Category: Journal Entry

Ragnar had finally recovered from his many injuries at the last forum, and just in time to visit Runeheim again. He chuckled slightly then frowned, how many times had he been through this very same song and dance? Fight, lose but live, recover, and repeat. His life had been a never ending series of battles, not unusual for someone like him, what was strange was how he kept surviving, he’d greeted death more time than he’d care to count, but somehow Ragnar managed to avoid taking that final step. At first he thought it was luck, but no one was that lucky, then he thought it might have been skill but his branding taught him that wasn’t the case, a skilled person wouldn’t have fallen as he did. And so it was then that Ragnar settled upon the reason, stubbornness, he was simply too stubborn to die, every obstacle in his life had been bested not by skill, or luck, or even divine intervention. No every problem Ragnar solved was solved with gritted teeth and painful repetition. Ragnar’s thoughts now drifted into the events at Runeheim the people he’d met and those he’d lost. Perhaps it was over stating to call Rolf a friend, but he supposed the man wouldn’t mind what he though anymore. He couldn’t stop thinking of his friends last request of him, “Do great things.” It was a request he intended to fulfill, but how? Rolf had fought the old gods and worked to slay them and free his people, and he’d done it better than Ragnar ever could have, there were others who would continue that work. But all of this was a farce, Ragnar knew what it was he would. He simply feared what it would cost him. There was more than one kind of Tyranny in the north, and just as there were those that fought the old there must be those who faced the new. Ragnar stood, letting the aches and pains of a life well lived settle into him, he would face it with a Broken body, but an Unbroken spirit

[[[Good Evening!

Hope you enjoyed this beautiful sunny day, it’s been hot lately but this morning was just the right amount of crisp that I think Autumn is approaching.

It’s been a while since I’ve written to you, I apologize sincerely. I’ve been thinking about you lately, especially here in Runeheim. You should see how everyone gets along, you would enjoy it. I’ve met so many interesting individuals, I think you would also like them a lot. The people here seem really friendly and willing to help each other, there is no animosity I can see and that makes it easier to work alongside them.

Lady Dragomir is as kind as ever and oh! I haven’t told you but I got to save an inquisitor from dying! It was really terrifying at first because they were bleeding everywhere and everyone was looking at me like I knew what I was doing but I didnt! Well I mean it was my first time but I gained some confidence from it. You would be proud! When they coughed for the first time showing signs of life…well that was something special. It ignited a spark in me to learn more about it to save more people.

Oh oh! I also talked to a dwarf! Can you believe that?! Remember how I said I had always wanted to talk to one? Well it finally happened! They seemed funny, like they didn’t quite understand how humans work but I can’t blame them. Most people speak in codes and I don’t know why, I think you should just say what you mean. I liked them because they said what they meant.

The work of transferring our history into books is going well, I know this was entrusted to me and I don’t take it for granted. I do miss you though. A lot. I remember the last time we spoke you told me to be useful and I have taken these words to heart. I am trying my best to do all I can to make you proud.

I’ll promise to write to you sooner this time, I don’t want you to forget about me.

Love,
Heimir ]]]

He squinted his eyes as he signed the letter with his name, the sun was setting which made it harder to see with just the candle light shining dimly in the corner of his desk.

After giving his signature one last flourish he smiled, folding it over and pouring some wax over the folded edge.

He stretched gingerly as the wax ended up drying and as soon it was ready he got up from his desk and kneeled in front of his bed pulling a small chest. Heimir opened the chest, hundreds of letters sealed just like the one he had made and put his most recent one on top before closing the chest and pushing it under his bed again.

In one forum I doubled my wealth. from one knife to two.

staring into the fire the forums events kept playing on loop.

—
“Just put the money on the ground” hissed an unsteady voice. “Now back away. Back AWAY!” she shouted, knife held to the child’s throat.
—
“Where are you going Kanut?” the voice reverberated though area “Did you bring me tasty Meat?”.
—
“Take him in to custody” Lady Vindicta pronounced.
—
The world swirled in colors, magic hidden glowing into sight, Ancient Shade coming into sharp Contrast.
—

“Still in your own head?” Clements voice spoke over the crackling fire. “You wont find answers there, Rumination is like rocking in a chair. It gives you something to do but gets you no where”

“I’m more worried about what sticks in my mind and what does not.” Kicking the burlap sacks sitting beside me. “Those should probably make me more uncomfortable than the rest”.

