Category: Journal Entry

Svart is in the wilderness now. Searching.

Svart likes the wilderness. Svart always thinking clearer in the wilderness than in the town. The wilderness is his friend. It seems like home. Although home is Runehiem where I grew up. Svart doesn’t know about the state of Runeheim. Many things are troubling. More and more Gothics keep coming to colonize Runeheim. That there is a brothel is an example. Runeheim never had a brothel. I don’t see why we need one now. It used to be that whores could make enough money to have a house and a life where they could raise a child, like my mother did. Now they are put into a single building and expected to work like soldiers while the profits of their labors are taken from them. Svart would bet that all the women in the brothel are Dunns. Gothics seem to like to make Dunns do all their slave work.

Now that Svart had met allies in the wilderness. They have confirmed what Svart knew, and made me realize that besides Shanahan, the Witch Queen also has taken Miss V captive. She was making boots for Svart when she disappeared. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Luckily, Svart has found the Witch-Queen’s new spy in Runeheim. They revealed themselves too quickly with their hatred of Svart. Witch-Queen thinks Svart is not knowing of them, but I am ahead of her. Svart has uncovered the deep occult of mages. Through hints and cunning, Svart has determined their secret. That once their souls have been eaten by their magic as Wolf-Rik has revealed, then they stop being people, and they become witches. I could reveal this to the priests and get their help against the mages, but that would mean giving up on those who might be saved. Svart just needs to save them before the magic eats their soul and just leaves a predatory wyrd intellect in their shell of a body like the other mages in Runeheim. They cannot trick Svart.

Knut was brave this market. He killed a kuarlite all by himself. The others ran away but Knut stayed and fought. He did get hurt really bad though. Svart should have gone with him. Svart could have protected him.

The winter celebration was a success. The log was burned and was not put out by the ghosts. The ice ghost showed up. Svart led the charge to protect the Yule log. My new armor took many hits from the ice ghosts and deflected them all. Svart made good armor, and many were killed with Svart’s sword. I jumped in singing the community songs and forcing the ghosts back till they finally retreated.

Searching. Must search the wilderness. Find things just like I find something every day and take back. Because Svart is hard working and dependable. Always get up early and bring back something every day. Long gone are the days where Svart would not find anything and come home with nothing and mother would beat him for not being hard working and dependable. Svart was a child then. Svart is a man now. A grown Njord Man. A great and strong fighter now. Svart always finds things to bring home.

Svart is in the woods now. There is a thing to find. Svart will find the thing.

Warfare is about resolve, deception, and a willingness to do whatever your enemy doesn’t think you’re willing to do. It wasn’t complicated. Certainly, some formations were tricky. Some of the histories were tricky. But when one considered it at its root, it was all about control. In war you needed to control information. You needed to control terrain. You needed to control timing. You needed to control your troops. You needed to control the enemies troops. A whirlwind of things that needed to be controlled all crystalized into a single experience, manifesting itself at the tip of a spear.

And, at the end of the day, control every possible variable, and you still needed a monumental amount of luck.

“Intel checks out, sir,” Troels said, looking over the same documents that Sven had been pouring over for the better part of an hour. “What’s the plan?”

Sven was looming over two maps, one fine sewn leather, another ink blotted and occupying paper that had once held a letter of some sort. The knight was silent for a moment.

“If Sister Solace is willing, we have a chance,” the knight mused. “This village the Stormhammers are looking to raid is a problem. They will be able to freely attack Runeheim from that position. Bolstered by fresh Thralls, and the advantage their cavalry will have on the plains of Greywater…”

The knight closed his eyes, envisioning the slaughter that would come with the spring thaw. No. That must be avoided at all cost. The Citizens were vulnerable, and that would not be allowed to stand.

“But, it is well outside their surveillance range. They know we are too far away to easily defend it, not with half our force being Gothic,” the knight mused. “They will expect an easy push of it. In fact…”

He sketched a line from the mountain fort they had taken last Forum to the wooded village in question.

