Category: Journal Entry

I watch Ana boil a large pot of water, her hair gathered up out of the way, sleeves rolled up. The leather folder open in my lap warming as I wait for her to fill the wood basin at my feet. The joints of my ankles ache, like the joints in my knees and hands, my hips. The cold has always bitten me hard, despite my preference for it to heat. I know I should be writing a letter home, informing my father of what’s occurred, asking for support, anything useful. But my hand is instead turned to lackadaisical musings. The branded man Skarde asked about my cane, about what great battle brought about its use. I wish I had some great answer. Unfortunately I only have what my mother told me when I was small to ease my mind about how sharp the pains in my body could get.

I’m pleased to be working for the town in an official capacity. I think I’ll enjoy working with Viktor, he has quite the sense of humor, which does make work go faster at any rate. And I think it will be a good chance to examine areas I’m weak in. Always Learning.

Even musing I keep turning to business, like a crutch.

I had tried to be…open about this with Mother Superior Solace. I think we’re friends? At least friendly. Maybe Lady Callistra too? But it feels hard to know. I think they would not mind if I talked about my thoughts? But its so hard to know when its safe. The wolfpack would not understand, they’ve always had each other. And I think they mostly speak in punches, which is…not how I speak at all.

How to people make friends so quickly? How do they share things so soon to build such a friendship?

Ah….Ana is done with the water. Hopefully the heat loosens my ankles, I’d like to be able to walk without hobbling.

(the paper with these musings is quickly fed to the hearth)

His hand flashed out smashing into the wall. Petya awoke with a start and yelped. He heard the sudden shift, creak of a bed, and song-sigh of a sword being drawn.

“Saurry. Nitemare” Petya said softly. There was a short grunt of response and the blade slipped back into its sheath. He stared at the dark wall and gingerly touched it. His fingers came back chilled and slick. He frowned to himself, he would not be able to clean up the mess until dawn. The others deserved to sleep, as long as they were able. He rolled over and saw Sir Sven staring at him. The grizzled knight hardly slept anymore. Sir Sven’s eyes caught the flame of a candle causing them to reflect some barely contained malevolence. Petya did not move, like a rabbit who wandered to the wolf without thinking. In that space between heartbeats they stared at each other.

Petya felt his breath begin to tighten and his muscles protest. Sir Sven, he must know. The thought, the spell, the frozen heartbeat freed all at once. A sound of a guttural moan and the idle scratch at the door. Sir Sven stood without word and Petya moved to begin assembling the shell around the knight. They worked for a brief few minutes as the scratching became more insistent. Others stirred and saw the duo preparing, considered the noise, and promptly rolled over and went back to sleep.

Once clad in armor Petya handed the knight his shield and took up place nearby. His eyes wandered over the nearby table of food scraps and noticed a dull knife. With a shrug Petya took the knife in hand and prepared himself.

As they took a step into the knight the night seemed to deepen. The stars pulled away, tucked behind tree boughs and cloud. Petya shut the door behind them as they began their patrol. They moved back and forth. The practiced knight moved as if he had cut their surroundings into their own diminutive territories and was proceeding to check and clear each. Petya rotated, ending up with his back to nearby foliage. He felt the sense of fear and impurity run up his spin before he heard the snap of a branch. Sir Sven moved past Petya and readied himself. Nothing leapt from the bush, no creature, just stillness. Sir Sven took a cautious step into the foliage and then another. Stepping off of the path and out of what little excuse for light existed.

Petya waited.

The soft squelch of something behind him shifted his attention. He turned to see a hideous, rancid, pallid creature. Its maw gaping wide and dripping with bile. Petya considered calling out but doing so might distract the knight. He stood his ground and leveled the knife. The creature circled slowly as if measuring the meager farmer. In a single motion it made up its mind and launched itself at Petya. He thrust forward and shut his eye tight waiting for the pain to rip through his body.

But the pain never came. He did not feel the creature collide into him. Petya opened his eye experimentally and looked around. The creature was gone. No sign it had even been. Petya glanced around to see if it had run off.

Petya turned to see the figure of Sir Sven towering over him, his features replaced by that terrible creature! It collapsed down on him bent on devouring him whole or in whatever pieces it could get.

His hand flashed out smashing into the wall. Petya awoke with a start and yelped.

He felt the weight of bad sleep under his eyes and saw that the dawn had already come. He could hear the sounds of the others quietly chatting and preparing to break the morning fast. He considered telling Sir Sven about his nightmares and asking his thoughts or maybe Sister Solace.

Regardless, there was nothing he could do right now. He knew what was expected of him and all that was left was to work and pray.

A cruel ray of light pushed past his sleeping mind gently rubbing at the edges of his consciousness. The offending light brought other concerns to his attention. Petya caught the smell of twice-burnt wood just beginning to turn to charcoal, the sound of seabirds and hammers meant they were close to the settlement, and the uneven roll of the cart placed an unbearable pressure on his bladder.

