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Liams personal journal

It isn’t easy, being the Inheritor of a Moorsword. People often lump us in with Branded Men and Mercenaries and even those shitty slaving Amir. But we’re different. My name is powerful, yes, but not in the way that the others are. To a Branded Man their name is their Brand, and their Brand is everything. To a Mercenary it’s their reputation. Their name should strike fear or awe, so that they can sell their services at ever higher rates. But the name of an Inheritor isn’t like that.

An Inheritor must respect and call out two names. The first is our own. It is the person who wields the blade, the person who has inherited the hopes and legacy of our people. I am Liam O’Craig. I bear the responsibility of rallying our people, of shepherding them and protecting them. I am brash, and loud, and always ready to fight for the downtrodden. I am a… mostly reformed criminal, leader of the Ordough Croy, brother of Blair Mac Declan of Clan MacCraig, an Inheritor in her own right. And I bear the Blade of Sorrows.

The Blade of Sorrows is quite large, even for a moorsword. It was once part of an even larger blade, before it was broken in two. The smaller piece was forged into the blade my sister carries, the Blade of Woes, and the larger was made into my own blade. The Blade of Sorrows did not always bear its name, but what it used to be called has been forgotten. It was borne before me by another member of Clan MacCraig, Caiden Mac Cameron. Borne by another member before him, and another before them. Generations of MacCraigs have wielded it, and suffered it’s curse.

The curse of the Inheritor of the Blade of Sorrows isn’t literal. Rather, the curse is one of duty. The one who bears it may never step foot upon Dunland. It is their curse to range far from our beautiful islands, to search for allies in a cold and uncaring world. The bearer of this blade will die in foreign lands, on a quest that so far has been fruitless.

These two names are what define me. I am not one of them. I am both. I am Liam O’Craig, Bearer of the Blade of Sorrows.

But I am also William Mac Deirde of Clan MacCraig. I was raised in the Highlands, mostly out of reach of Rogalian occupation, though not untouched. They often raided our villages and the land around them. Burned our fields. Stole our people. We were labeled criminals for the crime of living as our own people. Those they took were forced to work their fields or their docks, beaten and forced into small workshacks. No property of our own, no homes, no family. Even our beds were shared with two or even three other people, as we were forced to work in shifts round the clock. It was horrible. And I would know, I lived it. Drudgery, they call it. But anyone who’s lived through it will tell you it’s slavery by a different name. A kinder name, one that doesn’t offend their precious Pontifex.

But before that part of my life I was just a boy. Raised as best I could be given the circumstances. My father took more of an interest in my annoying sister, but that suited me just fine. My mother raised me to be strong, to speak truth to power, to look out for others. I was always a big kid, stronger than folks around me, and no son of Deirdre O’Craig would be a bully. I led a little band even as a kid. Me, my sister, my cousins. We mostly marauded the streets and fields and forests around our homes, waging our little mock battles and “raiding” sweetbreads and berries. As we got older we fancied ourselves little radicals in our own right, and by our teens we were lifting from Rogalian shops down by the harbor. Our parents and our clan were the Templars of Dunland, so we became the Ordough Croy. I came up with the name, I thought it was clever.

But my life wasn’t all rebellion. I helped harvest the fields, Blair helped our dad with hunting and trapping. I argued with my parents incessantly. My mother was often frustrated by my willingness to disagree with her, but I think she was also always proud. I learned to read, found I loved it, and I took up an interest in anything I could get my hands on. History, Law, Nobility. Even the more focused history of our clan. I often wonder to myself, if our land was free, would I have been a scholar instead of a warrior? I think so. I would find a life of study surrounded by books and scrolls and manuscripts fulfilling.

Then our village was raided. I was taken. I was forced to work. For about three years, I think. Then I led an uprising. I took what my mother taught me, the courage and leadership and inspiring words, and I wielded it like a blade. I stole our freedom back. Myself and a hundred other “drudges” stole a Rennet Brig and sailed to the Isle of the Sky, home of the Clan MacLeod. They took us in, on their island of towering cliffs, far from where the Rennet could reach us.

We were sad for a long time. Despondent. We were made up of people from all clans, even the lowlanders. Turns out the Rennets don’t care if you swear fealty to them. But we were past clan divisions. We were all united in our sadness, and then our rage. We learned to fight, then. Really fight. How to tear down a building, how to make sure ship planks caught fire, how to destroy infrastructure and make an unbreakable occupation as painful and costly as possible. That was where my Blade came into my life.