“They can move here and be largely unseen by our forces at all,” he said, finally. “If Gottfried hadn’t seen scouts here, and Siggy not collected the reports… I think its safe to say, this would have taken us entirely by surprise. I would have taken our force South to the Fort and found it empty. The only word we would have had of their movement would have been the fires of Runeheim as it burned to the ground the first weeks of Spring.”

Troels nods.

“With the snows, we still cannot get to the village,” his commander commented.

“We can get close enough,” he said. “If my niece is willing to bless our troops, I think their flesh won’t faulter before we secure it.”

The grizzled old commander looked up confused.

“Why wouldn’t she bless us?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

“I threatened to kill her,” the knight said without looking up from the map. Troel’s eyes grew to the size of small saucers. If rumors were to be believed, Sven was overly fond of his niece. Doting, one might say. But, he’d served the knight for close to two decades and had never known him to make a casual threat. If whatever had been their argument was enough to warrant a threat to Solace, further inquiry might just be enough to earn him an early death. Wisely, he lets the matter drop.

“Your orders?” he asks instead. The knight looks at the smaller map.

“Break camp and mobilize. We’ll march through the fields here and land in the woods along this vector,” he says, drawing a line on the large map, then marking the smaller. “Station our dragoons here. Our archers here. Flamberges and Armsmen here. We can use the terrain as cover. Last count of the Stormhammers had ten or eleven units of Karls. They’ll have some Thralls from their taking of the Saenger fort. Let us assume twelve units in their force. Their previous disposition was a very long, single line.”

The knight begins to set up small mock-ups of the units in the battle.

“If we’re lucky, we can obliterate their center before they even know they’re in a battle. A long single line marching through the woods this way is very vulnerable to attack,” he concluded. “Let us make all due haste. We’ve no time to waste if we’re to get these Southerners to the woods through this ice and snow.”

******************************************************

The battle had been glorious. He called it a battle because two armies had fought together, so it was technically correct. However, anyone that had witnessed it wouldn’t have used that word.

It had been coming on to evening with the Stormhammers had surrounded the village. It had been their hope to move their forces orderly onto the village, enslave all the peoples there, and then set up a camp for some carousing. With the fading light, they never saw the flamberges, the most well equipped, seasoned of the vanguard forces carve into their lines. There had been no trumpets. No war cries to signify that battle had been joined, Just quiet soldiers moving about their bloody business. Hundreds had been slain before Guthar had even had a chance to react.

By the time Guthar had drawn up his cavalry for a retaliatory attack, the green dragoons of the Krigare force had been mid unruly assault, drunk on the rush of battle, unlike their seasoned linemen. But it had been effective. The light dragoons and archers, even hampered by the winter and wood were brutal in their efficacy against the slower, heavily armored troops they fought. The Stormhammers counter attack hadn’t even pierced the heavily armored lines of Sven’s forces; their cavalry not even having a chance to encircle their enemy. Guthar’s forces had been reenforced with archers, and had been three hundred larger than expected. But it had amounted to very little difference.

The battle was over in a few hours. Then the slaughter began.

Traditionally, when an army was routed, it was given some latitude to regroup. Wounded were collected. Missing comrades were given fall back points. Standing orders for where to go and who to answer to were standard faire. But not when the Fenris were involved.

Part of the fearsome reputation of the Imperials came from their unwillingness to allow these polite niceties. Their doctrine was more… brutal. Those who felt were run down like dogs.

********************************************

Sven clamored off his massive warhorse, well adapted to the cold and large enough to draw a wagon on its own, the beast was nearly as fearsome as the man. His muscles were fatigued and blood marked his face, along with the rest of him. He’d spent hours with his men riding down the retreating Stormhammers.

Battles in the ice were beautiful. The crimson gouts of blood steaming in the air, splashing against trampled or pristine snow, melting towards the earth until the heat of life faded and the crystals reformed. The snow started white. Then splashed with red. By the end it resembled black mud, such was the slaughter. The canopy of the wood was thick with crows and ravens in the fading light and growing dark, hungry for the feast below them. A handful of survivors had been pulled to a small cordoned area. The fifteen hundred men and women of the Stormhammers had been reduced to a few dozen. Their eyes were blank and glassy. That distant look that Sven understood so well. His own men had stared at the ground with that look as they’d marched away from their bout with the Hollow Song. When his enemies wore that look, it was much more pleasing to him.

