“Where in the name of anything that’s holy is my damn charcoal” fumed Victor as he began to stoke the fires of the smelter. He was starting to understand why Old Erik had always been such a miserably unpleasant person during his own apprenticeship. “Micheal!” he yelled for his own apprentice who hurried over. “Where is the rest of the damned coal? We should have plenty more to get us through the coming month, but its gone!” The young njord failed to meet his teacher’s eye as he replied, “I…uh.. may have left it at the basilica when I dropped off the feastware during forum.” “Go get it, “ Victor responded. “We have far too much to accomplish right now.”
The young man scurried off on his task. Victor could hardly blame the young man for misplacing things currently. The loss of his coin pouch still irritated him to no end. How could he have been so fucking stupid to simply leave it at the table. What could have possibly possessed him to simply walk away from his own money in a tavern full of strangers. His own anger was palpable. It was one of a few terrible instances of a busy forum.
As the fires of the smelter grew and readied themselves for their evenings task he absentmindedly rubbed his aching sternum. Somewhere in the confusion of night after the feast he had been shot. The pain still hasn’t subsided. What bothered him the most was that he couldn’t even remember being shot. His friends had told him that he had been trying to kill Ragnar. It *had* been awhile since he had last gotten blackout drunk in a fight. What had stuck in his mind was the absolute psychotic way the hollowsong men had fought. They had been such terrifyingly capable fighters, and he was not looking forward to facing them again.
The last forum hadnt been all bad though. Sure, he had lost some money, and spent even more, but being named master of ceremonies for the all-thing was an honor for sure. Being named co chair for master of coin even more so. The co- part of the arrangement was worrisome, but not an impossible task.
The fires were finally ready. “Yup, not a terrible time after all” Victor said to himself. He looked at the three rocks, flecked with gold, shining in the light. “In you go,” he said to rocks as he placed the crucible into the fires. When his friends said the grey company was bringing in more miners, Victor had known things were going to get so much easier. Being handed more gold then he had ever seen in his life the final morning of forum had made a stressful event a resounding success.
Perhaps he could actually become one of these dragon merchants outstretched on piles of gold that the church always rallied against. The thought was both amusing and highly entertaining.
Svart’s Internal Dialogue Late Autumn LA 608- Runeheim Forum 4
((Svart’s internal dialogue as he thinks over the events of the late autumn forum for LA 608 and tries to make sense of it all.))
I was robbed.
Miss V. had made me a pair of fine boots. I had them. Shanahan had given them to me, but when I looked for them later, they were gone. I looked all around, but I could not find them. They must have been taken by the bandits in the forest. That must have happened, because I do not lose things. The Witch Queen that they serve must have sent them to steal my boots. The bandits must have taken them.
They did not know that Svart can make his own fine boots. Svart is hard working and dependable and has all the materials he has gathered as his father taught him to do. He is quick and can work a needle as his mother taught him to do. Svart began work on his princely mantle. I made my own boots. Then I made small clothes. These are the things he did after Svart returned to Runeheim after staying with the Dunnick army in the South who said they would aid him in his cause if he helped free the Dunns from slavery.
Then the Witch Queen attacked. There were fire ghouls and bears at the beginning of forum.
Wolf-Rick was there and Svart kept away from him. When I first met him, I could tell he was a good person. I am never wrong with my impression of people. Just as I could tell that Tongue Splitter hated me when she slammed the door in my face. Then there was Xavier who made fun of me and told everybody not to use any of my crafting. It was no surprise to see him plotting the black dogs that stand on hind legs and talk. He is obviously in league with the bandits in the woods and taking orders from the Witch Queen. Yet, Wolf-Rick was a good person but revealed he was a wyrd spell caster with the story of how the magic tortures and corrupts his soul. It is sad to see a good man enchanted and corrupted by such foul wyrdness. I can tell he yearns to be free.
I, Svart, swear and oath that I will find a way to strip Wolf-Rick of his magic, and free his soul from its torment! Then, he can be a good person again.
