Category: Journal Entry

They call it the Miracle. We know what it does, and some of it’s limitations, but is there anyone who truly understands it?

My feelings on the miracle have always been mixed. If this was something God truly meant for us to have, why does its very purpose fly in the face of everything I am taught about death? I perform the healing rituals and beseech Lurian not to take a soul. While we are sad when someone passes, particularly violently as seems to be the norm here, we are also happy that Lurian has called them to God.

There was much turmoil, and no doubt been more in the past, regarding who should be brought back at this last forum, or at least the first time I’ve been part of it. Who makes the decision? What is the criteria used? Are the rules set in stone, or are they completely subjective? Much of the trouble was knowing what a person would want. I do have the ritual to ask the question, but if the ritual isn’t successful we’re left trying to figure it out. What happens if we get it wrong? Have we doomed a soul? If they die again, will God and Lurian turn them away because they wrongly thwarted Lurian’s will?

I have met a couple of people who have been brought back. I have for the first time witnessed someone coming back.They seem just as they were before, at least on the outside. I can never really know what goes on in their mind and soul.

The Miracle has been deemed a holy relic. I can’t help but note the wording given. Not Benalian Holy Relic, just holy relic. Splitting hairs maybe? The White Church being careful in case it turns out to be a curse and not a blessing? At the very least through all this, I know what my answer is to this question: Do I want to be resurrected by the Miracle?

No. Without question, without hesitation, no,

If I die, the it was because Lurian has made it so. I will not stray from God’s will. I have to hold myself up as an example, as my father and mother instilled in me, in being as faithful and pious as possible.

To that end, I have proposed to the city that the Lurehim be the keepers of the last will and testaments of the citizenry of Stragosa. All information will be private and consist of two documents being what to do with the worldly possessions they leave behind, and what their wishes regarding the Miracle will be. Hopefully we never have to agonize over this again.

I was seventeen when my Charismata was discovered. Most are found much earlier than myself. A member of the clergy may notice a particularly gifted or peculiar youth and have them checked by a proper paladin. We can sense each other, I’m told. I’ve never tried. I think I feel normal.

That I was able to go so long without being discovered is strange, especially given my circumstances. My father died when I was quite young, and in his place Father Clypeus helped my mother raise me. He said that his closeness with me blinded him to it. I’ve not known him to lie. When we went to convocation, my mother always seated us close to the door. She hates crowded spaces. Reminds her of the pens, she says. Nobody spoke to us much, except for Clypeus. My mother was always clearly “other,” be it the way she dressed, spoke, or behaved.

People were never mean, mind you. Just quiet. Conversations had a way if dying when she entered the room. She said it was because she was a “Shar’Aslan.” Desert lion, I believe. My knowledge of Shariqyn is broken at absolute best. She was an outsider. I suppose that’s all people could see her as. And I am her son. The boy who speaks with an accent despite not knowing any other languages. The silence that followed her had a way of clinging to myself, as well.

I was still a “Proper Gothic Man” despite my origin. I grew up on a ranch. My mother was quite talented at tending to horses. She says it’s because, in her oldest life, she was a “Rakib.” I don’t know what that means. Her skills were valuable, though. I didn’t understand them the way she did. I always enjoyed working the fields, though. The slow transformation of a barren patch of dirt to a rolling field of golden grain will always be my gospel. To create food from nothing but work hard work. The kind that leaves you sore at the end of the day, that makes the night’s sleep all the more enjoyable. It is my passion. My trade. Often times, I find myself thinking that I am more farmer than Paladin.

I fear that I may be rambling. I was already a man in my own right when I was discovered. I was expected to soon start a family of my own. My place in life was set. Or, rather, I thought it was set. Back then, if I’d been asked what I would be doing in seven years, I would never have said “repelling Malefic in a cursed valley.” In a way, I mourn for my old life. For the version of me that stayed in Woefeldt. What would he have been like? I don’t suppose I’ll ever know. That version of me is dead.

I don’t know why I’ve written this. Azzam told me to practice writing each letter a hundred times, but I’ve already done that. Perhaps I just wanted to get the thoughts out of my head and on paper. Jurnaling? I’ve just asked a clergy member, turns out it’s spelled Journaling. Maybe I should start, now that I can write. Hopefully my next entries are less dour than this one.