“Is this all of them?” he asked, settling his cloak about his shoulders after getting jostled about on the saddle. The officer standing watch over them put fist to breast before executing a sharp salute.

“Yessir,” he said in a clipped, professional tone. “The Devourer himself made it away, though. We counted less than ten with him.”

Sven nodded and approached the line of loosely bunched Karls. He looped his thumbs into his sword belt and glowered down at them. He would have taken a knee, but he was sore from the saddle and his armor granted little latitude with moving.

“Stormhammers,” he said in a booming voice designed to carry. “We have come to an unfortunate crossroads. The Branded whom you have elected to follow was arrogant and foolhardy. I believe he boasted that he would raise a flag over our fort. And then did no end of crowing that he did that very thing.”

The knight bends slightly for dramatic effect.

“He raised many Karls to come fight for him, using that victory as a springboard for his recruitment. Some of you, perhaps. Now all dead,” Sven said. “I am Sven álfrblóð. For all of the Devourer’s faults, he is a man of singular purpose. That purpose can be of use to me. Because of that, one of you will be given clemency to carry a message to him. Are there any volunteers?”

One of the glassy eyed men, a fellow with a beard and long golden locks struggled to his feet. Sven thought he might have recognized the figure, perhaps he was one of the Stormhammers who had interrupted the warfare planning meeting.

“Imperial dog,” he said in a shaky voice that grew in confidence as he continued to speak. “None of us will serve you.”

The knight nodded slowly.

“I wasn’t looking for a servant, just a messenger. Does this… fool speak for the rest of you?” he asked. A younger man, scarcely more than a boy, looked up through his blood spattered and snowflake marked hair.

“No sir,” he said. “Please let me go and I will deliver your message.”

The knight smiled as genuine and kind a smile as his armored, blood smeared visage could muster.

“Excellent. What is your name?” he asked.

“Leif, sir,” he said shakily.

“Leif. What a charming young man you are. Step over here to the edge,” he said. “The message is simple. The álfrblóð has defeated his force, slaughtered his men, and knows precisely where the Devourer has fled to. I only don’t chase him now as a kindness. I wish to offer him the same deal that I have offered to all of the Branded that I have bested in warfare: he needn’t die with his men. He can work for me, and I will show him mercy. Tell him that if he is willing to be baptized and offer me his oath, he can live. I will even grant him glory against the Ironbloods and Doghearts. This needn’t be where his saga ends.”

The knight waited a moment to see if the youth understood. Then he reaches out and placed a mailed hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“Look at me, son,” he said softly, waiting until the boy looked up, eyes betraying tears wishing to well up. “Can you remember all of that, Leif?”

The boy nodded twice before his head drooped towards the ground again. Sometimes watching the iron melt out of a man was exhilarating. It had a fragrance to it, like arousal on the wind. It stirred something within the iron clad figure. Were there time to experience this youth in a different way, it wouldn’t take much to make him appealing.

The knight smiles.

“Good lad. Stand here on the edge, away from your fellows,” then he gestures to Troels from the side. “Commander, this is Leif. He is to be given fresh travel clothes, a warm cloak, and enough trail provisions for three days. He is to be taken to the edge of our encampment, told where Guthar the Devourer has fled, and allowed to leave to deliver my message, escorted of course. Once the message is delivered, he will be free to go about his business.”

Troels nodded, “Of course, sire. And the others?”

Sven smiled, never looking away from Leif, refusing to release the boy’s gaze, even as his head drooped and hair began to obscure his eyes.

“Crucify them. Start with the large one that has called me an Imperial dog twice now. See that Leif watches. I want the full gravity of the message intact when it is delivered,” he said, his tone soft, nearly gentle. A giant about to step on something insignificant in a way that would crush it utterly, forever.

“Goodbye Leif,” the knight says, giving the youth’s shoulder another squeeze before releasing it. “Should I see your pretty visage again, I shan’t be so gentle with you a second time.”

