Category: Journal Entry

Istra’s balls, Njordr was cold.

Minona wondered how there were any forests left standing, if it took this much firewood to keep from freezing. Perhaps the locals really did have ice instead of blood in their veins. That would certainly explain their suicidal willingness to wage war throughout the winter – she was not looking forward to having to deal with that come next winter when she had troops to worry about.

Of course, that was assuming that Lady Valerian would still want to be here come next winter. Runeheim was a mess, its leadership was in shambles, and the whole region was crawling with heretics and malefic. It was hardly a promising place to bring the light of the Throne.

But Hrafnakastali… something about the battered old fort was compelling. Fascinating, even. Rennet may be an asshole, but he was still Rogalian and he knew his fortifications. The stairs were slightly irregular and curved in the middle from decades of soldiers’ boots and yet as she climbed she felt she knew them all already.

Minona ran a hand along the parapet, fingers tracing along the broken edge of a stone, remembering how it felt to get pulled inside of it – a rough-carved hand holding hers, the bone beads of that bracelet pressing into her wrist as the fingers slipped away. The sensation kept intruding at inopportune times, oddly intimate.

But now, as before, she shook off the phantom grasp and focused on her task. She looked down on the courtyard, mentally marking out places for an archery range and a training field. They would definitely fit, and with a little room to spare.

There might even be enough room for a bear-sized stable, if Jacqueline could get Mr. Mittens to behave.

Svart’s Journal – Game 14 – Time for Action

It has come to the time to take action.

The Witch which had been placed here by Lodi, to watch and hinder Svart. They are served by bandits that lay in the woods and the Witch and its bandit minions have moved against Svart by attacking not just him, but his friends, and the city of Runeheim that I live in. Knut’s friend Sven was corrupted and House Fenris used to attack Runheim to get at Svart. Knut’s fate is still unknown. If only Svart had acted directly earlier, they all could have been saved.

There is now momentum and time to take it. Svart’s general has retaken Runeheim. He shall have his spymaster seek out the bandits and their witch master, so they can be located and destroyed. They could be anywhere, and certainly have some agents in the city. Working with the mages, no doubt. He and his assassin will cut them down for what they have done to Svart and the Njords.

We need to be human smart, not orc smart, just as we were when the Njords took this land from the Jötunn brood.

Then Dunns are seeking help from Svart for their freedom just as the Njords do. Their leader came and talked to Svart. Svart could see that he recognised Scart for who is really is and was begging for his help for his people. Svart has always been a friend to the Dunns, and they to him. There are people who will work against them because of this.

The Witch still corrupts the wilderness where Svart and the land are one. It is time to come out from directing from the shadows and act directly. Hunt those that tormented Svart as a child. Svart is a man now. They can’t hurt Svart as they hurt me when I was a child. Svart won’t allow it. Svart is strong now. Svart can keep them from hurting him any more. Time to hunt and torment them now. Time to make them afraid.

So says, Svart, True King of the Njords, Protector of the Dunns.

“Java YOU’RE my weakness”

‘Can I believe that?

Marzana really said that.

Didn’t she also say she’d get Runeheim back for me? Do I even dare believe that?’

Java leans back and pulls her pen from the journal page along with her overbearing thoughts. Only to shake her head, “put it on paper Java, c’mon, work it out”

‘She’s for sure taunting me! But if she’s serious though, could it be that easy going back? I think… No, She’s mocking me again, this is her game. Maybe if..’ Her pen slips through the page as she scribbles with a groan of frustration.

‘her men are all gone now.. she might mean it this time. Its just her now…’

The reality of loneliness pains her heart as she remembers Phil. Alone. It wasn’t even that long ago that they all had passed. What a cruel feeling.

‘who would I be without Dr. Hiemir or Tora. Am I really all she has left? The years we shared, I wasn’t perfect either. Runeheim gave me a second chance and she hasn’t even hurt me the last times we’ve been together again,’

Another pause, this time reflecting on Father Lapis and the twisted claims that choosing to accept the help with magic was a sin for the soul, they were sick and dying. He’s wrong for that.

‘Marzana made me stronger. She always liked my magic, she even said she missed me. Maybe its my turn to make her better, just like the town did for me. She’s different and changed. Even the fae agreed. She’s weak now, it was our dea-’ the pen drops from her hand.

