Category: Journal Entry

The sun beat down overhead, sending wave after wave of oppressive heat, leeching any free moisture from soil and flesh alike. Plants that should have been green and heavily laden with fruit and berries drooped, their offspring withered on the vine. The rivers and creeks, strong flowing only weeks before, lay stagnant and shallow, revealing flaking clay and powdering dust on their banks. The air that should have been filled with the songs of birds and the humming of insects lay silent, instead heavy and swollen with the angry static of a lightning storm waiting to spark. The Hungerer had awoken, and all of Nature suffered under his presence.

The first bits of his flesh turned to bark, those on his hands, were now covered with mossy growths and had hardened to the point that they turned the bite of insects and steel alike. Those that followed later were still soft, but he could tell that the atmosphere was accelerating the change, as if his Curse was aware what was coming and sought to have him ready for the challenge. If so, then it seemed that Grandfather’s gift was more far-reaching than even he knew. Still, the new growth across his torso itched, and only a good soak with cool river water from the few ponds left near the beaver’s dams seemed to ease it.

Sinking bare feet deeper into muddy soil, Etienne once more considered the task before them as he let the waters seep into his tired body, satisfying a thirst that he had been unaware of until it was sated. They had fought their way through the tunnels, across rivers of bile and pools of acid, through waves of parasites and rat-folk, only to be confronted with a solid wall of flesh and bone as the final barrier to the Heart, the source of the great evil and where their fates would be decided. They bore steel and song, the powers of faith from both traditions, along with the most recently developed weapons that they could forge…but would it be enough?

A single cry split the silence of the day. Falcon, a frog caught in his talons alighted on the smooth boulder nearby and began to eat his prey, before turning to consider the man (was he still a man?). The druid turned to face his friend and companion, the first spirit who had ever been willing to speak back directly all those years ago. “Falcon. How fares your range? Is there something I can do for you?”

Yellow eyes pierced into his own, unblinking and endless in their depths.
*Prey is scarce. The forest, afraid. The Court grows silent, and so the land waits.*

“Waits? Waits for what, the turning of the season? For the Court to make a decision?”

*Waits for you. For the People. To act, to decide. Will you succeed in your struggle, or will you fall? Will you retreat into the Other, or will you remain here in the Green?*

“We have already agreed to stay here, that running away won’t solve our problems and would be abandoning our purpose to Vecatra. Why then do you all wait?”

*The Mother asks what the Mother should already know. My, the People do love to talk, don’t they.*

A few quick pumps of wings, and then the talons, still streaked with blood and viscera, sank onto his wooden shoulder, the hooked beak beginnig to preen his hair, bringing order to the sodden chaos.

*The Spirits *have been*. The Spirits *are*. The Spirits *will be*. Locked in the cycle of the Green, as ordained by Vecatra in the beginning and playing our parts until all returns to being one in Her embrace. To Change, that is the gift of the People, one given alongside your tasks to Name and Question, to Steward and Prune. Of all of Vecatra’s creatures Man was given no special gift of claws, or fangs, or thick hides or furs, but of the idea What Can Be.*

*Hope. That is your gift, and your great curse. It can lift or destroy in equal measure.*

*And so we wait.*

Silence once more reigned in the shadow of the trees, even the burble of the waters seeming to fade as he contemplated the sudden deep truths he was given by his old friend, before a particularly harsh preen drew him from his thoughts. “Ouch! I know I’m more bark than flesh these days, but that’s no reason to go digging for bugs that aren’t there!”

*I’m hungry. Get me a fish.*

Laughter, unbidden and deep overtook him at those words, sending him into such a fit that he all but fell over and sending Falcon hopping back to the stone, squawking at the indignity of almost being thrown into the pool.

What did he have to worry about? After all, they would do their best, and what would come would come. Why waste what time they had left stuck thinking dark thoughts when they could spend it with their loved ones? Finally, he managed to control breathing enough to respond.

“Falcon? Never change, my friend.”

—

And so the rest of the day went: he set a line to cry and catch a fish; Falcon told him of the goings on of the forest and hills, of leshen and bee alike, and he felt the despair leave him and be replaced with a sense of peace.

