Category: Journal Entry

Another market. Not much happened.

Somebody tried to assault the city, as usual. Svart sent his best generals, Knut and Ragnar, to deal with it. There was no need for Svart to go. Svart certainly wasn’t scared of Gorm. I am an adult now. Things don’t make Svart scared, because there is nothing that can hurt Svart. I am too quick and smart.

I wonder if Svart should learn blacksmithing. Then I wouldn’t have to pay the two copper to get my weapons unkept. I could do it myself. I could also melt down my gold ore to bars. Along with my jewels, I could make a gold crown. Svart was able to get the secrets out of the color wizard. He let it slip that his gold crown protected him from magic. He was very nervous when I spoke of gold weapons. I could make some of those too, possibly. It is possibly time to bring back some of the holy steel that Svart has been saving up to be made into his weapons.

Things are turning now. Runehiem is protected. Svart has many friends now. Svart’s many enemies are on the run.

Rhyme and Reason got their magic suppressed. After the magic had left, there was little left of what humanity that was left. They were confused as to what they were doing and impressionable. They wandered around and others were trying to take care of them, the fire magic had eaten away at their soul and mind, just as Wolf-Rik had described happening to him, and what was left was a fragment of what their prior human self must have been like. It was sad to see them in that state. Then their magic came back later and they returned to their hateful state and leered at Svart and made threats. The thing inside of them knows I will be its doom.

I do not know why I continue to write in this infernal book. Outside these pages, no one listens. Perhaps that is a blessing; here at least, my voice is not interrupted by sneezes, groans, or the incessant chatter of idiots. I am overworked, underappreciated, and yet I receive not so much as a “Thank you, Aurelia, for trying to save me” from Nephele. After all my efforts — tending her bar, learning the delicate art of pouring drinks without spreading her pestilence, pleading with every fool in Runeheim who might know of a cure — the wretch looks at me as if I’ve merely spilled flour across the floor.

She lingered, snot oozing and breath pungent with illness, questioning every step I took as though I were some mortal threat to her delicate constitution. Nosey Nephele, indeed. That childhood nickname still fits her perfectly.

Then, as if my life were not already a gauntlet of frustration, my charming brother swooped in. He bullied the townsfolk into concocting some foul remedy – one I already had well underway – and of course she treated him like a god-sent hero. How infuriating that she lavishes gratitude on him while treating me as though I were an inconvenient shadow. The injustice! The gall!

Out of sheer spite, I agreed on her behalf to a Saltworks — a laughably pointless addition to the harbor — simply to see her flinch under the cost. Let her taste disappointment, the way she dishes it to me daily.

Saturday I spent slaving over her birthday cake, a masterpiece of Hestralian splendor: pineapple, cherries, sugar, exotic flavors she could not begin to understand in this frozen city. When I arrived with it, she barely glanced up, asking instead where I had been. The little wretch. Only after much coaxing did she mutter, “You’re my favorite cousin,” but I could feel the falseness slicing through me sharper than any blade. Why did my mother favor her so? Why did she squander my inheritance on Nephele rather than me, her own daughter? Truly remarkable.

After Nephele vanished to tend her bar, I sat with Steiner, learning that she had been paying him and the other crewmen three silver each forum — a betrayal of principle that demanded restitution. When I confronted her, she waved it off with her usual flippant grace, citing trinkets and gifts as if they could balance the scales of my suffering. Four silver coins later, safely in my pocket, I promised myself a drink — a private celebration of justice in a world that otherwise refuses it.

I kept Nephele company while she prepared for the feast later in the evening. A kindness she hardly deserved. The feast, however, was incredible. So many foods from so many townsfolk poured in to fill the tables. The options were so many that I found it difficult to decide where to begin with my indulgences.

Later on into the evening, I managed to procure a schematic that our family had been longing to obtain. Nephele seemed both relieved and distressed by the price of it, but it was a momentous occasion for us to finally be able to obtain the piece of paper. I’m sure she might consider showing more gratitude later.

We parted ways so that I could make it in time to greet my little old ladies that were set to arrive off the shores. She asked me to swear to behave, as if she were so innocent as to not be the one needing to swear.

