Category: Journal Entry

An unbidden memory surfaces: a candled flickering, an unwavering gaze. There are so many questions sitting here unanswered in the dark.

What fault lies with faith and what salvation can we hope for. Is it better souls come unbidden, striving toward a blessed death, instead of being so cruelly used in their vessels? What is the difference if we have no choice at the end? Only that we decide when and how our souls sit at rest. But then why tolerate followers of the old ways at all. Why give them the grace to choose Benalis. Is this not validating their faith, by giving them choice? They are necessary otherwise what does the church strive for.

The candle’s flame sputters suddenly and goes out. The silence is unbearable.

“For the she wolf!” they called. A icy cold shiver went down Vestri’s spine. Her. Here. He caught only a glimpse of them before the war dead he was facing swung again – somehow the appearance of the wolf-men increased its prowess, its menace. His allies turned to face the wolves behind them, and their formation shattered. Vestri tried to face the Draugr in front of him, but he could only do so much alone with a knife.

The nasty wardead in front of him, one so long decayed it looked like it had been drawn with his left hand, struck with uncanny strength, keeping Vestri from being able to get close enough to finish it. The new armor he had just gotten from Oddny was pierced quickly, he felt the warmth of his own blood staining it. He lunged, it dodged, and he was struck again. His legs faltered, his vision getting blurry. A cry from behind him – like a fool he turned and…

The ground rose to meet him as the rusty blade was pulled out of him. It was all he could do to hold onto his own knife and he crumpled to the ground. His strength left him as quickly as his blood seemed to be. He could just see Olof, collapsed in a bush, there was Gisla on the ground with her shield just in front of him, and Vogel – with an arrow still in his fingers, down just beyond Gisla. But… where was Virgil?

A cold, slimy, hand grabbed his head and lifted it up. He could see Virgil now, surrounded by no less than four war dead and the two wolves. Dodging their blades with deftness, a taunt on his lips. Was it enough? Could he do it?

The blade touched his neck, too cold for how much of his blood was on it. The ragged edge apparent against his throat.

Was it enough? Were they good enough? Did they appease her? Was it worth it?

The blade was pulled hard and fast.

Did we save Kallevik?

Jolting awake, his heart pounding, Vestri reached for his knife as he eyed his surroundings. His small campfire was faintly glowing embers, the moon hanging low in the sky with the stars twinkling above the plains. He was near the ruins of a village, all the way at the edge of that map he was given months ago. Not a pair of green eyes in sight. He steadied his breath and tried to slow his heart. There were no green eyes anywhere he could see.

o0o0o
Even so far away, the memory was so fresh, so clear, so primal. He had never experienced a hunt like that. After finding the grove Skógerblóði was to be in, gathering with the other hunters – and Gisla and Vogel who had been chosen by Skógerblóði to join this hunt. The six of them, Njords all, to face this hunt. Vestri was so proud to stand with them, he felt they would be unable to even smell defeat.

How wrong he was, and yet, how right.
o0o0o

He turned his knife over in his hands, studying the blade carefully – its scratches so apparent in the dim, cold light of the moon. Slowly he ran his thumb along the flat of the blade, feeling them.

When they were surrounded, Vestri was the first to fall – his shame – the Father bringing him back to the fight, and then, when they scattered, hearing them descend on Gisla while he just fled. As he ran through the woods, no matter what direction he looked – another spawn, his lungs hot, he was far more sure of his step than he had any right to be, his legs carrying him back to where he remembered losing Gisla. And there was everyone… except Java. As Gisla got back on her feet and pointedly abandoned her shield, Vestri looked at Vogel. There was no need for words, they both understood. A nod, and Vogel went to face the spawn, and the rest charged into the woods – there was only one other place the spirit could be…

His heart was no longer pounding in his ears, his breathing regular. He took one deep breath and let out the heavy sigh, willing this nightmare to leave him in peace.

o0o0o
Carefully moving with Eskel as he ambushed the few pursuing spawn, he heard the call – and saw the single pair of eyes in the distance. It had to be The Horned one. Running up the hill to find Java, defiant, brandishing the knife she’d only been given perhaps a half hour before steeled his resolve. Charging in to face the spirit before it could do more harm to their mage friend. While they traded blows with the spirit, Gisla and Eskel almost being hit by a tree thrown by the spirit, Father Erasmus pelting it with arrows, Vestri himself desperately trying to break its hold on Gisla. After an eternity of fighting, Java, from behind and her knife leveled, finally silenced the spirit of the forest and its animals. Then a cry of triumph, battered though they were.
o0o0o

