Category: Journal Entry

“Would you like some wine?”

There was a long pause as his fingers combed through soft long dark hair. The head on his lap shifts. There is a sigh and the voice that responds is a whisper.

“No…shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? You’re in my home, father would have disapproved of me for being such a terrible host.”

There’s so much sorrow in his tone, it cuts Armand so deep. “I’m sure he was proud of the person you have become, Jantis. You and Hezke both…you’ve become great people. You’ve both made his House proud.”

Jantis frowns, the way he does when he is deep in thought.

“I’m not sure what to do now. How to move on…”

Armand knew that train of thought too well. He’s been there too, he can’t think of a worse feeling than losing someone you love to Death.

“You will move on. All of you will. But for now it’s the time to grief, let your emotions surface. You know I’m here to listen and there is no weakness in sorrow, lets you know you’re human.”

Jantis nods and tries to give Armand a small smile. It comes out as a grimace instead.

“Thank you for accompanying Hezke after she told you of our loss. It’s been nice to have you around, even in these circumstances.”

Armand continues to runs his fingers through Jantis’ hair. The movement ever so gently. “I saw you in my dream.” He can feel Jantis twitch at the mention of dreams. “I didn’t see you, I saw a shadow…surrounded by despair. I knew it was you…though I had no idea what had happened. I thought I would ride here and see you before going back to Bravestone….and then Hezke told me of the sad news.”

Jantis gives a soft chuckle “dreams still happening I see. Just like when we were children.”

Not just like it, Armand thought. He still hadn’t asked Hezke or Jantis how their father died, he figured when they felt like telling him they would. Still, he wondered in his dreams could have prevented Graf Heidrich’s death…and there would be a pang of guilt in the future if he found out he could have. But his dreams latety had been more enigmatic than before…sometimes they would give him premonitions of things he had been worrying about, other times his dreams would take him in directions he was not expecting. He had yet to have a grasp on controlling them and even how to interpret the imagery he was given.

He feels Jantis shifts and then stand up slowly, fixing his clothes as he tries to regain composure.

“I should get ready, in case other houses come to pay respects.”

Armand nods, getting up himself and straightening his jacket. There’s a long comfortable silence as they both slowly try to make themselves more presentable in front of the mirror. Armand feels like Jantis wants to say something but is holding it back…he can feel it by the way he shifts his body back and forth. He decides to take the initiative.

“I know this is probably not a time to have guests here in the house. I wanted to comfort you, wanting to be of help if I could. But I also don’t want to be a burden, and if you’d rather be alone I can travel home after the funeral. I promise I understand needing space right now.”

They stare at each other for a while before Jantis crosses the room to open the door, looking back at Armand with a hint of relief in his voice.

“You can send a raven to Bravestone…let the King know that you’ll be staying here for the foreseeable future.”

The Prince gives Jantis Heidrich a soft smile “At once, my lord.”

Black Bard Journal 3
Setting: very late at night in a small roadside tavern
Some hours earlier Roger and his young minstrel friend Claude heard a performance by a local bard called Bumsen Goodhand. They are only patrons left in the tavern.

“Roger, what did you think of Bumsen Goodhand?”

“Well… heez left hand eez obviously ze good one. But his songwriting impress me ze most. I trade ‘im one of mine for eez closing number. Eef I can learn ‘ow ‘e plays it.”

“That tune is getting popular, I’ve been hearing it all over, it’s very catchy. Roger, why do you play another bard’s tune, you have so many?”

“Well… nobody can know everything, zo I like to listen to stories I don’t know, maybe I learn someting new. Ze music world is a paradox, you know? Ze more you give away, ze more you ‘ave.”

“What do you mean? I don’t get it.”

“Well, take zis local bard, he’s a nobody. But ‘e come up wis someting good one time, everybody want to do ‘is song. Ze more he share, ze more people ‘ear ‘is song. He become popular maybe. Now ‘e ‘as more power to influence ze world. To make ze world a little brighter, make people feel someting. Zat eez what eez all about, no? Maybe ‘e become famous because everybody know ‘is song and zey feel ‘appy, uh?”

“He just gives away his song for other bards to play?”

