An Evening at the Theater

The applause is thunderous as the patrons of the theater stand for an ovation. The actors, each taking turns to bow, are feeling positively ecstatic at the gratitude of the audience.

When the applause finally subsides, the Cappacian Bard Bastione, and his companions offer several ear piercing whistles in support of the troupe. After, they head outside where the crowd has gathered to discuss the performance…

BASTIONE: (In a moderate Cappacian accent)
The quality of performers continues to improve. I have to admit, that play rivaled many I have seen in Cappacione.

HIS COMPANION: (Certainly Hestrali)
It should tour to Hestralia. It is there it would truly find the audience it deserves. The actors were not bad, but can you imagine an entire cast of Hestrali thespians?

BASTIONE:
I’d rather not.

HIS COMPANION:
You jest, but it would truly reach the pinnacle of artistry if it were cast entirely with us. We invented drama!

BASTIONE:
But have no skill with comedy.

HIS COMPANION:
A crude, and false assumption.

BASTIONE:
La vérité fait mal. I will give you that the Hestrali are some of the most over dramatic of all peoples, but how many are truly funny? La comédie belongs to the Cappacians.

HIS COMPANION:
Judging by your face, it is certainly true.

BASTIONE:
Touche, mon amie. But you should show me some respect. Did you hear? I am the new Valley Historian. Perhaps some little wart of embarrassment of yours finds its way into my reports. Ha! Then who will laugh?

HIS COMPANION:
I know you well, Bastione and have no fear. Though why anyone entrusted that job to you, I will never guess.

BASTIONE:
Is it not plain to see? I am the perfect one for the job, I spend most of my time writing songs, drinking in the tavern, and talking to strange people. I could not be a more perfect fit, monsieur.

HIS COMPANION:
Yes, your large nose is a perfect fit for your large head.

BASTIONE:
This I cannot deny.

HIS COMPANION:
So, what do you make of the opportunity to become a citizen of Stragosa? I can’t help but feel there is some sort of ulterior motive to the entire thing.

BASTIONE:
That’s your Hestrali blood talking. The rewards for taking the oath are impressive. Freedom to travel, my wards are well taken care of, respect. What more could you ask of a burgeoning city? The chance to serve as a true citizen with rights is unmistakably wonderful, don’t you think?

HIS COMPANION:
Perhaps. But I could do all of this on my own before without permission! Perhaps not legally…

BASTIONE:
You are looking at it the wrong way around. Citizenship is not simply about what you get out of it, it’s about all of us coming together for the greater good of our city.

HIS COMPANION:
Yes, yes. I know. You are a true believer. I have many questions.

BASTIONE:
Then ask them of the officials. Do not let stubbornness, or fear detour you from making the right choice.

HIS COMPANION:
Yes, yes, Bastione. You prattle on, and on. You are driving me to drink, mio amico. Care to join me?

BASTIONE:
Certainly, but we go someplace that offers Cappacian wine, I can’t stomach the cheaply made Hestrali stuff. It smells of a musty basement, and tastes like vinegar.

HIS COMPANION:
I should slap you with my glove for such an insult.

BASTIONE:
Duel over wine? I must demur. Your wine isn’t worth dying for. Ha!

My Thoughts on Stragosa

Stragosa has been my first true test of faith, greed and pragmatism flow like water here. Part of me believes that Stragosa has the potential to be the greatest city in the Throne, the other part believeing that the miracle should be taken to Lethia and the cursed place should be burnt to the ground, forgotten in the same stroke. None of the training I received in Holy Lethia could have prepared me for this, there are simply not enough hands God have mercy on Stragosa and its people.

Death or Freedom, A Legendary Tale by Clagh O’Mugnahn, True Son of Dunland

To you, my humble reader, I bid welcome and congratulations. You have the pleasure of reading one of the finest works of literature ever to be produced in the world, and certainly the finest in Gotha. For it is I, Sebastian de Aquila, who the people acclaim as none other than the most infamous charmer, poet, dandy and impeccable lover of Costa Luceste; whose penmanship and swordsmanship is unparalleled, whose poise and grace is unmatchable, and whose sonnets and ballads woo the noble ladies of Aquila.