Putting his knife away properly, Vestri laid his head back down on his pack, and pulled his bedroll close to ward off the creeping chill of the late summer night. He stared blankly at the stars above him, his eyes open, but unseeing.

o0o0o
Calling for Vogel as they cleared a few lingering spawn in the woods, Vestri became increasingly anxious. How long had it been since they left him to hold off the spawn? Vogel had already been saved by the Father once, was he going to be alright? A glimpse of his cloak by a bush, and he and Gisla broke into a sprint. Vogel lay there, barely breathing with awful wounds and an empty quiver. The Father was quick to administer to him, and Vestri looked around – there were no arrows that missed their mark. What if they had given Vogel a knife? He offered a shoulder to help get Vogel back to town. He’d saved us all, saved this hunt. “It wouldn’t’ve been a bad way to die” he’d said to Vestri in a ragged breath with a wry smile.
o0o0o

Closing his eyes, he resolved he would find his way back to them. He would protect his friends, just as they had protected him. As the night deepened, Vestri found his resolve returning. He would not be defined by his fears; instead, he would rise above them, ready for whatever challenges lay ahead. He let sleep take him once again, this time into a dreamless slumber.

In the fading light of evening, Vestri, a simple hunter from the Greywolf town of Kallevik, stood on a rise overlooking the vast plains not far from the tundras south of Runeheim. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows that danced across the grass. It had been a month since he, Gisla, and Vogel had stumbled into Forum, spawn nipping at their heels, their bodies weary from the wilderness, their spirits bruised but not broken.

The memory of their harrowing journey loomed large in his mind. Endless nights spent huddled around meager fires, haunted by the howling winds and lurking shadows. Each day, they had fought against the chill and hunger, their only solace the bond forged in survival. Gisla, with her fierce determination, had led them through the worst, her sharp eyes spotting dangers long before they materialized. Vogel, undaunted in his positivity, had been the heart of their trio, weaving tales that kept their spirits buoyed when hope seemed thin. There had scarcely been time to mourn the ones they had been separated with in the storm, and now it felt like it was too late. As he surveyed the plains a quiet but desperate hope was always there that maybe he would see them again out here.

He referenced the map he had been given before heading on this trip – his hometown nowhere on it – and sketched a simple approximation of the vista he stood on. Returning it to his pack, he set about finding enough kindling to start a small cookfire while there was still light enough to do so. As he set about this task, his mind returned to the events that transpired after his arrival. Rescued by a Paladin from vampire spawn – yet the Paladin assured them that it was they who were the valorous. Hearing of the concerns of the one-eyed Branded on his path forward. An ambush by bandits in the wood. The down-to-earth mage. Court where we were encouraged to weigh in despite being so new to this land. The offering and the hunt. Freeing the Disir. The crow. The invitation to hunt Skógerblóði the Horned from the spirit themself. The meat… The meat…

The fire was small and comfortable, he set about cooking a rabbit he caught earlier that day and watched as the fat sizzled on the wood growing coals.

This was what they needed – a real chance to show what Kallevik was capable of!

Things are falling apart around us. Chased from our home by the Fafnir’s. Sheltering with the least loved Rogalian lord in existence, Lord Xavier Rennet.

Things seem pretty dire. My companions show more and more strain against our situation, plus nothing seems to be falling our way.

The death of Brenna of the forgotten weighs heavily on my soul. I cant help but feel the wrong charismata died saturday night of forum. I was duty bound by my allegiance to Gotha and the church to side with Sir Baldwin, but I cant shake this feeling. Not only is the good knight not good or worthy of following, his pushing of Brenna in the situation guaranteed the outcome. Add to the situation that unkillable fallen paladin Lucien and the entire situation was just a nightmare. In the end by the actions of others, Brenna fell and was declared anathema. In that moment she had to be put down. But everything to that point wasnt her fault. It was Baldwins, it was Luciens, and it was Ragnar’s. I do feel bad for the barzark, knowing that with his advice he caused the fall of a friend, and ultimately was forced to take her life.

