Category: Journal Entry

Nestled deep in the swamp stood a house. The house was old, far older than folks might realize. The support beams sagged. Thick sweeps of moss hung from the eaves. The back porch had long since slipped into the boggy mud. While the primary resident was far too polite to ever tell mamma (again), the sitting room also slanted heavily, causing any vaguely circular object placed on it to immediately make a mad dash for the front door. No glass stood in any of the windows. And there were large patches in the roof that, even from a distance, it was quite obvious kept out precisely nothing.

It was home, and had housed the still proud Chasseur family for so many generations, that the family’s meager math skills were sorely tested with the counting of them. There was a small buzz of activity around the house’s only fireplace. The hearthstones had been sunk deep, deep into the mire around them. Great grandpappy had often boasted through a toothless grin that the whole house was built around that chimney; the hearth built on top of some ancient pillar now hidden under the crumbling house. Either way, the white stone had long trails of black soot lapping up the sides to disappear in the creaky stone tunnel, ushering away the smoke into the night air. The night bugs flew around the dirty figure singing quietly to himself.

“Uncle Henri!” a small voice called from the other room. The hunched figure muttering over the pot straightened and turned towards the voice with a broad smile splitting his face.

“Oh cher,” he cried. “What you doin’ up at dis hour?” he pronounced it nearly as ‘her’.

The small voice giggled, and whispered on in a conspiratorial whisper, “Nanna See is cursin’ up a storm somethin’ fierce, Uncle Henri. She sayin’ you done burned the stew again, an’ that yous gonna leave the shell in der too long and foul it up.”

A pale, dirty face with the most beautiful watery eyes that God had ever graced in a child, dipped into the light. She giggled again in that way she always did when causing some small degree of chaos. “Ain’t none of us ken sleep up der with her howlin’ after ya.”

Henri sighed in an overly dramatic way, placing hands on his hips. “Noémie, what did ya pa say bout tattlin’? You keep up with that, yous gonna be cuttin’ a switch before the sun peeps over dem trees. Now get back ta bed, scat! Yous know the floor too cold fer ya sickies! Soup will be along directly, its done. I ain’t got na bread, but we make due.”

The girl looked forlornly at Henri before nodding and sulking back upstairs. The one who had answered to Uncle Henri started to ladle the chunky stew, a color not unreminiscent of swamp water, into the wood bowl deep enough to nearly be a cauldron in its own right. Humming softly, he mounted the stairs himself, a stack of splintering bowls and spoons under his arm. One always had to mind the third and seventh stair in the old swamp house. The third because it was simply missing, and the seventh because, no matter how often it was nailed down or replaced, it always seemed to pop up along the left side. Normally, there were always folks in the house. Ma and Pa had themselves two children besides Henri, and Pa’s sister was still about. Henri’s brother, Francis, who was named for Pa’s younger brother, a brave man who’d left the family near twenty years before and had stopped sending letters nearly a decade ago, had himself a wife and three children of his own. Among them, Noémie was Henri’s favorite. Aunt Beatrice had her own kit, and their house wasn’t too far north from them. There had been more of them at one point, but a few years back, the rest had just stopped visiting or sending along word. There was a proud certainty in the house that these others were fine, but some general concern that they had forgotten Family Sundays.

The second floor of the dilapidated house was where the young and sick were always shepherded. Great grandpappy had always said that those who were frailest needed to be kept in the best air. Hence, the second floor. Past the broken banister was a large central room, broken only by sturdy blocks of wood holding up the roof. Night air came in through the window and roof alike. Night bugs making nests in the blankets of the ill. The noble soup bearer was greeted by a series of happy shouts and waves. They were a family of huggers, and had they been feeling more themselves, they likely would have leapt from their beds to wrap him in a series of tight embraces.

“How y’all are?” was their responding call. The fellow couldn’t wave for desire to not drop the stew. But he did offer a broad and happy smile to the crowd.

“Henri!” the voice of the man’s mother cut through the joy around her, which died off with good natured chuckles. “I know you w’rn’t born with sense God gave a squirrel, but I *know* you didn’t burn my dinner. Again!” There was no venom in her words, it was just her way. Too many children, and if you didn’t speak to them firmly, soon enough there was chaos in the house.

“Na, mama,” he said, tugging his forelock her direction once the soup was settled on a table that was surprisingly level, given the state of its fellows. “I stirred it the whole time, and set the pot just on the embers overnight. Just like yous said ta.”

She gave a withering glare for a moment before the pale figure nodded contently and crossed her thin arms across her chest. “Good. Glad ta see yous ain’t beyond learnin’.”

Henri, the noble soup bearer and wrestler of turtles, bowed his head her direction before gesturing to Noémie.

“Cher, you hand out the bowls,” he said with a smile. She immediately stamped a foot in protest.

