Posted on

-Simpleton-

The arena was empty when the squire arrived, pre-dawn, cold, clear, and crisp. Since the end of the contests and tournaments the roped off ground had been abandoned, save for a stray animal or two… and Tumble. His shirt, heavy armor, and tower shield piled in a corner, the squires bare chest steamed in the cold air as he slowly moved though the motions of a series of strikes and blocks. He couldn’t read the sword manuals he was trained from to save his life, but his instructor had drilled these lessons into him so hard it had penetrated even his thick skull.

His foot work slipped, and the strike was sloppy.
He dug in his heels and began again

And so, each morning, he practiced. With armor, without. With his shield, and without. Over, and over, and over again, until his breath burned and his arms ached, and his lungs felt like ice. He was no Ice Hardened, but he was the son of a Smith and a Farmer, used to the pre-dawn hours.

The callouses on his palms tore and the blood made the sword too slick to hold.
He bound his hands and began again.

Visions danced before as he worked. Images of horror he could never unsee, things he would never ever forget. Burning corpses rising again, shadowy spirits that crushed his mind with a word, blood drunk clansmen feasting on human flesh as they boasted about murder.

A hollow suit of armor and flowing cloak that mocked him for his simplicity. His… ordinary mortality.

His hips turned too slowly, the cut was weak and easily punishable.
He reset and began again.

Tumble drilled until his legs felt like frozen stumps and he couldn’t lift the heavy training blade anymore. Until the whispered jokes and jests and quiet laugher he had heard the last two days faded to the back on his mind. Until, mortal as he was, simple as he was, he had to stop and rest and watch the dawn break over the trees.

His breath in steaming clouds, he counts on his shield hand fingers:
“One: I will never take a human life”
“Two: I will never flee from the face of Evil.”
“Three: I will stand for those cannot stand for themselves”

Then he stands and begins again.

Posted on

Apple blossom

Esparei had delayed unpacking for as long as possible. But she’d finally caved and put everything away carefully, every gown, every robe, all of her furs, her books, things that reminded her of Capacionne. She unpacked the portrait last- her family, in a dreamy pastoral scene, a smaller copy of the painting in their home in Beauclair. A tree laden with blossoms on an island that had never known a storm. Whole and perfectly preserved for all time. She couldn’t look at it for long. It hurt too much. It just made her think of…that night four years ago. There had been so much blood. And fire. And- no. Don’t dwell on it. She already couldn’t shake the image of Victor collapsing, bloody and shocked. She’d thrown up after, begging Rollo to help her out of her masquerade gown, nearly in tears as he helped her change into something easier to move in, so she could go help that reckless Njord.

Ragnar.
She looked at the red flowers on her desk, next to a little wooden figure painted crimson. Such sweet gestures, from a person who was so loud, so, so chaotic- the gentle nature of his gifts was jarring, almost. When he’d been stabbed in the tavern, when Victor had gone after him, she’d shielded his body with hers, unthinking. That’s what you do when you protect someone, right? Not just with words and titles. Not hiding away waiting for her grandfather to call her home.

A tree laden with blossoms on an island that had never known a storm. Until the storm came. And now…being able to speak openly about the coup with Saga had felt like a cork had been pulled from her soul and everything poured out in that moment. They knew. They’d heard terrible things. They listened when she said how important it was to serve the people you are responsible for. They told her the plight of the Njords, of the suffering and the harsh, unyielding land they fought so hard to preserve. And it made her heart ache. She wanted to talk to Vernon more too, she’d felt so guilty for ruining her atonement. She wanted to tell Svanhildr everything. She wanted to hug Ragnar- he gave such good hugs, like nothing could happen and she was safe, if only for a moment. That comfort meant a lot when she was painfully homesick and lonely.

A tree, stripped bare by the storm. But still living.
A Lady, alone.