With effort he opened his eye and squinted at the indifferent daylight. Timing the sway of the cart he let the next opportune shift help him roll free from his wedge sleeping nook. A few of the travelers nodded at him as he wandered from the procession and found a larger tree to step behind.

After his relief Petya walked on in companionable silence, rejoining the convoy. He listened to those around him speak of their concerns, hopes, and goals. He wanted them all to find the things they wanted and to avoid the worst of what they feared. Though he imagined that not half of these would still be with them when the thaw came. The nights were growing longer and the fields as stiff as iron. He recounted watching a shovel snap just yesterday. Some of the Gothic born had met the morning with the same vigor they would have back home. They didn’t know that the handle of the shovel needs time to warm from its work. The wood too brittle from the nights-chill.

Petya let his hand continue his idle work. They mindlessly wove back and forth moving a pair of crooked sticks as he knit. He paused looking at his work and with a sigh began to unweave the last few rows. He had not been giving his craft any attention and he had absently switched patterns. Without letting the frustration settle he began his plodding walk once more.

As he walked he thought of all the various things to happen in Runehiem since he arrived. The terrible creatures, wonton suffering, and disingenuous ploys. It was enough to make one turn up their nose and return to lands of proper behavior and understanding. Petya shook his head as if to dismiss the thought. He learned to love God and the Throne. He traced his memories, his time in the Monastery. The contemplative and reserved nature of the monks was often just the moments between great bursts of energy and fervor. It was all one could do once a monk caught that spark of insight to not get caught up in the excitement and pursuit. Petya felt a chill in his palm. The weight, the solidness, the chill of those heavy doors still lingered on in his hands. He may have grown with them, learned with them, and loved with them but always kept separated.

He knew somewhere in the mindful part of his head, that it was not personal. They sought to protect him along with all others of humanity who were not ready for the misadventures of unsanctified knowledge. He wondered if the priests of Zuriel would have come up with a way to prevent his homeland from turning to this fetid stalemate.

A call came out from the head of the convoy. They had reached the stockpile and were going to begin to unload. He moved to start unpacking but stopped himself short. With a calming breath Petya pulled his hand back and stepped off the path. He knelt down on his haunches and bowed his head. The words flowed like a mumbled stream from his lips. The prayers of blessings, favor, hearth and home. The small honorings and chiding of the tiny spirits who only hear in whispers. The calling of the Archangels and their dominions and reverence. Someone leaned in close and briefly placed their hand in his pouch. Petya neither moved nor let the matter distract him from his prayer. Almost as soon as it started the individual removed their hand and wandered away. Petya finished his prayer, standing and stretching. He moved to collect a load to transfer to the stockpile. He felt two weights, one was the sack placed on his shoulders, the other hung lightly from his belt and heavy on his mind. He would have to wait till later to see what he had been given.

For now, all that was left was to work and pray.

“Don’ worry about dat wind none, fils.” his father’s low voice murmured, when the latest storm blew through camp and set the lanterns creaking in their dance, the canvas of wagons and tents snapping to the rhythm. The groans and pops made him burrow ever deeper into warm, protective arms. “It’ll blow t’rough by morn’n, and da woods will still be here, guarding an’ growing as ever.” Warm brown eyes winked down at their smaller mirror-image, a small grin growing beneath a bushy mustache as more creaks lead to shivers in his small form.

“You wan’ to know deir secret? How dey give no mind to storm an’ sun alike?” His small head gave a timid nod, eyes locked on the light reflected in his father’s spectacles, the wick’s flame dancing like fireflies. The thought of summer; of the sun and being away from the storm threw all notions of fear aside for precious moments, before being cast aside as the wind howled anew. His father chuckled, his emotions had obviously been all over his face despite his attempts to be brave.

“Strong roots, fils. Down, down t’rough dirt an’ loam; past water an’ darkness to heart of de eart’ herself.” He could almost picture it, the lines of strong wood spreading like the nets they used on the river, ever deeper into the world below them. “Course, it’s not jus’ de one tree dat makes it work, hahn? De roots, dey reach out to each other, tied together like holdin’ hands in de Circle. Dat’s what makes dem strong, fils.” His father’s voice started to fade, as the his eyes drifted closed, fear losing the battle to gentle voices and soothing warmth…

Étienne startled awake, hat dropping into his lap from the sudden jerk of his head. Reaching for it with one hand, he felt the bark of the great oak behind him with the other, its rough rasp familiar and anchoring him in the *here* and *now.* Part of him ached to return to his dream, to that time of protective strength and certainty, but the rest of him knew that escape into the past wasn’t the point of his meditations today. He had gone into the Wild alone for a reason, to search for the answer to Grandfather’s challenge last market, and hints as to the best path forward for them all as a community.

“Roots hahn?” he muttered, standing and brushing off his trousers before gathering his things and preparing to return to camp and prep the evening meal, already counting out ingredients in his mind’s eye. “If that’s the sign we need, to stand together and be heard all the same, then who am I to doubt?”

His eyes turned to the oak once more, patting the bark gently before turning and leaving the grove for home. “Merci, père. You always knew what to say when I needed it most.”

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.”