“Uncle Henri, if ice hand out da bowls, den I gotta eat last. I never get a lump a meat when I go last,” she said, clearly unable to decide if she wants to fold her arm in indignance, or reach out to accept the immediately offered bowl her direction. Henri didn’t wait for her to settle on a choice before he gestured with the handle of the ladle towards the farthest cot, her father.

“Go on nao,” he said, gesturing a second time. She huffed, but did as she was hold. Her father accepted the bowl and spoon, giving his daughter a playful ruffle of her hair. Henri had seen her carried across his shoulders through the fields where the marshes dried out a bit. The sun had caught in her eyes, dew in her dimples. He’d never seen his brother so happy. Francis had always been a sullen figure, prone to sulking and fits of slothfulness. But since the day she’d been born? Since he had bundled her into his arms and strutted around the family home, just as proud as you please? Since that day, he’d never been without a smile. Henri’s heart could nearly break at remembering that day. Discretely, a tear is wiped away before Noémie can notice.

The ritual is repeated half a dozen times before the child was allowed to settle into a chair not far from Henri and dive into her stew. Once she was seen to, Henri hovered near his mother. She had a bowl of the soup settled in her lap. Gingerly, he helps her sit up, adjusting the pillow behind her shoulders so her neck didn’t have to crane at a sever angle to drink in the soup. She hadn’t been able to really feed herself of months now, and his father didn’t even have the energy to speak. He’d never been a verbose man, but as the years had worn on, it seemed his vocabulary and desire to exercise it diminished every season. These last few years, aside from headshakes and some grunts, he’d nearly given up on speaking to anyone at all.

“Yous a good boy, Henri,” she said, reaching up to pat his cheek with a gaunt hand that was always too cold. “Always was. Never gave me a lick a trouble. Is hard on ya sometimes ta make sure the mettle in ya is keen.”

Henri offered her a smile and nod, pulling up a stool to settle his weight on before scooping some of the stew onto a spoon and bringing it to her lips.

“Hush now, mama. I love you with my whole heart,” he said. She smiled before nodding and her lips parted to accept the soup. She recoiled a bit as she chewed, her brow furrowing immediately into a sign of disapproval bordering on disgust.

“Boy, you ain’t salted this atall!” she shrilled at him. Henri looked confused, scooping some of the soup onto the spoon and give it a try himself. It tasted… fine. His was never as good as his mothers. She was a mighty fine cook, everyone said.

“Its fine, momma,” he said. “I salted it. Give it another go.”

She resigned herself to the inferior meal, though she still scooted a bit closer to her son. Sometimes it was hard for folks to speak their feelings for fear of appearing weak. His mother was one such person. She patted his knee as if acknowledging her own failure before settling back to be fed her meal.

And so it went; one spoon for her, one spoon for him. She had never been a good eater, but he had devised this scheme once it became clear that was was more concerned that her son ate. Their bargain had been that she would eat precisely as much as he did, no more, no less. So they shared a meal.

“Ya know mama,” he said. “I been back ta town the other night. Cousin Thomas passed. Or seemed ta say he did.”

She gasped and covered her mouth, “How dare ya speak of so dark a topic over dinner. Who raised you, boy?”

He nodded sadly, spooning another bit of stew into her mouth. It was her turn, after all. “I’m sorry mama, I just feel so bad about it. I was just over an auntie’s house, and they was fine. Still under the weather, but this cold won’t kick. I’s gonna check on em tamarra. I’ll be sure ta leave extra soup with Noémie, and I’s sorry ta leave so soon after gettin’ back. I won’t be long.”

Granny See nodded after a moment. “You give Olivia ma love now. And don’t dally; I won’t abide you passin’ off yer chores ta Noémie, since she can’t seem ta say no ta you.”

Henri offered her a broad smile and nodded. He stood, straightening and picking up the wooden pot. He had a system with the girl, where she would collect up the dishes and bring them back down, and he in turn would give her some small treasure of the swamp. She was partial to flowers of a blue or purple hue, or wild honeycomb. He ruffled her hair, more gently than her father’s had, as he passed her by. They continued their quiet murmuring conversation as he slipped away. The pot was put back by the hearth, and he wrapped a mud soaked bit of dangling fabric around his shoulders. The spear he favored when hunting boar or gator was left by the door; ma didn’t like big weapons in the house. Boys always got to them and couldn’t be trusted not to break every little thing they crossed.

“Be good now,” he called to Noémie. She waved from the top of the stairs. By the time he was a half dozen steps away from the front porch, his ankles were lost in the muck. It was a full day’s walk to his Aunt’s home; his goal was to be there by midday. He’d never had much trouble walking through the night. Family came first, after all, and he wanted to make good time.

The house fell back in the darkness. Silent save for the buzz of flies and the quiet dribble of soup colliding at top speeds with the floor.

