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Trusting Again

Marius drinks from his cup before staring at me with a look that I can assume is trying to read my soul.

“Leonce, the conversation we had last night with your friend was so interesting. He seemed like he knew a lot. How did you come across someone like that?”

I tell him how I was ambushed near his home after I fled from the Njord invasion here, how he saved me, how I almost poked him with a firestick when I woke up in his home because I was so sure he was going to kill me, how he nursed me back to health without asking for anything.

“Sounds like he’s an important friend to you.”

I chuckle at the word friend. For a moment I want to express all my feelings about the man to anyone that would hear them but I stop myself. I used to hate when people got mushy with feelings and I don’t intend to be one of them now. At least not to other people.

“He is someone very dear to me.” I reply with a tone that I hope sounds final.

Marius seems content with that response as he goes back to taking care of the tavern customers.

————————————————-

[[Two years ago]]

Something’s off today Leonce thought

Leonce tried to get a look at Alistair’s face but he couldn’t read any emotion as the man checked his ankle two months after Leonce had woken up in his cabin.

The first few weeks had been rough, Leonce trying to escape while Alistair was away. Once he got cornered by wolves right outside of Alistair’s land and had to call for help. Alistair was there so quickly that Leonce wondered how that was possible. Another time he got further but was caught in a blizzard and nearly froze to death before thankfully Alistair was able to find him. This rose to suspicion, how did Alistair knew where he was at all times while he wasn’t even in the cabin?

“It’s actually quite easy to follow your tracks…” Alistair had commented bemused after Leonce had angrily asked him when brought back from his second failed escape attempt, “you ARE dragging your injured foot through snow or mud, it leaves a trail.”

Slowly he started to trust Alistair. He figured that if someone had given him his house (and bed) to recuperate…they were one of those noble idiots that were trying to make everyone’s lives better. Leonce had met them before, and he wasn’t opposed to taking their generosity as long as they didn’t ask for anything in return.

They had a routine, Alistair would come in the morning (where he went during the night, Leonce didn’t know nor cared), checked his bandages, they would have breakfast and Alistair would write from his desk. Sometimes Leonce would ask questions, not anything that invaded the privacy of the man that helped him. Just questions of where he was, or what was the closest city. So far he hadn’t been able to check if the man had been right but something behind his answers told him Alistair was being truthful.

But there was something about today though, the air felt heavy with words unspoken.

Leonce was snapped from his thoughts as Alistair came over, a gentle hand picking up his ankle and inspecting it closely. Alistair’s eyes were furrowed, something he did when he was thinking hard about something.

Finally he let out a drawn out breath.

“Looks like it’s finally healed…” his voice sounded somber but the boy had no reason to believe Alistair felt that way “I’m guessing that you can be out of here by tomorrow if you want, though I would recommend another day…that way you can go into town and get things for your journey back home.”

Leonce felt his stomach drop. Leave? He hadn’t thought about that in more than a month. The older man’s company had been so…comforting that the idea hadn’t resurfaced again since his last escape attempt.

“Oh…right…” he messed with the hem of the shirt Alistair had let him borrow, staring intently at his hands. He hated that there was disappointment in his voice and could feel the man’s stare on him.

Alistair cleared his throat as he let go of the boy’s ankle, patting it softly before going to his desk to write.

The silence was tense, they could both feel it.

“I’ve never asked you where you were going, but I’m curious now that you’ll be leaving.”

Two months ago Leonce would have answered with a snark remark and refused to give him any information. But time had passed and trust had been gained little by little. Nevertheless he was surprised with how much ease he was able to answer the man.

“Away from Stragosa, possibly back to my country. There were people following me, just wanted to run.” he pulled the covers, around himself…feeling comfortable in the warm and realizing with disappointment that soon that comfort would be swapped for uncertainty. “I never really thought where I was going, just that I needed to leave that city.”

Alistair stopped writing, and Leonce waited to see if the man had something he wanted to say. If there was an idea though, he kept quiet about it and resumed writing. There was a small smile on his face, barely seen.

“It’s been nice having you around, Leonce.” he glanced up from his parchment, a true smile now on his face “but I understand the need to run, we all have our demons after all.”

Why was his heart beating so fast? There were no words that came out, the Cappacian merely nodded silently and pulled the covers over his face…trying to sleep comfortably one last night and trying to hide the heat that was coming on his cheeks at the moment.

—–

It took Leonce two more days to decide to leave. He kept putting it off, lying about his ankle was not feeling up to travelling yet. He was sure Alistair could see through his lies but indulged him anyway…something Leonce was grateful for.

There was a constant struggle in his mind-

One side was telling him that what he had here was special…reminded him of Ciro, his father figure. Hadn’t his best moments been with Ciro? Hadn’t these last four months felt like a weird dream? When was the last time Leonce had felt safe before meeting Alistair? When was the last time that he had felt this comfortable with anyone? Or rather when was the last time anyone had been this kind to him?

The other side was more insistent though. It was the side that reminded him how he had trusted Bouchard, a noble of Stragosa and what had happened then. Bouchard had broken that wall first, Leonce had grown an idiotic sense of loyalty towards the Capacian noble and that had ended up in the worst two nights of his life. He remembered calling for his lord and not seeing him come to his aid. He didn’t want to have that feeling again, to feel betrayed and alone.

The latter side had won in the end, and he packs food into a bag given to him by Alistair.

He walks towards the door, aware of Alistair’s silence and for a moment he wants to ask if he can stay. But the idea of rejection keeps him from opening his mouth. Alistair’s gaze feels burning on the back of his neck, he wants to ask Alistair if he is sad to see him go but doesn’t. It’s none of his business, and part of him thinks it’s maybe better not knowing.

