Category: Journal Entry

Severin limped across the floor of his hut. He looked into the room the children were sleeping in. They laid there with the dog with little child-like snores in their single bed. The medicine for their family member made by Dr. Alphonse had worked and all were comfortably asleep. He let go of the drape and let it cover up the door to their room once again. The steps back to his chair were painful from the sprained ankle he had suffered.

He thought about how he needs to get bedding for his children as well as new clothes. It seems so hard to get such items these days. All the needleworkers were busy making more bandages which are forever getting used. He had all the raw materials, but lacked the skills to make such items himself. In calmer times he might have looked at doing it himself, but these days, he needed to put all his efforts into just gathering more food from the forests to keep the village fed, his children included.

The attacks from outside the village just seem to be increasing. First cannibals and next came the forest creatures. The Lord and Lady being killed followed by the son being charged with things that haven’t been announced publicly. All very strange, and he did not like it. Never mind Little Hugo’s devil babies and other ghosts and creatures that keep appearing. Such issues have always been present in Luisant, but they seem to be getting worse and all seem to tie to the NoWhere King and Red Stag to which nobody really has any knowledge of why.

Not sure about the hunting around the village. It’s been getting more dangerous to go out into the woods. The creatures there complain about using all the resources. Some more attention probably does need to be spent into preserving the forest’s resources. Severin had never exploited unless there was a need too, usually for food. Usually, just a bit of more hard work would do just as well. He will have to pay more attention to the hunting and game in the area in the future.

At least the most recent dinner he had made for the village had come off successfully. There was plenty of lamb stew for everybody and the other odds and ends served up seemed to work well for the villagers. It seemed like there would be enough food for everybody still, but vegetables had been harder to find than usual this fall. Not a good sign for the coming winter.

The setting sun cast a red haze, which bled into the light of fires below, as if the sky were a fresh painting smeared by a careless hand. Clouds of smoke, bearing scents of burning wood and thatch, rose to meet clouds of water hanging in the upper air. The play of light and shadow would have been eerie on a quiet day. This day, though, it was only a backdrop to the clamor of human activity.

Dozens of campfires had popped up, small makeshift things alongside the greater pyres that consumed the last vestiges of the village. Meat and stews added their scents to the air. These inviting flavors offered a marked contrast to the tang of blood and the acrid smoke.

The roar of battle had passed; the sounds now were of laughter and boasting, celebration, and the commonplace shuffles and clanks of armed warriors walking about. Someone had brought a lyre to strum, and at least three drums had been produced to sound out a beat.

The Avalanche sat with the commanders of his units, devouring a rack of beef-ribs provided by some enterprising karl currying favor. Melted fat dripping down his beard, he roared in laughter in response to a lowbrow joke. A handful of fresh cuts across his wide belly went completely ignored.

To his left was Stigr, straight-backed and sharp-eyed despite the revelry. As usual, the man had finished his meal well before the others. To his right, Erika was leaned forward, stirring the fire. Across the flame, Runar was standing and gesticulating, recounting a particularly exciting moment of the battle.

“…and then he threw me at the orc! Good thing I landed spear-first!”

Another wave of laughter broke out. Erika looked up, her expression a cold grin. “Jumping spear-first at orcs now, are you? Didn’t know you were that desperate already.”

Runar staggered back, clutching his chest in mock pain. “Slain! At the height of my glory! What cruel fate!”, he gasped as he fell back into a log to more chuckles.

Hallbjorn looked between the two, confused. Erika, used to her warlord’s quirks, explained with a straight face – “The spear is his dick.” A few more seconds’ pause, and Hallbjorn slapped his knee with mirth. “Ah, I get it. Good joke! Another drink! To Runar’s dick!”

The Avalanche took a big gulp from his own horn and asked, wiping off his beard, “So who else showed good fighting? Tell me more!”

Stigr spoke up then. “I saw strength and courage from Leif. The one with the mace, from the lowlands.” The others listened attentively; quiet Stigr was often the most observant among them, and rarely exaggerated. Stigr explained how this Leif had fought, describing Leif teaming up with other karls to surround larger orc warriors.

Hallbjorn reached for another rib as he spoke. “Good, good. Sounds like you have a plan for him?” Stigr nodded once. “If you agree, Avalanche. With word of your conquest here, more karls are sure to come. I suggest giving him command of the next group to join us. Let him show us what he can do with a hundred men.”