“Wait! Wait wait wait” panic rises as she stops her journaling, tearing off the pin from her tunic and staring into it, “I meant physically. She’s physically weak around me, right? That was the deal! Right? I know you two can hear me. You know what i meant!”

Laying her head down on the table she knows exactly what they meant with that deal now.

‘Maybe I can fix all this. Maybe I can fix her’

They assume that we claim Dunland, and that inherent pride in our ancestral home gives shape to our hatred of Xavier Renett. While it’s easier to let them believe that, nothing could be further from the truth.

━⊱༒︎⊰━

The fact that the Renett household sources servants from our isle is well-known, and our orphanage particularly infamous within that network. But we weren’t aware then how aptly-named The Lion’s Den Home for Orphaned Boys truly was, as the house was nothing more than a pipeline to usher impressionable youths into lifelong servitude.

We were still in single digits when House Renett’s representative came, doling out contracts with the promise of a brighter future to await us across the perilous Strait of Edges. Nowadays our image of Dunland is more often informed by shanties and song attesting to her verdant hills and sun-soaked skies, but back then the dank interior and peeling walls of our orphanage were all we had off which to base our impression.

We didn’t know what we were giving up– we likely never will. And we blame him for it.

━⊱༒︎⊰━

Befreckled and auburn-haired, you’d have to be blind to mistake us for anything other than Duns; however, our alignment with the culture has always been lacking. We would grow up in Rogalia, ever-estranged from our homeland. Our fellow Dunnick servants helped to initially raise us, imparting the language, a healthy dose of superstition, and an even healthier appetite for hard liquor– but there’s only so much to be done to shape an impressionable youth during the few years we spent terrorizing Renett’s halls.

While our list of assigned chores was long, we always made time in the day to act a proper menace. We were decidedly taken off tending to changing the sheets when we once scattered fermented berries atop them and left the window strategically ajar. It was quite the hilarious find for our lord to happen upon a great flock of birds that had weaseled their way inside, by then having grown fat and drunk as they shed feathers and filth throughout Lord Renett’s bedchambers. We servants had to clean it up, of course, but it was worth it for the look on our lord’s face….

Nor can we forget the masquerades hosted in his honor. Feasts made for a time of great stress among the servants– it was the least we could do to share with our inner circle that we had taken tongs to secretly stuff the dining chair seats full of poison ivy leaves. Rogalians are a vainglorious lot, venturing to incredible lengths to maintain decorum– even as the itch of fresh hives flushed angrily across their backsides. The servants all took bets on which of those self-important peacocks would be the first to break, and could not have been more shocked to see how they mutually playacted through their agony until the bitter end (albeit with many a private moment reserved for violent itching). We supposed that maybe the masks helped to shield their discomfort. Just so, the evening did end early, leaving plenty of time for our lord to vent his fury thereafter.

We were taken off tea duty as well after we intercepted our lord’s negotiations with a brimming cup for his guest that was more lemon than leaf. We were gleeful to still be in the room when they took their first sip, our frame plastered dutifully to the wall as our lord’s guest spit the sour concoction across the table and utterly decimated our lord’s fine silk jabot. Arrogantly, our victim accused Lord Renett of meaning to deliberately slight him. Between honeyed words of apology our lord met our lingering gaze; the daggers in his eyes cut deep– sharp and savage in a way we’ve not beheld since.

We’re not sure what we cost him that day– nor did we care. It was enough to know what a thorn we were in his side, and to anticipate the hard-won smiles that our tale would bring to our circle’s lips. We couldn’t have known then that this was the final straw when, comparatively, we thought it only a minor transgression among many…/many/ more impressive examples.

By the terms of our contract we had expected to follow in the footsteps of the Dun servants before us, and to serve until death under Renett’s roof. But within a month of our last mischievous act (that we were caught for, anyhow), we were informed that our contract had been bought and sold. However patient and protective our community of redhead servants was, they couldn’t safeguard us from what was to come.

We don’t remember much from the moment that our contract was ceded to House Drake, nor of the transition to Torchgutter to follow. We expect that we blocked the worst of it out– but it was in short order that the intensity of isolation set in, as the friendly faces of our countrymen were supplanted by the loathsome sneers of our new overlords. The sting of sparks shorn from the pyre and the odor of festering bodies– some unlucky bastards still living– left staked in the sun to waste became an ever-present element that dominated our life, thick as the curtain of terror and hysteria that came to suffocate us in the night when all else had grown quiet.