I think my anger stems from impotence. I could do nothing to stop the fight, nothing to bring it back from the brink. Charismata dueling is like monsters clashing, everything around them injured is merely unintended casualties. Did I do enough by simply protecting the various innocents from being slaughtered during this clash of titans?

Shouldnt that be a good enough job by a mortal like me?

Then why cant I sleep.

Awhile ago at court it had been an easy choice. The Knight Fenris wanted an enemy encampment gone, The fire guild had agreed and no one at court had spoken. Motion Carried. Deed done. Clean and efficient. If only all warfare could be done this easily. What a terrible thought.

Standing in the ruins of Sistegrad its hard to not remember what an easy decision it had been. Point on the map at the thing you want gone. Except it wasnt gone. Not by a long shot. As we approached in the darkness the ruins glowed with eerie unnatural light. The ground under our feet crunched, breaking under our weight. Like standing on a breaking pane of glass. The magic is so heavy in the air its like breathing poison as it warps everything around. Giant crystals of condensed glass pulsed with green and red light, the last things left standing.

We came to what was probably a courtyard at some point. 5 of the pulsing crystals arrayed around, and standing amidst the armageddon, 3 humanoid figures. We called out to them but they acted as if we were not there. As we got closer, we realized they were made of the same glass as everything around us. Two of the earth mages in our party began there investigation. The moment one of them began speaking their special incantation, the glass men immediately tried to chase the mages down. The mages were able to stay away from them, making their signs, enraging the malefic further. I grabbed one by the shoulder, speaking to it in a calming manner. It never noticed me, but as I held on trying to stop it from attacking the earth mages, I noticed that its glass skin was straining and cracking under my grip. I released it so I wouldnt harm the spirit further. Eventually after the mages had stopped casting for long enough they stopped aggressing and simply went back to wandering around their former home.

Nothing is alive in Sistegrad anymore. An entire town of men, women, and children erased because of its strategic position.

How many more towns will be annihilated like this for this war?
And how in Benalus’ name am I supposed to help bring these poor spirits to rest.

“Once upon a time there were twelve of them..”

“Just tell us how they died.” the comment was sharp. Such a serious tone coming from a younger adult.

A deep sigh came from Java as she paused the barest beginning of the story she was retelling. The tale of the Grey Wolves.

Jorg’s impatient attitude hadn’t faltered since they’d arrived to Runehiem, or even now as they stayed in Hrafnakastali.

“Twelve? But I only count five.” Java stopped watching Jorg trample around the graveyard and looked down at the little girl in her lap. Ura’s eyes had briefly met Java’s but she returned to facing forward, allowing Java to resume braiding her hair.

“Yes,” Java continued, “Here there is only five, but they started as twelve-” she continued her story, dropping the original flourish she had started off with.

…

How did they die.

…

Their mangled corpses laid across the ground. Twisted pained looks of the dead stared up at her from the ground, no glory or honor here.

The howling of a completed hunt echoing through the now silent town sent a shiver down her spine. The scent of wyrd disease finally fading as it’s final effects had drifted off.

She rubbed at her eyes with the palm of her dirtied hands. “‘We’ is a cowards’ lie. It was always my fault” this future memory now haunts her mind, its as if the existence of these words was always meant to be a part of her story.

Growing chaotic music began to play as a large fire crackled. The new servants of the clan had been herded and now sat at the center of camp along with the rest of the prisoners.There she wondered which of the new thralls would survive the next week. Definitely not the shivering child that now sat beside her.

Throughout the night the celebration had worsened in spirit, it had only taken an hour before Java had begun to shield the child’s view. If you can imagine how hard as an adult it is to see your loved ones face being worn by the Hallowsong, you could only imagine how permanently scarring it would be for a child.

…

“Ura, do you remember the fae realm?”

Jorg was gone now, but Ura had stayed to place weedlike flowers onto the fresh graves with Java.

“I dunno… a little?”

“Good, now if anything happens to me, you must go there for safety, okay? Just remember the name Evander. Tora or Dr. Hiemir can help you find them.”

Java looked down at Gisla’s letter in her hand, her heart heavy in her chest. How is this conversation any better?