Category: Journal Entry

Alexandra watched her mother bustle about, instructing various servants in what tasks must be completed before the April forum and Alexandra’s wedding to Herulf von Corvinus. After all these years spent learning at her mother’s side, she was still in awe of just how confident her mother could be. She knew she would do well to emulate that confidence, even if, at the moment, Alexandra was as uncertain as she had been in a long time.

It wasn’t as though she was unhappy with the marriage match that had been made-far from it, in fact. She had long since accepted that a love match like her parents’ was almost certainly out of the question, and had prepared herself for quite some time that her future husband may well be a stranger on their wedding day. That the match had been made to someone that she actually knew and conversed with, a man that had escorted her on the road between Stromberg and Stragosa, that was a pleasant surprise. It was a happy bonus that she had, thus far and within the boundaries of the sort of arms-length interactions that were appropriate for unmarried people of their standing, found his company pleasant enough, even if, at times, she worried that she came off as far too frivolous for an experienced Gothic military commander. The idea that her soul and his would soon be as one hadn’t fully set in-she knew it was true, and the time was drawing near, but the concept that Lord von Corvinus would soon be her husband, that at some point she ought to become comfortable with using his given name in conversation hadn’t quite solidified in her mind. She supposed she ought to come to terms with the idea before she embarrassed herself by acting like a timid, silly child.

No, it was the prospect of the change in her role in life, no longer an inexperienced maiden, still learning the ropes of rulership in this strange and wild place, but truly an adult, a wife, and, God willing, before long a mother. She suspected, based on comments from both her mother and her betrothed, that her time in Stragosa was likely going to be coming to an end sooner rather than later-but wasn’t entirely sure what her new role would be, what exactly she would be doing or even where she would be doing it, other than continuing to prepare to one day inherit her father’s countship and working to continue to raise her house’s reputation in the Throne.

But before that, the wedding. The wedding itself was hardly a minor detail. “Never forget, the feast is as much a battlefield as any other.” The words her father had written to her over a year ago now weighed heavily on Alexandra’s mind as she began to consider the details of her upcoming wedding. So many people were all too dismissive of the idea of the power of events and the symbols that made up most of them, but the lessons she had been learning for her entire life told her an entirely different story. This wedding, for example. Every little detail would mean something, whether or not it was intentional. It was unavoidable in the world of noble politics. Alexandra knew, on the one hand, that it would be wise to plan for her Stragosa wedding to be on the austere side-to do anything else would be callous in the face of all who had suffered so greatly in the time since the necromancer made its play for Stragosa and the dead began terrorizing the people. She accepted this, and couldn’t even bring herself to feel saddened at the idea, knowing that her house was planning a grand formal wedding for later in the year in North Pass to celebrate the new alliance. But she also knew just as keenly that to fail to honor the marriage and the alliance it signaled in a way that wasn’t worthy of the standing of both houses would be to undermine it. Perhaps, then, the wise course would be to find some way to make the occasion one that may also bring joy to others, some sort of representation of the joy of two people uniting in the eyes of God. A solemn celebration of duty to God and Empire.
Even the details of her dress would matter, she thought. No, not just the dress on the day of her wedding, whether the small celebration in Stragosa or the grand one in North Pass. How she chose to dress, to wear her hair, to carry herself could signal so much from this day forward. She must show the maturity and strength she had gained in her time in Stragosa, for any show of weakness would be a tool to be used against her and her house. But she had also worked so hard to find a way to relate to the common people that she had found herself surrounded by, and knew that this, too, would be valuable for her future. She must show appropriate sobriety and seriousness for the sensibilities of her betrothed’s Gothic house, to demonstrate a commitment to being as one soul with him, but she must absolutely not allow anyone to think that she considered herself something other than Rogalian. The politics around the match and the Pactum Domini were far too volatile for anything else.

Such uncertainty would not do, she knew. It was not fitting for a highborn woman. So she watched her mother, hoping to learn all those little details she must master in the coming weeks. There was much work to be done.

The following is found scrawled in one of Olivier’s journals:

“How are you doing, mon amour? I’m shaking as it is, and he wasn’t my Uncle. I can only imagine what it’s like for you”

“I can’t believe he’s gone either. I didn’t want to kill him. It just happened. I hope you can forgive me.”

“It’ll take some time. You know me, I’m not a killer and don’t want to start anytime soon. I just want to create, not kill.”

“Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“I hope this new place is alright.”

“I’m scared, too. I’m going to miss mother and father. I’m sure Anastasie, will as well. I also hope I can protect the two of you in this new place”

“It all sounds really scary, but also somewhat safe from your father’s reach.”

“I know that sounds harsh, but remember what he did to my mother, to you, and what he said as we were running”

“It was really weird how violent he’s become. He’s always been such a nice man.”

“Remember when he’d get us pastries when we’d watch mother perform in the square?”