It is easy to forget that the nobility serve a purpose in a small town such as ours, but the ideal behind them is an important one and one that connects us to the Throne of God of which we are all a part.

In any community, it is an extremely difficult task to keep track of and respond swiftly and appropriately to all matters of health, safety and social welfare that may come up. Emergencies can and do happen. Threats to the survival of the community such as famine, plague, violent enemies, and rampant crime are disastrous if not planned for seasons or years in advance. The situation only becomes more complicated when a community is large enough to host myriad traditions and opinions that may interfere with swift action.

The answer that the Throne and God have presented for dealing with these grave issues are the noble caste that governs us. While individual nobles and even entire families can stray from the perfect path laid for them, and these corruptions are important to address, the true purpose of the noble is still one that is holy and important.

In a perfect order, nobility would be educated from birth in every unique trade, culture, tradition, and social class that they must serve, and furthermore must learn how all of these various groups fit together and how they can be guided to work together better. While not every noble is a smith, they must learn what is needed to make their smithies operate, what materials are needed to keep them working and prospering, and how many smithies are useful and supported by their community. They must know what their mines produce and why and which veins of ore are needed by their smiths. They must know the markets for which the smiths work and whether swords or plows are needed for the next season. And so on for farming and field rotations, for the tides of nearby conflicts and banditry that may require soldiers or other protections, for the disposition of nearby markets where surplus goods may be traded for needed wares in short supply locally. And complicating each of these issues are the personalities and beliefs of each of these people- for they are people. Individuals with needs and holy purpose to experience the world and add their meaning to God. The good noble must know them and meet them and hear their troubles and help them through.

The list goes on and boggles the mind. And it is for this reason that the structure of nobility is ultimately based upon lineage. Children must learn from birth and be immersed deeply in the needs of their people and the ones most competent to teach them are their parents, who learned from their parents and their own experiences and so on back to the establishment of their House. It is also for this reason that new noble houses are carefully raised from the ranks of knights and other worthies who work closely with the nobles they are sworn to, who can educate and coach and support them during their first generation of service when they do not have a great legacy to teach them.

Some among our fair community think that perhaps a gathering of our elders could replace the necessity of a noble family, but I must gently disagree. Rule by committee, or “democracy” as it has been termed in the south, has myriad flaws that are much harder to correct. Each representative only is educated in what their family knows best. They lack the intense tutelage of the noble houses. Furthermore, rule by committee leads to lengthy debate and slow responses where rapid response to emergent issues is needed. We need only look to our religious gatherings of late to see that when presented with even simple issues we have as many opinions as we have people.

I cannot speak to the competence of Lord Ambrose, personally. I cannot say that he is suited to the position because we have evidence to the contrary, but I can say that we should trust in those others of the nobility that have been delivered to us by the grace of God, and support and teach them when we can to fill in the gaps of what they know. Perhaps we do not have someone who knows every one of our issues, but I do know with certainty that these people have a greater foundation than you or I on the difficulties of rulership. And it is the humble and righteous thing to do to help them however we can.

Lamb Stew With Fresh Vegetables

Severin Jovienne looked over the ingredients he had collected for tonight’s stew:

2-3 pounds of lamb shoulder with bone
A bit of olive oil
A medium shallot
Not enough cloves of garlic (as far as he was concerned)
Two salted anchovies
Some white flour
A cup of white wine
Four cups of chicken broth
Two bay leaves
1 pound potatoes
Unsalted butter
A couple of medium carrots
Some honey
A fennel bulb
Fresh peas
Some tarragon
Salt and pepper

He took the large pot and put it on the fire with some oil. Once the oil was shimmering, he put in some of the lamb and fipped till brown. He then removed that portion of lamb to a plate and began the next, while thinking about the last market day.

So, Little Hugo had yet another zombie baby. This seems to be a re-occuring thing. Perhaps he just really likes zombie babies. I suppose if there are adult zombies, there must be zombie babies. Otherwise, where would zombies come from?

They’re probably just created like the ghouls that keep attacking. Those are created by ghouls carrying people off and burying them in the dirt. Of course, then, where did the first ghouls come from? Hrrm.

Both they and the babies could be malefic. Some form of ghoul creating night malefic was made and causes the same action to create more malefics just like itself perhaps. Does that mean there is perhaps a King Zombie and if you resolve it, the other zombies will go away? But then who makes night malefic babies? Sure, horrible things happen to babies too, but sort of surprising that one would have enough understanding about what is happening to it. Perhaps, it is actually an adult malefic that just takes the form of a baby because that is what is feels like. Still, crawling around after some sort of adult type person is something that a malefic baby would do, so so would an adult malefic who felt like it was a baby malefic.