Hallbjorn chewed as he took the time to slowly process this advice. “Sure, why not? With luck we’ll find more orcs by then. Or maybe those Cold Hand dogs. Someone call Leif over!”

As the warlord and his favored karls continued to rest and plan their future battles, a few at the edges at the camp worked on the last tasks of cleaning. They grunted as the final orc corpse was heaved up into the pile.

“Don’t half stink, eh?” one of the karls said to the other, who snorted. “Like nothing I’ve smelled before. Heavy as shit, too.” The first shrugged. “Yeah, but I’d rather carry corpses than whatever that green stuff is. You really think the Avalanche is going to drink it?”

“Positive. Why else would we be bringing it back.”

“Five copper says Lord Saenger doesn’t let him.”

“Oh yeah? Five copper says they don’t find out until it’s too late.”

“You’re on.”

This place is a frigid far cry from home, though it does have a distinct appeal in that it keeps my head attached to my body, and I am quite fond of that. I have been welcomed into The Grey Company by The Forgemaster, and he has proven himself to be a good friend, and a fantastic warrior along with being an acclaimed blacksmith. Sinclair is here as well, which has eased this transition a bit, though I still find his denial of perfect opportunities in combat a bit disturbing.
The thing that has concerned me the most after coming here was my encounter with the Shara’Qyn Luqa. While he saved my life multiple times, he turned out to be a traitor. He assaulted the Inquisitor multiple times on the grounds of avenging some friend named Rolf, who was apparently Lionized postmortem. I fought alongside the Inquisitor, and while he seems to have his secrets, I believe he means well. Luqa was initially given reprieve from being executed, but upon his second attempt on the Inquisitor’s life, his head was forfeit. Sister Solace seemed genuinely remorseful to have to perform the act, but she did it with grace and all the respect one could imagine being granted to a traitor. I’m starting to see that this religion is more than a pathway to justified annexation and look forward to seeing people truly following the teachings of the Lion. Luqa mentioned something of a Djinn as his last words which disturbs me a bit, given the stories I’ve heard from the desert people in regards to these Malefics. This place seems full to the brim with the unquiet dead, and I do not love the idea of more Malefic making their way into this community, especially with the incursions of the dissenting Njords. I watched Ragnar nearly fall in battle after several challenges to the rival clans, and while he fought well, a man is still only a man. All I can do now is make this home mine, and pray that my strength of arm is enough to keep myself and my new friends alive.

A jolly hum vibrated through the chest, reaching beyond the individual and bounced merrily off the walls of the empty, slanted, living space. It was filled with crescendo-ing high notes and deep rumbling low notes, though it had no specific cadence or rhythm consistently in line to call the hum a tune. Instead, it was the unadulterated expression of contentment.

The floor contained, amid the broken and slowly decaying furniture, a creature with mud under its nails and a grin approaching blissful. Across its lap was a dress. It had been modest, with little neckline to speak of, and had once been white, though now it had a more yellowish quality with age. Compared to the creature working its edges, it was of a radiant purity that belonged far away from this swamp.

“Was awful nice of Auntie Olivia to give you her dress,” Noémie said from the darkened stairs that led to the upstairs makeshift infirmary. Her eyes glittered like angelic sapphires hung by the hand of God himself in the pale, angelic face. The one with the dress across its lap looked to her and smiled broadly. The white teeth slashed a path of cheer across the dirty beard, a hovering disembodied moon of pearls across a backdrop of twig invested tangled hair.

“Oh cher,” it boomed across the room to her. “Yer daddy taught ya better than ta lurk in doorways and spy on folk. Come on down now an get ta hemming!”

The girl giggled in the way of innocent children, and scampered towards him in the way of children; caring not for their safety with the intention to barrel into their target. Which she did promptly, wrapping her thin arms about the filthy man’s neck and throat, planning several kisses on the cheek, heedless of the quagmire of filth that tended to roost there. The man boomed a happy, indulgent laugh and reveled in the connection for a moment before shooing her off.