Alas, my humble bibliophile, I cannot once again steal the show, as I did to Gottfried von Laatzen in the summer of 600. Instead I will narrate to you the description of a man who, after sharing an evening sharing glasses of wine and flagons of dark ale, I have come to admire as a man of action, of tenacity, of effrontery, and of intrepid spirit. He calls himself Clagh O’Mugnahn, which he has disclosed translates to “Stone, descendant of Mugnahn,” in Gothic. It is a fitting name for him as he is by trade a miner. You may be tempted to cease your perusal of this document upon learning that the subject is but a common man, but I bid you to continue, as I have seldom met a soul as gilded as that of Good Clagh. And it is known that great deeds often stem from humble origins, as I portrayed in my critically acclaimed drama Blacksmith of Wood.

That night, as the ale and spirits cascaded, Good Clagh regaled me with the origination tale of his surname. It seems that long ago in the Age of Heroes there was a Good King Caomhán and his loyal knight, the seminal Mugnahn, who lived on the island of Íomhair, on which Good Clagh and his house still live. Good King Caomhán’s rule was wise and just and the people thrived under his jurisdiction, but those from without began to grow envious of Íomhair’s growing bounty. All of these ne’er-do-wells coalesced under the banner of Nathair, a sea-captain who had set his sights on possessing fertile lands. The bannermen of Good King Caomhán and Cunning Nathair met on the field of Réimse Glas to decide once and for all who the Lord of Íomhair would be. At this point in the telling of this tale Good Clagh must have had enough dark ale to kill a lesser man, and yet he still continued though I admit that I may have misheard some of the names given in his account due to my own battle with the spirits of the bottle. Continuing on, Good Clagh details how, at the height of the battle, Good King Caomhán is fighting furiously with the Cunning Nathair but ever so slowly, the Good King is gaining the upper hand. Then, just as it seems that the Good King is about to deal the finishing blow, Cunning Nathair transforms into a giant winged blue serpent, who is hereafter referred to as Nathair Gorm. Nathair Gorm regains their advantage, and the Good King is struck low by Nathair Gorm’s devilish form. The men of Íomhair, suffering greatly against Nathair’s Invaders, begin to buckle at the sight of Nathair Gorm and they begin to flee. It is at the point that the Great Warrior Mugnahn, previously defending his lord’s life against the Invaders, shouts a challenge of single combat to Nathair Gorm. The conditions are thus; if Mugnahn dies, his people shall be free from persecution. If Nathair Gorm dies, the Invaders shall turn back and be exiled from this land. Possibly incensed by his recent fortunes and amused by the absurd proposition that the Invaders would agree to the outcome one way or another, Nathair Gorm accepts. These two titans clash and Nathair Gorm is taken aback by Mugnahn’s ferocity. Mugnahn fights with the strength of twenty men, and bit by bit, he is able to pierce Nathair Gorm’s armored hide enough to deliver the final fatal blow. The Good King’s men cheer and Nathair’s Invaders are shocked by Mugnahn’s ferocity but move as if they mean to continue the battle just as it had left off, that is until they look upon the visage of Mugnahn, who has stripped bare and bathed himself in the blood of the defeated Nathair Gorm. The sight was too much for Nathair’s Invaders to bear and they turned and fled back into the sea from which they came.

It is my opinion that such an outlandish tale cannot possibly be anything but a child’s fable, with a narrative structure similar to Certainty Of Eternity, but Good Clagh told the tale with such impassioned zeal that I could naught by be impressed. Having at this time been into our cups for some while, I bid the Good Clagh good night and slipped silently into a slumber, but I hope to have the pleasure of dining with the True Son of Dunland once again.

