Category: Journal Entry

This winter was bitterly cold. Clemens still shivering as he sat down at his study. A window had blown open from the cold winds forcing themselves inside his humble abode. He gave the pane a slight shove and made sure the flimsy hinge was secure. He was growing quite tired of winter’s chilling touches on his cheeks.

Wrapping himself in a blanket to warm up gave him time to ponder recent events. Most notably Stein. That man never failed to get under Clemens nerves. Mostly because the man wielded words of criticism like a master swordsman. Efficient, deadly to the ego, and unwaveringly correct.

Clemens had been doing what he could to leverage his knowledge to aid his friends in Runeheim, but clearly he needed to be doing more. Ask more questions, get to the heart of the matter, confront threats to the academic integrity of Runeheim… That last point made Clemens shiver. That entity made of pages troubled Clemens deeply, but what exactly did he do about it? He didn’t release it, so why should he have done anything? Wasn’t it Quill’s fault that thing went on a rampage stealing away knowledge from books and people?

Excuses. Clemens should have taken far more offense at that thing’s greed. Knowledge is meant to be shared and enrichen the lives of all; not hoarded like piles of coins or jewels. Clemens felt a fire rising in him; a twinge of anger and frustration. He was starting to become sickened by his own lack of willpower and courage.

“What would have Hakon done? He’d probably tear the thing to shreds with his bare hands if he could! Ha ha!”

Suddenly the window shuttered, a sudden gust of icy wind forcing it open again. Clemens yelped in surprise, then laughed.

“I guess I still have a long way to go before I can be as bold and fearless as my friends” he remarked, standing up to secure the window again, this time with just a bit more gusto. Then he sat at his study again, and returned to the archaeology report he was working on and noticed his handwriting seemed ever slightly more stable… As if his hands were shaking just a little bit less. Perhaps a sign that spring would return to Runeheim just a bit sooner.

The bellows of the men shook the ground beneath Ragnar’s feet, moments ago his karls had spotted the enemy through the trees and he’d given his first and likely last command for the length of the battle: charge! The ground was uneven and their were trees all around them but Ragnar’s enemies where exhausted and still recovering from their defeat, all he had to do was finish them off. Ragnar’s bellows joined those of his men and their opponents as he ran towards them, leading his troops packed in shoulder to shoulder with his men. Soon their enemies where put a few paces away and time slowed Ragnar looked into the eyes of the men he was about to kill, he saw hatred, resolve… and fear. With a mighty roar Ragnar crashed into his foes, a wild swing of his sword connected with as head, crushing it beneath the weight of the swing. Ragnar felt weapons bite into dearly, not quite piercing his scarred and toughened hide, terror crept into the eyes of those that struck him as they realized what they faced, a Barzark. Ragnar’s karls crashed into the line just behind him, overwhelming their opponents and driving Ragnar forward into the fray, the ferocious bellows quickly turned into screams of pain and despair, a red mist descended over Ragnar as the screams all joined into one charnel chorus, quietly he let the rage take him. The bodies around him ceased being ally or enemy, or even human, they simply became objects to direct his wrath towards.

Later, Ragnar’s foes retreated into the forest, his own karls where too exhausted from their over-eager assault to give chase. Ragnar himself sat on a rock, looking over the bloody field he’d helped create, he felt sick but he knew that this was what he had to do, this was the path of a Branded man that he choose to walk, this was his destiny and his right, blood, battle and glory until the end of days. but was this really what he wanted, he wished to build something, though perhaps destruction is the first step to creation. Ragnar sat on his stone and thought deeply while his karls collected themselves, preparing to continue their march.

I had previously considered the pervasive Mist throughout Luisant to be a threat or at best a neutral entity. It provided some degree of protection against those who would threaten us, but at a great cost. Those who wandered off the path in the Mist, lost so much. Their Memories, time with their loved ones, and even in some instances their lives. I had some hopes that with time and effort, it might be possible to remove or at least somewhat lessen the effects of the Mist. I can lay much blame for my troubles on the Mist, and I have always feared it would take the rest of my family to me.