What will come, will come. We know the task before us, so let us be about it.

Etienne tossed and turned, the heat and humidity meant that what sleep he did manage to get was fitful at best. Eventually, he gave it up as a bad job, rising to splash water on his face at the basin before walking out of the bunkhouse to the front porch in hopes of catching a morning breeze.

The dream was back, the one he’d been having off and on almost all of his life, as far back as he could remember. He wasn’t sure if it was the vision at the Grove, the discussion of what Corbin saw while in the realm of the spirits, or something else, but for the first time he knew what the dream meant. He cast his mind back to his dream, long familiarity easing the task.

*Surrounded by white softness, mist beaded together to form a drop of water, before suddenly plummeting through the air, surrounded all the while by thousands of its siblings. Green fingers reached out to cradle them as they fell, some sticking to the leafy fronds, others swept aside by the wind to continue down, past the mighty trunks and outstretched arms to the black soil far below, before being drawn inexorably towards the call of those waters born beneath the earth and bubbling up to meet their siblings from the skies. Together they mingled and danced, entwining together to form first a spring, then a trickle, a creek, then finally the mighty river that branched into three forks: one that fed the bayous of the Louressaint, calm and peaceful above but full of life and struggle underneath; one that wove its way towards the great ravine at the edge of the forests, pouring down into the depths of the earth, hidden and secret to all creatures; one that churned and twisted upon itself, before seemingly ending abruptly in a deep pool beneath a circle of white oaks, all dark water with no bottom that reflected the night sky.

A voice called out, the words indistinct, and he was suddenly aware of himself as a creature again, somehow seeing all three rivers and their ends at once, and he was consumed with an urge to pick one to quench his thirst*–only to wake once more, sweaty and thirsty in that way only fitful sleep brings.

Three rivers. Three paths. Three endings. Which would they choose?

To return to the shadows now, after all they had done together in the sun? No, it would be unthinkable. To flee, to shed their Forms and Purpose to dance with the deathless outside of their appointed place and time? Not while he lived and wore the mantle of Mother.

No, they would sup on the waters of struggle, but those of home, and fight for that golden path that Vecatra had shone them as the answer to their question. It was the only way to not make all their efforts, and those of all who came before them, not be in vain.

The heavy gray clouds overhead rumbled, and a single white tongue of lightning leapt out to strike somewhere in the deep woods, the thunder that followed acting as the opening bell to a torrent of rain that finally relieved the oppressive humidity of the past weeks, the water cool and refreshing in the summer heat.

Svart does not like the spirits of the dead wandering around. Svart decided to go into the woods to get away. I like it better in the woods. Thinking is better in the wilderness. Whatever they want to do with the walking dead of the Dragomir, or its live walking sister, Svart would rather just not be a part of it.

Svart thinks Alar-Rick has given him some good information. He reminds Svart of Victor. Similar jaw line, but not as funny. Victor was always funny, and a good employer. Alar-Rick is neither of those things. I wonder what an Alar is? Some predator like a wolf perhaps, just like Wolf-Rick. What is a Rick? Something that can have the qualities of a wolf or an alar.

He did alert Svart of the woman that is in town trying to corner the market and make it a monopoly. I can picture her face, but not remember her name. That something would affect Svart’s perfect memory is a sign of witchcraft. Is she a servant of the Witch, or is the Witch trying to hide her from Svart? It could also be the mages using their wyrd magic for their own evil purposes. They often attack Svart and affect his memory with constant sustained psychic attacks. I will have to find and test her to see if she is an ally or foe to Svart.

It is good that Ragnar and the new guy, Gram, are the Master of Coin now. Ragnar is probably the only man with the reputation and dedication to get the job done. Gram wants to create a market and take over business in Runeheim area. He has a good head on his shoulders. We should arrange on a market, if just to promote our own businesses. People need their items repaired, and we need to sell things.

Calls came out from the woods in the distance. Men shouted commands as beasts growled.

“They are out hunting the Skogerblodi.” said the Old Fox on Svart’s left. The Old Fox had lived in the woods for a long time. It was missing one eye, and had lived so long it had two tails. Svart’s mother had told him about him when he was still a child.