The fox and the hunt

The sound of the footfall of horses and hounds rang through the forest, disrupting the song of nature and making the birds fall silent. Alexandria let out a deep sigh and set her mushroom shaped mace and shield behind a tree, calling out “vindicur” which allowed the items to get rooted and stand up on their own. She placed a hand out, as if to say “wait” to the black fox behind her. Reluctantly following the command, the fox let out a grumpy growl and crawled beneath the mushroom.

“Manach, manach, Manach,” alexandria said to herself, flipped her cloak inside out, and began to walk towards the sound. She could tell the animals were fast approaching, for the animals riding on the back of the horses were loud and obnoxious in their chase. A rabbit raced from the brush and past alexandria who called to it and told it where to hide. Short on its tail, several hounds broke through the clearing. Alexandria spoke and the dogs came to a quick hault.

“What are you doing you lazy mutts!–oh? What do we have here?” a large man on horseback came through the trees followed by two scrawnier men in furs and leathers wielding guns. “What is a little lady like yourself doing out here?”

“Oh, I was walkin’ through the forest, gatherin’ ‘erbs when I came upon this clearin’ and stopped to catch me breath. Ye can imagine the surprise I got when yer dogs came a runnin’ through the bushes, gave me quite a fright!” Alexandria said with sincerity and acted as though she had been scared by the dogs who now laid down and watched her as if waiting for another command. I really need to work on my Dunnick accent, she thought to herself.

“Well, lil’ lady, what do you call yourself?” the head huntsman asked, a grin on his cocky face.

“Saoirse,” she said sincerely once more and bowed some with her black cloak dipping with her movement and sweeping the ground, “What ‘er you fine gentlemen doin’ out in these lands? If it were huntin’, I would warn ye against it. There is a guardian up’in these woods who protects it. I hear there is good huntin’ ov’r yonder that be just the same if not bett’r. ‘Sides, this land is owned by a Lady in Stragosa who don’t like any poachin’ on ‘er land,” she makes a point of pointing to the north east, away from her parcels when she mentions the other hunting spot.

The huntsman stops for a moment, his brow raised as he looked upon the woman before him. Alexandria stood before him, her cloak turned black, her hair grown out to a dark red that was tucked partially inside the cloak, her eyes rust brown, and her pale skin painted with freckles. She certainly looked the like a Dunnick woman and they definitely seemed to believe her. Alexandria was happy they didn’t examine her up close or they’d see the freckles were more like spots and the hair like that of a horses mane. Though even then they likely would not notice the likeness to an animal she displayed.

“Well, young lady, we’d best be getting back to the hunt. I haven’t heard of any guardians and this land seems full of game. Can’t miss out on the opportunity and so long as you don’t go snitching,” the man leaned over his horse in a threatening manner, “ain’t nobody gonna know. Don’t do anything you’ll regret, just go on as if you never even saw us.”

Alexandria held back a growl. She was more disciplined than to fall to his intimidation tactics, but he didn’t know that. She turned her eyes to the ground and nodded once as if to say she agreed, then allowed the men to go on their way. Once they and the dogs had left the clearing, she shook the magic away and growled. Her hands we balled up in fists at her sides.

“I tried to warn them, these are MY lands and MY animals. But no, fine, want to be like that? Fine. Want to play intimidation games? I’ll show you intimidation games. I hate when men try and intimidate women like that and I hate when they don’t take women seriously. You think you’re scary, guy? Okay, let’s do this,” Alexandria walked with purpose back to her mushroom and fox. “Aura, lets go.”

The little gold eyed fox looked up at her with what appeared to be a grin, knowing exactly what Alexandria was planning. Alexandria uprooted her mushroom and carried it off, getting ready for an experiment that would soon be under way.

——–
The three men and their dogs ran throughout the woods for what seemed to be hours. The birds’ songs had died down and the animals all seemed to be in hiding. They cursed and swore, but still they could find anything to bring down and show for their day’s trek.

“Not one fucking deer or fox or even rabbit! I’m starting to think that guardian chased them off,” the scraggly brown black haired man on the last horse whined.