The Hollow Song attacked Runeheim. They were in the woods attacking other villagers and when the defenders of Runeheim came out, they engaged. I had been out in the woods patrolling and protecting the other villagers from attacks when I heard the battle back by the bridge. I rushed back and saw that the group of Runeheim defenders had been split up. Most had been driven back across the bridge, while Quill was being attacked by another group. Svart attacked across the bridge, clearing the way and led the charge back to save Quill. Svart was the first one back to help Quill. We arrived in time to save his life, but not his finger. I think one of the Hollow Song ate it.
I did better in that battle. Rolf had been teaching Svart how to fight and advising him. Svart misses Rolf. We were good friends, and he helped train Svart in fighting. We’d go into the forest and fight together. We’d fight giants and trolls to protect the town. Nobody was as good a friend to Svart as Rolf.
Then there was the attack on Runeheim by the crows. They must be servants of the Witch Queen as they grabbed me and tried to drag me out to the menhir like they did others. I had escaped once through a tough battle. Seeing that they couldn’t get me, they kidnapped Solace and dragged her out to the menhir knowing that I would follow to rescue her. The Friar was leading the way with his lantern, but then an assassin snuck up behind me and stabbed me in the back. Luckily, Bjorn fought it off and saved my life.
The Witch Queen in the forest that controls the black dogs. The black dogs have always tormented Svart. Mother said that the black dogs don’t like me because my head is full of cats. Dogs don’t like cats. The Witch Queen did the same to kill the bear king, and now she does the same against me.
My mother also told me the truth after other children were making fun of Svart. That the Bear King used to visit Runeheim. Back when my mother was the most beautiful woman in Runeheim, he was one of my mother’s special friends. He is my real father, and I am the prince of the Bear Throne. But she warned me, I have to keep quiet and not tell anybody, or they’ll come after me. Then after my mother died, the Witch Queen started sending her dogs and bandits more and more often, because they know I am the real heir to the Bear Throne. They seek to break my spirit and stop me from uniting all of the Njordr.
The only person who knew was Rolf. I told Rolf who I really was. He told me that he has been sent to guide me in a vision he had. He recognised me as heir to the bear throne, and I branded him, Rolf the Unbreakable.
Eventually, I will make my fortune, destroy the Witch Queen and her servants, claim my throne, marry a princess, unite the Njord clans, and free the Dunns.
War Journals 4: Rage
A life spent in campaigns and raids, marching through mud and hiding in gore; the old knight had seen losses before. He’d been defeated before. Such things were inevitable, if one was truly honest with themselves. It was impossible to have perfect control of your soldiers. Impossible to know with perfect certainty how a rival would move, or how quickly their troops could muster.
These were all excuses that he told himself, saddled on his powerfully built warhorse, tromping through the hoarfrost. It had been a slaughter, there was no other word for it. The painted faces of the Hollow Song had come through the woods in a single long line, stretching further than the eye could see. They had been slathering at the mouth, adorned with the flesh of others. The Grym had faced their out runners and scouts in forum. The Hollow Song had refused to stay dead even then. How many had he killed? He’d lost count Their ravening cries between deathblows frantic, without greater purpose. The red haze that had descended across his vision had never truly lifted. [i]Her form had been limp, nestled against the base of the damned menhir. Red wicking through the pristine white of her robes. Her voice weak and sedate as it called to him.[/i]
When an army suffers a grievous blow and is in an ordered retreat, there are sounds one expected. A morose sort of silence. The whimpering of the wounded and the drag of their sleds. The occasional shout of alarm as each branch becomes a new imagined enemy. Curses, both at their ill fate, and also their inept leadership. His troops made little of these. Instead, there were growls, unsettling and deep. There were no curses from them, only demands that their retreat halt that they could return to the hopeless battle. They had been slaughtered when their force was twice this size. Now? They would hardly even slow the madmen. Some dark seed had been planted in them, and Sven, the Elf-Blood, wished to water it. More than anything, he wished to wheel his horse about and ride back to face them.
The painted faces had been goading, by the end. He had been surrounded by a dozen or so dead of their number, a hundred more of his own. They had been grinning, nearly lecherous at them. They flesh adorned men, faces grinning and painted, words oddly encouraging, had made a hole. They’d allowed half his soldiers to slip between their lines. The intentional release couldn’t be ignored; his lines had rolled up like a carpet. They’d been doomed; he’d expected to die with his troops, and they’d let him go.