Getting back to the fire, the meat had now finished so he added a bit more oil, the shallots and a bit of salt. Once the shallots had begun to soften and turn brown, he added the garlic, and the anchovies. The anchovies had to be mashed into a paste. They were the secret ingredient to add the extra bit of flavor. He stirred it all together, and once the garlic really started to smell nice, added in some flour and stirred some more.

Then there was that Husher malefic that hushed everybody. What’s with the hushing? Hush hush; hush. Just so it could sing that No-Where King song. That just keeps coming up too. I wonder if it’s related to Little Hugo’s zombie baby?

The flour paste wasn’t going to do any more, so it was time to add the wine. He poured it in and stirred it, taking care to scrape the bottom for any bits of meat still stuck there. Once the browned bits were all integrated, it was time to add the broth, meat, potatoes, and bay leaves. Cover, return to fire, and let simmer.

Time to rest and finish off the rest off that bottle of wine while waiting for the stew to cook.

Then besides zombies and ghouls we apparently have bandits too.

At least we have a possible marriage for the young Lord now. His mother seems like a right fie type. No problem with me skinning my rabbits at the table with her, unlike Teles. What’s with that guy? So uptight! Not like the Lady. She didn’t even mind all the spiders crawling through the forest. Didn’t even mind when they started to crawl on her. Still, Telese seems really caught up in things. So busy that he never even tells anybody what’s going on. Good thing he suggested that I spend more time around him, listening to everything he talks about. I’m sure he can use somebody there to give him some good advice.

Advice like, ‘don’t go to a fairy party in the woods late at night’. I can’t believe that people went to that. After all, last time there was a fairy party in the woods, everybody came back as cannibals.

Almost two bells later, he checked again. The potatoes were now easy to pierce with a fork and the meat falling apart. Also, people were beginning to grumble about dinner. He added in the carrots and fennel, and salt to taste.

Finally, he added the peas, honey, and tarragon. Made some final adjustments to the salt and pepper, and served it forth.

“What right do you have to tell their stories!?”

Those words still burned in Clemens’s mind like the midday sun upon his brow. Stienn had a point. No one in Runeheim asked him to record their tales in Gothic script. It doesn’t matter how many times Clemens could hear a saga sung, he could only record it as he heard it and understood it. His transcription could never perfectly capture the emotion emitted from the throats of the Skalds.

“Our stories must be remembered! When none of us remain, who will truly remember us as we are now!?”

Those words were like the sudden gust of cold air that breezed past Clemens. Saga’s counterpoint to Stienns argument stirred something in Clemens. He returned to his bunk and pulled out the portrait that artist had sketched of him. He stared at it for a while and pondered.

“One could describe me in words and might be able to tell someone else what I look like, but have they truly captured my visage and can share it accurately with others? Doesn’t that image of me only last as long as someone is willing to recount it? Isn’t that image only as accurate as the memory of the person who first described me? But this portrait will last so long as someone keeps it somewhere safe and it leaves no room for interpretation.”

Clemens paused on that thought and realized something he had not been considering. There is no reason that both a portrait and a spoken description of what he looked like could both exist at the same time. Both achieve the objective of capturing his image in different ways both with advantages and disadvantages. How are oral storytelling and written records any different? Just because a story is written down doesn’t mean must be told exactly as it is on the page. Can the two forms not coexist?

But he would need to put this idea to practice, Clemens needs something worth remembering to write and sing about…

“The Saga of the Unbroken Saint…” Clemens spoke under his breath.

Clemens quickly pulled out several sheets of ruffled paper and a quill. Nearly spilling an ink pot as he sat down and began scrawling out stanzas.

He had always considered himself more of a historian, dryly describing events that occurred, but inspiration had finally come to him like a spark lighting a forge. He had always enjoyed when his Skald mother recounted sagas of heroes, but it was now time to make her proud by penning a saga of his own.

When he was finished he would recount it to others who knew Rolf to hear their understanding and to gain their feedback, adding in details until everyone had the same image in their heads of who the Unbroken Saint was and the greatness of his deeds. When it was finalized he would transcribe that saga onto a stone memorial to place by the cairn where Rolf’s body had been reduced to ashes so that all that would come to Runeheim would be able to know the story of the Unbroken Saint and could recount that saga to all who would listen.

This is how we Njords will remember the Unbroken Saint.

The cacophony of camp being struck had died down. It wasn’t precisely still, with the shifting of armored bodies, and the quiet murmur of fellows speaking softly to one another. Lord Sven had done his inspections of the ranks and the site to ensure that muster had been handled in the most appropriate manner. The servants would follow the fighting men in their train, and the quartermaster would draft their reports.