The black cloak swirls around the figure as he turns to walk off into the darkness, sparking a chorus of warnings from the crows at his passage.

*The following is scrawled in Vernon’s Journal*

What am I doing? People are depending on me. Not just my siblings, the people of this town. I made them a promise in front of God and Lurian of not doing harm, and I broke that. How can they in reasonably put their faith in me. I asked for their forgiveness and all I was given was a continuation of what I was doing. That’s not enough, obviously, because that didn’t keep me from doing it in the first place. These new priests that have come to town, thank God, already feel more like priests than I do. They’ve been devoted for so long when I’ve just come into the faith a bit over 2 years ago. Even the gatherers feel more useful than what I do. Why do I even try? What am I even trying to do anymore? Why am I leading things on such a spiritual level? I came to help this town to ensure I and my siblings had a safe place away from my parents, not…this. I thought I’d be helping, not leading. I think I’m the one that needs help. Even among all these people, this town of my choosing and its inhabitants, I feel so alone. I need to be strong, to be wise, to be…good, but I’m only human. I want for appreciation, for the comforts of the world, for acceptance. Why don’t I feel that? What’s missing? How do I even figure any of this out? I have no one to guide me, to lean on in the way that I need. How many people need to die for the answer I’m looking for? How many times do I need to mess up before it’s enough?

I guess the only way to find out is to move forward, but that feels so much like defeat already. Like I’m a fool going into a situation I know is going to end badly. At least I think I know. Maybe I don’t know. Maybe there’s some hope in that. God I don’t know anymore.

…I miss my parents

*tears stain the paper this is written on*

Autumn 608 –

For awhile now I’ve been struggling on accepting the death of my parents – when all that’s left is ashes where a home once stood – when there is no grave, urn, or memorial to them – when our neighbors and friends don’t know if they got out or not – it’s almost impossible to know for certain if they are dead. I was almost ready to accept that they were gone this market – I even prepared an offering for each of them this L’adieu – Now I know that this would have been… premature.

My mother’s message came first – as I mentally prepared myself to say goodbye, Valentin and Isabel asked if I cared to explore a family monastery. In the old days, monasteries meant books, and a Merveille monastery could have some very interesting ones at that so I agreed, after all, what’s the worst that could happen? An hour later and I’m up to my neck in stagnant swamp water, smelling like the bottom of my dad’s worst whisky bottles, I still can’t totally get it out of my dress, apron, and backpack. It’s dark, it’s cold, and ahead of me Sophie holds the only lantern, her voice echoing across the flooded halls as she reads out the scribblings of some deranged man. Behind me a stone collapses onto Corbin, and it’s all Gérard and I can do to free him. Alligators keep sneaking up on us, and Alphonse’s erratic breathing through his… gills I guess puts us all on edge. Finally Isabel manages to get her pump working in a good spot and we can all breathe a sigh of relief as the water levels drop and we can take stock of what we found – while the armor and its gauntlet fascinated me, what caught my attention was the mechanical eye – unerringly its gaze followed mine as I moved it about, artificial viscera still trailing behind it. It was here that I knew my mother must still be with me somehow, guiding me here to this place to find the technology that proves her theory – that perfect prosthetics do exist – that people like my father can be fixed.

My father’s message came later that night – when Aspen answered my call. Given our last encounter, I had no idea on what I might be stepping into, only that I needed more information on what it meant to be a champion, why I was tolerated given my nature of encouraging my circle to adopt new innovations, and why they slumbered for the past six decades. He told me of the duty I must play in the circle to be champion, she answered my questions of her origins, and most surprisingly they seemed to actively support my quest to bring innovations to the Vecatrans – so long as they benefitted not only the community but our circle in particular. In that moment I could feel my father’s single hand sitting on my shoulder, pushing me forward into greater unknowns while supporting me all the while.

I know that they must be alive – somehow, somewhere. My body, mind, and soul know this. When our circle returned from the thicket, we faltered on the bridge – images of sorrow and terror woven into each of my fellows faces. They had seen their beloved departed impaled on the thorns of the briar but I – I saw nothing but the light of the town and the dark of the forest – My mother and my father.