Standing at the front door, he turns around to face the older man. There is a knot in his throat that he’s trying hard to ignore.

“I…” he clears his throat, trying not to look at Alistair or else he thinks his resolve to leave will waver “…..thank you…”

It’s not something that comes out of his mouth very often, but it feels strangely satisfying to say it to the man in front of him.

“I was glad I was able to help you…” and again there’s honesty in Alistair’s tone “If you are ever around these parts, my home is always open to you. I rather enjoyed your company…”

He nods, his heart beating fast as he turns away without another word. If he doesn’t leave now, he knows he won’t. But he can’t stay, he can’t be vulnerable again. Leonce walks without turning back, knows the cabin has disappeared from sight as he enters the forest.

“On the road again…” he whispers, and the hopelessness that escapes him takes him by surprise. So do the tears that he didn’t even know were already streaming down his face. Why now? He leans against a tree, hiding his face in his hands. These had been the best two months of his life, why was he so eager to end it? Was cautiousness really worth being unhappy his whole life?

He looked up at the sky, remembering a specific moment in time with Ciro that he hadn’t thought of in a long time.

~“Are you happy Leonce?”~

~The small young boy nods as he cooks a fish in front of a small fire. “I wasn’t before, but I am now.”~

~“This is what we live for, to prolong the good times as much as possible and to remember them when bad times try to suffocate us. Don’t seclude yourself from what makes you happy. Remember that.”~

He’s a mess now, tears seem a downpour and he’s not sure how to stop them. He wanted to be happy for once, wasn’t he always saying how selfish he was? This is the selfish thing he wanted above all, and damn it all he deserved to be selfish after the last year in that cursed city.

He doesn’t realize he’s running until he is gasping for air.

—–

The rain is heavy, sound soothing outside. Yet it somehow sounds hollow today.

There is a knock on the door and it startles Alistair as he drops the quill he’s been writing with. He moves cautiously towards the sound, unsure of what he will find at the other side.

His breath hitches as he opens the door and glances at the soaking boy staring up at him.

There’s nothing to be said, he simply smiles and moves aside to let Leonce in. The boy steps in without a word, panting and soaking wet from the rain outside.

Alistair closes the door as Leonce takes off his backpack and throws it in a forgotten corner.

The rain doesn’t sound so hollow anymore

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The Only Two Certain Things in Life

He turns to her absent-mindedly, mumbling something about wine, and goes in. The treasury door is heavy, and closing it requires him to strain at the ornate wrought-iron ring. Huffing in – obviously illogical – annoyance at himself, he steps across the carved wooden desk and past the other furniture, eager to finally sit. There is a mouse on the upholstered armchair behind the desk, eyeing him curiously. He can feel his temper rising. “Shush, you. Begone.” The mouse skitters away, and he almost flings himself into the seat, grimacing at the recent battle injury twinging in his left shoulder as he does so. “Idiot,” he mutters, the annoyance returning with a hot flash of embarrassment. “Commanding troops in the field as if you knew what you were doing. Too slow to even know what’s going on until it’s over. Clueless about formations. And all because your commander went back to Verunheim with Edwyn.” He covers his eyes with his hand. Minutes pass.

The knocking is getting more insistent. It takes several attempts for him to rouse; grimacing, he opens the door to let her in. She has changed – for the better – and rests the goblet and carafe on her hip while eyeing him warily.

“One of those nights, is it? Will you require the large decanter, Lord.. Volksnand?”

With a curt nod, he motions vaguely. “Just leave it there.”

She delicately places the wine on the desk, having to push aside a sheaf of papers to make room within his reach. “These look recent, Lord Volksnand. Did you place them on your desk sometime last night, maybe? In the darker hours of the evening, thinking you would get to them early today?”

He looks up, startled. Yes, that he had. But now an entire day had gone, inspecting pig farms and trying to figure out where Stragosa’s money was going, and despairing at the state of the books.

“I meant to look at them tonight, but thank you for your..” he attempts a smile and realizes it’s a smirk, “efforts at assistance.” He waves her off before she can say more. “You have served me well, and you will be rewarded. You may leave.”

Looking at him appraisingly, she pours some wine then holds on to the wine bottle as she leans over him. “When you start to feel better, let me know. You are focusing too much on being paranoid and you do much better when you don’t look this way.” As he covers his eyes again, she waits for an answer, but none comes. Shrugging, she turns and leaves quietly, door swinging shut behind her.

Time passes and he needs to refill his glass several times before mustering the strength to lean forward and pick up the first parchment. He smiles at the name on the outside, but it quickly turns into a frown at the words inside. Groaning, he throws himself back into his seat and rings the bell, opening the door as he does so. Shortly after, his chamberlain enters.

“Take down the following note from me and have it sent to Lady Gale and Sir Sanguine.”

He coughs, clearing his throat, and reaches for his cup.

“From the desk of Lord Emich von Volksnand, in the year of the lion 604, under the benevolent and watchful eyes of Benalus, in solemn fulfilment of my pious duty as the Master of Coin of the City of Stragosa, duly appointed by the hand of Reichsgrafin Sir Hezke von Heidrich, long may she reign.”

He pauses. “I’ll have to recite this every single time until the letterhead arrives? You can’t remember it? Or pre-write it? Fine. FINE. Next. No, don’t write this part down. Write down the next part. Yes, starting now.”

A moment passes as he rubs his eyes.