“Don’t buy into that shit. It’s probably just some rumor the noble who owns the parcel spread to keep people off of it, thinking the peasants would be too stupid to challenge their words,” the master huntsman grumbled. “If there were a guardian, we’d take it and gather it’s fur. Bear or monster alike, I dare it to come out and taste the bullets I have waiting for it. We’d hit it and let it run till it died then grab its hide all the same!” The man held up his gun and called to the woods as if taunting them.

Just as the man finished his sentence, a fox burst from the ground before the hounds who began to wail and bark. “Finally!” the men cried and they began their chase. Several shots rang out, but never did the shots seem to hit their mark. They chased the black furred fox through the trees and down to a river bank long enough that the dogs and horses seemed to grow tired. Once to the water’s edge, the fox still did not yield and it swam to the other side.

Once upon the other bank, the fox turned to them men and let out a startling, near human laugh which made the dogs shudder and retreat behind the horses. Though the men urged the dogs and horses forward, they would not listen to their commands. The men cursed and were about to shoot from where they sat when their eyes were drawn to the fox’s strange behavior. At first it seemed to taunt them, but then it dove clear out of sight and behind a rather large tree only to have a much larger figure appear from the other side. As it crept forward, the men all ceased their swearing and became fixated on the creature before them.

It stood the size of a man on four legs with black fur the color of a moonless night and looked upon the men with eyes that burned gold like the sun. Its legs were long and elegant and tipped in long black claws and it hoped upon a stump with speed and grace then sat before them in the dimming evening light. Even the remaining sunlight that sifted through the trees seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness of its fur. “You called, here I am, huntsmen. You have such disdain for the land, no respect, only in it for the next kill,” the horrifying creature spoke, “You have hunted me, you have hunted and tried to take from the land that I protect. Tell me then, why should I not come for you in turn? Were you not warned?”

The men stared in disbelief for several moments and the horses’ breaths became panicked though they did not dare move. The hounds had all gone into hiding.

The main huntsman seemed to begin to speak and lifted his gun just slightly, though at that moment the creature hopped from the stump and leaped to the bank across from them, readying itself to leap forward. “I, too, enjoy the hunt!” The creature roared. The horses with the men clinging to their saddles and the crying hounds began their frantic run from the woods. For a while the creature chased them, though by the time they were closing in to stragosa, they seemed to only be chased by a small black fox who ran hard on their heels all the way back. Many of the peasants who watched the men run into the city seemed perplexed and even laughed as they saw all the animals and hunters running so frightened with only a cute little fox in toe. The fox even stopped to pleasantly greet some of the people watching once the men had fled out of sight and into the city before returning to its woodland home.

——-

The next day the men found themselves seats at the bar, their eyes sunken, tired, and still filled with terror. They tried to drink away the memory of the traumatic experience, when they found themselves listening to a curious song. They turned their attention to the stage only to see the same Dunnick woman from before, singing:

“And up there sprung like lightning a fox from out of his hole
His fur was the colour of a starless night, and his eyes like burning coals

And they chased him over the valley, and they chased him over the fields;
They chased him down to the river bank, but never would he yield
And he’s jumped into the water, and he’s swum to the other side
And he’s laughed so loud that the green woods shook
Then he’s turned to the huntsmen and he’s cried:

‘Ride on, my gallant huntsmen! When must I come again?
For you should never want for a fox to chase all over the glen
And when your need is greatest, just call upon my name
And I will come, and you shall have the best of sport and game!’

And the men looked up in wonder and the hounds run back to hide
For the fox, it changed to the Devil himself where he stood on the other side
And the men, the hounds, the horses went flying back to town
And hard on their heels come a little black fox, laughing as he ran…”

The woman smiled as she looked over the audience until her eyes fell upon the huntsmen. As they did, for a moment, her eyes reminded them of the beasts and seemed to burn holes in their souls. While the others in the room seemed captivated by the woman’s voice and hopeful, the men were traumatized and quickly ran from the bar, hopped on their horses, and fled the city.