He did this to us.

Animosity towards Xavier Renett clung to the spare corners of our mind and filled us with malice. Any sense of spirit or resistance slipped away under the mounting strain of the day-to-day horrors– every day more atrocities beyond imagination…more bodies to the pyre. At that time it was all we could do to survive– and to spite.

Dunland be damned– I’m no renegade or freedom fighter. If it weren’t for what he took from us…everything would be different.

Svart’s Journal – Game 13

Svart remembers back to the events of Lord Rennet’s Party…

Svart had heard of the party Lord Rennet was throwing. A party where everybody pretends to be a vampire. Svart was excited to make a costume for this party. I had collected and put together lots of cloth. Applying my great needleworking skills, I wrapped myself skillfully in dark rags as that is what vampires wear.

There are a lot of new people in town lately. No doubt that many of them are bandits here to spy for the witch. That or they are more Gothics here to take over Njord lands. This party will be a good opportunity to study people.

Along the way, I met a woman who was not feeling well surrounded by dark figures. Svart greeted them according to his disguise.

“Hello fellow humans. Are you going to the party of Lord Rennet where people dress up as vampires.”

The woman replied, “I was going, but I feel too weak all of a sudden. I was going to take this bottle of mead. If you are going, will you take it there for me?”

“Of course. It is no problem” and Svart took the bottle of delicious mead from the woman and addressed the figures around her, that darted back and forth like smoke covered in dark rags.

“Are you going to Lord Rennet’s party, my fellows?”

They hissed “No, we will stay here with the woman. Knut is at the party, and we fear to go there. You must be brave if you are going there.”

Svart replied, “I am brave as well as clever. Knut will be no problem for me”, and I left the group for the party, having outwitted even other vampires.

Svart arrived at the ‘Everybody pretend to be a vampire’ party dressed in his carefully crafted outfit. He drifted through the party pretending to be a vampire pretending to be a human. People cowered in fear, as Svart was so convincing that everybody thought he was a vampire. He could hear people cower in fear from him as murmurs went though the party.

To the side, Knut took the cigarette from his mouth and said “Eh! It is only Svart dressed in one of his magnificent outfits” in his husky, manly voice. Knut is Svart’s longest living friend left in Runeheim. Helgi, Rolf, Shanahan, Ms. V, and Victor, all dead or missing due to the Witch or her spies manipulating events against Svart’s allies. Svart hopes the Witch does not notice how he is friends with Svart and that nothing bad happens to Knut.
Eventually, he turned over the bottles over to the party, both his and the one he picked up from the woman along the way. The mead the woman had was quite good. Sweet and spicy!

Svart glided through the crowd just like a vampire would have. He looked after Graham winning money from some poor sucker that obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with! Then he came across the other needleworker I had met today, Tuva’s son. Svart stopped to admire the finely crafted outfit he had spoken of earlier. It was nice. Very nice. Svart wonders how he managed to cheat enough of his customers to get the resources to make such a garment.

While at the party, a man asked for everybody’s names. Svart made up a stupid human Rogalian name to give as still pretending to be a vampire pretending to be a human. When Dvart asked for his name, the seated man announced that he was Lord Rennet, in disguise! Svart, not wanting to miss a good opportunity for business, threw off his disguise and revealed himself as actually Svart, who is hardworking and dependable. Lord Rennet was impressed with Svart’s disguise and ability.

After that, the mead was growing low, and Svart returned home.

Reason stood at the edge of an abyss.

Not physically. Physically, they were set up in a dusty workshop — more of a repurposed barn than anything — so graciously lent for use to Runeheim by the Rogalian lord. Luckily, between the tools they’d brought with them and after patching up a few things in the shop, Reason was able to quickly get to work.

Reason had fallen into an easy rhythm of sawing through the unprocessed lumber. The scent of pine that hung in the workshop had a toasted note to it, singed by the friction of the saw, so fervently was Reason absorbed in their task. The work was not effortless, though, and sweat beaded under the carpenter’s fiery, disheveled locks.

Their mind, however, was far away from their humble station.