And then… my ladies arrived, Sunday afternoon.

Abuela del Ron was first, descending upon our house like a tempest in a dress of rum and sweetness. She waved a shot glass in my face and stuffed a pastry in my hand simultaneously, while declaring that “if the world is ending, at least your mouth will be happy for the afterlife.” Her advice was harsh and sugary, her love administered in dangerous doses. I suspect my liver will never forgive me.

Next, Tía Besitos floated in, perfume and lipstick first, kissing me on both cheeks with the zeal of someone who believes affection can solve all problems — especially Nephele’s. She immediately began offering matchmaking advice for the entire household. “You see that man?” she whispered, pointing at a passing beggar. “He is destiny!” I nearly choked on my patience.

And finally, Abuela Pan Duro, goddess of flour and discipline, arrived with an oven at her back and judgment in her eyes. She began baking immediately — the smell of yeast and fire filled every corner of the house. When Dong Quixote tried to steal a morsel, she smacked him with a loaf so hard it could have felled a moose. He apologized on the spot and has since adopted a permanent posture of fear. I do not blame him.

Nephele’s wards — Dong Quixote, pacing and muttering about “honor and dough,” Damascus Steel, attempting to charm Abuela del Ron into granting him more shots, and Cass A’Nueva, sprawled like some tragic poet who believes sobriety is a performance art — added further chaos. I watched them all, trying to maintain the illusion of composure, and failing spectacularly.

And Nephele? She arrived shortly after. Pale, silent, detached. She glanced at the scene with a look that might have been fondness, or disdain — I cannot tell which. I reminded myself: I am Aurelia. I am magnificent. I am indispensable. If she cannot see it, that is her loss, not mine. Also, that would make her blind.

Finally, I could breathe. The madness of my Hestralian ladies brought a strange warmth, the familiar chaos of home amidst Runeheim’s frozen absurdity. Tía Besitos kissed my cheeks, Abuela Pan Duro handed me a loaf — more of a cudgel than bread, but a cudgel I could respect — and Abuela del Ron offered me a shot, harsh as life itself. For the first time today, I felt seen, in my own way.

Perhaps this is what it means to survive Nephele: not through gratitude, not through fairness, but through the loyal insanity of friends who remind me I am worth the effort.

Though I do have to admit… I rather like the crown she got me.

Friday Night
My head is pounding like a cursed drum, and I am fairly certain death has come to collect the tab I’ve been running since I arrived in Runeheim.

Something has me — some vile sickness that laughs at priests and mocks the so-called physickers. It’s only a matter of time before I start coughing on customers and doom the city. Terrible for business.

I tell Aurelia to get pen and parchment — time to draft my will. She should inherit the bar, keep the money flowing, and maybe name a cocktail after me. She immediately starts fretting about my “outstanding orders” and suggests bleeding me to get the sickness out. I nearly die from the idea alone.

Runeheim truly has no healers, only hopeful sadists.

Just as I prepare to start writing farewell letters, salvation bursts through my door: Tomaso, my shining idiot cousin, yelling, “Nephele! Make me my favorite drink!” I tell him I’m dying. I tell him I might’ve infected Knut. He calls Knut a hypochondriac and storms off to badger every apothecary in town until someone hands him a cure — or dies trying.

He returns with a wiry Hestrali who orders a fruity drink. I make him a Blue Hestrali and later learn he’s into feet. I assure everyone this is not a cultural trait. They call him Cherry Tomaso now. I prefer “Fruity Hestrali” until proven otherwise.

Then Tomaso — the true one, not the fruity one — returns, holding what looks like the contents of a latrine bucket and calls it medicine. I drink it. I gag. I live.

He saves me again. My hero, my curse.

We move straight to business talk — naturally, as soon as I’ve stopped convulsing. He asks about the shipyard plans; I confess I got distracted building stables. The look he gives me could sour cream. We settle on building a Saltworks instead, which delights Graham to no end. I try to look equally thrilled, but inside I am already budgeting the ruin of my accounts.