“If zey are honest, zey give ‘im ze credit when zey perform. And I usually offer a song in exchange eef I want to play someone else’s tune, zo ‘e comes away wis someting.”

“How come you never traded songs with me?”

“Well, I don’t tink I can sing any of your songs, your vocal style eez… um, too advanced for me to follow. I cannot hit ze high note anymore…”

“Can I have one of your songs anyway?”

“Ha-ha-ha! Which one deed you ‘ave in mind, Claude?”

“I sort of like that new one you wrote this winter—‘Gibbets and Crows’. It’s cute! Wherever did you get the idea for such darkly humorous story?”

“Mm, well, zis winter was… ‘ow should one say…? A challenge.”

“I’m all ears, my good fellow! Do tell!”

“Well, since leaving Stragosa last winter, ze hunting game seem not so profitable, you know, an’ I find myself wis an opportunity to do some good for ze poor people living in the city. Zey need farm workers tout de suite. Zere eez a food shortage, ze poor are ‘ungry, an’ I see zere eez need for my assistance.”

“I didn’t know you were a Farmer!”

“Oh, I’m not.”

“But…”

“Ze good man in charge tell me, uh, go study Farming from a book an’ zen you can staff ze dairy providing milk, cheese, curds, and whey to ze ‘ungry poor. I say yes.”

“Sounds like a lot of effort!”

“I never found out. Zere was a ‘orrible dark secret about zat dairy and zis enterprise… I will spare your tender ‘eart ze details. Suffice to say eet would curdle your blood to see what I saw.”

“Oh, dear! What did you do?”

“Zo I left zat ‘orrible place and went back to ze good man who wish to ‘elp ze poor, an’ I say, hey, I am ze Black Bard of Capacionne! I don’t ‘ave to put up wis zees kind of disgusting nonsense!”

“What did he say?”

“I explain what happen an’ he understand. Zo, I’m tinking I just go out into ze woods and live off ze land all winter, but he say, hey, I have anozer way you can help feed ze poor—staffing ze butcher shop behind ze prison, next to ze gallows. I still want to ‘elp, zo I say ‘fine’.”

“The butcher shop behind the prison, next to the gallows. THAT was less disgusting than the dairy?!”

“Oh, yes, most certainly.”

“But you’re cutting up meat and dealing with blood and customers! Right next to where they hang criminals! It sounds… absolutely ghastly!”

“No, eet ees important work to ‘elp ze poor, eet eez honorable and just. I know what I’m doing.”

Claude let out a horrified gasp.
“THAT’s where you wrote ‘Gibbets and Crows’?”

“Yes.”

“In the butcher shop next to the gallows?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if it’s all the same to you… will you let me do ’Behind the Farmer’s Daughter’ instead?”

To: Mother
From: Your First-Born

I write this as a letter, although I well know that it will become only an entry in my journal. The ravens do not currently leave Stragosa for our keep, and we have not spoken in long enough where my missive would cause discomfort, above all.

My progress in finding a wife, as instructed, is moving along well. I have identified two high-born candidates. Both are strong-minded and ample-hipped, as is our wont. One of them appears to have pledged her self to another, but that is surely only temporary. The other is much more likely to be amenable to my proposal, although I fear that she would react poorly once she discovered my youthful indiscretions. I am confident those have now been paid off, yes?

The rulership of Stragosa is where we need it to be, firmly securing it for House Fafnir. I have engineered several positions in the ruling council that will – in the long term – benefit father, and fulfill his wishes. My primary concern is the weakness of Cappacione, as Prince Armand seems to have left the city. I knew him from my youth and felt comfortable in his virtues and strengths. Losing him is something I consider a personal failure, as he never seemed at home here. Neither do I, but duty demands that I remain. Envy and pathos mingle uncomfortably in my mind as I consider Armand’s departure.

The Rogalians continue to pose a conundrum I have been unable to solve, but I maintain that they hold the key to continued prosperity in this valley. I will go into more depth on this in my second addendum to this letter. The Hestrali contingent remains untamed and utterly dangerous – and their numbers continue to swell. If they harboured meaningful political ambitions, they could become an issue. Thankfully they are blinded to this obvious truth by their misguided desire for coin and production. I will encourage them to continue along this path.

