Category: Journal Entry

“It was like some oily fingers were all fiddlin’ right under mah skin,” he said with a frown. “You know when yer workin’ da skin off a lapine, an ya slide a finger up der ta loosen da pelt? Felt like dat.”

The room slanted room was cold in the winter air, and the small fire in the hearth did little to banish the chill from the drafty room. Noémie sat with her wide, glittering eyes watching him from her perch by the fire. She wasn’t her usual chatty self, but the family got sedate this time of year. It was hard to shake the oppressive darkness of the woods when the days were so short. The friar understood and continued on, trying to fill the space with his warmth and words.

“Ain’t never felt nothin’ like it,” he said again, brows furrowed. “Like all the beautiful tings on God’s green earth went squirrely all at once. Da preacher man says it something called annie-croix. Gots ta do wit dem wizard folk. Can’t square it in mah brain.”

Reflecting, he could clearly visualize the multi-armed monstrosity. As if a spider had merged with a person, but also weapons, the wall, and the ornery temperament of a bear with a sore tooth. When it had touched him, that oily not rightness had swept through him. Like his bones were trying to shift under his muscle against his designs. It had hurt and caused a strange distress to his stomach he’d never felt before either. It was as if the lunch he’d eaten had wanted to climb out of him. Unsettling and uncomfortable.

“Dun tink Imma go back,” he continued quietly. “Felt… wrong. Da most wrong I ever feel, down der in dat lab. Cadence an dem said it was some sorta body er some tin. Corpse of a witchking? I dunno, didn’t make no right sense ta me.”

A shiver crept up his powerful shoulders. And then when the moss covered mage had ‘corrected’ the problem in his bizarre way.

“The doc say dat it weren’t nothin’. Dat mah body could take reams more before, but I ain’t so sure,” he said doubtfully. “Felt like mah skin was peelin’ off and bones was crackin’. Didn’t hurt so much as felt real… wrong. An’ his boss-man, dat one ain’t all der, I dun tink. Askin’ after my mind. Doc said I was a functional lunatic. Ain’t sure what he mean by dat. Seems rude as hell, honestly.”

With a glance at the pale girl, he blushed slightly.

“Forgive ole uncle Henri, cher,” he said. “I dun mean ta use the vulgars. Anyway. Dat boss wizard did somefin wit his fingers an my body twisted up and smoothed out right. So I guess it all fine in the end. Just… dun wanna go back der.”

It was a strange sensation, when he reflected on the cave. He wasn’t afraid. That wasn’t a thing he’d felt in a long time, if he really thought on it. It wasn’t fear, just a deep abiding wariness. The feeling of being entirely unprepared for a situation and going in there anyway. It just felt wrong was all.

He let out a long sigh and straightened up, dusting the dried and frozen mud from the white of her clergy clothes. Then he walked to Noémie and scooped her up.

“Duncha worry yer pretty head about it, cher,” he said. “Past yer bedtime, and Uncle Henri be jess fine. Dun cha worry none.”

He carried her up to bed, the room cold and quiet, just the occasional sound of shifting bodies to let him know his family was present.

“Hold him down!” I almost yell at Vernon. Is he now a Father? I should ask what his title is since we never speak anymore.

Him and Mother Superior Solace do their best to console the Eparch but his trashing won’t stop. I put my weight on him so he can stop moving so much, this is the first time I’ve seen a patient fighting to die.

As I’m starting to prepare my stitching needle I can hear him saying how he’s proud of them, HIS people. I hear him say some more things but I drown them out, I need the utmost concentration on this procedure if I were to save him.

It’s not until I hear Mother Superior Solace say my name that I come back to the moment.

“Heimir…it’s okay…let him go.”

I look at Vernon, I know I must look confused and indignant. He nods and I see that the Eparch himself does not want to be saved. I reluctantly pull my hands now coated in blood away from him and hear him speaking to them both before he stops breathing. Both Vernon and Solace start crying and I can’t help but think how useless I feel at the moment. What was the point of bringing me here?

There’s so many people around, all just quietly staring at the scene. Blood is now dripping from my hands, the wetness making my hands feel like they’ve been frozen.
It’s so bitterly cold right now.

“He didn’t want me to…” I say and move away from the crowd, I don’t want to see or talk to anyone. Life is so important to some that they even beg to not die but this person willingly decided to not fight. How wasteful.

I say nothing to anyone as I get back into town. The blood is hard to get out, maybe it is because the water is so cold. It almost looks as if my hands were stained with his blood. The blood of someone that chose not to fight. What a waste.

Outside I see Ragnar talking with someone and I feel anger come to the surface. It had been him who had taken me to them, telling me to hurry and to run to save that man.

Before I can stop myself I start making my way towards him.

“Ragnar, next time you call me to save someone make sure it’s someone that actually wants to be saved.” I’m trying to not waver on my voice, it’s not normal for me to be rude but I can’t help the words that come out.

“I…they told me to get yo-”

I raise my hand to stop him from speaking, he stares at my blood stained hand as I do.