Note to self: Never get sick in Runeheim again. Next time, just die quietly. It’s cheaper.

Saturday
I awake at dawn, miraculously alive and deeply annoyed about it. My head feels like it’s been kicked by a mule. Aurelia is missing — probably napping in a barrel somewhere. I ready the bar for the town feast, wondering how long before I keel over again.

By late afternoon, Aurelia finally appears, carrying a cake. She declares it’s my birthday. I had entirely forgotten. The cake is pineapple — Hestralian, sweet, golden, achingly nostalgic. For a fleeting moment, I remember our childhood and almost forgive her for existing. Almost.

I share it with Svart, Steiner, Bryn, and Reidun. We laugh. For once, Runeheim doesn’t feel like punishment — more like the world forgot to be cruel for a few hours.

Then Vindicta announces that the king is dead, and the city must choose between her and the Bearhide Kjarl. I glance down at the contract Santiago got me — tax exemption, blessed be his charming recklessness — and my choice is obvious. Vindicta, of course.

Then comes the real madness: she proposes secession from the throne. I almost choke on my drink.

“Trade routes, Vindicta!” I think. “Money! I like my independence, but I like gold more. Empires may be tyrannies, but at least they pay invoices.”

The night turns to revelry — laughter, feasting, unity. Everyone together for once. It’s unsettling. I keep waiting for someone to stab someone else.

Svart lingers. Odd, twitchy man. Loyal, though. I consider adopting him like I did Butch and Bryn. My collection of strays grows daily. Perhaps I should start charging rent.
Later, I buy a recipe said to repel sea serpents from ships. A glorious victory, except it costs me nearly everything I’ve saved. Every coin I count feels like a funeral bell. I tell myself it’s for my family — Aurelia, Tomaso, the two bottomless pits in human form. Surely they’re worth it.

…Probably.

Note to self: Invent cheaper family members.

Sunday
It’s raining, because of course it is. I pack my bar in the downpour, muttering curses at the sky. Aurelia has left already, swearing she won’t cause trouble. Which means she absolutely will. I hug her goodbye anyway. I never learn.

I find Svart and beg to borrow his wagon. He agrees without asking for coin. Saints preserve me, there are still good men in this city — they’re just all slightly unhinged.

Then Knut appears, walking beside me in silence. A strange comfort, really. We talk politics, trade, Vindicta — all the things that keep Runeheim spinning. He seems broken in some quiet, unspoken way. Perhaps it was just a reflection of myself.

By the time we part, I’m soaked, freezing, and strangely… hopeful. I think I’m starting to care about these people.

Horrifying realization.

Note to self: Find cure for sentimentality before it spreads.

When comrades wander forth through time and space,
To chase the fruit of study, toil, or chance,
Each tale they bear doth gild their weary face,
And bids our hearts to join their glad expanse.

The scholar’s word, by candlelight conceived,
Returns as treasure, richer than pure gold;
The traveler’s song, in distant lands achieved,
Breathes life anew in stories brave and bold.
Yet truest bond is friendship’s gentle thread,
Which time may stretch but never rend in twain;
Its voice abides when fleeting hours are fled,
And lifts us up through joy as well as pain.
So joy is sown in every voice we hear,
For each farewell returns as something dear.

The gate watch had seen the dust long before the wagons came thundering up the road. Two wagons, neck and neck, jolted over the still rough mountain road as the drivers urged them on with reckless grins.

“Ha! You’re losing your touch, Felix!” Damian called, his cap nearly flying off in the wind, Silvester holding on tight just behind him.

Felix cracked the reins “Not yet I haven’t!” driving Buttercup on with stubborn pride.

Crouched low with the cargo, Mitch looked ahead, gauged the narrow stretch to the gate, and made his decision. “You’ll never make it at this pace with me slowing you down, Mr. Porter.” Before Felix could protest, Mitch lept.

Hitting the ground rolling, Mitch came up coughing up dust, but was waving and hollering as the Wagons lumbered on. Suddenly lighter, Felix’s wagon started to creep ahead of Damian’s and crossed the gate just moments ahead of him.