After the events of this last Market, I need to reverse my opinion. As much as it pains me to say, the Mist must be preserved. While it has taken much, it has at least returned Pascal to me, and that matters. Of greater concern is the fact that the Mist seems to be protecting us from grave dangers. If what we learned from Saint Arbor is true, the Mist is part of the prison holding the Feasting King. If it was to weaken it is entirely possible that his influence could spread throughout the town. Naturally this cannot be allowed.

Beyond the issues with the Feasting King, which I honestly cannot believe I just wrote. The Feasting King is at least the most direct problem we are facing. The Mist might be preserving us from an even greater problem, which is the Church of Benalus as a whole. I cannot deny the truth that Saint Arbor told us about the original nature of Heresy. And this is a truth that I have no intention of trying to hide. In the eyes of the majority of Faithful, spreading that truth might just make us Heretics ourselves. I am worried that if other Benalians were to learn of this, that the Church might attempt to purge our home. I wonder if inquisitors would view us as no different than the Vecatrans.

I can only conclude that while it brings difficulties, the Mist must be preserved. Of course protecting the mist brings with it a plethora of questions. If it was in fact created through the combined efforts of Benalians and Vecatrans, do we need to work with Vectrans to have any impact? Will the Spider Wedding strengthen the Mist? What other actions will either strengthen or weaken it? And those are just the critical questions, there are in fact many others. And I have answers to none of them. Every question I get an answer too, just leads me to more questions.

There are many large things to regret in life – enabling my mother’s obsession, not seeking help for my father’s alcoholism, trying to forget my problems while the fire claimed them both will be with me my whole life. But those are the easy things to regret – the things that anyone can regret. It’s the small regrets that fester, the things that are hard to put to words, the things that others will never fully relate to.

Running back home that night – falling into the mists: I regret not having paper, ink, and quill on me.

I think it was the fourth night in the mists – trying to fall asleep in the cold dark forest. I thought it first a dream – an amalgam of gears and springs slowly coalescing, until I woke up – a sudden bolt of inspiration going through my brain like lightning. Instinct had me scrabbling for my journal, but alas, no such luck. I set about trying to draw it in the dirt, scratching it into bark, making a model of it. I found that I eventually had memorized the device fully, down to the last excruciating detail, and satisfied, I moved on.

The next such bolt came maybe two days later, this time for a completely different device. Then another the day after, two the day after that. It wasn’t long before these bouts of inspiration were coming near each bell. Never before was I so single-mindedly obsessed with the mechanical – coming up with systems that could keep time to the second – that could ambulate of their own will – that could transport more people than in Luisant – of nature both benign and malignant.

Each inspiration had a price though – it wasn’t long before I realized I was forgetting things about Luisant – first it was small things like the menu at the tavern or the paths through the forest. Soon it evolved into forgetting bigger things – people’s names, the layout of my own house – by the time I had enough schematics memorized to fill ten tomes, I couldn’t recall the faces of my parents.

And yet the torrent of inspiration continued – I tried to record it as much as possible – I’d imagine that half of the mists is covered with trees showing gearing ratios, of engraving patterns drawn in the dirt, of moldering models depicting frameworks and enclosures. I never felt like I needed it though – my memory was good enough.

Or at least – so I thought. I heard stories growing up that people who spend too long in the mists forget names, places, and experiences, but what I did not know was that the inverse was also true – that your memories of the mist will also begin to fade, that you will recall broad strokes, but never specifics.

As soon as my foot left the mists I could feel the ideas begin to unravel – starting to forget what must have been seasons worth of these ideas. In a panic I sprinted through the snow to Luisant – trying to remember where I could find ink and paper. By the time I recalled the path to my house, I had completely forgotten most details – the gearing ratios, alloy choices, dimensions, and other minutia were gone. By the time I was rounding the final bend I had forgotten most of the major concepts. By the time I made it to the burnt out remains of the building that was once my home I had forgotten everything, leaving me hollow.,

I’ve been digging through the snow and ash covered remains of my home for who cares how long. I’ve managed to find a few remnants – some of my father’s wine stash, some of my mothers tools, the only thing of mine I could find was my calipers. I traded the wine for some paper and ink, but it was far too late. I know I should be mourning the loss of my home – of my parents, but I can’t focus on those things – instead I mourn the loss of the inspiration.