Aquila, The Cathedral of San Corvo d’Aquila di Cyanihim

How old was I when I lost my faith? Fifteen? Sixteen? Or was I younger? The Testimonium teaches that we are a brotherhood. That all of mankind is Of God. It tells us that all that is wrong with the world, and with mankind, are holdovers from a broken world, ruled by the followers of the Triumvirate, or by the Witchkings. No, I think I was younger.

The Cathedral stands at the center of the Church District, a massive landmark, dwarfing all around it. It rises 230 feet into the air, and the duomo even higher still. It is a monument to the glory of God and a testament to the ingenuity of mankind. Outside, members of the Ordo dell’arte operate small puppet theaters, putting on morality plays or tragedies. Not far there is a circle where they perform mummer’s plays, their faces hidden by the elaborate masks they where. The walls of the cathedral are adorned with murals, painted by masters of the craft, they depict stories from the testimonium, and tales of the many venerated saints. Most notable among them, my namesake, the patron saint of Il Ordo dell’arte, San Corvo d’Aquila. Light filters in through the stained glass faces of holy men and, the images of angels carrying out their mandates from God almighty. The light is warm and it paints the interior of the church in hues of green and blue, and yellow and red and I would be lying if I said that the entire thing weren’t beautiful. Rumors filter through the city that the cathedral is riddled with secret passages and false walls which lead to rooms, repositories for all of the secrets that the Cyanihim have learned, and those they keep to safeguard mankind on the path to a perfect, sinless world. It is all beautiful and mysterious, and though I feel small in the near empty cathedral… I am not moved. I do not feel the ever watchful gaze of Cyaniel upon me, watching me, and why would I?

As I sit in silent contemplation, staring up at the masked visage of the archangel,I hear another enter through the heavy cathedral doors. I hear the footfalls long before she comes to take a seat beside me. She is tiny by comparison, her dark ringlets cascade about her shoulders and frame her face. She smiles softly and that smile brightens her face, her green eyes, shrouded in charcoal dust as is customary in our homeland, sparkle like polished emeralds. It is all a stark contrast to the elegant black dress and the high collar which she wears. She is my closest friend, practically my sister. We have known each other for ten years now, and few make my heart swell the way Lady Genevieve Baines does..

“Corvo, mIo caro amico,” her time in Rogalia has not changed her Hestrali accent, “I think this is the last place I expected to find you.”

“Si… Mi bella, amica, it’s good to see you. I didn’t realize you’d returned to the country.” I smile warmly as we share a hug, “It is good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Corvo. How is Marco?” she asks as we separate from our embrace.
“Marco is Marco. He does everything he can to keep himself busy. He hates his mind being idle, he gets bored too easily. Of course I am the same way.”

“Is that why I’m finding you in a church? Because your mind hasn’t been idle?” She smirks, but her voice betrays only the slightest hint of concern,

“No… maybe… I just wish I knew what determined if we were worthy of their attention or not…”

“Corvo, why would you think that?” suddenly, her smile is gone, “Why would you, of all people, think you aren’t worth the attention of the divine? Before my father acknowledged me, when I was living on the streets, you made sure I was safe! You made sure I had food and clean water! How could you think you’re not worthy?”

“Do you remember when I told you about why I came to live with Marco?” I fold my hands, head bowed slightly as I look at them as I that night.

“You told me your parents had died in a fire.” Only the slightest hint of uncertainty edges her otherwise sympathetic voice.

“Si… they died in a fire.” I say the words and it’s as if I’m once again that ten year old boy, “What I didn’t tell you is that I was there, in the house when it started.”

Genevieve’s face is serious, her eyes are like cool jade stones, as she fixes me in her gaze, “What are you saying, Corvo?”

I turn my head to face her, “I had been downstairs, working on my letters and my numbers and… I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat, and there was fire everywhere. At first I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. Heat and light and smoke… it was all so disorienting. I heard mama scream for help and… I ran to the stairs. The wood collapsed between the stucco. I heard papa yell down to me, to go get help.” My voice cracks, and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I barely register the tears that threaten to spill over, staining my face, as I continue. “Immediately I ran from the house. I pounded on the doors of the neighbors, I screamed for help… people came with buckets as quickly as they could, drawn from the well or from rain barrels… but it wasn’t enough. I kept trying to run back inside and people held me back. I screamed… I begged God to do something, anything. I pleaded to help them but they held me, grabbed my wrists and refused to let go. It’s likely the only reason I survived that night at all.”