After the song had finally ended, the woman dismissed herself from the stage and the band who had played so beautifully beside her. She went up to the bar with a smile, and paid off the rest of their tab. Then returned home at last, confident that they had been taught a lesson, and ready to be her normal self once more.

Love and Duty 7: Olive Branch

Lion Age Spring 604

The knight strode out of the meeting hall, head high observing the surrounding with one hand resting on one of a pair of sheathed swords. Once fully clear of the shadow cast by the building, she whistles a few precise notes. Moments later, ten rugged looking men and women with bows and knives move out of the shadows before taking up positions around her.

The small group winds their way through the city taking multiple back alleys and switchbacks. As they progress through the city, additional men and women join the small procession until they make 20. A final women joins their group prior to leaving the city proper.

Once safely within the forest-line outside the city a final group of 10 joins.A man in this final group smiles at the knight. “As you appear unhurried Dana Isabella, I assume the meeting went well?”

Isabella takes the reins of her war horse, Serena, from one of the Spotters and begins leading her alongside the man. “It went as well as one could expect Captain Franco. We will be striking camp to deploy to the Bloodfields to somehow try and hold it potentially against both Orcs and Kuaralites.” She shakes her head, “If we are not betrayed and are both provisioned and supported with the additional troops promised from Heidrich and Trakt and we somehow we survive any battles, your Corsairs are to to return the swords to the city.” She pauses in speaking but keeps walking while she waits for the inevitable.

It only takes a few moments before the quiet of the forest is interrupted by every curse imagined by soldiers and pirates both. After a few loud minutes have passed, “Dana, we can take that dragon’s city and raid all of their parcel’s like you suggested when they first threatened to starve us out. How can you let them insult House Scordato in…..” The man stops mid sentence as he finds himself face to face with an increasingly too common look of rage in his commander’s eyes as of late. Meanwhile, the rest of the Spotters have moved, as if my magic, away from the captain.

“You would do well to remember what happened to your predecessor captain. Our position is tenuous and you know it.” Her voice raises in volume, “Si, I know we could plow through the flimsy defenses that House Drake has stationed within Silbren to obtain rations while our multiple scouting forces raid the countryside.” Again the volume increases as her hand reaches for a short blade strapped to the small of her back. “I HAVE LITTLE INTEREST IN COMMITTING AN ACT THAT SOME MIGHT CONSIDER TREASON WHEN AN OLIVE BRANCH HAS BEEN OFFERED.” The blade slips free and Franco’s eyes go wide with fear as he watches the knight swiftly cut her own wrist before returning the blade to its home.

Isabella closes her eyes and breathes deeply for a feel moments before holding her arm out for one of the soldiers to begin applying fresh bandages to stem the bleeding. “Graci, Pippo. As for the honor of the house, I have arranged a duel between myself and the Grafin to be held if we survive the blood fields.”

Captain Franco chokes out a nervous laugh, “I guess I will having to make a wager soon. May House Scordato always be blessed in the grace of God.”

Isabella turns away and again begins the long trek again to the Black Tower, “Yes captain, may House Scordato always flourish.”

The next step, the long step

Mother Superior.

As I write those two words, I still can’t believe they are in reference to me. Mitzi the farm girl. Mitzi the hobbler. I never would have dreamed it would happen so soon. I am not going to get too caught up in my pride, but even Mum said a little bit of pride is not bad, especially if it is something you worked hard for and earned.

I came to Stragosa to heal and now I am needed more than ever. I learned much from Bishop Carsten but I know God needs him elsewhere to deal with his grief. Even all these years of watching Mum be a vessel for healing and seeing the rituals, performing them feels so different.

I felt so helpless this last forum, that I was letting everyone down who had come to me for healing but there were rituals I was unable to perform. I have always been afraid to try rituals above my rank, but things became necessary if anyone had a chance of survival. Thank Lurian that he chose not yet to take the two people I treated to heaven.

