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Vestri’s Musings, Early Summer 609

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!

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Alaric Journal

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.

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The Ruins Of Sistegrad

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.

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How do you write a will?

“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?

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Four Rituals

1.

When they ran ragged into Runeheim it was after dusk, with a ghost to greet them and undead on their heels. There was no time for arms lifted in Lion’s Paw greeting, no time for proper face paint and introductions, only confused kowtowing to a dead man from another land who didn’t have the decency to go haunt his own ancestor’s graveyards.

By the time Neccio and Katarina finally returned to the rented room to sleep, Embla had finished tying knots in straw pulled from the mattress and left them in a protective line across the threshold. The Hestrali stepped carefully over them without comment.

2.

The morning Embla leaves their camp outside Runeheim to go scouting, she prays. Kneeling in the field, the grass smells bright and earthy where her hands have dug through it and she breathes it in deep, like incense, like campfire smoke, once, twice. She puts a pebble in her mouth, lets the dirt coat her tongue and mix with her spit before tucking the stone into the pouch of her cheek. Grit rubs the back of her teeth when she speaks, the slightest slur when her words get stuck on the stone.

“White Benalus, lion of the desolate place, I submit to you in the wilderness.”

She bows her head, speaks her father’s words with her mother’s tongue, opens her eyes when she spits grit into the palm of her hand to mix with the fresh dirt already cupped there.

“Hide me from the eyes of bear and panther and evil men, save my courage for the dark.”

Embla smears the mud in two stripes from the corner of her eye to her temples, thick like gnarled tree bark, just another fir in the woods.

“Shine bright on running creeks so I may drink, and keep me from the desperation of still water.”

Clear water from her wineskin rinses off her hands, swirls cold as dew in her mouth and around the pebble. She spits the stone into her clean hand, dries it on her skirt, closes her first around it, breathes again, once, twice.

“By your torch alone will my feet be guided back to the hearth that knows me.”

She nods once, levers herself up, turns back to wait for the others to wake. The mud will be cracked and dry by the time they see it. The Hestralians will not ask, and she won’t offer. Oddny will not ask because she already knows.

When Embla hugs her cousin goodbye where the trail parts, she leaves the pebble in Oddny’s pocket and a smudge of dirt under her chin. The grit grinds in her teeth all day.

3.

The group of them stand around the midnight fire, Alma beaming and content with her strange Gothic oven next to her. Embla can feel the runes of deception painted on her hands, and is grateful for them even with an empty stomach. These outlanders come here, throw decadent parties on the eve of Disblot, draw the Old God’s jealous eye with no regard for the people who work the land who will suffer for it. They come here and bring their monsters with them, and now bring their evil relics with the claim they will feed the world, but forget to mention it is happy to let Njords starve.

It is a desecration of hospitality that takes Embla’s breath away. She will need to be a deceiver to take part in this “cleansing” ritual without losing her temper. The clank of armor and weapons in the dark around her is a constant reminder that even the most banal of rituals is done under the boot of foreigners these days.

When they ask for stories of meals, Embla speaks loudly of salmon and old men’s lies, tries to make eye contact with the young karls drinking across the fire pit. She raises her voice, as a Speaker, and wills them to hear the story under her story. She’s no skald, but she knows tales land like seeds in the hearts of Njords. It might take until next spring, but maybe one of them will grow.

4.

Acid roils in Embla’s aching stomach, partly the hunger and partly the rage. Oddny bumps against her shoulder as they both sprinkle ale over the six – no, seven – fresh graves they were leaving behind in Hrafnastali. Embla has already said her words, made her prayers, and now it is time for her and Oddny’s most sacred of traditions.

When they get back to the road proper, Embla grabs her cousin’s hand, plants her feet, and refuses to look back at Rennet’s shiny new gates. “Fuck this place,” she intones seriously. “And fuck these rich invaders.” Oddny nods, and they hurry to catch up with Katarina and Gren down the long road.

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Say Something

“I need to bring you back, Brenna”
“I’m not going. Leave, Baldwin”
I stood there, watching, thinking of something, anything to say to help this situation but a void found my waiting thoughts. Tensions were rising. An altercation was imminent and I had to say something.

“STOP”

I commanded the two divine beings who turned to gaze at me. The will of God, and…something else, stared back and what authority I thought I had wilted. My voice silenced, my thoughts yet again desperately grasping at the void for something to cut through the chaos. I prayed, hoping to find some kind of certainty, confidence, or decisiveness that would help guide me in this. Hellfire, so said Baldwin, began to be flung. Divine along with more and more profane blows were traded and Baldwin faltered, bleeding profusely. I was needed and I knew what I could do to help. My legs found haste as I ran to find my pack. My bunk? Empty. Outside the tavern? Not there. Inside? By the foot of the chair I was not moments earlier sitting at. I snatched a bandage from the front and rushed back to the fray. Baldwin seemed fine, and my heart settled yet again into this uncertain void. Why couldn’t I lead? Why couldn’t I say anything that could help this situation? Ragnar threw himself into the conflict challenging Brenna and that’s when I knew this was not my fight. I hated it, but I was powerless. I wish I could calm Brenna, to convince Baldwin there was another way to do things, but no solutions came to mind. I watched in sullen resignation as Brenna and, now Ragnar, fought and felt my angel’s presence behind me. The mask I wore, the hood I’d dawned weighed heavily on me as I felt, yet again, death’s presence in our community. A comforting wave washed over me as Ragnar did what he felt he had to do. Now my job had started. To be the pillar to those who need it, the guide post for those lost. Why, though, couldn’t that have been sooner? I could’ve saved a valued member of our community had I tried harder, said anything, done something. Again, the wave washed over me as tears rolled down my face under my mask.