Genevieve’s face is still, but in her eyes, I can see the shock, Only a handful of people knew the story, and she is only the first to know who is outside of my family, and the church who’d taken me in, “I’m sorry, Corvo… I didn’t know. Is that why you feel like you don’t… deserve divine help?”

I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, “How can I think anything else? If a ten year old boy, begging God for help to save his parents isn’t worth the attention of God or Angels, why would it be any different when that same boy is grown and is more capable?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, smiling softly and she placed a hand over mine, “For what it’s worth, God’s never given me anything either. All the good anyone ever did for me came with prices attached, or it came from people like you. People who gave a damn.”

“Marco… he’s the same way. When I got here, he told me not to lose faith in God, not to abandon the church or it’s teachings, but to recognize that we cannot depend solely on God. He told me that each of us, by virtue of action or inaction, are responsible for the state of our souls. Our salvation is ultimately our responsibility.”

“It makes sense,” she said as she placed her hand on my shoulder, “What do you say we get out of here? I’m supposed to meet my father for dinner and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind hosting one of the ‘infamous’ di Talmerin family.” She stands and offers me her hand up, I take it, gratefully.

“Si… I think I’ve spent enough time in the church today.” Rising to my feet, I clear my throat, and smooth my coat, before we make our way outside. Stepping out into the early evening air, we can see the sky is painted in hues of pink, orange, and violet and it silhouettes the ships down in the port and the isles of La Sorelle in the distance. I cannot help but smile at the beauty of that sunset as a voice, obscured by an ornate mask drifts over to me.

“Perhap then, these tragedies which strike us, seemingly at random, are actually the hand of blessed, all seeing Cyaniel, setting our feet upon the path we are meant to tread, that without such a push we could not have found.” Genevieve and I look to where the voice is, and we see a pair of masked men at a puppet stage. The stage adorned by pebbled painted white, against a deep blue backdrop, and one of the puppets alone on stage, monologuing. The two of us share a look and look back to the puppet show. I wander over and drop a handful of silver into their donation box.

“Grazie, signore. May Cyaniel guide your feet upon the path.” whispers the masked priest who, for the time, is not acting.

“Buona sera,” I say, turning away. “I think I’ll take my chances on my own,” I leave unsaid as we leave to join Count Baines for supper.

-FIN-

Suggested Listening:

Aquila, The Cathedral of San Corvo d’Aquila di Cyanihim

How old was I when I lost my faith? Fifteen? Sixteen? Or was I younger? The Testimonium teaches that we are a brotherhood. That all of mankind is Of God. It tells us that all that is wrong with the world, and with mankind, are holdovers from a broken world, ruled by the followers of the Triumvirate, or by the Witchkings. No, I think I was younger.

The Cathedral stands at the center of the Church District, a massive landmark, dwarfing all around it. It rises 230 feet into the air, and the duomo even higher still. It is a monument to the glory of God and a testament to the ingenuity of mankind. Outside, members of the Ordo dell’arte operate small puppet theaters, putting on morality plays or tragedies. Not far there is a circle where they perform mummer’s plays, their faces hidden by the elaborate masks they where. The walls of the cathedral are adorned with murals, painted by masters of the craft, they depict stories from the testimonium, and tales of the many venerated saints. Most notable among them, my namesake, the patron saint of Il Ordo dell’arte, San Corvo d’Aquila. Light filters in through the stained glass faces of holy men and, the images of angels carrying out their mandates from God almighty. The light is warm and it paints the interior of the church in hues of green and blue, and yellow and red and I would be lying if I said that the entire thing weren’t beautiful. Rumors filter through the city that the cathedral is riddled with secret passages and false walls which lead to rooms, repositories for all of the secrets that the Cyanihim have learned, and those they keep to safeguard mankind on the path to a perfect, sinless world. It is all beautiful and mysterious, and though I feel small in the near empty cathedral… I am not moved. I do not feel the ever watchful gaze of Cyaniel upon me, watching me, and why would I?