I did my best with what I can do, and my leeches have never failed me since I gathered my own. Even the smallest creature can do great things. Am I a small creature? I suppose I am in the grand scheme of things it is true. I still have the visions that guided my path to where I am today. I have my injuries as a reminder of what I went through to get to them. Every day my faith is tested, as it should be.

For now, I have a church to tend to. A representative from House Trackt asked that I tend to the one they have built in the Library district. They wanted someone from home and that of course is me. I did make it clear this will not mean I am a House Priest. I must be a healer of all people. While we do have a Bishop of Lurian here, he is also a Paladin and is needed elsewhere. I have a rather large community to serve and the less people rely on one of those mages, the better.

And speaking of Mages, it turns out a new Prosecutor for the inquisition, is not only one of them, but a cursed Fire Mage. Memories came back to me of what my Aunt did that almost destroyed my family once her fire powers corrupted her beyond repair. I can only hope I am past any age where those kinds of powers might manifest in me. I am a woman of God, not of whatever or whomever those powers come from. I don’t know what I would do if it ever happened, as it is something I always fear.

God has a plan for me and I am following it to the best of my capability

Bjorn Chapter 6: Long Winter Sudden Spring

The Ironbreaker was scared and out of breath, the wind whipped at his face and ice chunks tore at his skin and armor, he was caught in a snow drift sinking every step so he couldn’t get away, and He was coming. He heard the crunch of ice feet behind him he turned around only to be picked up like a child by the largest man he had ever seen, dressed only in a raggedy loincloth. He brought the Ironbreaker face to face and looked at him like his father looked at him after he caught him trying to lift the grown man’s axe as a child, with slight amusement in his eyes. The Giant opened his mouth and with a voice of deep bass, rumbled. “My dear little Bjorn, you are mine, you have always been mine.”
The Ironbreaker screamed back with rage and futility “I AM MY OWN ULFRANDR, I DENY YOU”
The smile on the giants face quickly turned to a snarl and he slammed Bjorn down into the snow and brought his foot crashing down on his chest.
The Ironbreaker awoke with a start grabbing his ax and almost letting out a howl, it took him a moment to realize that he was in his own bed in the corner of a his room. let out out a sigh he let the ax fall to the ground and sighed, the dreams were getting worse, The Wolf Runner had touched him in his dreams, for the last few weeks he had been slowly gaining in his dreams but this was the first night that He had caught him. He had heard tales of men dying in their sleep from bad and evil dreams but for the time it looks like he was alive. He got up and prepared for the day. he worked the paints over his face in their practiced forms, Red for clan, the Ironbloods best fighters in the North, Blue for his chosen color, stability, wisdom, and strength, the runes to remind everyone who he is and where he’s from. Next his necklaces each a story to themselves, the wolf, the lion hanging next to each other his past and present. After that his shirt he looked at the pile of armor that was by his bed and considered leaving her but then remembered what happened last time he didn’t wear armor and quickly put it on. Lastly his sash, Blue for his color, marked proudly with the Stamp of the Metalli, he would rather be naked than go without that sash, it marked him out as a Merchant belonging to one of the best guilds in the world as far as he was concerned.
He slipped through the open room of the place he staying and smile and nodded to everyone he met, Undying was eating a chunk of meat he hoped was game, Balthazar was, as usual, in a constant state of movement through the room bouncing from here to there, Walt he hadn’t seen in a few days and Florence was most likely out in the city already, she was always the first up. Ironbreaker looked at the Shield by the door and lightly grazed his hand over its symbols then feeling ready, he walked out into the world. The streets as usual smelled like garbage and human waste the first step he took out of his door resulted in sinking ankle deep in the mud that always seemed to be present in these southlanders cities. shaking his head he started to move to the workshop were the lists of orders demanded his constant attention. Moving through the silent hooded crowds never got easier, they all looked the same to him, and a quote from his father echoed through his mind, “the age of heroes is dead, The Lion God has killed it, leaving humankind with nothing but weeping martyrs, fear and shame.” Hearing their whispers as he moved through the streets and saw their sideways glances, someone had started the damn rumor that he was baptized and it had spread like wildfire he wanted to smack that person for causing him a world of trouble. It had been months since he had lowered himself to the Gods and the fear that once gripped him was over. He was tired of the Gods both old and new throwing him around as their plaything, he remembered the inquisitors words and his promises but for some reason that seemed like a long long time ago. All he was left with was stubbornness and spite, and with his beloved leaving the valley there wasn’t even any soft comfort waiting for him.
The Ironbreaker reached the Guildhall, opening the door he waved to Borso and Bakara who where pouring over some papers, and maps, he should really learn how to read he thought to himself. he went int to back of the guild hall where his workstation was adorned by bones of bears, wolfs, and eagle feathers, the stones around the forge where the fire danced were marked with runes of power said to make the iron stronger and the coal last longer, in the back of his mind he knew it didn’t do anything but it was traditional that all proper forges have them so he placed them around it. it felt almost like home, picking up a bag of coal he poured it into the forge and started a small flame. The Ironbreaker then picked up a piece of Hard Iron and looked it over feeling the raw ingot in his hand. “Now what shall I do with you I wonder?” he said aloud and he placed it on the coals and started to work the billows. It was a bad winter with nothing getting done so he had to work hard to catch up on everything he slacked behind during the winter, but the day was new and the sun was just about the peak above the horizon he took the red piece iron out and placed it on his anvil smiling he picked up his hammer and like his namesake broke the raw iron so he could make it into something beautiful.