“He’d stand up for us too when Gregory and his family would harass us”

“I can’t imagine what would have changed him so much”

“And now we’re running from him. The man who raised you and helped raise me”

“I hope mother and father are alright. At least we’re together, I can’t imagine taking on this journey alone.”

“I know it’s only been a few days, but I already want to go back home”

“I know it would be a death sentence, but at least we would have some kind of happiness until then”

“But what if this new place is as horrible as the stories we’ve heard?”

“You’re right, as long as we’re together, we can do whatever we set our minds to”

“Have you thought about things you want to make? It’ll be around early winter when we arrive, and the Mari Lwyd should be taking place. I’ve been trying to write poetry for the others there”

“A scarf? That sounds great! I would love to wear it. You’re such a thoughtful person, Alexander”

“I love you, too, mon amour”

Mother,

I am sorry it has been so long since I last sent a letter. Between building and farming, my time in Stragosa has been more busy than I’d thought. The last letter I sent, I believe, was a little over a year and a half ago, shortly before I left Lethia, and much had happened. I learned to read, for one! In fact, I am writing this very letter myself!

I’ve learned much in my time here. I feel that I’ve grown into a stronger person, both within and without. I’ve met wonderful people from all corners of the Throne, some even from Sha’ra! I’ve met Mages and Princes, repelled Ghouls and Malefic, and heard the most wonderful songs and stories. In truth, as much as I miss home, I am beginning to feel happy here. My feet finally feel as though they’ve settled on solid ground, and I’m finding myself planning for the future.

Sanguine says we’re to begin working on the Fortress Monastery this coming season, which I’m quite looking forward to. I’ve been preparing for the upcoming Hearthwise ceremonies (they’re celebrated here as well) and I’m quite looking forward to the Ice Doll next season. I’ve begun planning a large Springtime feast as well! I’ve met quite a few herbalists in the city, and I believe that with their help I could feed the entire market! I feel as though I’m finally finding my place, that I’m finally doing good in the world on my own terms.

I hope you’re doing well, also. I know that the Gothic winters have never agreed with you. I assume Clypeus is reading this to you, have him get my blanket from the loft, should you need it. I hope the horses arent giving you too much trouble, did you ever find a new farmha

Lysander looks up from his desk as a cry comes from the courtyard. He stands and crosses his small, sparsley furnished monastery room, a look of worry on his face. He sees the city of Stragosa, his new home, under siege, the vision cutting through him like a cold knife. He hastily dons his leather armor and weapon, slinging in his satchel over his shoulder, and then rushes from his room.

The city was waking. A wagon creaked past, wood complaining of the chill like an old man. Servants called to each other, spreading the morning’s news as they delivered packages. The air was scented with wood-smoke from a hundred chimneys and stoves.

These sounds and scents slipped into the room through the window, finding cracks in the shutters meant to protect against the cold breeze. They combined, losing individual meaning but creating something else – the background presence of living humanity. It settled in, filling those spaces not already occupied by shelves, books and papers.

Neither of the room’s occupants paid attention to the city’s rising presence, but both felt it without realizing. The young woman sat up straighter. Her quill danced across the parchment just a bit faster. The turbaned man raised his voice slightly, unconsciously speaking above the murmurs.

“With the inventory complete, I will be preparing a report to the Rulership. What do you think they will focus on?”

Sarah responded quickly, “I think they will want to know what you’re doing with the rare books, and which ones you’re going to get next!”

Azzam nodded. “Likely. The first matter is simple – demand is not yet overwhelming, so the priority distribution system should continue to work for some time. The latter, of course, will be more difficult. How would you plan the library expansion for the next two seasons?”

This kind of conversation was already familiar. Azzam would query his apprentice constantly as she worked, and Sarah would answer – sometimes eagerly, sometimes hesitantly. The master scholar favored open-ended questions, and never admonished her for a “wrong” answer. Sometimes, though, it was clear that he thought an answer was particularly insightful or well said – and other times he pressed her for greater detail, or challenged a claim.

On this occasion, she had a longer answer ready at once. “I would want more Exoterics. The Fundaments series we talked about last week – I would have it expanded. And books on languages, and some histories. I would write some myself and also ask merchants about purchases from Melandir.”

Azzam gestured for her to continue. “And why these things?” As he listened, he glanced down occasionally at the work in front of him. Records lay on the desk, half-sorted. He selected a few, absently continuing the sorting as he focused on his apprentice’s answer.

“Well, the fortress-monastery is going to be done soon, right? And you want to get started on research right away, and a broad base of Exoterics is important for that. And the archaeologists will want histories to better understand the ruins they find.”

Azzam nodded, but raised a finger. “All good points. Now, what of battle?”

“Battle?” The question caught Sarah by surprise for a moment, but the quick-witted youth recovered easily. “You mean books about it?”

“Indeed. Come, look.” Azzam rose with a slight wince. He stepped over to the window and swung the shutter open. Both of them shivered against the sudden cold air. Sarah half-skipped up to the window, dancing around boxes, and peered out. Azzam pointed across the street – past the elegant walls of the nearby estate, and to the row of collapsed buildings just beyond.