“He wants to die.” said the Skogerblodi Monster on Svart’s right. The Skogerblodi Monster looked something like an Alar. His eyes shined with reflected light even though the sky was moonless.

“That is their duty to do. My knowledge of the woods is deeper and my duties lay elsewhere.” I inform my forest companions.

“What is that?” asks the Old Fox.

“Searching.”

”For Treasure?”

“I have found Treasure in the woods: gems, precious metals, and rare woods.

Still, those are not what I am searching for. That is something even more important and more valuable.”

Journal Entry – Inquisition

The Inquisition is here, and they are here in force. They hold the Owl’s nest. People could not keep their mouths shut and they know if not everything, then close enough to it to damn us all. If we do nothing about them, then the best we can hope for is horror and watching friends and family murdered after we have defeated Chiropoler. I don’t see a good way out. At least with Chiropoler our choice is simple, we destroy the monstrosity or we die. So let’s take a look at our options.

Throw ourselves on the Mercy of the Inquisition, and repent for our so called sins.
If we do this, we might be able to save the most devout Benalians. There is a chance that doing this would save myself, Sophie and Julienne. Doing this would also doom any of the Circle who couldn’t flee, including Pascal. Not to mention that Sophie would never stand for it. Doing this is a Cowards option.

Flee the inquisition before Chiropoler is defeated.
If we delay until the inquisition is fully engaged fighting Chiropoler, we will have our best chance. To flee. If they are hurt enough in the fighting they might not even be able to properly pursue us. That could give us enough of a head start to separate and get to some kind of safety. The only upside is that this present a reasonable short term chance for most of Louisant to survive.

I have concerns about this option. The inquisition defeating Chiropoler is by no means certain without our aid. While they are no doubt capable warriors, they do not have the experience we do in fighting our way through Chiropoler’s body. We cannot leave until we know that an awake Chiropoler is not left behind us. If the inquisition does win, I suspect they would come after us all the harder for letting them fight it alone while we ran. This also feels like a cowards choice.

Flee the inquisition after Chiropoler is defeated.
It is possible that the fight against Chiropoler might do enough damage to the inquisition, that we stand a chance of escaping afterwards. With sufficient preparation, we might be able to flee to safety. Fleeing gives us a chance to preserve life without sacrificing inquisition lives.

The problem with this plan is that a focused inquisition would have a much easier time running us down. We must assume that they have the advantage in terms of logistics and communication. We also only have a vague idea of where we can flee safely. There is no guarantee that waiting to flee will work. Of the available plans this has one of the lowest chances of working. However, it is ethically acceptable, and is one we can at least attempt.

Convince the inquisition that we are right.
This is possible in theory. Anything is possible in theory. If this was to work, it would be the best option both from a moral and a practical standpoint. Practically speaking, our chances of pulling this off are nonexistent, laughable really. Even trying is likely to bring about the worst response from the inquisitors.

Fight the Inquisition.
We could fight, even being significantly outnumbered. We have potential allies they would not be prepared for and we know the land. We also have capabilities they will not be prepared for. Mages, the rites of the circle, recovered ancient weapons, newly designed weapons and whatever capabilities are still hidden from me. I think we would have a chance against what they have in Luisant.

But this is a bad plan. People would die on both sides, and I find the very concept of killing Benalians for our own benefit repugnant. Even if it would be self defense. I also know Sophie would hate it. Worse than that, I don’t think it would do any good. Even a clear victory would just bring more and more people hunting for us. Eventually we would lose. This should only be a last resort, and only to buy time to implement a better plan.

Throw the Inquisition after a better target.

If we could convince the Inquisition that there is a better target, they might leave us alone, at least for a time. This plan has many problems. First, the inquisition will not be easily fooled. Any target we send them after will need to be real. The only viable targets I can think of are Chriopoler, the Werewolves, the Spider Vecatrans and the Vecatran traders. Beyond Chrioploler and the werewolves, I don’t believe revealing any of those groups would be practical or ethical.