Posted on

-Too Big, Just Right-

Willam Smith looked at the stranger in the polished copper mirror, dressed in fine boots and homespun clothes under a worn gambeson and armor that was anything but shining. He lifted one arm the stranger followed in lock step, metal plates rubbing and clinking together with the simple movements. A slow spin in place and a rolling of the shoulders produced a sound like a coin purse being aggressively shaken and Tumble couldn’t help but chuckled at himself. All dressed up like a maid at her first barn dance and twice as nervous.

A shield sat in the corner of his small room, stoically guarding the corner with zealous fervor, his sister’s painting scrawled across the front. He still wasn’t sure where she got the paints, and he wasn’t going to ask either. The white wings and knight’s golden helmet were straight from one of their childhood fairy tales, the kind of knight who slew monsters, who saved princesses and nobles, whos armor gleamed like noonday sun. Again, Tumble stared at the stranger in the mirror and the too-big armor it wore.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and recalls what his father told him when he first helped his son into the thick cloth and metal plates. When Willam had expressed concern over the size of the armor, worried it would be too big for him. But his father had seen the true issue, the anxiety over being a squire, of the responsibility of being the first Smith to leave the farm in several generations, of being the first son to leave Murten in an age.
Roain Smith’s response was the same to all worries, spoken and unsaid

“You’ll grow into it.”

Posted on

Excuses

Lord Svanhildr Saenger.
I regret that I am unable to reach Runeheim by the a̶f̶f̶o̶r̶m̶e̶ date that you gave me to reach the city. I̶n̶ ̶r̶e̶c̶e̶m̶ As an apology, I have included a casting that may help you this season. You may not give c̶r̶e̶d̶e̶ credit to these castings, but the runes are as old as Njordr and I hope that, by giving you these words, you might forgive my vagabondary.

ᛗᛝᛋ•ᛇᚲ•ᚷᚦᛚ
You have been relying on yourself as you enter this new stretch of your life and it has been rewarding for you in the past. But as you enter into this new arena, find the source of your power and focus on learning where to spend your energy and what can be left behind. There will be a blockage in your path, but that delay may be rewarding. Have cautions, but press forward. You may have to face the fire of things that are hard this season. Seek out allies and remove the thorns already in your feet. Find your flow, and like the Kaltlina, your ambitions will take you out to sea.

I ask that you forgive my skiving. I travel as fast as the weather allows on difficult roads, but I will try to be there by next season. I pass this note up the river in hopes that it reach you.
Eiðr Fylgjason

Posted on

What is.. This?

There was nothing more important to Marinette than community. Her community. Her people. It hurt that others had suffered to keep her community safe–but they were distant, far away from her; they were not her community. She would do what she could to right those wrongs, to amend those pains, to bring them into her community, but when Alphonse spoke of the salvation that had been given to Luisant, Marinette’s heart echoed his words. She abhorred it, truly, but these feelings resided within her regardless of their selfishness, and they were real. She was not responsible for what the nobility had done–none of them were, but if standing above a pit and told “You must push this stranger into the abyss, or Pierre will die”, what would she do?

There was not a question. She would shove that man without hesitance, and weep at the injustice of it all. She would break on the wheel of responsibility and crumble like a dead flower. She would hide in the corner of the darkened church like she had when she was seven and her mother and father were gone. She would hide until someone found her, until he comforted her and told her nothing like this would happen again–even if he lied. Sweet lies.

Father Vallet–how dare he hurt her community? She struggled with this distrust and concern she felt over Alphonse. She had never seen eye to eye with him before, but… but now, it was deep in her, like a poison. A poison that had been put there under the guise of the Church she sought for safety. She had told him she would give him another chance, and he had come back and done it again. Even Isabel thought this might be for the best, but she had not seen it! She had not been there when they had turned on each other. Men and women screaming unceremoniously at one another until one nearly drew a knife and the other, in fear, had POISONED him. This man–she hated this man.

Hate? What was that?