I don’t know why I’m writing this down. Maybe it’s therapy, maybe it’s to remind me that I’m more than my Names. Maybe it’s so I can hold on to the human I am in the shadow of the Symbol I’m becoming. I don’t know.

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A Stone Among the Waves

The gulls cried overhead as the docks near Runeheim came into view. Sygrun had traveled south to meet with the Sea Wolves but returned with salt braided into her hair. They had greeted her with style? Her memory was a painful blur of drinks, songs, and laughter.

How did they drink so much?

When she came back to her senses the ship had long since set sail. In a moment’s panic she remembered this was Ormhildr’s domain but the captain had joyfully remarked she hadn’t been chosen by fate as the voyage’s sacrifice when they had drawn lots the first day out to sea.

The sea wolves had laughed, an earth mage adrift in the sea. What a gift.

The first few days had been pure misery as she adapted to the rhythm of the waves and wind along the coast. The deck pitched unevenly beneath her, and her stomach had rebelled against every motion. When she tried to steady herself with earth magic the ocean answered with a swell that nearly threw her overboard. The Sea Wolves had roared with laughter, calling it the sea’s lesson: no ground beneath you, no certainty above. But they sang together with voices rising like a storm bolstering her spirits as she learned to walk steadily across the deck.

Now, finally, her boots met the wood of Runeheim’s pier, and the world tilted beneath her. While the earth remained steady, her feet were still lost in the memory of the waves. More laughter followed, as she stumbled like a newborn fawn toward more solid ground. The smell of old smoke and brine clinging to her clothes.

“Finally”, she thought.

Her knees crashing to the ground as she dug her fingers into the dirt along the edge of the road. Feeling for the pulse of the land under her hands to calm herself with its reassuring stillness. It did nothing to ease the empty ache within her chest, but for the first time in weeks she felt the world stop swaying. This momentary peace so rudely interrupted.

“Hey, Sygrun Sea-worn, saddle up. It’s time to head for Runeheim.”

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Tiff makes a Pasta Dinner

Alfred and I are making one of my favorite meals today! Spaghetti, meatballs, garlic bread, and a fresh greens salad!

The kitchens here in Runeheim are a little tighter than the kitchen at the Fort. The steam mixes with the smells of the herbs on the bread, hardly a better smell than fresh garlic bread! We boil the pasta, heat the sauce and the meatballs and get everything out to the table, all is well! Alfred hears some kind of commotion outside and takes his enormous skewer to go investigate, I’m sure he’s fine… Let’s get the House fed!

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Tiff’s observations on her Beehive

Spring is here!

The hive is thriving and happy, the winters chill claimed only a few workers. I inspected the vents on the hive, and cleared out the damaged parts, looks like a weasel or something was scrabbling at the honey, I’ll have to ask Guy to look at the fence.

I looked down into the main chambers, seeing all the happy fuzzy bees working to fill up the combs is a great sign! the queen looks hale and hearty for the warm season, right around the corner. I know the nords were saying they wanted a Mead Hall at Court, so we’ll need lots of honey!

I have some ideas for the next tea party! I look forward to incorporating some of this liquid gold into my treats.

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A Letter to my Beloved Regarding my Sins

To my Beloved,

I have sinned this last forum. My Lady knows of my sin, and now you will as well.

It was in Forum, when the sun was rising. A siege was occurring from the forces of Jarl Overturner, cruel men with bile in their hearts and a wish to do harm to the good people. While war makes dogs the simplest of men, these men were wolves that were devouring all people, not just soldiers. They kidnapped emissaries, stabbed soldiers and even my friend Staccato D’Castille.

One of these men somehow got past my defenses and took a sprint towards my Lady. I saw through the blood in his eyes that he wanted nothing more than to hurt her, that nothing would stop him. Even after downed, they continued to rise up through pure malice and grit to strike again, and I would not let that happen! I took flight after him, my feet pounding against the ground to close the distance! I saw him clamber up onto the porch and I could not see Olivia, I could not see Sir Rowland. I did not know if my Lady, my best friend, was in danger!

Fear consumed me. It gripped me like death, and before I knew it my blade was slicing through the neck of this man, killing the soldier even while he was downed. I should not have doubted, Sir Rowland was, and is, a truly incredible knight. But I was afraid.