Victor is dead. Executed by the city for selling the Stone Antlers into slavery. Although it seems he was just trying to save their lives before the city went and killed them all since they didn’t want to feed them or risk plague. I’ve heard guards say as much.

He obviously didn’t pay off the right people though. He should have found whoever the Rogalians are paying off. After all, as the Dunns all tell me, despite what they say, the Gothic Empire allows slavery. So, somebody is obviously getting their cut and angry with Victor for him not giving it to them.

That means almost all of my friends are dead or gone. Rolf, killed by an evil priest with dark rituals. Helgi died in the forest fighting the witch and her bandits to protect me. Shanahan hasn’t been around for some time now that I think about it. The longest friend Svart has that is still alive is Cnight Cnut. Perhaps the forces that are working against me by killing my friend will target him next. I will have to make sure he is protected.

He did after all invite Svart to his feast and give me the seat of honor at it. He knows Svart is hardworking and dependable and pulls the slack of the Gothics that have come and eat all our food. That and he and Svart fought together against the undead earlier in the market.

Svart will fight even better once he finishes his armor. Then I can also make armor for all of Cnut’s other warriors for which will get lots of money to add to my treasure.

However, the thing that worries Svart now is the threat of alien trade organizations. The Hestrali are seeking to come in and take all the trade away from Nord crafters and merchants. Svart needs to do something. Svart could become a nord trade organization. He has already talked to the Snow Lions and the merchants that were at court. He could buy and sell items within the Nord lands and outside, and keep the Hestrali out.

The first night of Market was revealing to Severin. He had been hearing lots of people talk about Vecatrans lately. Eventually, it was all too clear that many of those in the village of Luisant were actually Vecatrans. This had also happened after much talking about how a good Benalian should deal with such also. Perhaps now, the secret is out, and perhaps more knew much more than he did as people now openly talked about pagan ceremonies and discussion with crones and spider spirits in graveyards.

The next thing that was unsurprising to Severin that others obviously had known was that the beavers and the Naiads were fighting each other over an artifact that somebody in the village has. Seemed to him like it might be of a major importance to the village, but everybody treated such news as if they not only known it before, but that it had no bearing on the community. At this point, if nobody else was getting worked up about it, it was to the point that Severin was beginning to think everybody must know and he was the last to find out.

The new morning at least brought some semblance of normalcy to his life. Meeting up with Etienne to go look for resources and make the survey map of where they were for the community. It was fairly normal, at least until Valentine fell down a hole. It went down into the darkness and without a rope, there was nothing that could be done. Etienne would have his map and then we could rescue Valentine.

This was all well and good until the map was completed and people split up and Severin found himself fallen down a hole in the woods while getting some mining done. Luckily, Milo was there to use his magic to slam Severin up against a wall as he fell. The other option was to fall into an orifice embedded into fleshy tunnels which was filled with a pile of ‘deep meat’. Being slammed against the far wall was by far the better option. Then he met Valentine, Cadence, and Milo who were already wandering around in the tunnels.

The tunnels were a maze of confusions and obstacles. They were not all fleshy tunnels like the ones ventured into during the previous market. Some were indeed stonelike in structure. They were all fairly linear and featureless except for occasional symbols carved into the walls which made it difficult for Valentine to map. To add to things, there were pits of acid, supposedly from the digestive features of the fleshy tunnels, and half human rats, supposedly either humans, rats, or the descendents of both, that had entered the tunnels by some means and subsisted upon the ‘deep meat’. These rats were not only fighting with sword and shield, but also had their own wizards that attempted to make people change sides through mind control as well as cast spells. The rat wizards also exploded into caustic pools of gore once killed.

Eventually, another group fell into the tunnels consisting of a large party of people. Banding together, the exploration of the tunnels continued and the symbols started to make sense. Members of the new group seemed to be able to draw upon other sources for information. Eventually, after many attacks by rats, the group exited the tunnels at the shrine that had been created last market by the malefic knight after the assault on Chiroproctor.