As I sit in silent contemplation, staring up at the masked visage of the archangel,I hear another enter through the heavy cathedral doors. I hear the footfalls long before she comes to take a seat beside me. She is tiny by comparison, her dark ringlets cascade about her shoulders and frame her face. She smiles softly and that smile brightens her face, her green eyes, shrouded in charcoal dust as is customary in our homeland, sparkle like polished emeralds. It is all a stark contrast to the elegant black dress and the high collar which she wears. She is my closest friend, practically my sister. We have known each other for ten years now, and few make my heart swell the way Lady Genevieve Baines does..

“Corvo, mIo caro amico,” her time in Rogalia has not changed her Hestrali accent, “I think this is the last place I expected to find you.”

“Si… Mi bella, amica, it’s good to see you. I didn’t realize you’d returned to the country.” I smile warmly as we share a hug, “It is good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too, Corvo. How is Marco?” she asks as we separate from our embrace.
“Marco is Marco. He does everything he can to keep himself busy. He hates his mind being idle, he gets bored too easily. Of course I am the same way.”

“Is that why I’m finding you in a church? Because your mind hasn’t been idle?” She smirks, but her voice betrays only the slightest hint of concern,

“No… maybe… I just wish I knew what determined if we were worthy of their attention or not…”

“Corvo, why would you think that?” suddenly, her smile is gone, “Why would you, of all people, think you aren’t worth the attention of the divine? Before my father acknowledged me, when I was living on the streets, you made sure I was safe! You made sure I had food and clean water! How could you think you’re not worthy?”

“Do you remember when I told you about why I came to live with Marco?” I fold my hands, head bowed slightly as I look at them as I that night.

“You told me your parents had died in a fire.” Only the slightest hint of uncertainty edges her otherwise sympathetic voice.

“Si… they died in a fire.” I say the words and it’s as if I’m once again that ten year old boy, “What I didn’t tell you is that I was there, in the house when it started.”

Genevieve’s face is serious, her eyes are like cool jade stones, as she fixes me in her gaze, “What are you saying, Corvo?”

I turn my head to face her, “I had been downstairs, working on my letters and my numbers and… I must have fallen asleep. When I woke up, I was drenched in sweat, and there was fire everywhere. At first I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. Heat and light and smoke… it was all so disorienting. I heard mama scream for help and… I ran to the stairs. The wood collapsed between the stucco. I heard papa yell down to me, to go get help.” My voice cracks, and I try to swallow the lump in my throat. I barely register the tears that threaten to spill over, staining my face, as I continue. “Immediately I ran from the house. I pounded on the doors of the neighbors, I screamed for help… people came with buckets as quickly as they could, drawn from the well or from rain barrels… but it wasn’t enough. I kept trying to run back inside and people held me back. I screamed… I begged God to do something, anything. I pleaded to help them but they held me, grabbed my wrists and refused to let go. It’s likely the only reason I survived that night at all.”

Genevieve’s face is still, but in her eyes, I can see the shock, Only a handful of people knew the story, and she is only the first to know who is outside of my family, and the church who’d taken me in, “I’m sorry, Corvo… I didn’t know. Is that why you feel like you don’t… deserve divine help?”

I close my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, “How can I think anything else? If a ten year old boy, begging God for help to save his parents isn’t worth the attention of God or Angels, why would it be any different when that same boy is grown and is more capable?”

“I suppose that makes sense,” she said, smiling softly and she placed a hand over mine, “For what it’s worth, God’s never given me anything either. All the good anyone ever did for me came with prices attached, or it came from people like you. People who gave a damn.”

“Marco… he’s the same way. When I got here, he told me not to lose faith in God, not to abandon the church or it’s teachings, but to recognize that we cannot depend solely on God. He told me that each of us, by virtue of action or inaction, are responsible for the state of our souls. Our salvation is ultimately our responsibility.”

“It makes sense,” she said as she placed her hand on my shoulder, “What do you say we get out of here? I’m supposed to meet my father for dinner and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind hosting one of the ‘infamous’ di Talmerin family.” She stands and offers me her hand up, I take it, gratefully.