This … this was poison, too. This feeling. She had never felt it before. What an awful, intrusive feeling. A clawing hand dragging her under a thick river of red so she could not catch her breath. She had not even felt this for the men who took her father from her. Perhaps that was the curse of knowing. When she was young, she did not understand the ways of men. She did not understand how hurt spread and ruined. She did not really grasp that Father and Mother were never, ever coming back.

Now she knew what she had, so the losing? It was far more painful. Far more frightening. And she grabbed for it with far more desperation–and in that desperation, that seething red: hate.

She stared at the door of her small one-bedroom home, where Grandpa slept in the one room and Pierre, her, and now Alere all slept in the main room. She saw the moon’s rays through the window, and sat, quietly, until she stood up. She couldn’t be here tonight. No, not tonight. Out the door–the same familiar trail. The same steps, the same soft song. The same destination, where she’d sleep beneath the church’s pews until she woke at her home again.

“Look to the soft and misty skies,
The moon is full and wind is blowing…
Now, please, Love, don’t you close your eyes…
I see your fear is growing.
You do not have to be afraid,
Darling, please be brave…
There’s nothing out there quite like me; don’t you see?

Not every monster’s scary–
Sometimes they are on your side.
I’ll leave the bad ones wary,
I’ll gnash and bite, they’ll run and hide;
You don’t have to fear the dead,
You’vе tamed the monster undеrneath your bed.
You don’t have to fear the night,
’cause I’ll be watching you ’til morning light…”

Posted on

The Woodsman’s Hope

((Sentences or parts of sentences in all capitals seem to be written by a much more frantic and chaotic hand))

The warm summer sun shone down through the verdant canopy as a woodsman, new to this particular area, trudged on through the underbrush. There was a bit of a reprieve from the hotter-than-normal summer Njordir was having in the cool shade of the forest just outside Runehiem, but the evidence of hard work and exertion showed on this man’s clothes and brow. His pack, filled with materials gathered from the land, weighed on his shoulders, albeit still a burden he could bare. His clan taught him well the value of hard work and respect for the land. He ventured toward the top of a hill deep in the woods in search of a vantage point to get a lay of this new land, as well as a place to sit to enjoy his hand-made trail rations.

As he shifts through the brush, steps over fallen trees and rocks, and skips over small sinkholes, he thinks back on his parents. They were so caring and knowledgeable in their craft and taught him much raising him. HE’S JUST SO DISAPPOINTED THAT THEY HAD TO BREAK THE FAMILY APART. They taught him the best mixture of nuts, berries, flour, honey, and just a bit of animal fat to make these trail rations just the right thing for a hungry gatherer. All he’s learned in life has been from either his parents or his clan, EXCEPT VIOLENCE. He still misses them, EVEN THOUGH THEY DID THE UNTHINKABLE. As the woodsman sits on a fallen log atop the hill to enjoy his trail rations, he looks out into the forest and hopes he continues to make friends in this new village. For the short time he’s been here, it’s felt more and more like home AND WHERE HE BELONGS. He sees new paths forming toward bright futures, and not only the one involving taking a priestly vow. As he’s dwelling on the new friends he’s made, he finishes his trail rations and is ready to venture forth again.

He looks back from where he came, and a small ephemeral bird darts across his sight line. It was so quick, even the trained woodsman couldn’t fully catch it. He looks toward where it went and is met with just the typical sight of the dense foliage with several rays of sun piercing through the canopy for illumination. A voice stirs in his mind, “I HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR LIFE, EVERY ASPECT OF IT”. He blinks a few times and shakes his head. For good measure, he takes a drink from his water skin, and tries to focus on the voice again. Nothing but the chirping of the birds, the buzzing of insects, and, in the distances, the soft rushing of the river. He says a brief prayer for safety and turns to make his way back to his work and to town. This incident sits uneasy in his mind, BUT AS SOON AS HE LEAVES THE FOREST AND GETS BACK TO TOWN, IT IS OF LITTLE CONCERN TO HIM. He finds peace in his community and the act of helping them with their needs.