The dress was no longer a dress. The yellowed luminescent fabric had been reduced to a wide strip, now quite the width of the swamp-man’s shoulders. A pair of heavy, rust pocked sheers could be seen near the right hip, the fabric pooled over the lap. Along the edge of the cleanly cut fabric, small muddy fingerprints could be made out where someone had tucked the edge under the length of itself and driven a pin through to prevent the wriggling fabric from escaping its new shape. The pins were spaced at intervals, that even the most generous soul couldn’t call even. Along one side , another series of muddy prints decorated the edge where a needle with an unintentional bend had been driven through to tie the two sides of the fabric together in a crude sort of matrimony. The thread could be seen clearly, as no great effort had been made to find white thread. We could call this activity a ‘stitch’, though a tradesman with any semblance of talent would shudder at the work. The ‘stitches’ were randomly space, though they did seem to capture both sets of fabric most of the time. From a distance at least, it would give the passing semblance of a straight edge, though closer inspection would no doubt draw a tear to the eye over the atrocities committed to the cloth.

“What’s it gonna be, Uncle Henri?” the girl asked innocently, as she threaded another needle and began working the opposing hem. Her movements were much more confident, and that edge stood as a proud bastion against the invasion of the sloppy stitch-work on the other side.

“I dunno the proper name fer it, cher,” the creature denoted as ‘Uncle Henri’ replied. “But its a thing them friars wear. Sorta a white strip a cloth over the back n’ belly that sets on the shoulders like.”

The girl looked up from her work, and tilted her head sideways in the way of an inquisitive child.

“Why?” she asked, innocently.

Henri opened his mouth to answer. The brow furrowed in thought, leaving darker creases in the mud between his eyes.

“Well cher, I tink it be dat folk need ta know who is walkin’ the Path,” Uncle Henri said after some reflection. “Its so er’y one know who dey be an’ what dey be about. Papa Clement said dey use dif’rnt colors ta mean dif’rnt tings, but I ain’t worried bout dat.”

The little face of divinity smiled up at her uncle, “Ooooh.” Then it glanced around the room, and she took her turn to furrow brow. “Where ya spear be?”

Uncle Henri, a title the man truly loved to respond to, sighed in a relieved sort of way and shrugged.

“Gave it away, cher,” he said in a tone that implied a great joy. For her part, she looked surprised and blinked at him.

“Why?” she asked in a puzzled tone.

“Dun need it na more,” came the reply. “I’s only gonna have the tings da I need ta do the good werk.”

She looked more puzzled, “Huh?”

The man sighed again and put down his messy task that he would call sewing and most others would call atrocious.

“I gave off all ma tings, cher,” was the reply. “Tings… dey get in da way of folk. Once dey start wit da needin’ of tings, dats all dey do. Its all dey be. Some is more strangled by it den most, but its a seed dat gets planted deep in ya belly. Hits a point were folks stop askin’ on da why dey need a ting and focus more on da need of it. Ain’t no man or woman on God’s greed erf dat can truly see what they need for true over what day need fer want once dat seed sprout.”

The girl looked confused, the intricacies of the gesture escaping her.

“But… dat spear was ya most precious ting! I ain’t never seen ya witout it! Why ya give dat off?” she pleaded, eyes turning to small saucers. He’d seen a fine plate made of impossibly thin material once that had that same pale blue crystalline quality. It made the old fellow smile.

“Oh cher,” he said sadly. The old, well cared for wood was in his hand. He had stepped forward. Cadence had her back to one of the fellows. The man, dressed in dark clothing, lifted a glinting blade. The spear leapt forward as if it was a living thing. A serpent. Something born to kill. Between the bottom two ribs, it caught the man and drove forward as if the fellow was constructed of some sort of marshmallow material instead of flesh. A flower of crimson had blossomed immediately, and he’d dropped like a sack of grain poorly laid across a cart, falling to the ground under its own limp weight. The feeling of revulsion and horror. Reality had shone down through the clouds. It was impossible to escape. The face of the gasping man turning down towards the spear in its side, then up at the one holding it, tears of pain blooming in his eyes. The spear falling from nerveless hands and dirty fingers pressing and holding the wound. Frantic cries for help unheard. The ones that had traveled with he that held the spear turned towards the two dully, confused. They shrugged with indifference, all save Cadence. Why did they turn? Why could they not care that someone was hurt. That *he* had hurt someone. Vicious bile churned and threatened to appear from deep within the man as the blood of his victim leaked through fingers. Tears cut vicious swaths of clean flesh across the muddy cheek. Why had this happened? Why did it have to happen? Back in the room, the man pales slightly and swallows before forcing a sad smile to his lips.

“Oh cher,” he repeated. “I dun never wanna hold dat ting again. It weren’t some ting precious. It were a weight dat held me down. Now I ken be free ta fly.”