“Si… I think I’ve spent enough time in the church today.” Rising to my feet, I clear my throat, and smooth my coat, before we make our way outside. Stepping out into the early evening air, we can see the sky is painted in hues of pink, orange, and violet and it silhouettes the ships down in the port and the isles of La Sorelle in the distance. I cannot help but smile at the beauty of that sunset as a voice, obscured by an ornate mask drifts over to me.

“Perhap then, these tragedies which strike us, seemingly at random, are actually the hand of blessed, all seeing Cyaniel, setting our feet upon the path we are meant to tread, that without such a push we could not have found.” Genevieve and I look to where the voice is, and we see a pair of masked men at a puppet stage. The stage adorned by pebbled painted white, against a deep blue backdrop, and one of the puppets alone on stage, monologuing. The two of us share a look and look back to the puppet show. I wander over and drop a handful of silver into their donation box.

“Grazie, signore. May Cyaniel guide your feet upon the path.” whispers the masked priest who, for the time, is not acting.

“Buona sera,” I say, turning away. “I think I’ll take my chances on my own,” I leave unsaid as we leave to join Count Baines for supper.

-FIN-

The Reaper Festival is over. It certainly feels like things have been reaped. This city of Stragosa reaps more than it sows. More have died this forum. Some tales of those hunting herbs in the forest to a bear spirit wielding a sword, and the personal troubles of the air mage Balthazar which claimed his wife and later himself. Some of the deceased were brought back on the Miracle, perhaps the most important of the reasons this city draws people into its maw, but not all. It never brings back all of the people that venture here and die. This city reaps more than it sows.

Even getting here had reaped the group I started out as part of in Capacione. Having just come from my adventures in Sha’ra, it seemed natural to return to my home country and investigate the court. The trade goods I brought back from the Shariqyn Empire were sold for the money for the proper clothes and proper introductions and my contacts and the spices they provided made me useful in hosting feasts. I gravitated into the entourage of Lady Gale of Rogalia. Lady gale’s entourage was was abit more intellectual than the others, or at least she was, and I was drawn into it. Then, she was called back to Rogalia by her father. She lost many of her entourage then. Locals who had no interest of investiture in following her to Rogalia. It made sense enough for me to venture along as I was as well acquainted with Rogalia as with my home, Capacionne. There, when it became evident that her next destination would be Stragosa, even the Rogalians left. Our party consisted of Just her, her governess, Ramsey, myself, and a few servants. Now, Ramsey and our servants have hopefully left us without saying goodbye. The other option is that they have disappeared like so many others in Stragosa, never to be seen again. This city reaps more than it sows.

Upon arrival to Stragosa, I was reunited with my old childhood friend, Jean-Duquesne. He and I had grown up together and followed similar paths even to the point of arriving here in this city. We had always been interested in the same things and even took up the same vocations. His family was poor enough that we met due to him stealing sausages so he could eat while mine was a merchant family well off enough to send their youngest son to the Rogalian university. Now I find him in Stragosa and he was the Master of our profession, a Master of a guild, and in possibly even better fortunes than myself. It was good to see him as such. It has been almost a year since I had said goodbye to him when an ill storm moved into the Stragosa valley. The valley filled with the snow and ice that I traveled through a week later to his house. I found the dogs near starved but still alive in the kennels. In his abode, I found his possessions still there, a table set with the food he spoke of cooking after we parted that was never eaten, a fireplace with nothing but cold ash, yet no Jean-Duquesne and no tracks through the snow coming or going or even signs the doors or windows had been opened. It has been a year, and there has been no sighting of him still. This city reaps more than it sows.

So far, both Alexandra’s fortunes and my own seem to have prospered. She is a District Magistrate and I am a Master of my trade and member of the city government. Things seem to be looking up for both of us. However, if Alexandra were to disappear from Stragosa one day, what would I do? Would I flee this wretched city, finally free of it anything that would hold me here. Would I search the Throne to find her and make sure she is still safe and not the victim of some Rogalian plot? Or would I stay till I or it disappears, trying to convince myself that she deserted me here without a word and that this city does not reap more than it sows?