“I know you have your heart in the right place. But the Church doesn’t like people like me and there’s some of them that would rather die than let people like me save them. From now on if the Church needs someone saved they can come themselves. If not then I guess they die.”

I didn’t wait to hear anything back from Ragnar, there was no point in going back and forth. The rule had been created.

No wonder Dr. Tobias was the way he was…

Mother Superior Solace sits cross legged and musing on a large boulder outside of Runeheim, looking north towards the Kaltlina and the mountains, massive despite their distance, crouching on her far banks.
The high places are hidden today, enshrouded in a mist as silent and claggy as the crypts of the dead kings fabled to lie deep beneath Fenristadt. The fog clings to the hills like a shield; the Old North protects her children, blanketing the performance of her obscene and ancient rites in an all-forgiving shroud of tattered grey.
Those forested slopes bear a lesson for the southerners who have dared trespass into this place, a lesson that is written in the ancestral blood of the Rimelanders who come in the thousands to die at their swords.
Men have never ruled this place, cry the carrion-birds wheeling over the Hollowsong’s slaughtering grounds. Men will never rule this place, grind the glaciers calving into the Kaltlina, composed of ice that has been frozen since giants walked this place and made humanity their servants. Solace has learned well that this land laughs at the claims of Gothic Emperors and Jarls in equal measure. The Old Gods are the true rulers of Njordr, and their power increases with every step forged towards the True North.
Men have lived here, certainly; the presence of humanity is necessary for this place to be what it is and has always been. Once the Njords were cattle for the giant lords of old, and now their ancestors are chattel slaves to monstrous Gods who hold sway over them, feeding on their fear and pain.
Solace did not find joy in the war; indeed, she could feel it slowly breaking her heart and body, wearing down her strength and consuming her fire. Such, she supposed, was the fate of all who chose to devote themselves to an endless and thankless task that would not be completed within their generation. When she sought for renewed purpose and strength, she found it in the hope that the Old Gods who fed on the men of the North would be thrown down; that through the path of blood and violence that the Throne trod, Njordr would someday find freedom from the spirits who enslaved them.
The cold edges of the stone suddenly became unbearably unpleasant as her thoughts returned to her body, and she sprang up, suddenly shivering. The stamp of horses and cries of men indicated that the commanders were readying to march, and she turned her back on the implacable mountains and strode back to Runeheim, silently mouthing the blessing of war.

Dunland, Lion Age 577

A Knight of The Seward Sword furiously shouts orders to his men from the center of the village. “Find him! I’ll have his head! Search every hovel if you must!” Blood trickles down from a head wound where the Knight had only half an hour before been knocked unconscious. Ignatius, a Friar in his mid-twenties, approaches a young Dunnick urchin no more than twelve. “Someone must have done something dangerous to get that Renett Knight so worked up, hmm?” he asks, letting the boy see a faint smirk of amusement on his face. “He’s going to be in an awful lot of trouble though. But maybe I can help him. Can you tell me where to find him?” He continues in the Dunnick tongue, adding a wink. “It will be our secret.”

The boy was hesitant, but found the Friar’s sincerity enough to trust, and directed him to a storm cellar beneath a stable. The Friar spent the next quarter hour getting the hastily retold story from the Dunnick man, who explained he’d knocked out the Knight when he tried to drag away his sister with intents too vulgar to recant. “Atonement for something like that I wouldn’t normally make so severe, but in doing so I believe we can save your life at the same time. Join me on the path of the Sanctae Viae, and we can walk out of town together. He wouldn’t dare accost you while under those vows, and thusly my protection.”

The pair strode openly across the streets of the town, the Dunn clad in Ignatius’s own worn white robe & ashen seal of Melandiel marking his brow. Making for the road east towards Ryker’s Gate, the pair were halted by a pair of soldiers and eventually confronted by the Seward Knight. Impassioned words of admonishment and very-due threats of repercussions from the Church were of little use against the rage and self-importance of the Knight, and Ignatius found himself clamped in irons and watching the Dunn man he’d promised safety to swaying from a rope. When released a few hours later with an escort to ensure he left the village promptly, Ignatius was granted only the few seconds needed to collect the muddied robe that had been stripped from the Dunn and cast aside before he was hung from the gallows.

“And in the depths of my soul, I felt the crush of Despair. For my Faith in God, Lurian, and Benalus was unshakable, yet I knew that it was not enough. The forces of the wicked were too numerous to bear,”
-Excerpt, The Word Of St. Istra, Gospel Of The Hospitalier

A small Dogheart camp sees a figure approaching through the early afternoon flurries, it’s silhouette betraying a walking stick, cloak, and wide brimmed hat with a point. As he crosses the tent line into the center of camp, he rests his crook against the only semi-permanent structure; a small cabin, before moving to join the four men sitting at a fire. “These are White Eyes lands, yes?” Ignatius asks in Njor.