With respect and gratitude,
your son.

The smell of burnt wood was thick in the air, the cloying, heavy reak of it spreading away from the fire pit in which a nice faggot sat ablaze.

Renatus sat a short distance away from the fire, watching the flickering flames dance up and down the log. The remains of a meal sat in a small bowl on the ground, and now he gazed into the blaze, his mind drifting in time with the sizzle and pop of the log. He held a tressertag bracelet in his hands, turning it over and over again absentmindedly. He felt the memories of the sweet girl begin to spring up in his mind, moving to drown out the sadness that seemed to pervade his thoughts of late. Memories of true warmth and bliss.

Too often, his service to Benalus and the Church drove him hither and yon, testing the limits of his mind, body and spirit, but whenever he was granted some small measure of leave to recover, he always travelled back to Lethia where the small home he’d been granted. There, taking care of the home and its small affairs was a young woman whose smile always made the trip worthwhile. She’d been freed from a set of slavers he’d come across in one of his trips across the Throne, and he had cared for her and worked to nurse her back to health, as an atonement set for accidentally killing several of them in the course of freeing her. He’d never begrudged the atonement, and he’d come to care for the young woman… and even coming to love her. She was such a sweet woman, honest, funny, though she had a temper when she drank. He saw her as a pure soul to protect, and to one day wed.

On one of his infrequent trips back to Lethia, she’d asked for more, and he had had to turn her down. The sadness in her eyes was palpable, for he knew she wanted more. He had too, but he’d explained why he could not, not then in any case. And so began a romance from afar, nurtured in the mind through thought and hope, for both of them. Each year since, he’d held in his hand a tressertag bracelet, and he could feel the ache to want to be close to someone like that. He couldn’t though, not without feeling as though a betrayal of the love of a girl he yearned for from a world away.

With a loud pop, a cluster of sap burst from the heat of the flames, bringing him out of his memories. With a sigh, he gently threw the tressertag into the blaze. His heart ached, but he knew that he had ultimately no control over the future. Another year, another absence, and another silent prayer asking Benalus to keep them safe until he could see her again, hold her in his arms one last time…he prayed to be granted some peace from this torment called love.

The spring night fell upon the city, winter’s chill still clinging when the sun went down. Jehanne had hardly begun to consider her supper and the night was already creeping into the windows of her home. She sat quietly by the hearth, absently running her bare toes over the grout of the hearth stones. So many of her friends had made themselves busy elsewhere and she found herself alone much of the time. The corner of the small kitchen was decorated with a rough hewn table and many candles. She rose from he stool by the fire to light the candles passing a small window as she walked- there were no stars in the sky tonight.

The faint scent of tallow wafted from the candles as she began to burn them and she was distantly aware that the scent would settle in her hair. On and impulse- took a seat at the table, focusing her gaze on the empty chair across from her. She had seen him seated there many nights- laughing and joking in their own language, rifles and pistols spread in front of him. This thought was accompanied by a certain heaviness in her chest, as though something had settled there. She allowed her eyes to lose focus over the candle flame, imagination bringing his shade into focus across the table.

***

A man was seated at the table, weapons laid out before him, some oiled- some in the midst of disassembly. His hooded eyes were creased with smile lines as he looked up at her, the golds and browns of his beard soft in the candle light. “ We’ve to at least finish oiling the pistols before we sleep my love- they’re needed for tomorrow’s work”. The mind-conjured version of herself smiled and winced as the skin of her right cheek burned. She lifted one of her silver cups from the table and inspected her reflection. A long scar ran from her left temple to the peak of her lips, it was still the deep red-purple of a newly healing wound.

The scraping of chair legs on the rough stones jarred her gaze from the cup. His arms slid around her waist. “It will heal. I do not think it detracts from your beauty.” His strong hands rest on her shoulders- massaging gently “In fact, I think it gives you a certain fierceness. A lady Jack indeed.” He gently turns her in his arms, voice low “I am sorry about your hair though- I wouldn’t have let Walt take it if there had been any other way to get you free.” She nods softly- a quick movement unencumbered by the usual weight of her hair. “I know- and you saved me Lucien. I could never be angry at a husband who saved my life.”