I’m still deciding if I should stay in Luisant or not – maybe the Veneaux have the right of it – going back to the mists to reclaim the inspiration is just as alluring as seeking the truth. I’m not sure what Luisant has for me anymore, I haven’t recognized anyone yet, I have nowhere to live, and I’m not sure if I can contribute in any meaningful way. I’ll see what I can get at the market day tomorrow, maybe I can find some more supplies and advice for wandering the mists, maybe I can find a reason to stay here.

“If you keep digging like that, you’re going to ruin my good hatchet, fils.”

The quiet voice on the wind disturbed his prayers, scattering thoughts like cattails in the hand of a curious child. He swallowed hard, eyes locked on the bloody tangle of roots and soil before him, before restarting his entreaty to Willow for her peaceful guidance through the Thorns for Simon.

‘Grand-mère, veuillez guider cette pauvre créature vers son repos. Il a parcouru nos chemins et a accepté votre bénédiction. Menez-le à travers les Épines sans blessures, qu’il puisse retourner sans ombre dans le cycle du monde.’

The moon shone brightly all around, the specks of heart’s-blood on his hands glowing softly in contrast to the white criss-cross of scars on his flesh. The words tumbled from his lips were paired with puffs of steam, the night air cutting into lungs with every breath. It wasn’t enough to block out the gentle touch of a hand on his shoulder, her words in his ears.

“You did as you were told, beb. You listened to your Mère, and got what dat poor boy needed. Don’ you waste tears dat it wasn’t what you wanted.”

Prayer complete, he rose to his feet, shrugging off the (imagined?) hand on his shoulder, and reaching for a cloth to clean both flesh and steel. “Why do you always have to talk now, hahn? Why not when I actually need your advice?” His words were harsh, darkened with traces of grief and pain. “I know dis was the best outcome, short of him being free to join the Circle, but since when are we dat lucky, no? Was it when de Kruzemore showed up, carried on paths of tiny legs? Or was it when our *lord* was taken and replaced by his useless son, arrogant as any youth? No, MawMaw, we not dat lucky anymore, an’ it looking to be gettin’ worse.”

Task complete, he placed the hatchet back on his belt before turning to stare at the moon, high in the night sky but seemingly close enough to touch, perfectly outlined by the tips of the trees of the grove. “All dose stories o’ yours, of Arbor and his adventures? How he protected the forest and guided the woodcutters to the best groves and taught the secrets of the undergrowth? His mighty staff ensuring good footing through de worst o’ de bayou?”

He spat on the ground, flecks of blood amidst the saliva. “Lies. All o’ dem.” He turned to face the willow tree, its branches softly tossing in the night’s breeze. “He’s a spirits-damned Lion, and now I don’ know *what* to believe.” A small tear formed at the edge of one eye, before being ruthlessly scrubbed away by a scarred back of one hand. “But I’m a good boy, an’ I know my duty. The Hungry One is wakin’, and we need the Pact to be strong. I’ll do my part, but know this: I will never forget. We’ll grow, and move on, but dis only goes to prove you right, your favorite saying an’ all.”

“When dealin’ wit de People an’ de Court, know dis: you always get what you need, but rarely what you want. Live well, work hard, and only lean on gifts when all else fails. Everything has a cost, an’ you might not be the one to pay, cher.”

“No, really, it’s fine. I will take her. I’m a wizard, this is paper writing material,” Solfyre gestured for Hakon to give her back the malefic baby that was latched onto his shoulder.

“Are you sure?”

“Yep,” Solfyre shrugged and again gestured for the baby. Hakon gave her over and immediately the little desiccated corpse of a child bit into her flesh. Clenching her teeth and letting a spell wash over her, she bid them a goodnight and left with the little creature.