To an extent this is what we are already doing with Chriopoler, as they have to prioritize a resurrected Witch King over anything else. Most other plans will take time to implement and will benefit from distracting and delaying the Inquisition. So if we need to buy time beyond focussing on Chiropoler we should let them know about the werewolves.

Restore the Mists.

This is probably the best overall solution, especially if we can manage any control of the mists. It preserves our way of life, holding the community together. Of course I have no idea how we can accomplish this. We know very little about the original creation of the mists, beyond the fact that it involved both Benalian priests and a Vecatran circle.

Even given our ignorance, I think we need to pursue this goal while also expecting to need to follow another plan.

The market had been a bit chaotic. So many new faces. So many expressions of fear on the familiar ones. A general feeling of a noose tightening. Disquieting rumors of things done in the woods. Unfortunate tales of monstrosities awakening, and then being put once more to slumber. There had been a teen girl filled with bees that had said lil Hughie an’ Lou-net had done it. There had been a vision of the future, old cycles starting again. Of pain and death. A bespeckled gal who had wanted to teach one of the chillins how to be a lady. Giant flesh tentacles, like leeches the size of buildings.

Chaotic. All over the place, really. But the stand out had been the effect of the inkysishun coming to the valley.

For years, they’d been a boogey man of sorts. ‘Don’t snitch on your neighbors, or the inkysishun will come and burn everyone alive’. It had been the chief concern of his flock when considering properly joining the children of the forest with the children of the lion. It hadn’t seemed real, so many figments of the night proved to be just that.

But they were here now. And they seemed to come to purge this place with fire. Many of the most stalwart of his friends, those he looked up to and admired, were making terrible choices in the wake of this news. Many planned to leave as fast as they could. Some planned to hide. Some planned to plead innocent. For the Friar’s plan, he intended to climb the burning pyre himself before anyone in his community was lit aflame.

It all seemed so dreamlike and… meaningless. Why were humans lining up to butcher one another over petty differences when anyone with eyes to see could clearly tell the dangers that surrounded them? Did they not hear the voice of God soothing them? Whispering that we were all once cut from the same cloth, and it was to that cloth we must return? That these sorts of fears and disputes and conflicts drove a greater wedge between humans, when the whole purpose of humanity was to unite?

The preacher sighed to himself and began his long walk once more. The great beast had been put to sleep once more; they had bought some time. Time for him to travel. To… see his beloved home, very likely for the last time. He could feel his Purpose fast approaching, and while it should be terrifying, he was frankly elated. Henri only had a murky idea of what was to be expected of him, and he was just terribly relieved that it had fallen to him rather than his loved ones.

Soon it would be time to see this thing through.

It was a strange thing, to largely being able to ignore pain, but keenly aware of an irritation. It was the same with being afraid. He didn’t really get afraid anymore, but he felt concerns and worries. Those feelings were like cousins, or seemed rooted in the same bucket of… stuff.

The Friar hadn’t slept in months. Instead, he walked and prayed. Sometimes alone. Sometimes with someone wandering the countryside. Sometime with a family that he just happened upon. It didn’t really matter. He just walked and walked and walked. He was supposed to tend to the fringe anyway, so he did just that. All the while, the back of his mind replayed the last market over and over. It shouldn’t hurt, this feeling of being alone again. But it did smart a bit.

Dwelling on it wasn’t something the preacher could afford, so he just keeps walking.

“You were appointed what?”

“That’s right,” Valko hummed, chest puffed out. “Reeve of Trade.”

Ianthe rolled her eyes. “Ugh.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. It means someone recognized my importance around here.”

“Teles certainly is generous…or desperate.”

Valko only sounded a little indignant. “Well, there’s been a growing need to organize the trickle of outsiders passing through Luisant, what with the Mists growing weaker.”

“At least you won’t go wandering off in them again.” Ianthe scoffed under her breath before admitting, “It is troubling, though.”

“Yeah,” Valko fretted. “Things have been rather hectic.”

Even if he believed he was competent enough, there was still a thread of insecurity that wove itself through him. Yet he clung to the feeling of being helpful, wishing to contribute all he could, especially when his superiors were busy with more pressing matters.