One of the men smirks, rising from his seat and pacing a hand on the handle of his axe. “Sorry old man, Clan Dogheart hunts here. But we’d be happy to send you south, without your hea-” another elbows him in the gut, cutting him off. “Korro, idiot, look; one eye, white beard? It’s one of His Wise Ones, if not Aufvaldr himself.” The quartet argued briefly and quietly for a moment, until Ignatius interrupted; “I promise you I’m neither. A poor traveler from the south, terribly lost it seems, and just looking to share a fire for a hour to warm before I move on.” One of the Rimelanders snorts, punching another in the shoulder. “See? Exactly what He’d say! You’re not fooling us, old ma- er, Elder. Take a seat.” He gestured to a spare log, upon which Ignatius gratefully sat while two of the others scoffed and shook their heads.

“So Elder, tell us a story of your life?” One asked curiously. Ignatius waved him off dismissively. “No no, that’s not what I’m traveling the north for. I’m here to learn, not teach.” he chuckled. “ You tell me your story, hmm? That way I can remember it and tell others of Dogheart’s who shared their fire with me.” The hunter gestured with open palms towards Ignatius, glaring at the others with an expression that shouted ‘see?!’.

As the hour passed and the hunters shared a number of stories, one offered Ignatius the dregs of their lunch stew pot, which he gratefully accepted. Warmth in his feet and fingers returned, he grunted as all old men do when they rise of their seats and offered them thanks for the hospitality. “But before I do move on, would you accept a blessing on your home?” The quartet again rushed through a hushed argument that ultimately ended with one nodding wordlessly to Ignatius.

He moved to the doorway of the small cabin, slipping a small vial of holy water from a pocket on the inside of his undershirt; about the only place he could keep it from freezing while traveling these lands. He spoke in Aldersabin, asking Melandiel to ward the home of those who had shown him hospitality with the Hospitality of the Lord in return. As he cast the water from the vial, the droplets turning to ice almost as soon as they landed on the threshold.

At hearing the language of the ‘Lion God’, even without knowing it’s meaning, the same doubtful hunter rushed to his feet and readied his axe. “See? He’s a Southerner! We should cut him down right now.” He shouted, another rising and shouting back. “So sure are you, Korro? Or are you desperate to tell the tale of how you cut down an old half-blind unarmed Southerner in combat? We gain nothing here from his bloodshed, and still there is risk this is Aufvaldr trickery. I won’t have you bringing that ire upon us.” He turned toward Ignatius and nodded. “Thank you for stopping at our fire and hearing our stories, Elder. And for that blessing. Leave in peace.” “Thank you for the meal, and the stories, Sons of Dogheart.” Ignatius replied, before taking up his crook and continuing his pilgrimage.

In the early morning when the hunters arose, they found the tents outside slashed by claws in the night. “Look, Draugr prints!” one exclaimed. “But why would they not have broken down the door to slaughter us in our sleep?” Korro questioned. “Perhaps… something prevented them.”

“By why is it you hate all merchants, Friar?” asked the young woman who offered to help carry the food Ignatius had been gathering that morning.

“Hate is a strong word, child. And all is unfair to say. And perhaps I do find myself more critical of them than some deserve, but it is only in the spirit of keeping them honest, and it is not a mistrust I have developed without cause.” Ignatius offered as a point of clarification.

He could see the curiosity on her face maintained, and with a deep breath he began his tale. “It was the final harvest before winter, in Lion 586 I think it was? Close enough to it for this retelling, anyway. Forgive my memory.” He chuckled. “I volunteered to help transport the crops from one of the five farms that fed the community I had been tending to for the past few seasons at that point in time, but when we arrived to load the farmer said he’d sold the crops off. He explained that a merchant caravan from the Hestrali Trade Guild had passed through, and one of them spoke to the farmer and explained that since the community only needed the crops from three of the five farms to be able to sustain it through the winter, that the merchant would buy his crop for twenty percent more than the market would normally offer since he was passing through and could sell it elsewhere where it was more needed.”

“Now I won’t condemn merchant for making profit when someone has more than they need, and someone else could use more. Within reason, that is. But when we moved on to the next farm to collect their crop, she had the same story to tell. And when the day came to an end, to our great horror, it seems this merchant assured all five farms that three of the others were taking care of the community’s needs. He’d bought the whole seasons crops from all five, and moved on.” The Friars tone carried an uncharacteristic anger that he took a few moments to let go of before continuing.

“A few weeks later when stores were nearly gone that caravan returned loaded with the food that he bought, now seeking no less than triple market value. No one could convince them to barter down the price, and it emptied the coffers of the village to buy back only three quarters of what it would take to feed the community that winter. The rest was beyond what the village could afford, and we watched it roll away on the Trade Guild wagons.”

It was near a minute of slow breaths before he continued. “That winter I helped dig sixty three graves for those who died of starvation. Twelve… were children’s.” His voice carried a cold more bitter than the Njordic wind.

“But surely there are no such men here? The Hestrali from that ship seem so friendly!” She remarked, trying to brighten the mood.

The Friar lowered his head and sighed as they arrived in town to hand off the food. “This past forum Tomasso was trying to buy up every scrap of food he could get his hands on.” He nodded. “Such men are everywhere.”