The various plans were still gently tumbling about in his mind. It would be months until the next forum, which meant that he was able to be where he was most comfortable, among the fighting men and women under his command. He and Sir Ingvar had worked out the bulk of the particulars for this season. That fucking witch had raised the Karls under Longstrider that he had already massacred once, and their odd brand of shambling order had put the monstrosities between his forces and the settlement of Runeheim. The Lord Marshal was chomping at the bit to get back to the town.

Sir Ingvar was to take his force and move through the hills to the forests to the South. Word that the bastard Overturner had put them into a political bind… not un-artistically, at least, had reached them via a courier in the forum. Supplies, they had said, were coming from Overturner to secure a landbridge somewhere to their East in the yet uncharted areas of the local theater. How Vidar, the detestable cunt, had knowledge of this bridge was beyond him, but he’d found a way to force his actions almost immediately with Sven’s return to the North. The highborn snorts and spat noisily in disgust.

Sven, for his part, was to assist in the destruction of the undead horde encroaching on the settlement and allow the Lord Marshal to fall back and secure the town. Then he was to move further East to explore along the river to find this bridge he was to secure. It was a reasonable plan, if boring. With the inspection of the lines done, he shouted to Eda to bring around his horse. Already clad in his armor, it took two men to help settle him into his saddle, but already he was feeling better about the day. He gestured to the two figures tasked with the day-to-day of managing his troops, and calls were immediately given for the army to advance towards the shambling undead. They would wait at the tree line for the Lord Marshal and that Hothands fellow to strike their camp and join him. Perhaps he would alleviate his boredom with a playful attack to their flank. A… training exercise. Just to get the blood pumping. The idea amused him.

Sven wheeled his horse around and began riding up and down the length of his line, shouting to his men and joking as he passed. The troops liked him; but it was hard for soldiers not to like him. He was proper and noble when he needed to be, but he could drink most in the camp under a table, and knew more bawdy lyrics and course jokes than half the legion combined. The rank and file liked a little spit and dirt on their officers. He was just preparing to give the order to playfully encircle the firemages camp and begin sparing with the unprepared soldiers when a scout rode up, his horse in a lather with blood on his temple. The scout jerked his horse to a skidding stop and issued a distressed salute.

“My Lord, the town is under siege!” he panted, once his salute was acknowledged. Sven furrowed his brow. That seemed… unlikely. The only force they had been aware of within striking distance of Runeheim was the six hundred or so risen Karls, the stench of which wafted up after the scout like some horrid perfume.

“At ease, soldier. Take a breath,” he said, raising a calming hand to the scout whose name was escaping him. Lief? Erik? He couldn’t remember. “Start at the beginning, how does the town find itself under attack?”

The scout took a deep breath, which helped him find his center, before he began again.

“I was scouting out along the river to find the line of the dead things as ordered,” he began. Sven nodded patiently; he remembered issuing the order. “When on the horizon I noted the sails and pennants of ships crossing the river. Longboats, my lord. Dozens of them.”

Sven frowned again. That seemed… unlikely, though not impossible. The other side of the river had been difficult to scout or find a foothold in. Still… to cross through those unforgiving mountains, onto boats, across the river, land and lay an assault… whoever this Warlord was, they were talented.

“Do you know more?” he asked, rolling the situation around in his mind. The scout nodded, but didn’t seem pleased.

“When I saw the troops leaving the longboats, I rode closer. They moved to attack Runeheim, milord! The town itself!” he seemed in a near panic again. Sven raised a calming hand.

“What of the defenders?” he asked in that same placid tone. “What banners did you see? Think man, take your time and remember.”

“I saw the pennants of the Shadow Wall,” that was what the locals called Shadows of Nemesis organized under Sir Niven. “Sir Ingvar, Dame Solace, and someone I didn’t recognize. All of them were pushed out of the town and fell back to the hills, milord. The town is undefended!”

Sven raised a gauntleted hand to his chin and pondered for a moment.

“Carry this message on to the Lord Marshal’s forces,” he said after a few moments. “Tell whomever you find there that I will punch through this undead horde and carry on to the town. They can catch up when they finish striking their camps.”

The scout saluted and rode off, his horse thundering into the distance.

“Pushing through the dead without support will be hazardous, my lord,” a voice called from the horse next to him. Sven looked over to see one of his Commanders, Troels Hadvarson. A good man; he’d been with him for years. The grave features of the Bear Hide weren’t afraid, just aware of the peril. “Those dead aren’t simple. They hold their weapons with confidence and are unsettling to look upon. If there were just living Karls, that would be a tough battle. But as they are…?”

Sven shrugged, “We’ve little choice in the matter, Commander. Issue the orders, I want a brisk march to the enemy. I can smell them from here, and I’d like this done with.”

The Commander snapped a salute without further comment and began issuing the orders. Sven drew his sword and looked back to his line. Vengeance, the massive black stallion under him did a small excited side prance for a few steps. It could smell the unnatural terrors that they were about to engage, and it had no love for the idea. But it was also one that had been drilled from birth to obey. All it took was the gentle heel to the ribs, and the horse leapt towards the enemy. The roar of his men behind him rolled through the forest.