“As to the matter of the Night Lord’s Feast that you have been arranging and for which I have helped provide a guest list, and the requisite – and priceless, not easily replenished – materials from the Treasury:

Please remove my name from the guest list. I would like to address some of the assembled, but will not participate myself in the feast. In my place, please add Dame Khorshid, the feared warlord of the Indra’tariq, whose contributions to safeguarding Stragosa,” he pauses, touching hands to temples and closing his eyes, “far outstrip my own. If another spot becomes available, please consider adding Lady Shamara of the Indr’atma, whose efforts to fix malingering issues in Stragosa and overall contributions are..” he clenches his teeth but continues speaking, albeit strained, “highly admirable.”

He pauses.

“It probably does NOT need to be mentioned too broadly to the attendees at the feast – or indeed the general populace – that I nobly sacrificed my own spot at the table for a Sha’Ra warlord. Even though we both commanded troops in battle. I am sure dwelling on it too much would come across as unnecessary glorification. It wouldn’t do at all. I would hate it so. It would be most… upsetting to hear others praising my virtue.”

Walking over to the chamberlain, he hesitates, then resumes talking.

“Capitalize or underline the ‘not’ in the first sentence and make sure there are three dots between ‘most’ and ‘upsetting.’ Also, Khorshid is spelled K-H-O.. Oh, you have a cheat sheet? Good. Who? Yes, she’s the one I’ve talked about befo.. wait, no, that is none of your business. How dare you. We will talk about this later. Now, the next letter.”

The wine glass is starting to look bare, and he eyes the rapidly-emptying carafe with studied disinterest. Once the wine is gone, he will have to send for her again, and she will probably just tell him off once more. Curious.

“Now, private reply in a sealed envelope to recipient “R” as per the standard code book. Enclose their original letter and ensure both are destroyed after reading.”

Volksnand walks behind his desk, downs the remainder of his glass, and places his hands on the table surface.

“My kind and attentive friend. I appreciate your concerns and that you bring such scurrilous rumors to my attention at once. I wish to be clear. At no point have I refused to ‘release Spice’ from the Stragosa Treasury in my capacity as Master of Coin, and I have not neglected certain women despite my prior claims to the contrary. To the contrary, I have in fact followed Sir Hezke’s desire to support an official feast and am highly agreeable to reward those citizens of Stragosa who have helped in the recent battles, helped improve the city, or provided other vital services to the Throne. At no point have I opposed having even the most inferior and debased cultures and their warped religions participate in the feast, as long as the practitioners of those abhorrent, vile practices have improved our city. To suggest otherwise is a slanderous blood libel the likes of which I will fight with the full force of Fafnir’s fulgurous fury.”

He looks up and catches the chamberlain’s expression, then leans back.

“Change the words after ‘fight’ to a single word — ‘vigorously.’ Then add the following — ‘Given that we have essentially no Spice left in the Treasury, and are dangerously low on Coin, I am primarily concerned with re-filling Stragosa’s coffers and planning prudently for the long winter ahead. We can feast fully once the dreams of spring have turned into sunlight and sprouting.’ Yes, that is it. Deliver unsigned.”

Volksnand paces back and forth in front of his desk. “Next: to Corvo di Talmerin, Master of Coin to the City of Silbran.”

He takes a deep breath.

“I intend to agree with your proposal and we shall discuss at forum. However, as to the matter of taxation, for now I intend to uphold the taxation system that was implemented by Master Bakara during his short-lived tenure as Master of Coin in Stragosa. Most of the levies have not so far been .. uh.. levied.. Yes, rewrite that. Have not so far been raised, and as such I intend to give it at least another forum before seeking to make changes to it. Now, as you are not from Gotha yourself, you may not be familiar with this core principle of House Fafnir – a principle that has made the house great. It is a principle of conservatism – indeed, a principle of prudence. It is known by the people as the parable of the moat. When a man is appointed or rises to a position, they wish to improve things. Inevitably, they have ideas. Let us assume for instance that they see a moat or a portcullis. The reformer – let us call him the progressive, who wishes to bring progress to his lands – goes gaily up to it and says, “I don’t see the use of this; let us clear it away.” However, the prudent man – nay, perhaps even the man possessed of uncommon wisdom – retorts: “If you don’t see the use of it, I certainly won’t let you clear it away. Go away and think. Then, when you can come back and tell me that you do see the use of it, I may allow you to destroy it.” This indeed is how I believe the matter of Bakara’s tax code for Stragosa is to be viewed. I am not yet wise enough to seek to destroy that which was created by a man who was here for longer, whose hair was whiter, and thus who was arguably possessed of relative local knowledge that I do not – yet! – possess. Regardless of his other many obvious inferiorities. For Sir Hezke would not have appointed a fool. Certainly not twice. Undersigned yours Lord et cetera.”

The carafe is empty. He hadn’t noticed it at all. The remainder of the wine swishes slowly around the wide goblet, leaving a lazy, thick trail along the side. What a curious colour indeed. Yet he cannot help but feel pleased, almost as if wrapped in a warm, slightly damp blanket, sticking tightly to his ribs, back, and legs. Where was his sword again? Ah, yes. What a glorious feeling to run it across his arm, shaving off hairs with a razor-sharp blade.

“You aren’t done yet,” the words come. Thickly, distantly, almost as if spoken by another man. But the chamberlain turns and picks up his quill expectantly.