“I am twice as wealthy as I was last forum, and yet I now have a myriad of problems” Sigurd deadpanned.

“Myriad?” Clements mused.

“Just because I cant mark it in ink does not mean I don’t know what it means Clements”

“Fair, enough Sigi” Clements assuaged. Glancing down at the burlap sacks Clements ask the question that had been hanging in the air. “What are you going to do with those.”

“Take a leaf out of your book Clements, Teach a lesson.” Standing Sigurd looked over to Clements across the fire. “Kanewt will not be here next forum to ease the lesson. In a way i’m glad he wont have to see it.”

Picking up the pair of burlap sacks, the knives weighed heavily at my belt. Twice the wealth, twice the trouble, a pair of heads in burlap sacks.

Milo crouched low, huddled within their dark dyed cloak and blending into the night. The grounds surrounding the Owls Nest were well illuminated even at night, forcing them to stay just outside the gates. That suited Milo just fine. They’d spent the last few days figuring out which room they would need to watch, and had a nice spot in a tree that they could see it clearly from. Milo relaxed a little as lights began going out in windows all around the castle. Just the relatively lax night shift now.

Milo’s mind wandered to the feasting grounds. What a shitshow. Two Convocations and both of them were trials. A town guard shot a guy in the chest point-blank. Their friend was knighted into the Templars by a sword. Shit like that didn’t happen other places. And that Melandihim… Milo let out a soft sigh. What had they gotten themself into?

They hugged their cloak tighter around their shoulders. It was nice to wear something they hadn’t put together for a change. Suzette did good work. And Fabron had really come through on those knives. Maybe this wasn’t all bad. Folks here were nice. Mostly at least. Some were assholes. Best not to dwell on that though. Milo would stay for a while longer. The cat was already out of the bag with Ludovic, anyways. Hopefully he wasn’t one of the assholes.

The worst part of fighting ghouls was the smell. They stank of shit and decomposing flesh, but something else, too; a dusty, sour smell that got worse as their walking corpses aged, getting in your throat and making you cough and choke at the wrong moments, just as the undead nightmare in front of you lunged for your throat with its jagged teeth or swung its death-clutched weapon.
Sister Solace fought mechanically, unconscious of her burning muscles and faint pangs of hunger. The battle had begun before first light and the sun was now rising fast in the East, disadvantaging Sven’s men as it got in their eyes, but making no difference at all to the endless column of ghouls. The tug at her sleeve came as she hacked down a particularly small one, perhaps once a teenage girl. Its clothes were so filthy and torn she couldn’t tell what colors it had worn. Sister Solace knew what the summons was, and a prickling of bile rose momentarily before well-trained reflexes shoved it down. In war, you do what must be done.

Behind the frontlines, grievously injured men were sorted into two grisly piles. Those missing legs, sword-arms, or other crucial parts were taken to the battlefield infirmary; the rest were being placed in a square of space much too small for its current purpose. The veterans were stoic, some joking with clenched jaws and cold eyes; the greener men tended to beg or cry to be left as they were, to be allowed to rest and heal. But the ghouls would give none of them rest, and the battlefield needed bodies if they were to last even till sunrise.

The incense that she lit in its golden censor cloaked the reek of sweat and bloody vomit. It brought a fleeting note of cleanliness and hope to the gruesome scene as Sister Solace circled the men seven times, reciting the words of the Book of Dumal, the Warrior Saint.

I called on Mithriel to guide my hand in this baptism of fire and blood, grieving for those who would die in battle against me and under my command, even as I readied my men and rallied them against the enemy.

As she spoke, the men rose, new vigor in their limbs and the pained look gone from their eyes, though not the haunted terror. The wounds remained, but bleeding was staunched and moving did not cause hurt. On completing the ritual, they would once again be blessed and prepared to re-enter battle; such were the strains on their numbers that the ghouls put.