Ahead of them, the dead turned their vacant gaze towards the sound and formed up in surprisingly orderly ranks. They issued no commands that he could hear. They bellowed no challenges. The only sound from that side of the battlefield were the bloated flies and the click of armor. Of all the terrors of the undead, their echoing silence was the most unnerving.

The battle was thick and intense. The dead did not retreat, but rather fought until the very last of them were downed and dismembered. They had been tough and terrifying and not at all the bumbling ghouls he had cut his teeth on to the South. These had been touched by Sveas, may the good Lord smite her wretched essence back to whatever darkness had birthed her. Still, they had been rudderless. Their lines had held, but not responded well. Whatever witch had empowered them had abandoned them to their own devices. The angle responses of the bellowing Sven and his Commanders had easily outmaneuvered, overrun, and massacred the forces of Longstrider a second time. Covered in rotted blood and viscera, reeking of month old decay made fresh and sprayed across the bodies of his triumphant soldiers, they had been afforded no rest. Rather, they had marched directly on to the city without pause.

The intention had been to attack the Warlord from across the river before he could deal much damage to the innocent people of Runeheim. But, at the sight of the enraged Fenris forces cutting through the dead and barreling his direction, they had issued orders to fall back to their longboats and retreat across the river. Sven had reigned up his horse impotently, staring at the sails of the retreating ships just out of reach. He had no archers, and even if he had, he wasn’t sure they could have landed a shot against the wind coming off the sea. Sven grit his teeth and spat again. First from the frustration. Then a second time from the rotted stench coming off his armor.

“Secure the beach,” he snapped, irritated, to Troels. “And send a runner to Ingvar and Solace to return to town.”

The Commander snapped another salute and began issuing orders.

“And tell the men to wash their armor, this stench is unbearable,” he shouted to his retreating subordinate’s back. Long years of experience told him that this missed engagement would haunt him the rest of the season. He ground his teeth in rage, casting a final look to the retreating sails of the longboats before wheeling his stallion around and trotting back to town. If he and his men were going to be spending the next few months this close to town, he was going to find a proper drink and maybe a fuck to vent his rage. “And tell the Epoch to start burying these fucking bodies!”

The tent was a familiar space. Certainly, he’d spent enough time on campaigns over the years for it to be more of a home than whatever passed for his actual home these days. The well oiled canvas had a few patches here and there from travel pains, but was largely in good order. Sif was handy with a needle, and Svetlanka hand set up and torn down the large tent more times than either of them cared to remember.

The trappings of the tent were sparse. A set of folding chairs, a collapsible table, the armor stand, and a cot in the corner stacked high with skins and blankets. Outside, the cacophony of a victorious army was at work. Drinking and revelry were abounding. The cook fires were still high with spring offerings; a welcomed change from the dried rations of winter. Their scent was nearly enough to cover the smell of the battle. Blood and bowels always marked a battlefield, when it was fresh. But as the heat took it, the scent would change towards something even less pleasant.

Sven chuckled to himself and pushed himself up from the table, striding to the tent and pushing himself out into the daylight. Men had cordoned off a proper campsite, but it was really broken into two parts. The area immediately around his tent were the sworn men of Runeheim, newly anointed in battle and still a bit wobbly in their expected duties. Ultimately the weaker of the two forces, but the more loyal. The second area was a bit less orderly, but rapidly growing in the afterglow of victory. These were the Karls; fierce warriors of the North drawn to victory as shit drew flies. Half of the assembled force had defected from the failing Hadvar Longstrider forces. Such was the way of soldiers of fortune; when things grew boring or the spoils thin, they would disappear in the night as shadows in the noonday sun. The old warrior let out a sigh, but still smiled happily.

“Eda!” he bellowed, looking about for the diminutive squire recently assigned to his command. She came up from behind a tent a few rows down, wiping her mouth and looking ill. The older fellow squinted at her. “Bit green around the gills?”

She nodded and opened her mouth to speak, but Sven waved her off. He found her wide-eyed trepidation charming, if overly naïve.

“We’ll talk inside, I need you to take a letter to Sir Ingvar,” he said, holding the flap open for her and gesturing to the writing kit on the table. The pages were blank, and clearly he intended her to write his dictations.

“Yes, sir,” she muttered, pulling quill and inkwell from the box. Sven turned his eyes back out on the field until he recognized one of the fellows from earlier.

“Lief,” he bellowed, pointing to a fellow who jumped in a startled fashion and scrambled towards the commander, bowing. “Has anyone found Hadvar Longstrider yet?”

Lief shook his head, “I don’t think so, sir.”