“Hello mother. Lady mother. High-born lady mother in the castle. Your favourite son here. You’ve been expecting my letter, yes? Here is it. She left. The woman left. I felt close. So close. But she left, and didn’t want me to come along. That was great. No, I didn’t try everything. You know full well I didn’t. And yes, I could’ve sent her home with … a gift. I didn’t do that either. TRIPLE ELLIPSES BEFORE GIFT, MORON. No, I didn’t do that either. But look, I have a different gift for you. I give you, dot dot dot, four enemies. No, I haven’t stayed out of trouble. And no, none of them are from Sha’Ra, despite what you may have heard from a letter last year when I hilariously misspoke at the wrong time and almost got turned into a jug of piss by a wizard. They have them here, you know? Magicians. Anyway, as I was saying, I have made four enemies. There is the slayer, who means me ill simply because they see through me without even trying. The stag, whose hide I prize and whose antlers I shall mount on my castle walls. The stiletto, bared in the open yet unaware of its true strength. And finally, finally, the serpent, its poison dripping ever more sweetly. Many of my friends are gone or dead, mother, and my enemies are in ascendance.

Signed, your devoted son, full name and title, signet ring, red wax. It’s in the hollow book, third from the left on the middle shelf, fifth volume in “The Great Houses of Gotha,”’

He rises unsteadily and takes the finished letter from his chamberlain. “Take a few extra coppers on your way out. Get your daughter something nice, yes? Something to remind her of home. We.. you can all go back soon, one way or another.”

With the door thudding shut, Volksnand looks at the envelope. Folded once, it fits neatly into the brazier. A single hot coal from the fireplace ignites it with a quiet huff, black specks dancing their way towards the high ceiling as his eyes follow their ascent.

“More wine.”

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Budded Truth

-I should tell him.-

Stepping outside she snuggly wraps the scarf around her, feeling the brisk air of early autumn nipping at the town. She inhales and begins walking down the street- opening two jars, one empty and one full of rose petals. Grabbing a few petals she then places them into her mouth.

-Should I tell him?-

She chews the petals slowly and nods at those nearby. After passing Florence then holds up the empty jar and allows the tinted liquid to leave her mouth, swallowing the rest of the flower. As she continues her journey she would replace the petals and repeat the process, filling the jar with the rosey color. It is around this time of year she finds herself with less to do. The season of growth fading.

-I should tell him.-

Florence stops at the doors of a church and swallows the last bit of petals. She takes hold of the handle and walks inside. The room is warm and silent- few people are seated or kneeling in prayer. She quietly takes a seat on one of the empty pews and closes her eyes-mimicking those around her.

“Excuse me.”

Florence stirs from her thoughts as a hand is placed on her shoulder, a priest stands before her. His tone is hushed as to not disrupt the prayers of others.

“Are you alright?”

He gestures a finger towards the corner of his mouth tracing down his chin. She lets out a quiet, “Oh” and scrubs her chin with her scarf.

“Yes,” she whispers back at him, “a little bit of dye.” she points to the jar of liquid in her basket for him to see her truth. His gaze follows and he briefly nods, releasing her shoulder.

-Tell him.-

“Wait.” her voice is less of a whisper as the priest had already begun to move away. He halts and returns, “Yes?”

“Confessions are private?”

His eyes close as he bobs his head.

“I, uh, would like to make a confession.”

She stands from the pew and follows the priest towards the back room. Her hands clasped together- clutching hard at the handles of her basket. Knowing whatever she says will only alleviate some of her stresses but will never help her wicked guilt.

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Love and Duty 9: Horrors of War

In a forest clearing, the knight watched as Captain Franco moved to another pair of wounded marines. Like many in the camp, the soldiers were slumped on the ground, their despair visible even from where the knight stood. Her own appearance must have been just as pitiful with her once bright heraldry torn to shreds, pieces of leather armor barely holding together and face caked in grime and dried blood.

From an outside observer, this scene would look more like a refugee camp than the site of an experienced army. No tents had been setup for the men and women were too weary from the consecutive battles and following route that they couldn’t raise the energy to assemble more than a few lean-tos for the many wounded. With a great internal motivational effort, the knight located a piece of only relatively dirty cloth to wipe some of the grime from her face. After smearing off what she cold, the knight made her way to the captain who happened to be near the center of the camp.

“Ascoltami, soldati of House Scordato, il no, my fratelli e sorelle in arms! As I walked the camp, I see in your eyes the same fear that would take me from the horrors we fought on this day. We must not forget that we might have lost many of our comrades and friends this day but we blooded the great enemy. Just like we did during the battle of Tusk Groove. For today we stood, fought and died not for personal glory nor riches but for the sake of a greater humanity. Today was not a defeat but a victory against the taint that plagues this land. We fight for the sake of our glorious empire! We fight for the dream that Holy Benalus gave his very life so that we may be here this day to build a greater, purer world!”

With practiced skill, she drew her sword.

“Do not give into the enslaving fear and bloodlust of Kuarl for I swear this to each of you here and now my amici. I, Dana Isabella Scordato, will see that we avenge the fallen.”

She had not expected cheers nor did she receive any but she could tell that the air of dread suffocating the camp had begun to lift. In time, her soldiers would begin to forget the horrors of this day and return to their dice, cards and drinking games. With a quick nod to Captain Franco, Isabella left to take care of a familial matter.

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Black Bard Journal 4

Roger Black Bard Journal 4

Setting: very late at night at the Black Pistol Inn
Some hours earlier Roger and his young minstrel friend Claude heard performances by local bards and poets. They are only patrons left in the tavern. Roger is finishing up a page of lyrics.

“Roger, what are you writing? You seemed to be in a trance during the last performance.”

“Well… ze Night Lord’s Feast eez coming up, an’ I’ve been tinking about someting new. Zat bard wis ze story of heez dead parent inspire me. I have dis music in my ‘ead a long time and now I ‘ave ze story to go wis it… an’… Violá!”