“How old were you when you killed your first man, Troels?” he asked, not really caring. The commander of his forces said something in a growling voice, but Sven hadn’t asked because he cared for the answer. Sixteen, he thought. “I was nine.”
Eyes glassy, breath frosting and catching moisture in his beard, he stared into the distance. Some memories were burned into your mind for all time, and this one was just as clear now as it had been then.
“My Uncle took me hunting. He wasn’t so much older than me. My father was Earl and had given up most frivolities to focus on managing the house, for all the good it did him. A true Gothic in all but name, father was proud to divest himself of all but his furs. But Uncle Hakon… he was all history and romance for times gone by. He was so proud of his Brand. Hakon Iceblood, the vacant eyed killer. He taught me the trade more than anyone else,” the old knight shrugged. “He would often take me hunting. Sometimes for elk, sometimes for bandits. It made little difference to him.”
He was rambling now, but it didn’t seem to matter. Words were being used as a crutch, and he needed them to keep his men moving away from certain death. The blood in his veins boiled and demanded some sort of satisfaction. To be gratified on flesh.
“Uncle Hakon collected me from the city. The usual excuses were given. He wished the heavy pelts of larger deer in the North. He said we would be gone for a few weeks. It was a long trip. We met his men a few days out of town, and we moved north. A challenge had been issued; I didn’t know it at the time, but someone…” Sven’s features shifted to a frown in though. “I can’t for the life of me remember with who. Someone had challenged someone, and now their small armies were jockeying about to find favorable ground for a battle. I’d never seen such before. Not a real one. Two organized shield walls moving and counter moving. The axes pulling open holes. Spears and blade slashing through the openings. Iceblood won. I’d never seen a man move so fast. I’d stayed back with the followers; the cooks and blacksmiths and wounded too tired to assist materially. Far enough for safety, but close enough to observe”
The scent of the battlefield had been more jarring than the sounds. The slashes of blood making mud of the ground had been greater than any hunt. Nothing in this life smelled like the belly of a man torn asunder.
“When the matter was settled, Iceblood came back, grinning like a loon. He had taken a knee and clapped me on my shoulders. ‘This is mans business’ he’d said. The gravity of the situation was broken by the manic levity painting his face. He taken his knife from his boot. A lovely blade with a hilt of polished horn. He pressed it into my palm,” the knight looked down at his gloved hand as his horse plodded on. He could still feel the small nubs dotting its length and biting into his palm. “He took me by the shoulder and guided me to the field where the wounded lay. Some were crying. Some were dragging themselves off. Some were just blinking up at the sky with bewilderment. Iceblood found a fearsome specimen. Tall as a mountain. Some axe or another had taken a deep wedge of flesh from his side. His hair was the color of embers as they burn low, with a fearsome beard to match. Darker flecks dotted the beard, looking black in the evening’s shimmering light. ‘This is mans business’ Iceblood repeated and just stood there, expectantly. I was confused. I remember looking up at him and wanting to ask what was mans business. But it was the bleeding fellow that brought clarity to me. ‘It falls to the boys to cut the throats of the fallen’ he said. ‘This is our way. Cut the throats of those who will not rise on their own again. Call it a kindness lad.’ But there was no kindness there. I was dizzy and young and had no mastery of the blade. The first thrust hesitated and caught on his rib. It skittered away, sending shivers up my arm. Damnedable feeling, the bone grating against the blade. Iceblood let me stab him three times before he told me where to cut a man that he would bleed out. Didn’t show me, mind. Told me. I never learned the name of that red maned giant, but I remember his eyes still. I cut the throats of six more men that night. Their faces are less clear to me.”
He looked up from staring at his palm to view the woods thinning to plains as they marched towards Runeheim. Word would have already reached the Avalanche and Ingvar of their devastating lost. They would be wheeling their forces about to secure the populace. They were good, moral lads, in their way.
“I don’t know what brought that to mind,” the knight said absently.
In Pursuit of Knowledge
Scraps of paper, crumpled and torn from being hastily shoved into a bag littered the cabin floor. Drawings of malefic entities and runic scribbles dominate their content. Each one without specific purpose, made in haste for the sake of knowledge.