Jehanne stepped backwards from her husband’s arms- towards the assortment of weapons on the table. “So we need all of the pistols cleaned, reassembled and shot must be allocated. What about the knives? Are we in charge of inventory or does Walt expect us to do the minor repairs to the loose tine as well?”

He closed the distance between them – hands settling into the pockets of her trousers “Let me make you laugh again Jehanne. I miss your laugh. Remember when someone mistook you for my apprentice? They thought you were a boy and nearly fell over laughing when I told them that you were my wife.” She felt the curve of her lips twitch involuntarily and laughter erupted with the recollection. “I love the sound of your laugh.” She leaned back into his arms “And I love the sound of yours.”

She reluctantly returned to her seat at the table “If I ever wish to take my husband to bed- I’d best start re-assembling these weapons” She pulled a pistol barrel towards her and began to swab it clean. Lucien remained standing, eyes surveying his wife. She was more muscular than when they had first met- her forearms had become much more defined as she had began practicing knife work. “You really do look ferociously beautiful my love- and you knife work is improving” his hands casually traced their way down her forearms, fingers tracing the outlines of a small braided leather bracelet. The strands had been deeply colored when he’d given it to her; rich brown and cold and red. The bracelet had faded now- the colored softened with ware and in the years since he’d gifted it to her it had lost its leathery roughness- becoming a part of her as they’de become a part of one another.

Her eyes followed his hand to the bracelet- and she felt his thoughts in that way of spouses “You’re remembering the night you gave that to me?” Lucien nodded softly- a smile creasing his eyes, “to be fair”- she added softly “after all of that wine- terrible wine I might add” “which you kept drinking!” He interjected in jest, “which we drank together” she emphasized. They laughed. She brought her lips to his wrist kissing the pulse there. “I really hadn’t expected that you know- I didn’t know you felt that way about me- but we made sense and I suppose there was something to be said for a night spent dancing and laughing, and avoiding everyone who would interrupt us.” She turned her head so she could meet his eyes, they were a lovely pale green and she smiled. He would always remind her of Spring and hope and briefly she wondered if their baby would have had his eyes.

Another occupational hazard. Mercenaries didn’t have children- not usually. She hadn’t known she wanted children until she had seen the joy in Lucien’s eyes that first summer after their wedding. Heard the joy in his voice when the spoke of all the things they would teach their son- who he would be. As if reading her mind he kissed her cheek softly “it wasn’t your fault Jehanne. These things happen. Thistle said you were lucky to live- and selfishly” he swallowed and she could feel a tear sliding down his cheek “I couldn’t have lost you.”

Their daughter had died in the fall. Born too soon- it wasn’t clear what had caused the birth. It could have been the fighting- or the new poisons she had been experimenting with. They had named her Amelia before laying her to rest in the cemetery. He had held her- and Stragosa had become Home- they wouldn’t leave her like that.

“I think about her too Jehanne.” “We never said it would be easy- I still choose you- I choose this” she gestured to the table and the small kitchen- to everything that represented their life. “if all the losses of my life brought me to you- and us- it has been worth it” his eyes welled as he spoke. She kissed him fully- silencing his words and her mind. “it’s still worth it- you’re worth it-“ there was something else there, but the words stuck and she let them rest. “Now help me with these weapons. We’ve still work left.”

*****
The snapping of a damp log on the fire broke the silence of the kitchen, jarring Jehanne from imagined memories of a life that never was and would never be. Something that was not quite a smile passed over her lips. With images of his spring-green eyes still in her mind she knew that somewhere in herself she could have- or did- feel love for Lucien. The feeling gaped somewhere just above her stomach, hollow and tender and knowing. It was a satisfied ache, no longing or eagerness in that pain. It didn’t gnaw or pull, rather it lay contented with feline grace with her. The anger she had felt for him- for his words- stung less in the presence of those feelings, as if they provided some insight into the source of his anger. She sighed and began rummaging in the basket near her feet, searching for her own pistols- they were due for a cleaning. She paused, momentarily startled as her fingertips glanced over the smooth surface of an enameled music box. Her heart skipped a beat, recalling the letter inside. Picturing in her mind’s eye- the life that could have been