While the gate watch cheered, Felix stood in the front of the cart, waving and bowing to the onlookers. Mitch jogged into the fort and got a rough clap on the back from one of the guards.

“What are you still doing in the Wagon?” Damian snarled at Silvester.
“Because I didn’t want to die?”
“If that’s the case you should have jumped!” Damian took a swing at him and Silvester jumped back in the bed of the Wagon, managing to both not get hit and stay on.

Then came the inevitable voice

“By Benalus’ beard, have you both lost your senses?”

The stablemaster stormed across the yard, his face as red as the sunset. “You’ll lame our best stock racing like drunk sellswords! Look at these poor beasts!” He gestured at Buttercup and Red Spade, both dark with sweat and sides heaving.

Damian turned back “We’re just keepin ‘em sharp, sir”

The stablemaster’s expression showing he did not agree with the younger Porter’s assessment, Felix interjected “We’ve gotta get these to storage right away, we’ll make it up to the horses later!” Shooting Damian a glance, he tapped the reins to get a trot going to their destination, and the two wagons with Mitch on foot made their way to the stone warehouse up against the wall.

—-

Gilbert was putting back some extra beams from the project in the yard when he heard the wagons approaching the warehouse. Brushing the sawdust off his doublet, he made his way out the door and broke into a wide smile.

“Well, well,” he said. “looking like you’ve run from the Rimelanders themselves.”

“Worse,” Damian said solemnly “It was Felix and Mitch.”

Gilbert nodded in mock understanding. “Sounds like the wagons made the whole trip despite that excitement though. Why’s Mitch covered in dirt?”

“Because we won.” Felix said smugly, without further explanation.

Gilbert continued to nod in understanding. “Naturally, what other reason could it be. How’s summer treating you lads?”

As they unloaded the carts, they traded their stories of the summer so far. Mitch’s path to his path, the sights and sounds of the southern reich. Silvester’s hunting stories and tales of the other hunters in Mecorton. Felix and Damian argued about who had a harder time delivering their cargo, with Felix suggesting that it was Silvester who had it worse. Felix also shared how Woodsman was getting on showing his son the ropes in Survold. Gilbert had been in the fort the whole time, and shared stories of the continued improvements and the various visitors who came through.

They laughed loud, easy laughter that filled the warehouse and echoed off the stone. During Damian’s recounting of surprising Silvester in Mecorton, Gilbert was quiet, before interjecting.

“Each tale they bear doth gild their weary face,
And bids our hearts to join their glad expanse.”

The mood changed immediately, but Damian’s excitement was the most palpable.

“Is this what I think it is?” He asked, looking to Felix for confirmation

Felix gave a weary sigh. “Making himself useful. That’s how things get done.”

These trips as of late have not been as long as my normal, but they have been lonely all the same. Having Sil with me on the way back has been nice even if he has been preoccupied with a more important task. I find myself playing little games to pass the time. How many clicks of that back right wheel will I hear before we get to that rock? How many of Gil’s sonnets can I recall without checking my notes? “Disturb me not, lest death itself ye crave”. How many white hairs are in Felix’s beard now? Just little things to keep from pondering the solitude.

That is the benefit of this trip though, the majority of the crew will be together again, even if only for a moment. Sil did his job, I am sure Mitch is faring well. I think I might need to request a job that keeps me in one place a little longer. Get back to sewing a bit.

Oh shoot, did I miss a turn?

“Sil did I fu-“
“You are good keep going straight you will see it soon”

I look back into the wagon. He isn’t even looking. How did he know? He better not be – oh no he is right. Whatever. No wait, not whatever.

“Sil is that Felix?”

Sil gets up this time to check. “Yup. I’ll grab onto something”

I tighten my grip, “Giddy-up! We gotta beat him!”

As the wagon clattered southward, wheels striking stones hidden by the morning mist, Mitch rode in the back with his pack, knees loose, shifting along with the sways as though they meant nothing to him. His easy seat in the back of the wagon marked him as a man long accustomed to rough travel.

