just not learn this dumb made-up bullshit phrase for people who just wanted to be loud while casting. Fucking dumb. Bullshit.

Milo threw the journal onto their bed, sighing in frustration. Stupid fucking brain. Stupid fucking bandit good for nothing brain that couldn’t even remember some baby-speak blah-blah language for people who were smarter than it. They clasped their hands in front of them, palms together. Handsigns were easy.

Middle fingers locked, curl pinky and pointer. Flip upside down. Pointer to thumb. Make fists, twist over, thumbs together. Bring up to shoulder. Flip outwards, right to left and left to right, clasp fingers together. Flip around, palms up, thumbs still together. Break, clasp an orb. Right hand palm up, left down. Clasp fingers. Break to form V.

Easy. Alphonse had called it Maelstrom. Said it was bullshit. Speaking was bullshit. Maelstrom was easy.

“Relix. Narez. Relit. Mamuri. Worun.”

Eyes to the book. Worum. Not Worun. Stupid fucking brain. Worum. Wore. Uhm. Wore-Uhm. Worum. What other handsigns were there? Alphonse did Sight alot.

Hands together, palms touching. Pinch. Open in triangles. Sideways. Spin. Hands Flat, pointer and thumb touching, facing downward. Upside down diamond. Flip up, pointer and thumbs pinch to make mask. Back into Diamond but upright. Bring down to chest.

“Relix. Narez. Relit. Mamuri. Worum…. Sigun?”

Sicun. Not Sigun. Sick-uun. Everything else was right though. Sicun. Sicun.

Alphonse had said Magic was like Flips. Mostly as a joke, but Milo found it a useful comparison. Before you flip you need to stretch. You need to practice curling your body. You need to get comfortable being upside down. You need to trust your body to move without your mind. Handsigns were easy because they were an extension of the skills they’d practiced for years in the woods already, just smaller. Why were these words so difficult in comparison?

Speaking was hard because coming up with the right words was hard. No amount of words could convey the meaning a shrug and a head tilt could. No turn of phrase could communicate a purse-lipped smile in response to a questioning look. But did Milo need to come up with the words for Magic? They remained the same every time. A universal response to a dozen questions.

A cartwheel was a set of actions taken in order every time, with only minor adjustments based on angle, speed, and weight. If taken out of order they would do nothing. If the actions didn’t flow, then the cartwheel would fail halfway through. Many minor parts that individually do not matter, but which when taken together make a new and more significant thing. Would Milo really need to learn each word, then, or could they learn the words as cousins to each other, each individual pieces of a whole? A set of actions that conveyed sound, each strung together not because they had meaning but because their order was what determined their significance.

Relix-Narez. Not Relix, Narez.

Eyes back to the book. Full incant.
Relix. Narez. Relit. Mamuri. Worum. Sicun Gundavult. Vorug. Ta. Verg. Tira.
Relix. Narez. Relit. Mamuri. Worum. Sicun Gundavult. Vorug. Ta. Verg. Tira.
Relix-Narez-Relit-Mamuri-Worum-Sicun-Gundavult-Vorug-Ta-Verg-Tira.
Relix-Narez-Relit-Mamuri-Worum-Sicun-Gundavult-Vorug-Ta-Verg-Tira.
Re–Na–Re–Ma–Wo–Si–Gu–Vor–Ta–Ve–Ti–.
Re–Na–Re–Ma–Wo–Si–Gu–Vor–Ta–Ve–Ti–.

“RElix, NArez, RElit, MAmuri, WOrum, SIcun, GUndavult, VOrug, TA, VErg, TIra. ”

The words were slow and awkward in their mouth. Not half as fast as Alphonse could speak them. But speed would come with practice. Repetition would lead to Mastery.

“Relix, Narez, Relit, Mamuri, Worum, Sicun, Gundavult, Vorug, Ta, Verg, Tira. ”

Svart made his way to his hovel. He looked behind himself to make sure he wasn’t being followed and nobody was spying on him. Satisfied, he entered and made sure to close the door behind him. He then checked the window to make sure there was nobody watching him from outside and closed the shutters again. He looked around his room to make sure nothing was out of place and nothing was odd.

Only then did he pull out the treasures he had found this forum. He had an earring. It looked valuable. There was a shiny stone that looked like it could be a gem. The metal might be silver. The button he had found in the gravel outside the tavern was yellowish, so it might be gold. Then there was the necklace with a dainty chain holding what looked to be a carved raven’s skull. He had found that under his bed after everybody had left for their homes. He always swept as the last thing before leaving. He always made sure to sweep, as there were sometimes treasures that were left behind by previous occupants. Sometimes the people who ran the forum sleeping rooms would get angry if it wasn’t done, and even try and charge for cleaning. He always did it so they wouldn’t get angry and be mean to Svart. He would put these treasures in his treasure chest.

He had found some treasures, but he hadn’t made any money this forum. Knut hadn’t wanted any scouting this forum. He had to farm to support all the Gothic nobles and their entourages with their minstrels, cooks, and women. He had gotten some hemp from it all, but it wasn’t as much as Knut paid him to scout and certainly not money. He also hadn’t sold anything. He had plenty to sell, but had been told not to sell raw materials. He was supposed to only sell goods he made. Not raw materials. That made sense. He’d make more money that way. However nobody wanted any carpentry or needlework done.

He had been working to make himself stuff anyway. He had comfortable small clothes, fine boots, and bedding made for himself. He also had found some paper to make a fan. He would look so comfortable and rich with a new fan.They will all be surprised to see that Svart has a fan once he is done. Jealous also. Now, if he could only find ink. Nobody can make ink. He is saving up all his herbs to get some ink. Pretty soon, he’ll have lots of nice things.

For now though, he should work on armor for himself. Fighting the Hollowsong had left him injured. Armor would be nice. He has all the materials, and just needs to work it together. Once he has armor for himself, he could make armor for Knut’s soldiers. They will need armor and Svart will make the best armor. Perhaps he should learn blacksmithing. Then he could also add metal to his armor. No good for him, but Knut will want metal armor for his soldiers. That will also sell for more also. Knut, and Victor, will surely pay more for metal armor. Perhaps even in gold. Armor is very valuable. Then he can put all that money in his treasure chest with his other treasures.