Over the next few weeks, during days when he ventures not into the wilderness, the woodsman is found practicing archery in whatever suitable open area is available, mostly out of preparation for the next season’s hunt BUT ALSO YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOU NEED TO PROTECT YOURSELF. His thoughts, again, drift back to his parents. His mother was such a dependable hunter and member of the clan, BUT SUCH A DISAPPOINTMENT IN THE END. The clan trusted her with many a folkwise and leaned on her frequently for food and clothing for the winter. WHY DID SHE HAVE TO DO IT? WHY? WHY? WHY? The woodsman, gathering his arrows from his last volley, had tears welling up in his eyes. He wiped his eyes, nocked another arrow, and took just a second to aim. Just before he let the arrow fly, he closed his eyes and let images of hope fill his mind. Next he opened his eyes, he was met with the arrow jutting from the center of the makeshift target. “The light of Benalus is the gateway to hope, the road to salvation. I feel I have hope, so I must be on the right road,” The woodsman mumbles to himself.

Posted on

To Victor

To the smith, Victor Siggurson

I think any disagreement respectful when a new insight or novel reasoning is presented for consideration. The counsel of the wise is respected within our family and all the North. Fear not error for mistakes can be amended. You served us in the struggle to push back the walking dead that followed us home from attempting to bury the soldiers in the charnel fields. The community came together to bury the dead and again to put them to rest. Thank you for your assistance. You are forgiven for any error or trespass and the debt is paid in full. No obligations between us for the past shall carry forward. We’re here to provide you the support you need to fulfill your purpose in Runeheim and you may come to us. Let me know how you think you can best be helped. In my view, all of the Peers are here devoted to the success of this community and its members. In clearing up matters, it seems that you suspect I have spoken some words that you want clarified or believe do you personal harm. I do not recall speaking against your name recently nor did I call you out at Convocation. Since I’m not afraid of admitting if I spoke hastily, you are invited to quote my words back to me. If I consider those words misrepresenting myself I will admit it directly and if there is no misunderstanding I will clarify. We are known to keep our promises.

Regards, Wrex

Posted on

Renown: Lord Wrex

Wrex’s reputation followed him to Runeheim as he arrived and made himself known to Court. Those in the know or those able to get rumors from abroad hear tales of their fearsome adherence to the fellowship of all Njords. Wrex prefers to leave his opponents alive with a permanent scar, a blemish from any injury inflicted even once it heals. Thus, they leave a reminder of Wrex’s ferocity and unwillingness to bend. Rumormongers speculate whether he uses a special blade whose wounds heal imperfectly or do they twist the edge just right upon striking to leave a jagged slash.

Posted on

Has It Been So Long

Feet kicked back and forth as Min sat on the graveyard fence gazing down at Shadow’s grave. The Aconitum house seal dangled down from a chain tangled in her fingers, forgotten for the moment.

Five years had passed since she’d arrived, sent here on errands by people that seemed worlds away now. Had it really been so long? She tried to add up the time in a new way that made it concrete, but it just kept slipping away into a jumble of memories. She’d always tracked time by people, but now those steady threads had all been pulled free.

Vanna had left. The last one who had known her before Stragosa.

It had been the right call. Vanna wasn’t a fighter. She was just another person who needed to be looked after. One less risk to track. Even so, no matter how Min tried to bend her thoughts, the flippant pragmatism she’d always fallen back on was nowhere to be found. She couldn’t swallow the lump in her throat or blink the burning from her eyes. This sting was new. Something she’d only started feeling here, and she wished it had never taken root just as much as she clung to it.

Jo had left years ago.

Back to her and Vanna’s family. The softer of the twins, she’d taken something Min couldn’t quite pin down with her. She’d taken it from Vanna too. A kind of laughter and gentleness she’d only seen in a few others. It had been a fascinating novelty and a notable absence.

And then there was Oliver.