Mechanical Advantage 13: Inertia.

Objects in motion tend to stay in motion unless acted upon by an outside force.

So many people had argued that with him over the years, not understanding the bevy of nuance that existed in their world. People, at the hearts, were just well-meaning objects, and they tended to do whatever they had always done until someone forced them to do otherwise. Then there was a general outcry, and a scramble to defend what had been before without truly gauging the merit of the proposed change. The laws that governed all known bodies applied so beautifully to people that it was nearly ironic in its wonder.

More and more of his time was being pulled away by side projects, these days. Reviewing contracts. Approving tax rates. Assisting with land parcel development. Getting married. It was a wonder that he had time to think at all. Gone were the days-that-never-were of being able to blissfully sit carefree and think for hours on end. To mentally turn the world on its axis to examine a new idea or question an assumed reality. No, no, he was an honest man of this strange new faith in an old decayed city.

The tavern was noisy these days. Too noisy. His apprentices wanted for work, and he hadn’t time to direct them like he used to. So the other ones drank the day away, or caroused with the Hestrali strumpets about town while the youngest doodled in the corner. Jehanne had taken to them, at least, in her bright smiled way.

Such a smile.

An agitated puff of smoke left his lips and bounced off the confining wall opposite him. The one remaining room in his world that was firmly his, the quiet study at the top of the Metalli Guildhall. Below him, he could hear the work of hammers and saws, improved for efficiency by his own design. If he sat long enough, he even believed he could hear the bellow of Borso echoing off the halls. The old miner had proven to be an exceptional investment, but if the equally old Engineer was being honest, the Metalli hadn’t felt the same since Thorn had departed. She had been the… heart of them.

He sighs and turns the page of his weathered tome.

It was strange how long the winter had felt. The Cappacian beauty wrapped in his sheets, the warmth of her filling the room nearly to bursting. A genuine laugh before eyes hungry for answers latched onto him. She had a way of drawing him deeper and deeper into her wants. Before long, she’d have wrung every answer she could ever desire from him. What a blissful prison he had built. Soft and pale and witty. A small part of him wondered when this young lady would tire of so… grumpy a companion. Odd that his mind hadn’t turned towards its usual routes.

He cough a hurrumph of scented smoke into the room and turns another unread page.