Sven entered from the battlefield like a hurricane, intercepting the group of no-longer limping men to shout orders and directions that they followed promptly as they watched their leader with adoring eyes. Her uncle passed her with quick, adrenaline-fueled strides, clapping a bloody mailed hand to her shoulder and leaving blunt, dripping red smudges on her white robe. Sister Solace caught his eyes for a moment, unable to read the expression in them, and wondered how she’d ever get the stains out.

With steady hands
She rubbed the wood she had just planed, the smell of the cedar fragrant and sweet. A small rough spot and she applied the plane gently, shaving a near transparent curl of wood that peeled towards her. It popped out of the plane and rolled just a little and fell gently to the floor to join hundreds of others around her feet and skirt. She felt the wood again, smooth, warm and as perfect as she could get it. She looked at the stack of planks she had created. It was pleasant to see so many finished but it was also a sign of her lack of calm.
Her mind was whirling with all that had happened and the change in her responsibilities. Before, there had always been Chevreuil or Poppy and Ginny, now there was just her. She had never thought to be in this position, she was had no training for it. She sighed and rubbed the smooth cedar again. New responsibility, new faces, new problems. She …disliked new, new always had to be weighted, judged to see if it would harm or help the family, the Circle or community. She wasn’t happy about taking the council seat but she was the logical choice. Much as she loved her nephew Simon, good young man that he was, he didn’t truly represent the whole family. There had to be someone to represent the Circle, and make sure that they had a voice. It should be Chevreuil but after the Circle meeting the previous night it had to be her. Merde! And more Merde.
She picked up the finished plank and carefully set it with the others and grabbed another rough piece of wood and picked up her planer. After a quick assessment she slide the tool along the surface of the cedar and let her mind focus on the turmoil of her emotions. The Circle, she hummed as she worked the wood, was yet another responsibility she never expected, but had had to shoulder. She was more comfortable with this one, this, was at least her own people, her family that she loved. She could be sure of their support and understanding as she took on the role of Mother. Most of them already looked to her so it would not be as difficult an adjustment. They were Family, be it by birth or adoption, family supported one another.

There was another thing. With all this …new, there was a…hole. Like when she was a child and a tooth had come out and she would wiggle her tongue in the empty place, exploring, testing for the new tooth that was to come. She knew there would be no new tooth to fill this empty place because it was not a tooth that was missing but part of her heart. She had traded that part of her so she could be Mother. She no longer remembered his face, his smell or any part of him, only that he had been there and was now gone. It was a strange kind of grief, sharp but also dull. She had weighted what she could give the Spirits for the gift of Mother, it was what they all needed, and rather than a future promise that she might not be able to provide she had decided to give the Spirits a part of her past. She sighed again and looked down at the plank she had planed, smooth, she rubbed her work hardened hand along the surface. For no reason she could put a finger on, she reached for her carving knife and with a few deft cuts a fox face appeared in the whirl of a knot. She ran a finger over the engraving, just looking at it, then taking up her plane again she smooth the spot over and it was gone the curl of cedar dropping to the floor with the rest. She swept the plane along the wood one more time and satisfied, put down the plane and place the plank with the other finished one and selecting a new piece of wood returned to her work.

I regret that I cannot seriously name my choice for the most worthy successor to the Owl’s Nest for she will not be here long, nor has she expressed an interest, nor has she any specific claim. But while others speak for Nadia or Ambrose by linguistic technicality (“live as IF he were a peasant”) or a council of bandits, I cannot think of anyone more qualified or inspiring as a leader. Here is the pinnacle of nobility in her prime who retains the dark beauty of her youth while having mastered the poise and experience of age.

I cannot deny that thoughts of joining her retinue, especially if she were unable to leave this place, have flitted through my mind every time I think of her and the future. While her lands and ways are undoubtedly foreign, she speaks with the refinement of the Gothic elite. Her keep probably has books and polished stone and soft black beds and I hope one day to visit it.

And beyond the aesthetics she listens and speaks with education, confidence and understanding. When presented with the fallacies inherent in the Beauchenes initial offer, she immediately sought compromise while ensuring that her people’s needs were still met. When presented with the demands of a bandit rabble and hate-fueled false priest, she answered eloquently and without anger.

If ever there was a true soul of nobility, it inhabits her body, and we are fortunate to be graced by her presence even for a little while. I dearly hope that her daughter was raised similarly and might someday reach such greatness if she is to be the one who rules us.