“That’s a new song? May I see it?”

“But of course.”

The tavern is deathly quiet as Claude reads the Black Bard’s latest composition. Upon finishing it young Claude looks ashen and speaks hesitantly.

“My friend… I know you have a… shall we say… darker sense of things than I have… but this… this is the darkest piece I’ve ever read. I think I want to cry.”

“Eef ze piece move you, zen I am pleased.”

“But… why do you want me to feel sad? I thought you cared for me.”

“Oh, oh, oh”, laughed the Black Bard, “Oh, but I absolutely do! Perhaps you need to see ze deeper meaning of zis story. Tell me what you see.”

“I see it opens with a reference to a king and his soldiers on a quest, or conquest, to unite various countries. They all die, whether they were good or bad, and are laid into their graves.”

“Oui.”

“And the refrain is about a dance they do, the Danse Macabre. What does that mean?”

“Eet eez ze Dance of Death. Ze dance we all make in ze end.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Read on. What else do you see?”

“Then there’s a bishop and his Templars who fight against heretics, apparently with some success.”

“An’ what ‘appen to zem?”

“They all die.”

“Oui.”

“And do the Dance of Death too.”

“Read on.”

“Then you write of a cruel and heartless merchant who dies and then his widow uses his wealth to make amends to all the people he wronged in life.”

“An’ what ‘appen to zem?”

“They both do the… Dance of Death.”

“Oui.”

“Then there’s a peasant woman who is always afraid, but pretends to have a happy life.”

“An’ zen?”

“She… kills herself?”

“Oui.”

“Roger, this is a horrible song! I don’t understand!”

“Read on to ze end.”

Young Claude takes a moment to gather strength, and continues.

“You have a hungry beggar who gets sick and dies alone in a pile of debris. No one notices he’s died and he doesn’t receive any funeral rites. His spirit… can’t be free…”

“An’ yet?”

“He too dances the Dance of Death.”

“An’ finally?”

“You have a happy innocent child drown in a river… and…”

Young Claude’s eyes begin to well up again, his face wet with streaming tears as he reads the last stanza again.

“Ze child too dance wit death, no?”

“But… this song says that nothing matters! It says it doesn’t matter who you are or what you do, we all die in the end. I don’t understand. Are you saying… nothing matters in life at all?”

“Au contraire, mon frère. Eez zat all you take from ze lyric? Nutting matter, eh?

Young Claude composes himself, wiping his eyes and looking intently at the tearstained page.

“Maybe it’s saying… we all are doomed to the grave eventually… but…”

The Black Bard smiled cryptically, quietly proud of his young music friend as if he could see the wheels turning inside the younger bard’s head.

“Ohh… maybe it means, we are all the same in one way, no matter what position we hold in this life.”

“An’ zo…?”

“Maybe we could all be a little kinder to each other, while we still live and breathe?”

“Yes, I tink zo. I tink zat eez exactamente what eet mean. You see?”

“Wow…”

“Zo… now you like?”

“I’m moved, yes, but I think I’ll enjoy the one about the Mother Pheasant Plucker a little better.

FIN

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Bjorn: The Fall

He didn’t know why he had left, one morning he woke up and felt a powerful pull on his bones calling him home. quickly he had taking all of his worldly goods and threw them in a bag on his back after a few short goodbyes was away. He had walked to Portofino and bartered a passage till the end of the river, from there he had hugged the coast north till the mountains had rose before him. Then he climbed the rugged mountains using at first deer trails and streams to guide him up the dangerous ridges, higher and higher and more north he climb till at times he was clinging on the sides mountains with his fingertips all the while the feeling in his bones pulling him harder and harder north.

After 3 weeks of grueling place he crossed the border of Njordr, but the pull was just as strong. Bjorn had hit a plateau and was thankful for the short break of flatness. Bjorn was collecting food and other supplies for his continued journey, when he realized that he wasn’t alone anymore. A large pack of dire wolves had found their next meal when they first caught the Ironbreakers scent, and was quickly closing the distance, so he did what any sane man of the north would do, He ran.

Crashing through the undergrowth and the fallen pine needles he could see the flanking members of the pack on his left and right as the main body of the beast closed in on his flank. he could hear their many feet gliding along the forest floor and their hot breath on the high mountain air pressing into his back and for a split second he almost could swear that he heard laughter coming from the pack. He could tell that a clearing was up ahead and was hoping that in an open space he could at least have a small chance of scaring off the pack after killing a few of it members, but to his shock an horror he realized that the pack had been guiding him to their killing ground this entire time, a cliff were a ravine dropped into a valley after hundreds of feet of steep cliff.

Getting to the edge and looking over he turned around and with a grimace, drew his axe. “time to make myself a fine wolf blanket for the winter” he said to himself, seeing the dozens of hungry eyes in the woods drawing need and knowing their was no where else to go he prepared for this fight and the last fight at the gates. He raised his shield and yelled as the wolves charged the very first one leaped at his throat but Bjorn raised his shield just in time to see the large wolf lowering its held to crash its full weight into the blow shoving him past the edge and in the frantic move he grasped the edge of the cliff and with all this might and tried to pull himself up. He had managed to get his head back over the edge when he thought he saw something moving in the woods a large as the great ship that had taken him down the river, then the earth he so desperately clinging to gave way and gravity took over.