Once back in the village, things seemed to settle down a bit. Severin’s son, Yves, showed up with the family dog, Bijou, saying the dog was hungry and needed to be fed, when, in reality, it was the son that was hungry and needed to be fed. Severin had just broken out the meat and cheese when court decided to start up around them. There was a disturbance between Cruxmore soldiers acting as guards and the orders of Lady Delphine. Mostly because they were being carried out by Theo, who the guards attacked, most likely on orders of their imprisoned old commander. They also happened to attack Henri which was generally seen as a bad idea by everybody else in the village. In the end, the guards were commanded to leave the valley and go back to their own lands.

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful. At least it was unconcerning. There were various folkwise festivals, including the beastwise festival. They went with little complications that Severin saw other than nobody being on his side of the Beastwise game of capture the flag was in any condition to run. In the end, it all came down to the other side being able to dodge better. Dinner wound down with various groups talking about what they were going to do that night. One being a journey into the “thicket” to rescue a spirit that had apparently helped the village on the assault on the tunnels the previous market. Severin however was not a part to any of that and a quick nap turned into a night’s rest.

Almost anyway. He did wake up sometime later just in time to run into the village getting worked up to go assault the tunnels he had been trapped in earlier that day. There was a lot of people discussing the objective in groups and building up hype. They came to him as well as others and discussed if we were a community, if we would rather work together than fight, and how we should band against the rats and this wizards in this effort. Severin, having seen the rat wizards joined in the cry that rang through the village, “Fuck the Rat Wizards!”

WIth that oath on their lips, the village headed back to the tunnels together. They ventured down into them past where they were before earlier in the day. They sought out the meat tunnels and the rats for a grand melee. Then everything went to hell.

Chaos reigned. The group was attacked in both the front and the back. A magic wall sprung up in the middle of the groups separating them and preventing them from aiding each other. Rats came through the walls and attacked people who were expecting to be defended by those in the front or back of the group as a whole. Those fighters in the front and back were being tested by much stronger rat fighters and wizards than had been faced earlier. One came through a hole in the wall almost too small to see, stood taller than Severin at his tip toes, and struck him down before he could even begin to move his blade.

When he came back around, he was being bandaged and the battles was still going on. He was in the front group and many had gone forward, into a large acid pool by leaping from the islands of uneven flesh that made up the tunnel walls, floor, and ceiling which that rose above the acid. Shouts of a pregnant rat queen came back down the line along with accounts of rat wizards attempting to turn people of Luisant back on their own. With a cry of “Fuck rat wizards!” Severin rose and pushed forward. At times he had to jump onto the islands in the acid just to give those behind him room to fight the creatures that came through the walls. Then to jump back to give the warriors ahead of him more room to maneuver. In all of that, he had a hard landing and his sword slipped from his grasp and fell into the acid beyond his reach. Then another rat came through the wall and wall, sent him flying against the tunnel wall. Severin hit the wall hard and fell to the ground. The rat continued on to threaten others, not even bothering to notice if he was still alive.

Severin felt as if he had failed. His martial skills were pitiful. Without his bow which he did not have time to fetch nor the arrows to use, he seemed more of a hindrance to the group as a whole than an aid. He just laid there telling himself he was no good unless he can gain more martial skills. Eventually somebody came to his aid, and he told them he did not need help and rose on his own. There, defensless, he sought to do nothing more than take an additional blow instead of somebody else, who would continue on the fight just a little longer.

Then with another cheer of “Fuck rat wizards!” it was announced they had killed the defeated the rats, rat queen, dropped the wall preventing the groups from rejoin, and were leaving the tunnels in victory. Severin did what he could to help carry those who could not walk out on their own, and returned to the village with a more realistic vision of his current abilities.

Five times now she’s flinched at the sound of foot steps.

Twice now she’s moved away when someone approaches.

Constantly she’s looking around.

Twice now he’s just stared into space. Looking at the woods.

I wonder if he knows how many times he’s spun that bolt.

No more private meetings. Probably a good idea. Sad as it is to say. Untill this business is done. I don’t think it can be another way.

Vernon looks like he’s lost all hope. His face is covered in worry. I think I could string a bow with the weight of sorrow his heart holds.