Though the autumn air was warm and humid, the memory of last night’s walk brought a chill to Reason’s limbs and chest. They could still feel the entity’s voice, frigid— like the icy rattle of a chain wrapped around their body and soul — and how helpless they felt in its presence.

It promised to give them anything they wanted.

Anything. /Anything./ Magic, power, adoration, success.

They had always desired more, in this life and in the past; always wanting things that were just out of reach, thirsting for the things that knowledge brought.

Surely such promises couldn’t be real.

A part of them hoped they were true, though. The two dreamed so big, worked so hard, and did everything in their power to inch them closer to their goals.

Reason could still feel the horrific sensation when it poured into their body and endeavored to push out their essence, and would have still given it all up were it not for the terrifying inability to touch Rhyme without burning themselves. It was that alone, that deep-set fear of losing the other, that had pulled the two of them out of the lullaby of promises it wove.

It was the one thing they could not bear lose.

Even with how spotty their memory was, Reason could painfully remember how lonely it was to be O’shea. There was no warmth in books, no buddies in the Rogalian war camp, no allies in the Fire Guild. Ripped from his roots as a child, and never allowed to plant any. There was only cruelty in Torchgutter, and even those closest to him, like Celandine, at best maintained a professional arms-length distance. Always surrounded by people, yet only had himself for warmth.

Still, the thought would not leave their mind, buzzing like a persistent cicada with the unyielding question of “what if?”

‘What if what was offered to us was real?’ Reason thought. ‘What if we could have all of it: magic, and love, and purpose?’

‘What if Rhyme could have anything their heart desired?’

Crack!

The wood snapped under Reason’s plane, crumbling in a puff of sawdust at a weak point at the knot. Reason swore loudly as they recoiled from the break, feeling a stinging feeling on their wrist from where the splintered wood scraped them. Damned Renett lumber, they should have known. The forests here were shriveling under the lord’s purview.

Reason sighed and wiped away the swirls of wood shavings off their workstation, taking a moment to gauge the snapped plank to try and work out how they could still salvage it. Perhaps if they had time they could at least do something decorative with it.

They returned to their work, their thoughts still adrift on the murky wind.

An unbidden memory surfaces: a candled flickering, an unwavering gaze. There are so many questions sitting here unanswered in the dark.

What fault lies with faith and what salvation can we hope for. Is it better souls come unbidden, striving toward a blessed death, instead of being so cruelly used in their vessels? What is the difference if we have no choice at the end? Only that we decide when and how our souls sit at rest. But then why tolerate followers of the old ways at all. Why give them the grace to choose Benalis. Is this not validating their faith, by giving them choice? They are necessary otherwise what does the church strive for.

The candle’s flame sputters suddenly and goes out. The silence is unbearable.

“For the she wolf!” they called. A icy cold shiver went down Vestri’s spine. Her. Here. He caught only a glimpse of them before the war dead he was facing swung again – somehow the appearance of the wolf-men increased its prowess, its menace. His allies turned to face the wolves behind them, and their formation shattered. Vestri tried to face the Draugr in front of him, but he could only do so much alone with a knife.

The nasty wardead in front of him, one so long decayed it looked like it had been drawn with his left hand, struck with uncanny strength, keeping Vestri from being able to get close enough to finish it. The new armor he had just gotten from Oddny was pierced quickly, he felt the warmth of his own blood staining it. He lunged, it dodged, and he was struck again. His legs faltered, his vision getting blurry. A cry from behind him – like a fool he turned and…

The ground rose to meet him as the rusty blade was pulled out of him. It was all he could do to hold onto his own knife and he crumpled to the ground. His strength left him as quickly as his blood seemed to be. He could just see Olof, collapsed in a bush, there was Gisla on the ground with her shield just in front of him, and Vogel – with an arrow still in his fingers, down just beyond Gisla. But… where was Virgil?

A cold, slimy, hand grabbed his head and lifted it up. He could see Virgil now, surrounded by no less than four war dead and the two wolves. Dodging their blades with deftness, a taunt on his lips. Was it enough? Could he do it?

The blade touched his neck, too cold for how much of his blood was on it. The ragged edge apparent against his throat.

Was it enough? Were they good enough? Did they appease her? Was it worth it?

The blade was pulled hard and fast.

Did we save Kallevik?