Around him there was darkness, but that wasn’t really right it was an absence of even darkness. Word, Meaning, and Acts spiraled into one another building things around filling thoughts with Form. Aretaeus realized he was part of all of this as things grew, his awareness seemed to be on everything as Existence was. Purpose, spent meaning, intent, the weight of Judgement and the trauma of war slammed into Everything limiting what he was experiencing.
He could feel the weight of God on his brow, the scorn of God in his heart, and suddenly the voice of God to his ear. Even as he heard, he felt himself being poured into Form and felt its limitations, its uniqueness. As Meaning filled as the Form was, it changed his perspective so much, it was hard to think of what he had been aware of just moments ago, and at the same time the Firmament and the land became so much more clear with feet on the ground and the sky above him. The valley around him being defined even as he was watching there were leaves and needles, stones and seeds which more was lost to view as they became parts of trees, mountains and plains.
It was the Valley he Felt himself in, he was not sure when though, Time had yet to attach. All aspects of humanity began to form around him;
– Feet began to walk trails and roads, cross paths where they came together it slowly made something of a grid.
– Mouths and ears shared words, what it wasn’t clear but it felt of laughter, anger, all manner of feeling
– Hands sculpted stone, wrought iron, and worked wood. These hands assembled what was and would be the Great City of Stragosa, what was and would be the Husk of Stragosa. The hands of man swarmed and ebbed building all that would be seen.
Some of these were connected, others were not, feet with no earthly bodies worked off and on to the stage of the area, hands floated free as they did their work. It amazed Aretaeus, but at the same time he was not overly surprised. All too often what he had seen when looking beyond did not fully match what his eyes might see, his ears might hear. Even so knowing it was hard to tell and be prepared for what was real and what was reality.
Aretaeus closed his eyes, to take in all that was around him, and even as he did so the sounds and feeling around him changed and shifted. Ser Percival was beside him, and they were walking towards the Miracle when his mentor brought him to a stop, “Listening and what else? It has been to long since the church has committed to decisive action. You will decide what it is you are committing to, and tell me by evening. “ The Knight masters words were curt but not harsh, but even those shifted at the ends of it flowing into a time at the tavern, “Now is not the time to Act, but to learn more first” Other times began to connect and as chaos started to grow Aretaeus let go a bit with his mind that particular focus and tried to focus in general.
Opening his awareness once more Time seemed more solid, as did the Manor house he often met with the Leadership of Silbran in, still in the valley but no longer where he had stood once moments ago. Splashed colors this way and that showed the touch of magic everywhere in the city. Little stood truly warped, but just looking you could see where colors were off, creating a space that one might expect after enough herb to change the world around them. Entire paths stood out in odd coloration, a concern to the Paladins heart as they lead different directions.
What stood out the most walked into the manor, as the Baroness stepped within mouth moving as she talked to others in to room but that was not something Aretaeus was aware of as he looked on. The colors that made the Lady Drake stood out so much, evne as they were perhaps warped like a spoon in a glass of water, or light through a crystal. Broken, warped, and changed in a way that struck at part of the root of Aretaeus desire for divinity to spread. –How, how do we fix this? To shepherd this lost Meaning back to its purpose and form? Let this not be something that give up on so quickly. What must I do, I have learned as I have felt needed to understand more, what do I do now as the next step toward bringing her back to the flock? What next?-
The world came to a pause, it turned to Grey through area “She Must Die”, and it rocked him to his very core. Still he kept enough mind to try and understand; Did she need to be purged by the Fires that Cleanse? Did the words feel of Ash and Heat? No, the purge of heresies was not the demand. Cold, simple death. That the Gates open before her where all are judged equally. But there was not much more depth beyond the command, the next step.
The cold was around him now not just in him. He felt the oncoming winds of winter, an empty war camp around him and looking on to the Kaurlite stronghold as it stood standing. The Empire had an army at its gates, but it was not clear to keep to his own timeline that he had sworn to. More so Aretaeus was here, an empty camp and not leading the charge. The cutting edge of despair biting into him like the worst of bitter winter winds. Looking around him he saw the Butcher serving children at the edge of camp, but they always seemed further than he could get to and further still as the crest of Lurian fell from his shoulders.
“What else Will I get wrong? When people look to me as a source of direction, what do I show them if I feel lost? You have shown me so much darkness recently. From the Rituals hidden ones are doing through out the city, a follower of Laziel behind me, that my next steps must be a bringer of Death and what else do you give me? A Candle, which might hold the Hope of Man within it? A light that flickers so weakly at times. A light that seems to go dark when needed the most. Being a guide to others, to give them hope and direction where has that gone? Laziel, Tarraniel and Kurian all have sunk their talons so deeply here, surely those of your Intent don’t need the amount of suffering that is here? Do they? How do I show those at the edge that they should come to us and vest everything into the Faith? There is so much Discontentment here, so much for the Thorns to take root in. And … “
Suddenly he realized he was just yelling at himself, angry at himself. The loss, the pain, his own and that of which he had seen in his vision and his experience. A deep sigh came across him, and he awoke with a start, his bed a tussle from fit filled sleep.