As the blood dripped down onto the ground, staining the porch that previously only held memories of merriment… I felt guilt. Guilt for cutting down a man who had a family, who could have had love.

I immediately sought atonement, but the guilt still clings to me like the winter rain here in Runeheim. While I know that by my Lady’s words I am not to kill, I know that if her life was on the line in that same way again….I do not know if I could act differently. I strive to be better, to offer mercy like Benalus, but when those who I truly love are on the line I find myself to struggle with the teachings of our Lord.

I will focus my attention on Saint Istra, whose proverbs resound with my inner turmoil: “The blade, God’s most sacred tool. With it, a mere man can control fate. The blade can end life and give it back. It can create and destroy, the fulcrum of time and destiny. Yet I knew not if the blade or action was truly mine. Is the blade an extension of me, or am I wielded by it? There is a mindlessness in practiced action. And in the aftermath of these times, I would gaze upon the work that my hands had wrought and wondered who had actually guided me.”

My atonement will be my forgiveness, and I do not expect Benalus or you to see me as the Knight I yearn to be until I complete my task.

Forever yours,
Lorelei

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A Letter to be Discarded into a Fire Before it Reaches her Beloved

My sweet Beloved.

It has been weeks since my hand has held a quill rather than a pen, as we are all working earnestly towards the salvation of Runeheim. Since Felix’s explanation of the famine in Runeheim and the town’s consensus to prioritize our food stores it seems selfish to take time for you, even if it is what your heart truly wants. But I have snuck away and by the light of the moon I wanted to take this moment for just us.

There was a story I never told you. It was one of the earliest love stories I found in the libraries back in Port Valeria stuck between two of my required readings given to me by my tutor of the Spade. The Clever Lady and Servant – I would be remiss if I didn’t write it down. I told it to the people around the high fire, as I told the spirits were drawn to the fire, I will now recount it for you.

“Once upon a time there was a Lady, as most love stories have. She was born by a Count, and so was to be the single heiress of her Counties. And they were benevolent, kind to their people, and she was beloved by all. As a budding countess she was well-read and versed in the arts, and for every moon that passed so did her beauty grow. She loved riddles, word parlor games, and most of all laughing. If her heart had any weakness, it was humor.

It was this last virtue that made her fall in love with a simple farmboy just outside her Castle. Everything about him was plain. He was from a small family of no nobility, was not particularly handsome nor strong. Quite honestly he was not…remarkable. But he did not need to be. He had one ability, and it was to make the young Countess laugh. Sometimes love is funny that way, it is not a culmination of beauty, charm, or skill, it can just be moments of laughter between pressed lips, smiles across the field as one looks down from the balcony and one looks up from the dirt.

“But there was a third player between this obvious match, one that was ruled by greed. An Old Merchant, that had been passing through the county and upon meeting her knew of her value. Hungry for only the most valuable things in the land, he worked with the darkest of forces and meanest of men to start to break down the county and send it into chaos. Thievery, vandalism, and crookery, it took many years but eventually he twisted the metaphorical screw deep enough and forced the family of the Lady into a proposal. Her dowry could save the people of the county, how could she say no?

“At the announcement of their marriage the simple farmboy did the first courageous thing of his life- He made a proposition: If the farmboy could present three gifts more valuable than the dowry before the next day’s wedding then the Old Merchant would need to surrender the dowry and leave. He promised a gift of gold, a gift of silver, and a gift of pearls. But, if he was unable to find these items then he would forfeit his life in whatever way the Old Merchant wished. So the deal was struck, hands were shaken, and he went to find treasures worthy of his love. He would need to present one at dusk, at midnight, and one before dawn.

“Gold, gold, gold. He had less than four hours to find some! The farmboy had never had real gold in his life, and so he thought of the only gold thing he had ever seen. From the farm’s silos he gathered all the flax left from the last harvest and brought it together in a wheelbarrow. And the Lady, at the same time, decided to tip the wine cask and provide heavy libations at the party. The Old Merchant was quite drunk as the first gift was presented….And without his wits was overcome with greed. That much “gold?” A whole wheelbarrow full! It was much more valuable than his dowry! So with wine on his lips he conceited, the first gift was more valuable than the dowry!