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The foundation we build upon

I fought as hard as I could, endured as much as I could, but I failed again.

My right arm burned, exhausted from the effort from trying to overpower that branded specter. I felt better losing the arm wrestling than when I lost the foot race. He even praised me for fighting well, but I still had lost. Another warning. Do not disappoint. I will not be kind a third time.

I had intended to build up the existing graveyard, but that I think will take far too long and involve too many others. I need to do something to honor the fallen. Something I can do on my own.

Something I’ve been neglecting for far too long… A Runespeaker tradition.

I will find some suitable large stones and ask Tove or Tora to help me shape them into tablets.

I will collect the stories of those who fell in service of Runeheim.

Speak with Java about the Grey Wolves, she knew them more closely than I did…

Speak with Ragnar about Brenna to learn her story…

Think back on Hakon and all he’s taught me…

Put those stories to ink upon the stones, so that all who come after us can learn lessons from those heroes.

Vogel, who survived the onslaught of many Skógerblóði spawn so that the other Beastwise may slay Skógerblóði…
Gisla, who’s iron will in combat let no blade nor claw reach her companions…
Vestri, who took to the duties of Beastwise without hesitation…
Vergil, who faced the challenges of daily life with a smile…
Olaf, who I did not know that well, but I can only assume he stood with the rest Grey Wolves until the very end…

They Grey Wolves taught us that our bonds with kith and kin are our greatest strength.

Brenna, a resolute woman whom even the yoke of fate could not restrain, taught us that we are who we choose to be even if the gods and demons of the world conspire against us.

Hakon taught me being brave does not mean that you feel no fear. Cowards lets fear control them, brave men spit in the face of fear and command it to stand aside.

You branded specter whose name I will recover from the mists of history…

You have taught me what it means to be heroic…

Heroes are the foundation we built our society upon.

We must never forget them nor the lessons they have imparted onto us.

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Unsent Letters: To Mom

[There’s small, wrinkled spots on the page with ink bled into slightly rounded shapes from the written words in various places across the page. The paper is wrinkled from being crumpled and discarded, before it was unfolded by the reader.]

Mom,

I haven’t written to you in months, I think. A lot has happened since I left home and I just got around to thinking about the last time I saw you and Dad.

I met a boy and his parents while I was on the road after I left town. They helped me out, then I was in Runeheim recently. I’m in Hrafnakastali for the moment. It’s odd here but I don’t mind it much. The sudden move is a long story but I’m safe, if you were wondering.

I have a chicken now, feisty little thing but I think you’d like her. I named her Marigold. I don’t have a husband but Mom, trust me. The men here aren’t much better than the ones at home.

I saw Thyre a few seasons ago. She mentioned she was getting spring product ready last winter. I didn’t think to ask about you and Dad when she was visiting. How are you two? Did you make anything new for spring and summer? How’s the town and our neighbors?

Mama, I miss you and Dad. Can I come visit once things settle down? I can bring some ingredients, and we can make something special for a season. Are you looking for anything specific lately?

[The last sentence of the letter is roughly scribbled out in a block of ink. Unreadable to the viewer.]

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Legacy of the Red Queen

I pen this journal as an outlet for the thoughts that consume me and present such an internal conflict as I have never faced. How can you live before you die when you’re already dead on the inside? Is our humanity nothing but a mask we wear to convince others we aren’t walking husks forced to persist within a nihilistic cycle of self destruction? Learning what I have of this relic of my order, speaking with Elizabeth, it is so hard to justify not following the path set before me when it has so much potential, coupled with knowing it is one my order has walked as well. Wallowing in existentialism is far from productive, and I know the answer to what I must do. I will write father and Count Archibald. I will ask them what they know of the amulet. I will write Elizabeth. After all, we are only human, and blood is a price my people have paid for uncountable centuries.

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Letter to Java

[A folded note, written on the back of one of the flyers Fafnir spread the previous forum, with “Java” written on the outside]

One year ago, twelve brave souls left Kallevik:

Torgrim Ingrid Elna Sindri Arni Leifr Katla Olof Vestri Vogel Virgil Gisla

We did not leave in search of coin, or adventure, or glory, but instead on a dire quest. The She-Wolf Jorg had visited our village and found it wanting. We sought to find some feat that would make us worthy in her eyes – or at least if she would not turn a favorable eye on us, to at least spare our families.

I hope we’ve succeeded. If you found this, Java, we most likely have not. I’m sorry to have brought you grief, but I hope that we have helped you in some way as well. We have one last request – that you remember Kallevik and its final heroes. Please, take what we have gathered and put it to good use for Runeheim’s defense and give Fafnir hell.

Good hunting.

Gisla of Kallevik
[the Kallevik wolf’s head heraldry is drawn beside the name]

[A few blotches of ink from the pen tapping on the paper, as if the author thought for a moment about this last piece – it is an obvious addendum and written in a faster, sloppier hand]

Time is short – Her breath hot on the back of my neck – but you at least should know. “We” is a coward’s lie. It was always my fault. I’m sorry