With shock and horror knowing it was all over he felt the first blow from the fall then an endless procession of twisting and falling landing on rocks and being caught for a moment by trees but carried by his weight and speed, spinning and spinning, the glint of a stream at the bottom the ravine catching his eye for a moment before being replaced by a pine in his line of site that he cracked his head on. the world when white and still he fell. The color and sound returned to him as the spinning started to slow down then he hit with full force the bottom of the valley with a crash of metal and meat.

Bjorn didn’t move and wondered how many things he had just broken and how and more importantly why he was still alive. then for the first time in weeks he felt like he had done the thing that was required of him his bones no longer felt the pulling, that brought a smile to his face. Then he smelled the smell of fire and cooking food, his hunger rose up in him and reminded him that falling down and almost dying was very hungry work, he looked over and saw a women not ten feet away from him walking over to him and another man tied up with chains and rope by a fire and a cooking meal. The women dressed in rotting furs and covered in tattoos walked up to him with a smile and said the last friendly words he would hear in a very very long time. “Ironbreaker, right on time, they said you would be coming” she then drew a wicked looking knife. For the next few hours nothing but screams came from the valley.

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At Childhood’s End

Aquila, The Home of Marco di Talmerin-

I think I was fourteen, the first time Marco asked me the question that would define me, define my life and guide every action I took, from that moment on. He sat me down in his study one night having just finished the books. The room was bathed in fire light. For just a moment, I was back there, in that small town in Etruvia and everything was on fire. I don’t know how long I froze for, lost in the memory as I stared at the fire, but it was Marco’s voice that pulled me back from the flames.

“Corvo?” His voice seemed far away, muffled as if by distance and barriers, “Corvo!?” This time it was louder and I was brought back to the present with a startled jolt.

“Spiacente, zio.” I cast my eyes down feeling the heat as my cheeks flushed red. It had been three years since I’d come to live with my uncle in Aquila. I served as his apprentice, learning all he had to teach me.

“Va bene, Nipote. Come, sit and talk with me a moment?” He motioned to one of the chairs. It was finely crafted wood, the seat padded with woven wool and soft leather, wrapped and tacked. My uncle purchased it from Umberto Viotolli, a master carpenter. Only nobles and the wealthiest of merchants could afford his goods. I took my seat, across from him and gazed at him. His bronze skin, gleamed in the light of the fire. He was a round man, but muscular and so long as I’d known him he had kept his hair in a tonsure, because he had always said, one very stressful year had caused it to almost always fall out.

“Si, zio. What do you wish to talk about?” I asked. My uncle fixed me with a serious gaze. He heaved a sigh and I half expected that I was about to get scolded for something I’d done, or forgot to do. Anxiously, I traces the lines carved into the sides of the chair’s arms; flowers and vines, the kind that were often stitched into the fine brocade patterns found on my doublets.

“Nipote,” he said, holding his hands and placing them atop his closed ledger, “there comes a time in every young man’s life, when he must ask himself what kind of man he wants to be. Your Nonno asked your Papa and I this same question when we were about your age. He asked us, ‘What kind of men do you want to be? What kind of legacy do you want to leave behind? How do you want this world to remember you?’” His gaze shifted, and his brow rose, ever so slightly as he asked, “So, Nipote, what kind of man do you want to be?”

The question had come, seemingly, out of nowhere. I was floored. Until Marco had asked it, I had never given any consideration to the fact that my life was, ultimately, in my hands. I could not forever remain an apprentice, but the gravity of that truth had never settled on me until that very moment when Marco put it into words.

“I… I think I would like to be remembered, zio, as a good man, as a man who helped others,” I finally answered. Somewhere, in the back of my mind I remembered my father. Though a merchant by trade, and one of the wealthiest men in our town, my father was never unwilling to help another. He lived and breathed by the words of the Testimonium and the idea of a divine brotherhood, and I cannot help but think that had he survived to raise me himself, I would be a very different man than the one I am today.

My uncle smiled softly, but it was a sad smile as he said, “That, I think, is your papa talking.”

Whatever my uncle might have been about to say was cut off as I added, “But I would also like to be remembered as a wealthy man. As a man who knew luxury, and whose family wanted for nothing.” My uncled nodded, with his hands still folded he leaned back slightly in his chair, resting them on his belly.

“Oh, Corvo,” his voice carried in it a note of sorrow, “I fear that you have chosen the hardest path. It is very easy to be a wealthy man, if you are willing to do whatever it takes. It is easy enough to be a good man, if you are mindful of what you do, and how you do it. But it is not so easy to be both of those things. Your papa was a better man than I am, and even he was not without sin. At times, both your papa and I would do a bad thing, in order to do many good things, and that sometimes earned us enemies, but if this is the path you truly wish to walk, if this is the man you wish to become, it is not enough to simply possess wealth and finery. Wealth is never the end goal, nipote. It has never been. Wealth is just a tool. All of the coin in the world, is just a tool. The trick is in knowing how to use the tool.”

“Will you teach me?” I asked, I felt hope in my chest, that I could do this thing. With all of my being I believed I could do great things. At that moment, Maria entered the study. She was a courtesan in the truest sense of the word, and while not married to my uncle, she was his consort, and loyal to him. She slid her arm around my uncles shoulder, even as he wrapped his own about her waist. For a moment, they shared a look, which to me was a mixture of pride, and hope, and fear.

“Si, Corvo,” Maria said, nodding gently as they both returned their gazes to me.

“We will teach you all we know,” added Marco, “We begin tomorrow.”