“Silver, silver, silver. He only had till midnight to find some! The farmboy had never had real silver in his life, and so he thought of the only silver thing he had ever seen. He went to the local watering hole and filled four barrels to the top with fresh water. Taking them outside, the beautiful moon peeked down at them, a reflection of silver across the surface. As he loaded them up in his cart the Lady, at the same time, poured the last of the wine, serving the Old Merchant every last drop before dragging him towards the balcony to ‘see his prize.’ The Old Merchant was still quite drunk as the second gift was presented….And without his wits was overcome with greed. That much ‘silver?’ Three barrels full! It was much more valuable than his dowry! So with wine deep in his belly he conceited, the second gift was more valuable than the dowry!”

“Pearls, Pearls, Pearls…He only had till dawn to find some! The farmboy had never seen a real pearl in his life, and he thought of the only pearl he had ever seen. He did not go fetch anything, but simply waited at the castle, watching the festivities as night slowly changed to dawn. So when the drunken Old Merchant stepped forward to demand his last gift, the farmboy did the only true skill he had: He made the Lady laugh. And as she did her shining teeth lit up the room, so did the farmboy’s smile also grew! The Old Merchant was as drunk as one could be as the third gift was presented….And without his wits was overcome with greed. That many “pearls?” Two oysters full! It was much more valuable than his dowry!

And so they went off, the drunk Old Merchant bested by the two. And the Lady and the farmboy were to be wed.”

And that was the ending I told at the fire. It is how I wish it to end.

But that is not the true ending that was given. As, it was not by accident that the story was given to me. As I turned the last page I realized that the story was a lesson: Because the Old Merchant was not going to leave without his gifts. The ‘Gold’ sacks was put into his carriage, the ‘Silver’ barrels sealed and brought as well. But his pearls were still to be his, no? And so with the help of the darkest of forces and meanest of men he made sure to take each and every ‘pearl’ from their lips. Because, in a Spade’s training one must remember: Love is never without pain. And it is not enough to be clever, to be funny, or to be in love. It is only through cruelty and power: The one with the darkest of forces, and the meanest of men, will always prevail.

The next day my training was to practice removing teeth from cadavers, and once I pulled them out of the bodies I was sent away to train with the shield with Uncle Otto. It was then I knew who wrote that story. It was from his journal. That day I realized that the rosary around his wrist were not pearls, as I had once believed.

…Upon reflection, this letter is not for you my sweet. It is a farewell to this story. Maybe it is best that the true ending is not shared. It will be closed and put away, for another Spade to read.

Forever yours,
Lorelei

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On the War, Late Spring Lion Age 611

Jarl Overturner’s men begin haranguing the forum this season, free from the chill on their bones and warmed by the razed capital. Fortunately, we are able to hold them off with our local cadre, though it seemed more like play watching Sir Jacquline skipping around behind them slaying them left and right.

But why do they keep getting up?

They are beaten back by the dozen, knocked to their knees and sword bent over mine. As I looked to one after breaking his blade he looked to me with a fierce anger in his eyes, scrabbling madly at my plate and blade with his nails. Why won’t you stop?

My blade fell upon him once more, in anger, and again. But as I withdrew it, I felt regret. The man before me is no more, I had taken his persistence, his vigor, and ended it. He seemed a brave man, strong and skilled.

What a pity.

These Njords are new to this kind of conflict, they had been raiding in their traditional way for so long it seems a sport. But this is different, this is War.

I breathe deep, taking in the moment. An easy victory over these forces, myself left unscathed. I had swung too far and cut too deep. My sin is my own to bear, and my shame is dwarfed by a courageous soul’s absence.

On the wider battlefield, Sir Minona, Sir Jacqueline, and Lady Lorelai along with some Dunnick skirmishers led by the O’Craigs were able to claim their victory, and we plunge deeper into this conflict.

Naught but Glory.

Alfred Black

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Chapter 2: Finding a foothold

The wheel was easy enough to replace on the wagon, a final grunt of exertion was enough to tighten on the final bolt, and with the turning of the mechanism the wagon was lowered onto the ground. Waving goodbye to the members of his flock as they left the market ground his mind looked back to the weekend and to how closely he came to falling into his favorite vice, Wrath.

The assassin said “I feel very conflicted about this” before his hammer smashed into Godfrey’s leg, the old man Agnar of Shadowhall would have cut his head off and hung it from a tree as a warning, Godfrey will knock the weapon away and run. The raiders mocked the Lord and the Prophet, Agnar would have joined in with the jeers, Godfrey will block the blows ment for his flock with his staff and needs be his very body.