Sven gave a considering nod before speaking.

“Double the men looking for him. If his corpse is recovered, I want his bow and head,” he said. Lief gave a nod.

“And if he is alive, sir?” he asked, taking mental notes.

“Put him to the question. I want to know everything there is to know about this Lionslayer or killer or whatever he calls himself,” he said. “I believe Harold finds the work rewarding. You’ll find him in my kitchen deployment.”

Without further word, Sven slipped inside the tent again, catching the barest hint of perfume on the air. A slow smile set about his lips as he eyed the skins adorning his cot. When he noticed Eda looking at him expectantly, he cleared his throat and began pacing.

“Sir Ingvar,” he began as Eda scratched on the parchment. The task seemed to have grounded her a bit, though she still smelled faintly of sick and disappointment. “My force is currently East of Runeheim, along with those of the fire wizard and Lord Marshal. After our forces went their separate ways, I engaged Longstrider twice, and have decimated his forces. Casualties are negligible. As Runeheim lacks the infrastructure to support prisoners of war, I have instructed survivors to be put to the sword.”

There was a pause in the scratching along the paper as Eda faltered with the order he had given. She had been present when he issued it, of course, and she hadn’t seemed to care for it now either.

“Something wrong, Squire?” he asked in an amused, if cool, tone.

“It seems… unnecessary to kill these troops. Where is the honor in it?” she looked up at him with too big eyes. There was almost a plea to them that would have moved a younger man. Alas, for her, the grizzled figure before her had seen entirely too much blood to be swayed by the tears of youth.

“There is no honor in war, Eda,” he said. Frowning a moment, he settled in the other chair to be more at her eye level. It was important to educate squires in their knightly duties. “Honor is for duels and skald’s poems. We won’t sully ourselves by boasting of this victory in grotesque terms, but killing the enemy is always the objective in war.”

She frowned a bit and seemed unconvinced. Sven nods, and continued.

“Let us consider a moment,” he said. “Our enemy numbered roughly 800 fighting men and women, not to speak to their scouts, cooks, travel slaves and so forth. Of those 800, at least 500 lay dead in the field just an hour’s walk from here. The rest have fled or been wounded or joined with my forces here. Of the wounded and surrendered, reports have it at just over a hundred men and women who are enemies of the Throne.”

He cleared a small section of the table, so that he could draw with his finger and tap to elucidate his points.

“Runeheim has no prisons. Their stockyard is a literal tree with a chain wrapped about it. They are discussing if there are sufficient prospects to support the war effort through the winter. Further, I saw no priests or secular doctors in town, though I heard rumor of one,” he said, his tone growing more patient as she paled out before him. “Such as it is, these prisoners have wounds that will go untreated simply because we lack the capacity to heal them. They would be chained outdoors for want of a prison or camp. They would suffer from starvation from lack of harvest.”

Pausing a moment to consider if she was appreciating what he was saying. She nodded, but seemed hesitant.

“Our force will not be able to move if we are securing over a hundred warriors. And they would cast our own ranks in chaos if they managed to break free,” he said. “Our own force is made up of citizens that were farmers and merchants a few weeks ago. Hardly trained to the task of prison warden. And the rest of our forces are their former comrades-in-arms; not the most trustworthy wardens, I think you’d agree.”

For a long moment, the two were silent as she fidgeted with the quill.

“Can’t we just… release them?” she asked. It wasn’t a timid voice she used, but it was quiet.

“And give them a chance to raise up arms against us in the future? Seems foolish to me,” he said.

“How are we to win the North over if we slaughter their men?” she asked a bit more forcefully. He smiled.

“It is not my job to win the populace,” he explained. “It is my job to disarm and emasculate them to such a degree that the thought of rebellion sickens their stomach. Anything beyond that is a matter for the clergy.”

Sven clapped her shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze as if that settled the matter. Regardless of her mouth opening to voice further protest, Sven rose to his feet and continued the dictation.

“Let’s see, where was I… ah yes, put the prisoners to the sword,” he nods and begins pacing, lacing his fingers behind his back as he does so. When he speaks again, it is the bold voice of dictation, from a man expecting his words to be captured. “I haven’t the time to construct crosses, else I would begin to line the roads with the crucified fallen. Not that there is much in the way of roads out here. Dispose of yours how best you see fit, though I imagine that Sister Solace will want to issue words over them or attempt to convert or liberate the thralls. When time is less pressing, we will formulate a plan to handle prisoners of war more efficiently in the future. Perhaps, if Sister Solace feels the pangs of guilt at the treatment of those laid low, she will utilize her forces into more of a prison camp managing system and we won’t have to worry about it further.”

The elder pauses a moment in thought, that wasn’t a bad idea. Perhaps that would solve both problems at once… Something to explore later.