*****
The spring air was thick with the scent of wild flowers blooming sweetly in the meadow beyond the estate and she welcomed the breeze as it blew through the open window offering a momentary respite from the flushed discomfort that seemed her perpetual state of being these days. Lady Jehanne Durant smiled as she adjusted her bulk against the cushioned window seat. Lord Sebastian- she still called him Sebo, as she always had and always would- had commissioned the window seat especially for her. A gift to remind of the window seat in her childhood home where she had so often waited for him to arrive. A pulsing flutter in her abdomen brought a smile to her face- less than two months now before they would meet their next child. She briefly wondered if this one would have his deep inviting eyes like her the other two boys- or the tawny gold of their youngest- Elise. Running her hand over the swell of her stomach, maybe they would be blue- they hadn’t had a blue eyed child yet and there was something so beautiful about blue eyes and dark hair. She was certain the child would have dark hair, even Hector who’s hair had been pale when he was born had come to have his father’s rich dark waves by the time he was four years old.

Her window overlooked the rear courtyard of the estate, and she could see Sebo- his hair escapings its tie as he lifted Henri above his head as Hector circled him planning his next strike with a wooden toy sword. The little boy was only three, but already sharing his mother’s love of the birds and the sky. She watched Sebo’s shoulders tense slightly, as though he could feel her eyes on him, and he slowly turned to meet her gaze. Even across the distance of the courtyard and through the window pane she could see the way his eyes shone- as though lit from within- and she waved as he smiled.

He gaze was drawn away from the window by the presence of a small hand pulling at her skirt. “Ma? To Ma?” the little voice inquired. Elise’s golden eyes peered up at her, perfectly matched to the ribbon around the waist of her tiny pink dress. Even though she was just learning to speak there was a precociousness to her voice and Jehanne imagined she would grow up to be a true Lady, in name and demeanor.

She lifted the little girl into her arms, only briefly regretting the additional heat the small girl brought to he already warm body. Elise placed her small palms against the glass, leaving little smudges as she moved her fingers to point at the boys in the garden. “Da- Heeri, Hecy” Jehanne giggled under her breath at her daughter’s pronunciation of her brothers’ names, but replied “Yes, Elise- its Da and Henri and Hector they are all outside”. The little girl turned to look at her as she spoke “We go side too.” It was more a statement than a question, but Jehanne replied simply “Ofcourse we can.” She scooped Elise up in her arms, shifting the little girl to her left hip as she slid from the window seat. Jehanne noticed with annoyance that it was less of a slide and more of a scooting motion- and for a moment she longed for her long misplaced agility. As she turned to face the door of the study she cast a glance towards the discarded notebook that was resting on the cushions. She hadn’t written in it in ages, and a part of her missed those afternoons she used to spend dreaming- but these days there was little time for dreams. So much of her life was a dream come true, there wasn’t a great need to dwell on what she didn’t have time for. Slowly she began to make her way into the hallway and out towards the courtyard, her love, and her beautiful sons.

********
A gentle rapping on the kitchen door startled her and she swiftly moved her hand to the pistol in her basket, suddenly aware of how alone she was in the guildhall. The blue of his cloak was the first thing that registered and she felt her body relax almost before her mind had connected the pieces. “Its you.” she giggled at the sight of her husband. She could call him that now, and the notion made her smile in an uncontrolled way only he seemed to elicit.

Bakara raised his eyebrows quizzically “Assan has moved the last of you belonging into the wagon- are you ready to leave?”

Had she ever been ready? Was anyone ever ready for a fall like that. To love in a way that burned all the lives she could have had to ash in its wake- scattering them to the winds like glancing memories. She had never been ready- but that hadn’t really mattered. Loving him had never depended on her readiness- but her acceptance that he was the force which bound her to the earth. She had chosen him, had chosen this- the one life she couldn’t imagine in perfect detail. She didn’t know what the future held for them- but she knew it held them together and that was enough. Having him was enough.

“As ready as I will ever be- take me home, husband.” She smiled as she offered him her hand and he took it eagerly, engulfing her small hand in his own. And without a backward glance they made their way to the wagon and to the life they have chosen.

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!

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.