Once in her own space Solfyre looked down at the creature and sighed. She had, like Hakon, promised the malefic baby’s mother, a ghost forced to wander on repeat and make the decision to sacrifice her child endlessly, that she would care for the creature. She promised, too, that the ghost had made a hard decision and the sacrifice wasn’t in vain, though she didn’t believe that for a moment.

“You didn’t deserve this, little one. Truly the old gods are evil if your innocence is the only thing that may sate their appetite,” Solfyre said as she climbed into bed with the horrifying thing. She could not bring herself to be disgusted and fearful of the thing, whom she had playfully named ‘Wulfrica’ since so many believed she was betrothed to Wulfric and it seemed a fitting name at the time of the child’s discovery. She had to make light of such a gruesome story, didn’t she? Sometimes a little light is all one has left and she certainly understood that to her core.

Pulling the covers around herself and the coo’ing malefic baby, Solfyre held her close and told her a story.

“I was also abandoned. My mother, god rest her misguided soul, was a runespeaker. Her 18th birthday she rolled the runes of fate and learned that her children would cause her death. Fearing this, she vowed never to have children—but supposedly fell in love, though no one knows who to. She birthed not one, but two children, my twin and I. I was born just after dawn and my sister was born before me around midnight. That’s what my mother told us, anyways, when we finally met her after 20 years apart. After she had us, she was hysterical and truly feared we would be the end of her, but she could not bring herself to kill us. Fearing backlash from the community or perhaps that our father would try and change her mind, she left in the night, but not before branding both my sister and I so that she would be able to see us coming if we ever returned to her,” Solfyre sighed, “she gave us no names, only hot iron that seared our flesh then she dropped us very far from one another. I was picked up by a lovely couple who took me in and loved me as their own. I love them dearly. My sister went to an orphanage but fate had other plans for her and she rose from her station.”

Solfyre smiles a little, “I’m sorry that no one found and saved you, but I am hopeful that I can be the answer to that. I will not sacrifice you to a dark god nor will I leave your side tonight. How about we give you a more appropriate name? One that isn’t a joke, yes?”

“Hmmm…. Adalgild, how about that? ‘Noble sacrifice’. You can’t very well be Quirinsdöttir so how about Solfyresdöttir? Adagild Solfyresdöttir. Ada for short. How is that? It’ll be my secret gift to you. A true name. It was my adoptive parent’s greatest gift to me,” She speaks and the child seems to respond with some sort of babble. Whether it is affirmation of choice or just babbles, Solfyre nods along anyways.

The night passes and Solfyre falls asleep in the early hours of the morning. Just as dawn breaks over the horizon, signaling the end of the longest night in Njordr, she is awakened as Adagild lets out a giggle and touches her face. Solfyre recognizes the gesture instantly and touches her forehead to the baby’s as she slowly fades away in the morning light. “Goodbye,” Solfyre whispers and suddenly the weight of the creature is completely gone. She sighs heavily, staying quiet in bed for a while recounting the events of the night, rolls out of bed with hardened resolve to continue forward, and begins her day.

Theo turns on his ward Sherry as the rain begins to fall around their firepit. His finger wags at her as his voice rises in anger,

“Yes, Sherry, they do have shiny fucking armor, new pretty dresses, people to ferry them around, and personal chefs but don’t think that the nobles care who we are or what we want. The fact that the town is willing to feed us isn’t about the nobles, that’s about other people doing that work, collecting those things. They don’t organize or contribute to it. You owe them less than nothing. You owe them so little that whenever they want something you should think, ‘How are they trying to fuck me over?’

Nobles serve no purpose in the world other than to maintain their power over others, pass that power on to their children, grow their wealth by using that power, and ensure they are remembered. That is what noble blood means; to be a line of slavers and predators whom have done that for generations.

They are ultimately people, and do not have to be self serving, power hungry fools, but it turns out if you give a man power he will use it. She will find ways to maintain and grow it. They will do whatever they can to secure it for their future so that they are never at risk.