She shivered, pulling her coat more tightly around her shoulders. The frosts had come, hinting at the harsh winter quickly settling into the hills surrounding Runeheim. Once the snows started, there would be no leaving the city proper without some serious planning.
It was frustrating, trying to make sense of the recent events revolving around the Great Menhir. Why now? The war in this region has been ongoing for ages and the Old Gods had never been this active. She needed answers.
The memory of steaming blood in the snow was an unsettling reminder that sacrifice was not without benefit. There was a deep thrill whispering those words in the dark, not knowing who would answer or if anyone was even listening.
A sharp contrast to convocation and the shining light Solace so freely offers in her daily blessings. She also knew about sacrifice. The bloody price of lives lost in pursuit of unification and hope. Has Mithriel had a guiding hand in all this, or simply an observer unwilling to provide answers to her silent cries. What knowledge had been gained from her sacrifice?
Lady In Crimson
Glittering gold adorns the crimson dress sweeping the floor behind each confident step. Their skillfully-painted gaze cuts through the crowd and lands on mine – calm despite the chaos. I don’t recognize the fine fabrics nor the title, but I recognize the person wearing them. “Rollo,” I feel the overcast rime surrounding the black centers of my eyes tighten, pupils dilating at the confirmation – she does recognize me. It is her. “Come here. Now.”
My legs move on their own. I turn my face, hiding the deep purple bruise on that side. Poorly. She has my ear, “…Y-yes? …My Lady?”
“Go to my bedroom. My bed is against the wall,”
This is hardly the time, I think, but I’m very amenable to hearing them out.
“There’s a basket. Inside it is a pistol. Bring it to me.”
Ah. Well. “Yes, My Lady,” It’s easier to say it the second time. I run.
It is as described, and I gently pass the firearm to them as one might hand over a wolverine pup. I’m just grateful it didn’t go off in my hands on the way back to the tavern – who knows how those things work?
I’m offered further insight immediately, as now she is shooting a rushing branded man in the chest. I can’t help it – I jump at the sudden sound; the flash; the unexpected scent of cinders and blood. I gape, my tone both stunned and reverent, “…My Lady…!”
They stand there a moment, time suspended. I’m quick to recover and dare to touch her, “We have to run. Now,”
Ragnar Stoneskin – haggard, yes, but still undying – prevents us from running, which really cramps my style. Not all of us can be fearless and indestructible, after all. But we make it to a safer place and stand guard at the door.
After a moment (which may have been quiet if it weren’t for all of the branded slaughtering each other) and a crick in my neck from looking at the stars rather than their eyes beside me, I say what I’ve been gathering courage to all day long, “…So… My Lady?” How many offenses have I given? Behaving as though we were anywhere near equals?
“Yes,” she sighs.
“I’m sorry.” I say, “If I’d known, I would’ve…” Would’ve what? “This whole time–”
They stop me, or maybe I’d just forgotten all words and let the conversation wither enough that they step in to assist. I’ve given no offense, they say. I wasn’t meant to know. She is Lady Encarmine, but she is Esparei also.
I don’t know what I feel. A fearful guilt, certainly. Things I’ve said and done around them which I would never dare to do in front of nobility flock in my mind. A hopeful relief, as well. They ask me to come with them to their room to help them undress to a more crisis-suitable outfit.
In a moment her laces are in front of my face just like before. I tug at the tight ribbons. They turn so I can unclasp their busk. She says, “You know, I think I like you on your knees,”
The remark exorcises the tension from the room and I can’t help but smile, “You’re not the first person to say that to me,” I say. She knows.
Free from their corset, I stand and offer other aid. Knowing that this is not where my skills lay, I imagine, she asks me to stay safe. I worry for her. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she promises. And she leaves.
I stand alone, safe in the cabin, and I wonder – will the scent I wore to the masquerade linger in their mind like a ghost the way theirs does now in my own?
-Simpleton-
The arena was empty when the squire arrived, pre-dawn, cold, clear, and crisp. Since the end of the contests and tournaments the roped off ground had been abandoned, save for a stray animal or two… and Tumble. His shirt, heavy armor, and tower shield piled in a corner, the squires bare chest steamed in the cold air as he slowly moved though the motions of a series of strikes and blocks. He couldn’t read the sword manuals he was trained from to save his life, but his instructor had drilled these lessons into him so hard it had penetrated even his thick skull.