Something is going to happen. And he’s sick his words might damn another. It’s hard to have hope when you can’t see a path to the light.

Like broken glass the cracks are showing.

What will next forum bring? Two more deaths?

Just maimings?

I fear our souls will all bear the cracks.

Two knives. And not one thing they can do.

I wonder if this is how Vernon feels watching, not knowing what to do.

Watching souls shatter like broken glass.

Gods it was easier when I didn’t care.

Solfyre packs her things, swaddles the baby, tucks the tiny girl against her chest and under the cloak for warmth, and leaves. While it was unlike her to leave in the dead of night, she had had enough for one market. Her heart hurt, her disappointment mounted, and she was growing weary of the people at forum.

Leaving the forum proper, Solfyre trudges out into the wilderness to find comfort amongst the familiar paths and scents of the wilderness around Runeheim. Not long into her walk, she could hear the shuffle and grunts of a ghoul not far off. Glancing at it, she sighs, not in the mood to fight it off and wake the baby that was sleeping quietly beneath her cloak. Solfyre turns to meet the creatures eye’s and glares. Solfyre stills, waiting for it to catch up.

“Well, come on then. If you’re going to shamble my way, I’m going to put you to use,” she says aloud as the malefic growls hungrily. It stops rather suddenly as it is psychically assaulted and then shambles forward, staggering and falling to its knees in front of Solfyre.

Solfyre takes off one of her packs while being careful not to jostle little Calanthe too much and places a bag around the malefic. If a ghoul could look confused, she imagined this was what that looked like. The ghoul looks up and just watches her. Yet again, another psychic assault, and the creature’s disgusting, lifeless eyes glaze over with a sense of admiration, perhaps more.

“Come, come. I don’t have all night and honestly, I could use a good walk and talk—you know, before I put you down,” she grouches.

The ghoul groans and shuffles along behind her like a pack mule.

“Ugh…Tell me about it. Everyone is like ‘Solfyre, please give us influence’, ‘Solfyre please buff the towns people against the oncoming invasion’, ‘Solfyre, please, could you buy this sword for me?’ And you know what? I always say yes. Why? It’s so thankless and if something happened to me, who would shed a tear? They hardly like me if they do at all. They take what I have given, turn around and ask for more, all the while they accuse me of killing babies or being so untrustworthy and—get this—mercurial! If I were mercurial, based solely on the value of my services I have rendered to people of this town, you’d think I’d be wealthier! When the fire guild is hired, it is often at a cost. I work for free and you fucking know what?? Does this baby look dead to you?!” Solfyre turns to the ghoul and brandishes the sleeping infant. “No!”

The ghoul grunts. And looks at the baby. It starts to reach out for it and Sylfane baps it hard in the snoot while simultaneously hitting it with some magic. It recoils and so does Sylfane, shaking her hand. Like it hurt.

“No, bad ghoul, anyways, they’re just objectively rude and no matter how much I offer or sacrifice, it never feels like enough…”

The ghoul lets out a long groan.

“EXACTLY. And there is just No respect, no reciprocity, no acting in good faith. I Fed like a thousand people and the town comes knocking at my door for three copper. Three copper despite me getting the city food. The church told me it was something they really wanted but no one could pay. I could, I did, they basically forgot the word they gave to me that they would at the very least make some mention of my contribution since I wanted people to know I am on the side of the people. Nahhhh. I Paid the mages’ taxes before and, holy shit, instead of a thanks—the complained that they shouldn’t *have* to pay taxes—well, they didn’t, I did it for them. a couple weren’t even in my guild. Good faith. Ha, For fucksake. Sven said it would be nice if warfare got the fire mage units back and I felt bad for Hans for losing his men and our comrades, and so I worked for like six months to get those men back on the warfare map only for Ser Sven to do nothing but complain about me to the nobility, side eye me, huff and roll his eyes every time I speak, and tell me it’s not enough because the mages aren’t under *his* command. I’m not perfect, but I’m not worthless.”

The ghoul groans.