Ahead on the bench was Mister Porter, guiding the horse with steady patience. Kevin, another of the porters, sat in the bed of the wagon with him, humming in fits and starts with his eyes on the horizon. Before long, the wagon would stop in Survold, leaving the two of them to finish the rest of their journey on foot while Mister Porter collected materials from Erik in Survold.

Mitch leaned back against the sideboard, his gaze drifting back at the road they’d come down. The fort lay behind them, its walls rising pale in memory, his sister within them. When he’d left, she’d smiled and waved him off, but unease clung to her like a faint shadow he couldn’t shake. Too many eyes seemed to linger on her lately, hushed voices speaking when they thought no one else listened.

Recalling the night he crept through those shuttered windows, he involuntarily clenched his fists. The parchment, the seal broken by his touch, the words, though they meant nothing to him, their meaning had been given voice, clear and inescapable. He had memorized them by sound alone, carrying them not in ink but echo. He burned the page after, watching the flame eat away the lines until there was nothing left but ash. Her safety was secured by his own hands… yet the echo remained, heavier than the pack between his knees, pressing on him even now.

The wagon lurched hard in a rut, and Mitch steadied himself without effort, catching the sideboard as though born to the motion. Up front Mister Porter cursed in Rogalt, glanced back, offered the faintest nod, and returned the to reins.

“Quiet today, Mitch” Kevin said, settling himself back to his spot after the bounce.

Mitch managed a smile, “Just thinking about how much nicer my path’ll be than yours”

While true, it wasn’t what occupied his mind. While the stones ahead would be lifted with back and hand, the burden behind was a different kind of weight entirely. He carried it in silence, hoping this path he forged would lead him nearer to his sister’s safety.

Svart should have known when they didn’t go get the witch in the woods or the mages that caused all the troubles, that they were not the real Inquisition. Svart was asked a lot of questions but they didn’t ask him about anything important. Talking about people he didn’t know and other stupid questions. Never paying any attention to anything important. Pretending to be the Church so they could be mean to people.

Working against Svart. Trying to attack Svart and his allies.

Allies like Cnut. Cnut is back. It is a good sign that the forces sent against him failed. Cnut is one of Svart’s oldest allies. Everybody else is dead or has disappeared. Captured and held prisoner by the witch in her cave. If only Svart could find the bandits base in his woods I could find out where she is, but just as I uncover where it is and am about to attack it, I go there and they have moved it. They always run except when they ambush Svart.

Svart told the people claiming to be the Inquisition all about the Witch, her bandits, and her plans to use the spirit creature the mages summoned. That they did nothing made suspicions grow that something was wrong. With the warnings that the Vindicta and others were planning an uprising to put them down just confirmed Svart’s conclusion that they were not the real Inquisition. They did nothing about witches or the mages or any of the real threats.

Svart is now a noble. Ragnar made him one. He claimed Svart was a Baron after Svart supplied all the food needed for the teams to leave Runehiem on missions this Forum.

The Color Wizard has added black to his ensemble. I will have to dwell on what this means. Lately, he seems to be trying to act human. He has addressed Svart and seems to be attempting to act in a friendly manner.

Not like Rhyme and Reasons who is turning cruel. She has been tormenting Svart. Then other times, seems almost regretful. Trick? Trap? The last vestiges of their human soul trying to break through the fire that is burning it away? Perhaps the process of being one soul in two bodies has affected the process of doom that Wolf Rick described happening to himself is affected.

Svart has uncovered that there is a way to steal their magic. They call it suppression. Java was able to do it one of its own kind. The fake Inquisition did it. If Svart can learn how to do this and use it on them. Perhaps if I contacted the real Inquisition, they would be able to come and do it.

Tomaso, a great merchant, asked Svart to join his organization knowing that Svart would bring it more wealth. Svart joined along with Nephele. Nephele is not like the others. The Others are not as we are. We’re going to make lots of money and Svart will have his treasure for when it is Time.

The Time draws near. Svart will return to Runeheim. To the hut he was born in. I’ll wait in the darkness and watch the thieves run back and forth like rats. Svart will sit in the tavern and listen to everybody’s secrets as only Wolf Rick ever noticed. Svart will wait for the Time.