If he hadn’t… If he’d just not for once in his life… Her thoughts pushed tentatively in that direction, but bounced back each time seeking safer spaces. Borso had found her adoption papers Sunday morning. Stupid, worthless, fucking papers with Karston’s fucking signature.
The Aconitum seal hit the grave mound and bounced with the force of the throw.
If she ever saw that bastard of a bishop again she’d make sure he knew exactly what he’d taken when he stole Oliver.
Revenge was easier than reverie. It resolved.

Now it was just Leonce. He hadn’t known her, but he also had. In the way all the street children knew one another by sight. In the unspoken rules and familiar wisdom. Don’t get attached. But they always did. The lie they all told themselves and one another right up until they had to choose whether or not to make it true. She’d picked. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t. It was a lot to ask one person to make up for all the others, but they all did it when no one else was left.

Min exhaled in a long, drawn out sigh. Ruminating was a problem. Another bad habit she’d picked up here. Probably came of staying in one place for so long. Her eyes flicked towards the Casa in accusation and reproach, but as she did their faces began drifting through her thoughts. Each saying it didn’t always have to hinge on only one or two people. Perhaps it was alright if they came and went. Another annoying, new thought from here that she tolerated with a loud “Ugh” of frustration.

Hopping down, she strolled over to where the seal had fallen and picked it up. Wiping the dirt away, she rolled her eyes and stuffed it back into her bag. Pulling a knife from her belt Min stabbed it down into the freshly turned earth.

“Trade ya, Vaska.” She piped, running a thumb over the hilt of the new knife resting in the old one’s place.

And yet, a quiet part of her mind mused as she walked away…it is a nice thought.

Posted on

The Struggle of Writing Vows

“Two years ago when your father offered me your hand in marriage to solidify the alliance between our clans I thought that I could be content with. At first glance you were a right fit lass and when you demanded I take you to Saragossa with me I was impressed with your spirit. You took the journey in stride, the trials and tribulations of the city, my admittedly limited capacity for coping with stress—all of that you took in stride. You kept our home warm and inviting, food ready for me even when I was returning home from the taverns at ungodly hours in the morning. You’ve been a rock since we came to this cursed valley, and even then I couldn’t say to myself that I loved you. I was a bloody idiot.

As I held you in those woods and watched the light fade from your eyes I knew at that moment a world without you waiting for me when I got home was not a world I could not accept. As I chased the people that had done this to you through the woods I was hardly concerned with my sword…I just wanted to hurt them for what they did to you. That was the moment I realized that there was nothing in the world that meant more to me than you. Every kind word, small gesture of affection, every moment spent with you drove me forwards and I truly believe brought me out of that alive.

Fiona MacLaren I love you with all of my heart and soul, and until I draw my last breath I will continue to work to be a man worthy of your love. I will live my life as the sword and shield that protects you from all the bad things in the world and nothing and no one will keep us apart.”

With a heavy sigh Niall crumpled the parchment he was writing on and tossed it to the side. This was the seventh time he’d attempted to scribe his weeding vows to Fiona, and the seventh time he’d found himself increasingly disappointed at the lack of words he could muster to describe his feelings. He looked over at the bed they shared and smiled softly watching the heavy wool blankets rise and fall as she slept. As much as he wanted to send her to Porto Fino, there was a great comfort in having her here. Seeing that she was alive and well, reminding him that he didn’t lose her. Occasionally he’d find himself in a moment of panic unable to calm down until he saw her or heard her.

The last few days he’d been so focused on tending to her recovery that he’d still been putting off the emotional labor of working through his own truama. As far as Niall was concerned that could come later, keeping Fiona safe and seeing them and the rest of his circle of friends through this crisis was top priority. Though he could hear Saorise and Arineh chastising him now about taking care of himself, in fact he was overdue for one of those conversations sometime soon.

As he set his writing supplies away Niall found himself thinking to the conversation he had with Sinnoch last forum. At the time when he was asked if he was happy Niall couldn’t respond. He didn’t know what happiness was, all he knew was his duty. But for now as he crawled beside the woman he’d given up his moorsword to protect he could imagine that one day he could very well answer yes to that question—and that was all he could ask for at the moment.