We listen to the skald’s tales of Jorg – it speaks to my core, and I can hear her whisper in response to the stories, the legends. Her growls fill the air so loudly that I can barely make out the skald’s words anymore, but the others do not hear. They cannot.

And then Teitr and I are escorting the storyteller out of town to the safety of the forest. Teitr asks where we can learn more, and they suggest a Wise One. The Cold Hands howl to her, so they are the best option. The other people here won’t like that, but we are supposed to be learning and discovering and solving the mysteries of this place. How do they expect to do so without speaking with those who truly know?

A haggard group returns from the forest as we speak warning of Rimelanders and an air mage. What is an air mage? Are they nicer than fire mages? Oh, but they are howling again, and I howl in return.

As we cross the bridge back into town, the clan is chanting in the forest and battle-hungry fighters come to the field to prepare. The clan encroaches, pulling along our skald – Saga, was it? The two groups face off across each other, shouting slurs. The clansmen howl, and I have to howl in return – the lion-folk glare, but I don’t care. The clan remarks that I must be the one who is confusing them with the howling, remarking that they’ll spare me when they kill everyone. We’ll see about that.

Only Ragnar steps up to challenge them in earnest – shame he is attached to his hair. I can’t contain my grin as the challenge is accepted. More howls and cheers, and we cheer. The lions are mad again, but don’t they understand how challenges are in the north? Solidarity doesn’t mean disloyalty. And I am loyal to my lords.

I move closer to the duel; Teitr follows… and then I remember! We have to ask them about what the skald said. So I move closer, waving at the clan and waving off the concerns of the lion people. They really do look mad… Oh well. Lord Sven even says it is fine, so they should get it too. I ask what needs asking and the duel continues, but the groups are getting rowdy… My mind is already somewhere else.

FRIDAY NIGHT

“Sister Solace, the fire mage interrogated the Rimelander with torture.”

“Ask me to hold you,” the woman with no skin pleaded, her eyes bright with tears, the one whole thing in the ruin of her face, and Solace could not say no.
“Hold me,” she said softly, a hitch in her voice.
The woman with no skin embraced her, her flesh cold and slick in the night air. Wherever she touched, the nerves cringed; a bone-deep ache, like the worst possible frostbite, drove nausea to Solace’ stomach and a scream from her mouth.
The woman with no skin moaned with happiness, and Solace passed out.
When she awoke, Sven was there, and the woman was gone. He pulled her close with a mailed hand, demanding something of Ignatius- to know what had happened? She collapsed back against him, her eyes almost closing again, when- “Lord Sven, there are more Coldhands in the woods, you’re needed by the bridge.”
Her uncle looked down at her, and she thought she saw concern in his eyes. “Go attend to your duties,” she said. “I’ll be alright.”

“Sister Solace, Luqa stabbed the Inquisitor and they need you.”

SATURDAY MORNING

Father Inquisitor Asher sat almost crouched in the Ecumenical Council, a deep hood hiding their face.
“Are there any corroborating witnesses besides you to the miracle that lionized Rolf?”, said Sister Solace.
“I understand that a ritual was performed, but we have heard dark rumors regarding its origin,” said Friar Ignatius.
“Lionization is not a choice any one person can make, it is a truth that we as the Church recognize,” said the Eparch.
Asher thrust their head up suddenly, their eyes burning like coals in their sleepless face, and said nothing.

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

A disgruntled Rimelander is pinned to a tree by about three people, with more surrounding them.
They’re talking about nailing him to it, Solace realizes with sudden nauseating disgust, and she strides into the midst of the group, keeping her back straight and walking with practiced long, smooth strides.
She seizes the man from them and the Dunlander who usually won’t speak to her or make eye contact with her- Shanahan? is standing before her, blocking her path. “You need to speak to Lord Sven if you want to do that. These are his orders.” Revulsion curdles her stomach, and her mind is overtaken for a moment. This is not how prisoners of war should be treated.
Sven is her gentle uncle, who asks after her welfare at the slightest downward twitch of her lips and allows her to tease him mercilessly with twinkling eyes.
Sven is as merciless and cold as the North he was born into, jaded and hardened by two decades of endless battle, willing to spill blood like water to accomplish his goals.
She stares at Shanahan and wonders if she looks as foolish as she feels.
“I am the Prosecutor of the War in the Rimelands. I do not take orders from Lord Sven,” she says, trying to sound brusque, and Shanahan backs down with an uncertain face. She guesses that he’s not yet sure enough of the Throne’s hierarchy to call her bluff.
The warfare meeting is in moments, and Solfyre is saying something about needing to talk to the prisoner. The mage is impulsive and fiery as all her fellows are, but she has shown genuine kindness, and seems trustworthy. Solace almost pushes the man into her arms, designating her mentally as his caretaker.
“Make sure no one tortures him.”