“We must never forget that this city is a place of danger. Even within the walls, who knows what awaits us below? And when it might decide to rise to the surface?” Azzam’s tone was serious, but not fearful. “Our rulers, knights and warriors must prepare against threats internal and external. It is our duty to support them in this as well. The vizier must be ready to advise on matters of both peace and war.”

Sarah pulled her shawl closer, her demeanor temporarily dampened by the more solemn topic, but nodded. Azzam continued, gesturing to the staff leaned against the wall.

“We ourselves are not warriors, so we cannot teach from our own experience. Thus, in a sense, tomes on martial subjects may be more valuable – for they fill a gap in our own capability. We can educate directly on matters such as mathematics and philosophy, and perhaps even on the theory of tactics and battle, but not in the practical applications. Always be aware of such gaps. When you serve, know how to fill them. This does not mean you must become a savant of the blade as well as the quill; but draw upon those who are such savants.”

“It is also why I hold the Knightly orders such as the White Ravens in high esteem. There are few such orders, who learn both the blade and the quill. Despite their small numbers, they produce the majority of the great treatises on combat within the Throne. In Sha’ra, the monks of the Temple have a similar dual training, along with magi’tariq of certain traditions. These few sources must be respected and valued.”

Azzam glanced back at his apprentice. He noticed that she had opened her personal diary, taking quick notes as she listened. He smiled, approving of her studiousness. –She would have done well at any madrasa. This land has fertile soil for the seeds of education, and the saplings already grow strong. Is this how my teachers felt, I wonder?–

the heat grew and grew as the fire below her started. she tries to steel herself and be brave but the moment flame hits skin the pain is unbearable….

“Aaaaaaaaahhhhhh!” Xyandriel bolted up awake, drenched in sweat. Where she thought she was feeling heat now became cold as the winter wind comes through the window in her room. She’d been having the same dream every few nights and always woke the same way. No matter how she tried, though she could put things to the back of her mind when she was awake, the guilt of what she did took the opportunity to remind her in her dreams.

It was seemingly so simple at the time, Sir Lyssander brought a man to her who was requesting her healing ability. She had been having great success in not only being able to exorcise the disease from Dame Sith the previous forum, but several chiurgeries to reattach hands to 14 people. She willingly provided the blessed bandage to take care of his damaged hand. So simple to take care of. It was after that he confessed his sin of taking part in a Vecatran ritual to revenge against the church for burning his mother as a witch.

Xyandriel knew that pain all too well when her own mother turned in her sister, Irma, as a Heretic. Manifesting the abilities of a Fire Mage, she took her newfound power as a sign that she herself was a God. This is what made her recent mistake make her feel even more stupid. After one turns away from God, there is no going back from the ultimate sin of heresy. While circumstances were different the result was the same, rejecting God.

She watched her Aunt Irma burn. Both her parents didn’t want to shield the truth from her. It was difficult emotionally to see, to hear her screams echo through the lands of Woefeldt, to smell the stench of burning hair and flesh. “This is why we must remain free of sin.” her mother held her close and whispered, “Staying with God is the best way to live and the only way to be welcomed back to him when we die.”

Xyandriel would never turn from God, nor his divine plan for her. It was her mistake to even think for a moment this man could atone, no matter how intense his regret was. How could she had forgotten one of the most basic rules? It was even more important now that she seclude herself at the Monastery. She spent every waking moment reading the Testimonium not only to improve her bibliomancy, but to ensure she would know better if such an issue would happen again. She reviewed the various forms of heresy to watch out for and which could be atoned for.
As she looked through the window with the snow coming down, knelt to Pray.

“Dearest God, did I care too much to be blind to the heresy right in front of me? Is this your way to show me I was taking too much Pride in my recent successes? I do not fear death, that is not the way of the Covenant I am devoting my life to.”

“But… I don’t want to die this way. I don’t want to bring shame to the Church, my Family, my community and the people here in Stragosa. I need to continue to spread your glory and help those who sin so that Lurian can lead them to you. The moment I realised my mistake I could have kept it secret, but I confessed. Even before that I was doing everything I could to let the Inquisition know what had happened.”

Please don’t believe I would ever turn away from you and provide the Inquisitor the wisdom to know the same. I know Sir Sanguine, Sir Lyssander, Sir Renatus and Bishop Adeodatus don’t believe I have. Please also give me the strength to tell my story and not break down so that I may prove myself to the Church once more.”
“I look forward to my atonement and what I can further learn from this ordeal. All I ask is to live to carry it out. Deus vult.”

She took a few moments to change her bedsheets and nightgown and lay back down buried in the blanket knit by her Grandmother. Sleep did not come the rest of the night, the same phrase playing over again and again in her head:

Please don’t let me burn,
Please don’t let me burn,
Please don’t let me burn,
Please don’t let me burn,
Please don’t let me burn,
Please don’t let me burn,