-FIN-

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A vision

Lysander jolted out of his trance, tears flowing from his eyes.
A weeping woman in white.
A ring.
A chest.
His eyes darted to the box before him. That chest. The whispers sounded almost congratulatory, but eerie nonetheless. The young paladin stood and began pacing his small room. He’d never attempted that ritual before, and hadn’t expected the visions to be so… Vivid. Emotional. Lysander ran a hand through his hair, brushing a few stray locks from his face.
Woman in white. But not all white. There was red. The deep crimson of blood. And a ring? In a chest. That chest. Marriage? A bride, perhaps? What about the groom? Was the blood his? Did she… No, she wouldn’t be crying.
Lysander came to a stop near the chest and placed a hand on it. The whispers got just a little louder. Far be it from him to criticize, but why couldn’t an archangel give more concrete answers? Perhaps he’d have to pray on the subject some more. But not now. He still felt a drained from the ritual. Emotionally, more than anything. Maybe it was time for a walk.
He grabbed his white robe from his bed. Lysander rarely left his room without it. He hated dressing the part of paladin, desperately missing his nice, comfortable peasant garb, but he’d found that he could wear just about anything under the robe, since it covered his entire body when buttoned. Besides, it held sentimental value. His friends back in Woefeldt bought it for him.
Where to first? He could walk into town, he supposed. No, there’d be too many people. He liked that his presence seemed to cheer up the people around him, but he tended to draw crowds as a result. Maybe a walk in the woods? Clypeus had made sure to teach him wilderness navigation during his training as a Nuranihim, may as well use it… But he was still on edge from the ritual. Though his Gift protected him from fear, it did not protect him from the heebie jeebies.
Maybe he’d visit some of the farms. If he was lucky, he might even manage to convince someone to let him lend a hand. That sounded nice, he thought. A tour of the farms it was.
Another whisper came from the box. Lysander frowned before setting his testimonium atop it. The whispers stopped.

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A Path of Reflection

Magic is a poor solution. That isn’t to say it isn’t a solution. That isn’t to say that there aren’t problems that it is necessary and useful to resolve. Rather, that is to say that rarely is magic the best solution.

Briefly consider this, suppose that we lived in a world where everyone was a mage, a magocracy as it were. What a wondrous world that might be. A highly educated world where Earth Mages brought in resources; food, minerals, lumber, and meat with a casual thought and buildings took shape from nothingness. Air Mages might create mechanisms for improved understanding of one another and communication. That world could have Fire Mages which could enable mechanics even Bakara had not previously fathomed. We might make it so that in that world, disease and insanity would be banished with a casual thought, no one would go hungry, and travel would be reliable and fast.

In a world where that magic was casually available, people would not fear it as much. They would understand that magic is a tool which can be used or not and that it is the wielder that is the problem rather than the tool itself. They would understand that those who used and abused their power for their own personal gain would be taken to task and held responsible for their actions.

That is not the world in which we live, as the truth is no where near so positive. People fear mages, not only because of the tools that they wield, but because of what the means by which they acquire those tools says about them. Mages are thought of as those who claim power because they can, for their own ends, at any cost, and that these tools give them the ability to dictate what is right or acceptable. They simply have tools which are beyond the ability of others to contest, or are so indispensable that the cost of doing so feels unacceptable.

People aren’t even wrong to believe those things. It is easy to ascribe the problem to the idea that those who are able to successfully join a guild rarely lack drive or determination, that those who lack such will crumble before their initial testing. The issues though are so much deeper.

Once you have broken through into a guild, time is rarely your own. Someone else will make decisions about what the guild needs from you and you are expected to obey. Some might joke that they could be asked to slay their loved ones, but comments like that come from a place of truth. Even if a guild probably wouldn’t do so directly without knowingly testing their commitment, that is in fact the level of commitment the guild expects. This corrupts one’s ideals, for you aren’t really in control of your life as completely as you might be and so you rationalize behavior you might personally not perform under the guise of being for the greater good or to help the guild along its path. How can those outside an organization like that trust you completely when they know you might be compelled by the guild to act against them or their interests, to betray their secrets, or the like?

If you are bright, you will then have to make decisions about what you want for yourself. Magic teaches people to want control over their environment, to subvert their weaknesses and enhance their strengths; that nothing is beyond their influence and power. For many this drives them to seek rank within the guilds, either to increase that power for themselves and to ensure they have autonomy to encourage others to seek out the particular interests of the mage in question.

Power isn’t a direct relationship to authority within a guild, but as a member of a guild, you have abilities that most do not. As such, you are expected to assist the guild in ways which are beyond what most would be capable of through mundane means. If you are studying magic most of your life, and you have a problem that you cannot resolve with your mundane abilities or would take an exceptionally long period of time or a large number of people, you are inevitably drawn to solve it with magic. If your current skill is not up to that task, you might push yourself to obtain more power. Thus the cycle continues of seeking power to solve problems to meet the demands of others, to gain authority, to obtain autonomy in your life.

We are then left with the fact that in gaining that rank by wresting that power from others who would seek to keep you from it, you will have already taught yourself how to take advantage of the talents of those below you, and so the cycle continues.

The mirage of the guilds is much more sinister than the truth. The Water Temple is foundational for the Sahirim for many reasons, but the most important is the lesson of knowing who you are and walking the path of Atma. Corrupting yourself and your Atma in service to the Temple is in fact a betrayal of the Temple and its ideals. You must make your own choices and follow your own path rather than blindly expecting others to make those decisions for you. Without centering yourself, you are left to float with the current, sucked in by the undertow of power, and will suffer at its whim. Instead you must learn to swim against these eddies.

As someone who lives in the Stragosa valley, it is difficult not to be tempted by the power that magical tools allow. These tools have allowed me to save many lives, and so the cycle continues. Seeking tools to aid those upon their path toward Atma while permitting them the ability to solve the problems for themselves .