“I know, thank you, that’s so validating. Well, I have Hans… He reciprocates at least. But I see him only when he is around which isn’t frequent honestly. My own company threatens me, lies, and takes things away and hides them from me… very welcoming, really. Perhaps next time I get spice I shouldn’t share. Perhaps next time I have influence I shouldn’t feed the town and selfishly buy a tome or something instead. Perhaps next time a ghost merchant offers to increase my innate magic that no one anywhere can tell me about aside from the person who abandoned me, I will accept it and *not* help the town resolve him. Fuck it. What do I have to lose? Wulfric turned me down for tressertag and seems so distant, Caito left me and never returned with my heart he stole, my own mother abandoned me, I gave up my sister to Vindicta who I have been dedicated to who dismissed me with a hand wave as though I was an annoyance, my best friend left me and died—for a love mage I certainly have a terrible track record. If only I were willing to MAKE people love me… but… I don’t want that. You know? Have you experienced heartache like this when you were… you know… not…. well… ugl—I mean, dead?”

The ghoul grunts and then groans.

“Terrible, isn’t it? I have been trying to drown myself in my work. People get in the way of that too. I think I need to reach out to my mamì about coming here with papì. They could set up shop around here and at least I would have some company that I don’t feel wants me out of their presence. Have you ever worked in food business?”

The ghoul groans, grunts twice, and growls.

“Hmm, yeahhhh… [obey] tell me more about that,” Solfyre says and with that, they continue into the deep forests around Runeheim.

Hexxenacht. A time to turn your back to the door, to refuse the velvet hush of night. Yet even when warned, when argued, when pleaded they choose to walk with him. His chilling presence, like a cruel ray of moonlight, unsettled every step. His alabaster robes a draw out the long shadows weighing heavy on all our bones.

Petya watched in mute horror as he moved among those who can not see. Our heroes, our hopes, our hearts, ignorant of their hooded attendant. The fragrance of his impassive consideration hung in the air, a lullaby that clung to souls he marked for his embrace. The nightmare played out in the recesses of Petya’s mind. Ruined and broken bodies cast aside. It leaves Petya with an unbearable weight.

His approach was subdued, an owl to whom we all await. His favored, unbeknownst to them, to became his children. Ordinary folk, innocents, and warriors alike, unaware of the fate that was their sheppard. The horrors of war, of monsters and traitors, had already claimed too many lives. Petya recoiled at the thought of innocent souls sacrificed to feed such sinful perversion.

The darkness of our situation deepened, like the ceaseless nights of war. His presence grew constant, fevered, Petya knew that he would not remain idle. That he would snatch any who were too close to sinners, innocent or otherwise.

Wards against malevolent influence, to distract and save the lot of them. A decision, painful, like cutting out ones own heart. Petya searched among the ranks. Petya prayed until he saw the evils that clung to their soul, the fractured artistry of their façade. Petya weighed the sins within their hearts.

Those who had transgressed would be require much attention, he would be forced to care for his broken child as they are ferried into the abyss. It may occupy his attention long enough for God’s light to return, to warm the hearts of humanity. One can not ask forgiveness of such a task, only acceptance. If he came to collect the sinner and demanded Petya as well, there would be no protest, no bargaining, just rest.

Petya had learned in the monastery that the path of righteousness was often paved with thorns. The weight of Petya’s actions, the sin, nearly drove the will from the body, but it was a stone only Petya could carry.

The last bit of dirt fell from his shovel. All that is left for Petya is to work and pray, to seek redemption, knowing that there is no forgiveness, only acceptance. “I swear before the Archangel Lurian, bearer of the fallen, and before the Almighty Lord God, to never harm thee, to protect thy body and thy soul, from this day, until my last day.” The countless, silent graves offered absent gratitude.

Speaking the names of those he remembered Peta felt regret not knowing the letters across some of the graves. The graveyard of Runeheim was already too tragic, too large, too full. In a pleading whisper to his alabaster companion, “In the aftermath of these times, gaze upon the work that Petya’s hands have wrought and wondered who has been my guide.” Their gaze rose and landed on a pile of recent overturned earth out in the forest, a child of Lurian had been plundered.