“We haven’t been able to secure the body of Longstrider, though I will know directly if he survived the conflict. Named men taken will be put to the question before execution. We should see about developing our logistical support, and perhaps see if we can incentivize some of the locals to collect the weapons of the fallen for use within our forces. I expect the forces of the Lord Marshall to retreat back to Runeheim at the first opportunity, but I will meet with the leader of the Fire Wizards to see if it is their intention to continue on with us or fall back with the rest of the troops,” he said, continuing his pacing. “I expect a full report within a fortnight on the state of the farmers. Yours in triumph, Lord Bryjar, honorifics, and so forth. Dictated, but not read.”

He gestures in a ‘so-on’ way. Waiting until Eda finishes the letter, before signing the bottom and sealing it with his signet ring.

“Take the evening to settle yourself, Squire Eda,” he said, clapping her on the back again. “Then I expect you to deliver that without delay to Sir Ingvar. Travel along the road the army has passed. There will be some scavengers among the dead, but they won’t be trouble if you stay mounted. Longstrider might be in the wood, or some of his straggling soldiers that avoided capture. If you come across any resistance, return, don’t engage.”

Sven offers her a smile and formal nod of dismissal. Eda, to her credit, only hesitated a moment before saluting and exiting the tent. The old warrior smiled as she retreated before turning his eyes to the sheets of his cot and their sweet, guilt laden perfume. Whatever sweet heaven might be promised to humanity beyond this life, it wasn’t for him. He would just have to find his own heaven here, regardless of the protests of his soul.

Clemens stepped out from the tavern into the mid-afternoon sun. He had spent most of the day listening to the din of others pleasant conversations while relaxed into a chair. Eventually his legs had become stiff and he decided they needed to be stretched even if only for a brief stoll.

The pleasant breeze carried the subtle scent of spring on it. Clemens noticed that the muddy paths had mostly dried out despite the rain the evening prior. He chuckled a little remembering how many including himself had found themselves sliding all over the place, their boots caked in that muck. Looking up he noticed the brook that carved its way past the tavern. He could hear the stream gently careening over the smooth stones and felt called to the soothing sound.

A small bench sat near the brook. “Ah, a perfect place to sit and reflect.” Clemens thought to himself. Gently he lifted his cloak out from under him and sat facing the brook and the woods that lay just beyond. While Clemens greatly enjoyed the comforts of more developed and populated towns there was something about these less settled and developed places. A certain charming effect from being closer to nature.

Although he did not forget that this place was also the edge of a warzone. On this thought Clemens began to ponder why he had chosen to come to this place, to Runeheim. He was certainly of no use in battle and not a particularly savvy merchant or craftsman. He was certainly was not like Brother Manfred or Rolf, both whose skill at arms had seen them triumph over branded men of the Ironblood clan. He wasn’t quite like Victor whose resourcefulness could outfit an army or quite like the conviction and persuasiveness of Lady Vayne who managed to negotiate a lucrative deal out of that Hestrali captain, Tommaso. He certainly didn’t have the courage of that Dunnick miner who survived an encounter with a ghost and lived to tell the tale.

What could he do that would make the lives of people in Runeheim better? Surely he could be an educator, teaching those around him how to read and write and perhaps even a bit about the history of the corner of the world they now occupy, but that seems like a far off priority in a place like this. Although he was certainly capable of bringing people joy and inspiration through story, a small comfort to perhaps ease the stresses that weighed on folks hearts and minds.

His train of thought was interrupted by a loud creak from the bench beneath him. Standing up he looked at the bench and noticed the toll the wet weather had taken on its wooden structure. “If only wood could speak, I wonder what tales you could tell” Clemens sighed.

Although a thought suddenly entered his mind. A bench was a simple thing to construct. As a child he often went with his father to collect kindling and wood for fires when it was time to make camp. It wasn’t much of a stretch to think collecting wood to build simple comforts like sturdy benches and chairs wouldn’t be outside his of ability if he put his mind to it.

Perhaps he should speak to Victor, surely there were things that people needed that he couldn’t provide. That would certainly be a way for Clemens to contribute in a more practical way. Though he would need to learn more about how the people in Runeheim live from day to day, the routines they keep and the rituals they use to ensure their continued prosperity. Xavier seemed to know a thing a two about that, maybe Clemens should speak to him about the things ordinary folk need. Perhaps this was what his father meant when he said “There’s only so much you can learn from books”.

Clemens looked into the forest and thought to himself. “Perhaps this is the opportunity I’ve been seeking all along.” As a child he had loved grand stories about heroes and the great evils they vanquished, but perhaps his place was at the side of the people who live smaller, but no less important lives. To learn how they live and thrive, and to tell their tales to all who would listen. But, it also couldn’t hurt to to learn how to harness the gifts of nature and turn them into simple comforts for kith and kin.