Author: Rachel McDonald

The runes have been cast

My fate binds me to these cities of bones. Age old secrets whispering along the halls and lingering in the doorways. Some lands leave a lasting impression in your heart, and I am inspired by this untamed wilderness of Njordr, which refuses to yield, which defies the easy footfall of man.

I’ve dreamt of exploring this rugged beauty. It is my fate, tied to grave dust, to muck and mire, for treasures greater than the wealth of an empire, to seek the edge of our beginnings. It feels as though I’m caught between some walking dream of a bloody past and an inevitable future.

The pieces tumbled across the ground

Oh Runespeaker, Runecaster, what is my fate?

The parts of ourselves that came from our parents manifest, as we grow older, and we become a soft echo of who they were. I often wonder if this path set before me was a road other Runespeakers built for us to follow. The small notes and ciphers, the runes we cast, all small hints and memories, reminders of what we were and what we can become again.

Den som venter på høstens vakreste eventyr, venter ikke forgjeves.

My mother spoke these words to me, “He who waits for autumn’s most beautiful adventure, does not wait in vain”. Words that as a child, inspired a deep love for the things around me, the stories and wisdom, and set my blood to excitement. As I have waited for this my entire life, to explore those hidden hollows and paths secreted away for so long.

So I went down to the Long hall to listen to the drunks tell stories. Here is one from the other night…..

So we were down a few men, which was a problem since Sven was spoiling for a fight, and sent Arsebjorn with the boat to pick up some spares from a nearby town. This halfwit tho grabbed the first rough looking bear folk he saw, which turned out to be some rather drunk barzarks. Now, I understand why he was confused. This lot was so drunk, they had somehow gained some sense and spoke all polite like to Arsebjorn when he offered up some gold to come out to fight.

How he got the boat back here was nothing short of a miracle, cause half way through all the bear folk passed right out after drinking all our mead, and Arsebjorn was the only one sober enough to steer his way back.

Now if you’re not familiar with these bear folk barzarks, then I’ll tell you we rushed them right quick into the hall and locked the door. When they started to rouse we rolled another barrel of ale into the hall and rushed right out again. There are three things you need to remember about these njords: Keep them well plied with alcohol. A sober, bored, barzark will find ways to entertain themselves at your expense. Last season, I’ll never understand how they got the goats up there. Feed them often, so they can drink more. One boar and a pot of barley should do the trick and the most important of all; When they ask for women….well send them more alcohol and keep the doors locked.

Scraps of paper, crumpled and torn from being hastily shoved into a bag littered the cabin floor. Drawings of malefic entities and runic scribbles dominate their content. Each one without specific purpose, made in haste for the sake of knowledge.

She shivered, pulling her coat more tightly around her shoulders. The frosts had come, hinting at the harsh winter quickly settling into the hills surrounding Runeheim. Once the snows started, there would be no leaving the city proper without some serious planning.

It was frustrating, trying to make sense of the recent events revolving around the Great Menhir. Why now? The war in this region has been ongoing for ages and the Old Gods had never been this active. She needed answers.

The memory of steaming blood in the snow was an unsettling reminder that sacrifice was not without benefit. There was a deep thrill whispering those words in the dark, not knowing who would answer or if anyone was even listening.

A sharp contrast to convocation and the shining light Solace so freely offers in her daily blessings. She also knew about sacrifice. The bloody price of lives lost in pursuit of unification and hope. Has Mithriel had a guiding hand in all this, or simply an observer unwilling to provide answers to her silent cries. What knowledge had been gained from her sacrifice?

“There are two wolves. Faithfully borne from the same mother and destined to different paths. One seeks justice from the divine and the other strength from sacrifice.”

Her pen hovered briefly, splattering drops of ink onto the table as she tossed it aside
Didn’t they know? Didn’t they know anything? Frustrated tears ran down her face. She had nearly died, and for what.

It had been idealistic to think the Rimelanders would welcome knowledge about themselves, about their clans and traditions. Is that not what our purpose is as Runespeakers? To help remember what’s been lost. Not to be called useless, pointless, ……weak.

She shook her head, wincing at the sudden bout of dizziness. If it had been so easy to take her out in the open, under the protection of the church….she wondered if her faith had been misplaced, and if she should seek safety in strength elsewhere.