“Let me guide you back to violence” said the masked man. he said that after seeing Godfrey sparing with his flock, that was a mistake, Godfrey isn’t wrathful, Agnar was, and Agnar died a long long time ago.

“FEAR” snared the raider to his flock, Agnar would have found that to be an insult and challenged the man to a duel and feasted on his heart and tongue, Godfrey found the fearful and reminded them of how God stand with them and how the lion still roars to remove the fear.

Agnar is dead, but as everyone knows the ghost of the dead can come back. So Godfrey goes to the church that he mans in the middle of the slum and does what he can to make sure Agnar and his ghost stay buried.

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The Cost of Kindness

It breaks like strained timber,
splits like iron under frost,
leaves its mark quietly
where no one thinks to look.

A moment becomes a wound.
A choice becomes a bandage.
The world keeps moving,
asking no pardon for the trade.

One man keeps his footing.
Another learns the shape of darkness
behind a strip of cloth.

They call this virtue
because it sounds cleaner than cost.

But I have learned:
mercy is a hand thrust forward
while the blade is still falling.

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The Trouble with Service

It was just after the sun had settled behind the high peaks when Felix finally made it back to Hrafnakastali. Saluting the gate guards as he entered, he looked at the courtyard with the few points of light from lanterns and torches and decided it was too late to give his report for how the journey had gone and decided to head to the barracks for some rest.

A few of the guards were coming off duty and he heard them talking about how the miners were being very cooperative with the silver ore exchange. Good, that’ll help the reich. Ah, thinking about that just made him hungry. A problem for the morning.

Pushing open the door to the barracks, he glanced across the nearly empty common room, a few of the fort’s staff lounging around. He cleared his throat

“I’m surprised you beat me back here, Guy really set you on a pace didn’t he?”

Damian scoffed, abandoning his ambush, “Some of us work to finish our jobs in a timely manner. Guy was having a field day in that village. I think he’s a local hero now.”

“Glad to know things went well.” Felix nodded in satisfaction, “The others back yet?”

“Sil is, though he’s doing some scouting – probably be back in a day or two. Mitch apparently got tied up with something back at the Port and might be gone for a while. Gilbert though…” Damian shook his head, disappointed, “He’s here but… you’ll have to see for yourself.”

Felix didn’t like how that sounded. He gestured vaguely to Gilbert’s quarters, and Damian nodded, confirming he should be there. Felix gave him a short wave and set off.

—

Knocking lightly on the door, he cracked it slightly and said “Felix.” Doing so, he heard the soft click of a hammer being reset. Gilbert was at his desk, a portion covered in a mixture of ledgers and what was unmistakably his latest poem, but before him a clear area with a flintlock on a cloth with some powders and oils set around it for routine cleaning.

Felix closed the door behind him and approached the desk “Damian said there was some trouble at the farms?”

Gilbert finished wiping the barrel of the pistol and turned to face him – with an eyepatch, the space around it red. Felix couldn’t hide his surprise. “Gil! What happened!?”

Sheepishly scratching the back of his head, Gilbert started to explain, “You’ll want the whole story I imagine”

Felix folded his arms and nodded.

“We were building those heavy iron plows for the south farms, that new design from Graham. Everything’s oversized: beams, braces, the lot.” He gave a short exhale. “One of the farmers came to help us test the frame. Good man, but he bumped something he wasn’t supposed to with the lift, and the chain slipped on the rig. Whole frame started to tip forward, something like four hundred pounds of oak and iron, coming down right where the farmer was standing.”

He gestured with two fingers, remembering the angle. “No time to run in. No time to shout anything useful. Just.. line of sight.”

The quartermaster’s hand tapped the edge of his eyepatch. “I drew, fired, and took the bracket clean off the hinge pin. It held long enough for him to dive clear.”

Felix gave a low whistle. “That’s… precise.”

He gave a prideful smirk. “The shot did its job.”

He leaned back. “The problem is what happens when iron meets iron at that range. The powder flash kicked back off the brace plate. A shard of scale and soot came straight back at my face.”

He pressed a hand just to the side of his eyepatch. “This got the worst of it. Didn’t lose it, and Leonora and the other healers say it’ll mend in a few weeks. They just had to get the metal out from around it. The blood though! It looked like I died.”

“So you saved him?” Felix inquired.

“Of course.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, Felix put his head in a hand, “I’m glad you’re still here, but what possessed you to do that?”

“Why, I was only doing what you’re always saying, Felix. Making myself useful. That’s how things get done.”