“Well maybe it will finally manage to keep you out of trouble. You may even come to be respectable– if you’re not careful.” Ianthe teased before a realization dawned on her. “Aren’t you not supposed to handle coin?”

Valko was, unfortunately, often in the habit of embracing the new, especially with so much change happening around him. He sought it out frequently. His passion had always oscillated between the archaic wisdoms of the past and those that the future held out as a lure. Presently, his inner pendulum had swung to the latter. It wasn’t like he was the only Vecatran to find allure in the modern, either. So much change wouldn’t really affect him, would it?

Still, Valko was not keen on losing his mind this early in life. He’d at least hoped for another decade or so before that happened.

“Uhm, well, technically yes. I mean, I can handle things in a pinch, but if it becomes a regular thing, I could really use-“

“My help?” Ianthe asked. “After everything, you want me to do favors for you?”

“Yes, exactly, you get it!”

“I don’t know,” Ianthe mused, checking her nails. “Why should I?”

Valko stooped just enough to look up pleadingly at Ianthe. “Pleaaaase? I can make sure you get your pick of fine goods before anyone else.”

Ianthe raised a brow.

“After the town is provided for. Great spirits, you think so low of me?”

A beat of silence hung over the two for a moment.

“Okay, yes, fair point,” Valko waved his hand, before taking a more sincere tone. “Please? It would mean so much to me.”

Ianthe regarded him sternly before a smirk twitched her lips. “Fine, I can help you.” 

Valko lit up. “You always were such a peach! Thank you!”

He reached to embrace her, but Ianthe shoved him away, turning in a huff. “You owe me!”

Valko stood there stupidly as he watched her stomp away. More-so than any semblance of pride at his new responsibilities, it was the ever so subtle softer look in Ianthe’s eyes that truly lifted his spirits.

I am new to faith.

From what I understand, there are many gods in the world, formed through the faith of people over time. For whatever reason, humans are better at channeling their faith into the world than other creatures, such as elves, and can do so much more quickly.

Benelians follow a spirit that seeped through the cracks in reality and merged with a white lion, led by priests devoted to various task-related archangels.

Vecatrans theoretically follow a spirit of nature which they seek to honor, led by a group of priests called Mothers who interface with a person who used to be human but is now merged with a spirit called a Crone, who communicates with the spirits on their behalf.

For most of my life, I thought that these religions were a method of control that “leaders” used to ensure people fell in line. For some, that was Father Vellete, Father Clement, Cheveille, and the like. They came with expectations of following a proscribed path. They knew best and would dictate that path to others in a way that none really disputed.

As those people have fallen away, replaced by Granny Jo, Isabella, Sophie, Henri, and Etienne, it has become much clearer that they are doing their best but also failing along the way to a degree unseen by those who came before. They even change fundamental truths about the faiths of the area to accommodate difficult realities which were in conflict with prior iterations. With a less clear understanding of the faith, I imagine that this will muddle the spirits and their power over time, much in the way we have struggled to properly shape Primus.

Yet in a world where faith is so mutable and the realities of our situation so harsh, it is foolish not to turn to our creations for strength.

The story of Primus is unlike the other faiths of Luisant. Primus is born of several things, primarily a spirit of the Red Stag which watched over the forests of Luisant and the spirit of those in the area who have suffered for the hunger of the adversary. The adversary has brought great suffering, consuming lives, hope, and faith, but from that suffering, a new force emerged.

Primus represents the resilience and defiance of the people of Luisant. Unlike the rigid doctrines of the Benelians or the mystical reverence of the Vecatrans, Primus embodies the adaptable and indomitable spirit of the oppressed who refuse to be broken. Our faith in Primus is not about blind obedience or ancient rituals that we have long forgotten the reasons for; it’s about survival, unity, and the shared strength of a community determined to protect its own.

I have seen the toll that blind faith in gods and corrupted spirits takes on people. I’ve watched as once devout followers of the Benelians falter and as the Vecatrans lose themselves in their futile attempts to appease the Crone. But Primus is different. Primus is a god of our making, a manifestation of our collective will and determination. We feed Primus with our memories, our struggles, and our victories, forging a god that is as resilient and determined as we are.