Care bella madre,

We have arrived at last to Stragosa, perdonami that I have not written much during the trip. Please to let padre know Veronica has been placed safely and is pursuing her studies at a good pace. I also have met with our various venture contacts, and will be pursuing them forthwith, so he does need to be worry.

Stargosa is not as terribile as we had expected. The morale e traditions of the area are rigorosa but manageable. Even the church services, though lacking in proper fire, juggling, and artistry, are proving surprisingly enjoyable. I know, sì, please do not tell papà I have said this. As expected, many here still seem more prudente than is healthy. Others are allowed to speak though, within reason of course. Also, the priests have not been nearly as burn-at-stake crazede as we had feared. On my first night I may have done something… impulsive? What it is, it is non molto importante, do not worry. What is importante is that they absolutely have not burned me. In fairness, they Did try to sacrifice another because they were afraid her magic was a threat to her immortal soul, so… not completely diverso than we expected.

Ze locales are for the most part a very friendly sort so far. I have finally gotten to hear The Bandit Kings in person, performing ‘Vendetta’. You remember this, sì? It was the one we thought was about your sister’s cousin? I must attest that original prestazione is much better than the copy-cats. A fantastic Njordr storyteller comes through here also – we should invite someone like him to Le Sorelle. Very engaging stories, our clienti would be very entertained!

There is much more I wish to say, but I can already see your eyes with the tiredness, and I am certo that you most want to know about il pericolo e my studies. There is nothing to worry about. I have heard stories of terribile creatures and some have encountered them here. This, it is true. My only encounter however has been un poltergeist that fed me some prelibatezze – I was greatly entertained! A ghoul also attempted to break into the taverna as I was drinking, but it was dead before it made it could do any harm. It was ‘more’ dead? Other monstri came by later (it was some provincial holiday called the ‘Night Lord’s Feast’ – something about monstri e spirit) but I was attending to Veronica and missed it all. I understand it was all very exciting. I have some directions for my studies and la baronessa has agreed to steer them, so that is also progressing well. There is nothing for you to worry about.

I will cut things short as I know that you do not like me to go on and on. Please let me know how things are playing out there, and when they quiet down enough that we may return home. Things were certainly blown far out of proporzione, as you well know. Give our love to papà and to zia Mariana, they are in our hearts.

Ti voglio bene,
Maurizio (e Veronica – her letter is attached)

Alonzo finished writing for a moment, brushing off the sand to help dry the ink of his letter to Emeric.

“Such an unexpected thing,” he mused to himself. “I’ve been blind.”

To discover the good where he expected only oppression and paternalistic pandering, to look behind the mask for a moment. If anyone knew masks, it would be himself. But for this one moment, what if it is True?

The conversations with Ansel and Emeric, the feeling that perhaps the Goal is the same after all. The assumption of authority. The burdens that will bring. Still, Alonzo smiles. It is right and good that the world is moving towards Perfection, even in its most shattered pieces.

“I’m going to act as though it IS True. I can at least do that. I can watch them with new eyes and reveal the next part of my work.”

He thinks of Renatus, returned to the World nearly destroyed by it and of the others who fell and would never return. So much to do. So many minds to soothe and then to trouble and then to soothe again.

He writes a new phrase on the inside of his Mask, under where the old motto lies.

“Rivela la verità che brilla” – Reveal the Truth that Shines

The Shield now has a Sword