It promised to be a busy Spring, he could already hear the clamor of the city as it slowly roused itself from the lethargy of Winter. Soon construction would begin. Soon he would find time to touch his quill to paper and allow the creations to flow. Soon the carefully set pieces would form the desires he wished.

The key to inertia was to account for the forces that would draw away energy, not to invest more energy. A smile touched his lips as his eyes turned to the book again. Another few hours of solitude wouldn’t harm anyone.

The Nature of Sin

The Triumvirate’s rebellion is what brought sin into the world.. When these creatures destroyed their Meaning to create a new Purpose they discarded their Divinity and allowed paths of wickedness to be walked. This was their childish, spiteful act against their creator- to lead Mankind astray and say “See! Your way isn’t perfect!” Were their acts not so destructive they might even be pitied as one might pity a child throwing a tantrum, but that time is long past and any sympathy for these creatures is merely the product of their twisted manipulations. Eons of stewing in their hatred and belief that they could not possibly be wrong have left them bereft of anything of value.

Regarding the nature of the damage they have inflicted, it would seem to me that sin exists in two intertwined, but separate ways. The first is the wound upon the soul of the person taking the sinful path, and the second is the wound inflicted upon the world. Here in Stragosa, I see people struggling with both and that highlights the need for wisdom, courage, and strong atonements for all.

The capacity for a person to sin is a product of the subversive Purpose that the Triumvirate have created. In the world as it was meant to be, God would test themself with all sorts of circumstances and in a world without sin, he would choose a sinless path every time. The most difficult conflicts would be solved and with each, God would grow and Meaning would be gained from the results. In the world that was wounded, we must guard ourselves for paths of darkness exist and they are tempting and easy. They draw us into Meaningless successes and Pyrrhic victories where nothing is truly learned, gained, or resolved and every man and woman looks upon what they have wrought and feels only anxiety or anguish. These paths can range from the venial like drawing you into conflicts and mistakes with too much alcohol, to the deadly of seeking to resolve a feud with an assassin’s blade. The lie that avoids conflict does not resolve it, and the lie will always be found out and make the eventual conflict harder. The Triumvirate have designed their wicked spiral to draw you in with the smallest missteps and you must be watchful to avoid them and right yourself swiftly when you stumble.

This is why atonement is so important. An appropriate atonement should include three parts. The first is the healing of the soul. The penitent should engage in an activity that’s purpose is to rehabilitate, not punish. The penitent should be shown, in this time of openness to the path of Meaning, that their sin is unnecessary and not as rewarding as taking the sinless path. The thief must be shown that their needs will be met by their community. The violent must be shown that conflict can resolved in other ways. The lustful and the gluttonous must be shown that fulfillment and happiness comes not from momentary, distracting pleasures, but from living a good life with good friends.

The second part of sin is that which damages the world, and an atonement must also help to heal the world. Sin manifests in the world as those monsters we call the Night Malefic. These are our sins made manifest.- our Divinity twisted and corrupted by unhealed sin and expressed as Acts upon the world. The world needs healing, too, and so our atonement must not just help ourselves, but our community and the world itself. All of our Acts must do this, but atonement especially is the time when you have most opened yourself to expanding God’s Meaning and are listening to his words in your heart. Therefore, protect yourself and others from the Malefic, but also work with those wise in the faith to resolve them. Give the orphan love and the soldier peace. And seek to right the wrongs of the living and help your neighbors so no more do they turn to sin.

The final part of atonement is simple, but also easily overlooked. Atonement may be difficult, but it must always be possible. There is no shame in seeking new guidance about an atonement to make peace with an enemy who has passed beyond your reach. Seek a path to healing in the wisdom of the clergy and trust them to help you.

Together we can find Meaning and become great- greater than any other race or deceptive creed. Together we are God. We are the Form God takes when poured into the world. Do not be taken in by the tantrums of the Triumvirate. Their paths have no Meaning and their rewards are false. Only the path of Divinity leads to a true victory.