Magic is not inherently evil, but giving up your path in its pursuit is to lessen yourself.

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Farewells and Sewers

Her ventures in the woods had been fruitless, so now she found herself here.

In the sewers.

The Undying, the Dragon’s Daughter, the child of the Rimelands. Here. In the sewers.

Freydis was slicked in filth, and digging out more with every passing minute. Sneering through the mud and the refuse as she carved out the tunnel that would ensure that the city’s noted sewage problem would finally be tended to. No more disease ridden sewer rats—in theory. No more plague monsters—in theory.

She wasn’t sure she really trusted any of these southerners or their schemes. Especially when their schemes had her waste deep in sloppy shit mud.

It was too easy for her mind to wander. She didn’t want to think about her current situation, and though she didn’t want to think about the rest of it either…

First Jehanne left. Freydis had been surprised to find that that hurt. It hurt had angered her fiercely. “What do you mean you’re leaving?” she’d said, voice hard as she drew her knife, like maybe she could keep Jehanne there by force, or like killing her might be preferable to letting her go. “You can’t go. You’re teaching me to read.”

“Oh, you silly,” Jehanne had said—in that strange way she had of saying things, with a little bounce on the balls of her feet and a little roll of her mismatched eyes. She’d even reached out and put her hand on Freydis’s hand, re-sheathing the knife with no resistance. “You’ve learned a lot so far. You’re doing great! But there are others that can teach you. No one as good as me, but…” Jehanne looked at Freydis’s bracelet, reaching out to flick the red feather. “For all his faults Balthazar knows a lot. I’m sure he would be willing to teach you.”

For a moment Freydis flushed and thought of reaching for her knife again. Then she deflated and looked at the ground. “I thought you were my friend,” she said, resenting the quaver in her voice.

“Freydis, I am your friend!” Jehanne smiled brightly and cocked her head to the side. Her smile changed for a moment, becoming somewhat flat, dimming a little. “You do know that just because someone leaves, that doesn’t mean they’re not your friend, right?”

“I’m not stupid,” Freydis said, but she looked away and hoped Jehanne didn’t see the doubt in her face.

Jehanne shook her head and her smile shifted back to its usual manic brightness. “I’m just going to work on some things with Bakara. I’ll be back.”

“You could stay with me. And the Blackjacks. We’ll protect you.”

“No silly, I want to go with me husband. Besides, I don’t need protecting.” First she smiled so that her nose scrunched up as she patted the gun in her basket, then she leaned forward conspiratorially. “We’re going to do experiments and blow things up.” Clapping her hands, she gave a little hop.

Freydis tried to smile for her, but couldn’t quite muster it.

She’d mostly cleared this segment of earth, and had to admit she felt good about the work she’d done. She doubted anyone else could have done better. She’d cleared the area efficiently and effectively, and was almost done. The area could use a little widening though, she thought, so she began cutting again into the sides of the tunnel.

Now she wondered if Bjorn would be here working at her side, if he hadn’t left, too. One of the only Njords in town she’d really been able to speak to since arriving here—who had greeted her with a good fight, and warmly. She’d thought they would each other’s backs in this strange place, the only true Njords in Stragosa, at all times.

It was hard to hear the nasty things some of these southerners said about Bjorn—or that he overheard, clenching his jaw and furrowing his brow but saying nothing. Smiling as fiercely and insistently instead. She had supposed that, eventually, she and Bjorn would teach some of these soft southern fools a few things about due respect.

But he seemed to value something about these people—or to regard them cautiously. They had almost had him burned once, she had heard, though she’d never spoken to him of it and he had never mentioned it.

And now he was gone, too.

“Do not look so sad, Freydis.” He had set a hand on her shoulder. “I’m only going for a stretch of the legs. I’ll be back.”

She didn’t ask when. She knew he wouldn’t have an answer. He may not even come back—wherever his journey took him, it would be away from Stragosa but it would not be safe from monsters. It may lead him back to his people and a call of war, or some battle elsewhere. Besides, it was a stupid and childish question to ask.

“Even though you’re going,” she said instead, and did her best to say it rather than ask it, “we will still be friends.”

“Of course! How could we not be?” He put his arm around her and pulled her roughly against him, giving her arm a squeeze and a shake. “Look my friend. You will keep an eye on Walt and Borso for me, yes? They are in need of someone to watch their backs.”

Freydis hesitated. There might be a time she couldn’t keep that promise. But she would try, and she would assure him, to make him happy. That’s what friends did, right? Make each other happy? “I will.”

“Good, friend,” Bjorn said, shaking her again, almost hard enough to rattle her bones. “Come! Let’s go to the tavern. One more drink before I go!” He bent down to poke her in the chest, grinning madly. “And we shall sing some of the old songs and watch the southerners quake in terror!”

There wasn’t a proper goodbye for either of her friends. They said they were leaving, and then they were gone, and that was it.

Like she had slipped away and vanished from the cold lands of her home.

Freydis shook the thought away. She felt like a pathetic, foolish child. When had she become so childish?

The soft earth gave way suddenly beneath her hands, then the wall itself collapsed into thick clots of mud. Dozens—no, hundreds—of skulls toppled out of the earth. They crashed over and around her, their hard domes battering her as she stumbled back and succumbed to the outlandish wave of them.

Thrashing back against the skulls, she cracked and broke them open, crushing them in return and fighting her way out. When the project supervisors came by to check on her after hearing the screams, they found her standing in the mound of skulls, pounding them into powder with her mace and screaming curses.