When we call upon Primus. It is not as a supplicant begging for mercy, but as a co-creator, channeling our rage, defiance, and hope into something greater than myself. The rituals we perform are not mere traditions; they are acts of empowerment, binding us to Primus and to each other, building our legacy for the future with our memories and intent.

As I stand with my family, House Chanceux, I see in their eyes the same fire that burns within me. We are bound by more than blood or circumstance; we are united by our shared faith in a god that truly understands our plight because it is born from it. Together, we will shape Primus into a force capable of standing against anything that would seek to control or destroy us. In this mutable world, where so many have failed us, we have created something that will not. Primus is our legacy, our protector, and through our faith, we will see Luisant endure and thrive.

*Laying in a meadow looking at the clouds*

*Sigh*

What the fuck even happened? Everyone was on the same page. Pierre was going to take on a curse in order to cleanse the grove of corruption. It was decided and done. But then Etienne just decided kill a folkwise spirit on the behest of the fucking werewolves to resolve it? Hadn’t we spoken to the spider crone who said that doing so might be a ploy by the werewolf crone to empower the werewolf crone? So he isn’t too keen on working with the Benalians to work on town problems he doesn’t see as affecting him, but he will work with the fucking werewolves? So it will be easier for them to hunt and kill us? I honestly hope he doesn’t think that just because he believes in this truce the circle has with the wolves that the wolves believe they owe us any thought. He is supposed to lead us, but I haven’t heard from anyone in the circle who actually understands what he was hoping to accomplish.

The circle should be preparing to leave Luisant. I don’t know how they expect to keep their activities a secret when the mists vanish. I know they have an attachment to the land and the grove, and I understand their desire to try to keep the spirits around as long as possible, but we are going to be killed. And the spirits have said that their strength is weakening with the mists and they won’t be able to manifest anyway. I understand the spirits are manifestations of Vecatra, but they are not Vecatra herself, and we must remember while we revere the spirits, we worship Vecatra. Vecatra is more than just Luisant. I don’t even know how much we should be paying heed to the spirits. They hold power, but their word isn’t law. They don’t understand humans and what we need. They just understand their domain. I just feel like we have given them too much. Instead of keeping balance with the forest, sometimes it feels like some in our circle have given themselves up to the forest without question. Given the spirits too much power. And maybe that is the way to be a good Vecatran, but it doesn’t feel correct. The way they were begging for Ash to come back, and willing to give in to her demands, even if they were unreasonable. I guess there was some negotiation because we didn’t kill the Benalians. But if it was her choice to leave because the way we were progressing as a people was so against who she is as a being, then why not just let her leave?

I just. I just feel so disconnected from them. I don’t want to disappoint Ma or Pa. And I have tried to be a good Vecatran. I have tried to be there for the circle and attend the gatherings. Just don’t understand how they think. I don’t understand how they believe. I understand tending to the earth and respecting Vecatra’s gifts. But I don’t understand the spirits. I don’t understand the rituals. I don’t feel Vecatra outside of the earth or the trees or the stones. Just how I don’t understand the Benalians. They speak of God and angels and meaning and purpose, and I don’t understand what they mean. It is like they can feel something I can’t. At least with Vecatra I can feel her under me. How can you feel an Angel? It’s not like you can visit them. So I guess I am a Vecatran? Maybe not a good one, but maybe that is what I am. It’s just the point of a circle seems to be about feeling connected in our beliefs and connected to each other, and I feel so hopelessly disconnected.

Cadence is talking about leaving Luisant when all is said and done. Maybe I will leave with her and Milo. Maybe I just need to get out of here and understand more of the work. She says I don’t need to stop being Vecatran. And maybe I don’t. But can you be a Vecatran just on your own? And can I call myself one if I don’t keep up with the practice and worship? I would be a Maiden without a Mother. I guess I would be less Maiden and more Orphan. I guess I have been one before and it wasn’t so bad. I’m gonna miss Ma and Pa, but it will be ok. I’ll find them again someday. But nothing needs to be decided now. Chiropoler first, then the rest of my life.