Friday Night
Forum began with myself being accosted by inquisitors, despite knowing nothing of the goings on within Runeheim, and Nephele drowning in an endless dirge about Santiago.

Honestly, I’m tired of hearing it, even though it’s only just begun. He is Santi-ah-gone, she needs to move on. Knut doesn’t deserve to be dragged through her misery—or tangled up with me. I don’t love Knut; I admire him. His steady calm, his quiet strength—they’re rare, and frankly, impressive. But love? That’s for fools. Knut deserves someone who isn’t me—someone who won’t inevitably break his heart. Someone who is a fool, like Nephele!

So I’m doing them both a favor. Admiring Knut from afar, sparing him the chaos I’d bring, and setting him up with Nephele—bitter and mournful, yes, but steady. Exactly what he needs. And she needs her focus redirected away from Santiago.

I keep slipping Knut drink coins for Nephele’s bar—free drinks on me—much to Nephele’s outrage. “Aurelia, how many more tokens will you steal before you bankrupt us? That one-handed oaf isn’t worth a coin!” she snapped, bitter as ever. She mocks Knut’s missing hand too. Just last night she joked loud enough for half the bar: “Maybe you should trade those coins for a second one.” Knut grinned through it all, patient as ever. I know the way to any man’s heart is through their stomach, Nephele will win him over quickly with her delicious beverages.

Knut attempted to collect his bill from Nephele, itemized list and all, to be met with her balking and handwaving frantically while near-yelling something about “I’ll figure out what to pay you” and me refitting his armor to him as part of whatever agreement she dredged up. She denies she has my mother’s riches. I know she is just lying.

Saturday Morning
I “accidentally” sent Knut to Nephele’s bar at opening, forcing an awkward moment between them. Nephele snapped, “Don’t get soft on me, Knut. And don’t expect free drinks every time—one hand or not.” Knut laughed it off, and I swear Nephele’s glare softened just a touch. Progress.

I am so generous that I fed the entire town by providing resources to the cook– who is also a mage! And contributed to the town’s stockpile. Yes, Aurelia—the benefactor of Runeheim. If anyone deserves to live well, it’s me.

I saw Nephele sneaking not just one, but two cupcakes to Knut while she thought I wasn’t looking. The embers of their shared love are slowly burning brighter.

Saturday Night
Runeheim burns; the Inquisition tightens its grip. Yet Nephele managed to coax a secret story from Knut—someone threatening someone she cares for. She actually paid him for it, like a savvy merchant. A fierce spark lit in her eyes—a flicker of life I haven’t seen since Santiago disappeared. It’s proof they belong together.

As we left the city late, flames painting the sky red behind us, I indulged in a sweeter fantasy: Nephele finally handing me the entire chest of my “inheritance”—that supposed fortune she’s been “holding” for me—while I live free from debts and worry.

I imagine a day when Nephele is married to Knut, finally quieting her endless mourning, while I sit back, knowing I masterminded it all—for their good and my own. A free guard and a silent cousin, what more could a girl ask for other than her inheritance?

Nephele pushes me to pack up my belongings, quipping about how long it’s taking and having the audacity to tell me to just leave my scarf. I give her a look, she shuts up, we leave the city before the smoke is thick enough to prevent us from being able to see at all. My cousin is in a desperate hurry to protect her wards and her belongings–my belongings she owes me.

Sunday Afternoon
Back home, surrounded by Nephele’s wards—Dong Quixote, Damascus Steele, and Cass a’Nueva—grown men softened under Nephele’s care. I indulged their antics with amused affection: Dong Quixote’s tales of misplaced chivalry, Damascus’s restless pacing, and Cass’s absurd poetry. Their laughter brightened the room and softened Nephele’s bitterness, if only briefly.

I’m doing them a favor. Knut deserves someone who isn’t me. Nephele needs to move on. And I deserve to live free of worry—and debt. If pairing them means Nephele foots my bills, hands me my inheritance chest, and marries Knut, then every stolen coin and sharp word was worth it.

Romance is for fools—I’m better than that. I’m simply the architect of a better future, one where everyone wins—especially me.