SATURDAY NIGHT

“This city is full of sin. People flaunt their vices and guilt. You must make them fear you. That is your task,” the Grand Inquisitor said, his voice disdainful, almost bored.
Was it sinful or weak that she didn’t want to be feared? That she just wanted to help?

“Luqa stabbed the Inquisitor again.”
A vapid, high-pitched voice chanted in the back of her mind. Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice shame on-
Luqa stared at her, and he looked as numb as she felt. She pronounced his sentence, feeling the words roll over her, heavy and unstoppable, feeling as inevitable as Ramulthien.
He didn’t say anything.
Solace didn’t stop drinking until Asher found her puking behind the tavern.

SUNDAY MORNING

Today she is an executioner, taking on the role of death incarnate, Captain Sinclair’s sword heavier than it should have been in her hands.
A huddle of folk surrounded Luqa, gathering around him as he walked to the bench that served as a block. They looked at her with wide eyes; sad, accusing, angry, resigned, questioning.
The sword slid in so easily, and she felt, with sickening clarity, the ceasing of breath and vibration in his body, the slight slump in his kneeling posture that signified the brain had stopped functioning. Life had fled, and with it any potential or growth or good or evil that Luqa would ever have created in the world.
At her hand.
She should have stayed. She should have buried him, prepared the body, given him that last tenderness, but she was lost, bile rising in her throat. Ignatius stepped forward, and she fled to him like a sinking ship to a lighthouse. “Please make sure he’s buried,” and the Friar nods.

Tonight, Solace doesn’t sleep, though she must leave with the Avalanche’s men at dawn.
Failures play in her head, the moments of weakness, the ignorance of the right path, the small derelictions to help those who needed it. She is arrogant, unwise, heedless where she should be knowledgeable and dismissive where she should be kind. She is a deeply flawed priest and person, but to desert her post would be a worse failure. She is here for a reason. She is here to keep trying.

Ragnar strode into the deep wilderness coming into a clearing, a moss covered boulder sitting half buried in the ground at it’s center. Ragnar’s hands were wrapped in cloth and a gentle breeze rustled the leaves overhead, a picture of peace and serenity, a juxtaposition to the burning rage within. Ragnar squared up against the boulder, his longtime opponent, and threw a punch, the jolt from the impact ran up his arm and into his shoulder, regardless he threw his 2nd, then his 3rd, until finally he was screaming at the top of his lungs and pounding into the stone. The boulder of course, said nothing. When the cry finally died in Ragnar’s chest and blood fell from his knuckles to the cracked earth he collapsed to his knees and headbutted the stone letting his head rest against the cool rock, now slick with his own blood. The same blood that ran down his hands and mixed with tears. Ragnar thought of Luqa, and of Rolf, of his mother, and- oh god was his father even still alive? he had no way to know. Ragnar tried to find peace, but as was often the case, only found resentment and burning hatred, searing him from within. When the rage controlled him it burned so bright that compassion and love were left as cinders. He’d always felt it, but it was only recently he’d begun to call on it, and every time he did it got easier. The rage within Ragnar burning brighter, “how long” he wondered, “before there is nothing left but that Burning?”

“There are two wolves. Faithfully borne from the same mother and destined to different paths. One seeks justice from the divine and the other strength from sacrifice.”

Her pen hovered briefly, splattering drops of ink onto the table as she tossed it aside
Didn’t they know? Didn’t they know anything? Frustrated tears ran down her face. She had nearly died, and for what.

It had been idealistic to think the Rimelanders would welcome knowledge about themselves, about their clans and traditions. Is that not what our purpose is as Runespeakers? To help remember what’s been lost. Not to be called useless, pointless, ……weak.

She shook her head, wincing at the sudden bout of dizziness. If it had been so easy to take her out in the open, under the protection of the church….she wondered if her faith had been misplaced, and if she should seek safety in strength elsewhere.