Henri and Abella stole food to ensure their power would not be threatened while their son watched. They demanded taxes that they knew the population could not fulfill. They paid someone to have the local priest murdered when he tried to stop their abuses. They failed to teach their son anything about how to look after the city. Ambrose refuses to speak to me, or anyone else he considers below him. Jean Luc is happy to send others off toward danger in his stead, but never risks himself. Thora actively plots and connives to achieve her ends, killed Nadja’s husband, and is willing to do whatever the spiders require of her. Zakar is a torturer who fails in his duty often and has made secret deals with the spiders. Nadja can barely tolerate our backward ways and is devoted to achieving greater power for herself.

The issue isn’t just about them individually though, but also about why the town fucking puts them on a pedestal so that they don’t have to take responsibility for their own actions. They literally give them whatever they ask for, whether they truly need it or not. Clean their own messes? Trap their own fucking food? Walk across town instead of having Tellis give them a carriage ride in the rain?

Sure, Ambrose and Nadja are living as peasants now, but what does that even fucking mean? Half the town still seems to want to suck them off at every opportunity because it turns out they know that ‘peasant for a year’ is the same thing as ‘noble in a year’. And even if somehow they learned something resembling responsibility, humility, or whatever words Cole would use to say they fucking get it, that doesn’t change that they don’t deserve to be given free reign to make us slaves all fucking over again. Respecting someone as a person doesn’t give them permission to think they have control over you and yours.

Our ancestors survived that shit and we will never go back. With the town council, maybe that’s almost possible. You know, if they aren’t just puppets too.”

Severin picked up the empty bowls and stacked them. The bits from the snack board were all but finished, and he had made sure none of it had gone to waste by finishing off what was left. Bowls went into bowls. Utensils went into the top bowl. Boards went on top of boards, and on the top board went the bowls and whatever mugs were left around. The next step was to sneak everything into the kitchen and leave it by the sink before anybody starts asking for somebody to wash dishes.

There was too much to do and he couldn’t think while washing dishes. There had been the Nowhere King which has killed the Lord and Lady. Then the Red Stag from the forest. Now they seem to be the same, and from what the church people say, possibly a child of Benalius and Vecatra?!!?!

Vecatra! Thank Benalius we don’t have Vecatrans running around causing troubles in Luisant.

Worse was the sudden bouts of horribleness that had happened. First, there had been cannibals in the woods. Then one man had said he had been told to eat the flesh of a supposedly malific person and that would cure him of the plague this convocation. This was all strangely similar to the Beastwise ceremony, which had missed out on because they had left early and without him. There they had gone to feed the bear, and found the bear already dead by having eaten himself to death. Then, those that had gone found themselves hungry and ate the bear. Perhaps best that he had missed out on his first official Beastwise ceremony. Maybe he’ll miss the next one too, just till he’s sure he’s go the hang of this Folkwise thing, as it doesn’t seem like these sort of things should be happening. Still, it’s all gluttony, which goes back to the old Witch King of Capacionne, who had servants in this area as well as a mouth, which might also be the Nowhere King.

Plague is bad enough. Thank Benalius that Sophie had been able to help cure his family. He had already turned over all his herbs to Alphonse, who had helped cure his family last market. He surely could have done so again, but Sophie had done so, so he told Alphonse he could use the herbs to help other people. Still, plague was bad enough but people eating other people, or associated possibly spirit bears, is even worse. Luckily, they had enough food to feed everybody, even the refugees. But, what if the bounty fails? What happens then?

Wait?! Where did the refugees come from?

He should have asked more questions previously in the tavern. There was a puzzle here. There were, possibly, cursed items being assembled into a suit of armor nobody wants. Other families sneaking off to do things in family crypts. No overt attempt to communicate any of this to the community as a whole.

If I don’t know, then most people must not know. I’ll have to try and assemble all that information. It’s not a Jovienne thing to do, but my mother always did say I showed signs of her LeBlanc ancestors in me when it came to protecting the community. There is something going on here, and it is not good. Not good at all. No siree.

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.