His foot work slipped, and the strike was sloppy.
He dug in his heels and began again
And so, each morning, he practiced. With armor, without. With his shield, and without. Over, and over, and over again, until his breath burned and his arms ached, and his lungs felt like ice. He was no Ice Hardened, but he was the son of a Smith and a Farmer, used to the pre-dawn hours.
The callouses on his palms tore and the blood made the sword too slick to hold.
He bound his hands and began again.
Visions danced before as he worked. Images of horror he could never unsee, things he would never ever forget. Burning corpses rising again, shadowy spirits that crushed his mind with a word, blood drunk clansmen feasting on human flesh as they boasted about murder.
A hollow suit of armor and flowing cloak that mocked him for his simplicity. His… ordinary mortality.
His hips turned too slowly, the cut was weak and easily punishable.
He reset and began again.
Tumble drilled until his legs felt like frozen stumps and he couldn’t lift the heavy training blade anymore. Until the whispered jokes and jests and quiet laugher he had heard the last two days faded to the back on his mind. Until, mortal as he was, simple as he was, he had to stop and rest and watch the dawn break over the trees.
His breath in steaming clouds, he counts on his shield hand fingers:
“One: I will never take a human life”
“Two: I will never flee from the face of Evil.”
“Three: I will stand for those cannot stand for themselves”
Then he stands and begins again.
Apple blossom
Esparei had delayed unpacking for as long as possible. But she’d finally caved and put everything away carefully, every gown, every robe, all of her furs, her books, things that reminded her of Capacionne. She unpacked the portrait last- her family, in a dreamy pastoral scene, a smaller copy of the painting in their home in Beauclair. A tree laden with blossoms on an island that had never known a storm. Whole and perfectly preserved for all time. She couldn’t look at it for long. It hurt too much. It just made her think of…that night four years ago. There had been so much blood. And fire. And- no. Don’t dwell on it. She already couldn’t shake the image of Victor collapsing, bloody and shocked. She’d thrown up after, begging Rollo to help her out of her masquerade gown, nearly in tears as he helped her change into something easier to move in, so she could go help that reckless Njord.
Ragnar.
She looked at the red flowers on her desk, next to a little wooden figure painted crimson. Such sweet gestures, from a person who was so loud, so, so chaotic- the gentle nature of his gifts was jarring, almost. When he’d been stabbed in the tavern, when Victor had gone after him, she’d shielded his body with hers, unthinking. That’s what you do when you protect someone, right? Not just with words and titles. Not hiding away waiting for her grandfather to call her home.
A tree laden with blossoms on an island that had never known a storm. Until the storm came. And now…being able to speak openly about the coup with Saga had felt like a cork had been pulled from her soul and everything poured out in that moment. They knew. They’d heard terrible things. They listened when she said how important it was to serve the people you are responsible for. They told her the plight of the Njords, of the suffering and the harsh, unyielding land they fought so hard to preserve. And it made her heart ache. She wanted to talk to Vernon more too, she’d felt so guilty for ruining her atonement. She wanted to tell Svanhildr everything. She wanted to hug Ragnar- he gave such good hugs, like nothing could happen and she was safe, if only for a moment. That comfort meant a lot when she was painfully homesick and lonely.
A tree, stripped bare by the storm. But still living.
A Lady, alone.
Quiet after the day
I watch Ana boil a large pot of water, her hair gathered up out of the way, sleeves rolled up. The leather folder open in my lap warming as I wait for her to fill the wood basin at my feet. The joints of my ankles ache, like the joints in my knees and hands, my hips. The cold has always bitten me hard, despite my preference for it to heat. I know I should be writing a letter home, informing my father of what’s occurred, asking for support, anything useful. But my hand is instead turned to lackadaisical musings. The branded man Skarde asked about my cane, about what great battle brought about its use. I wish I had some great answer. Unfortunately I only have what my mother told me when I was small to ease my mind about how sharp the pains in my body could get.
I’m pleased to be working for the town in an official capacity. I think I’ll enjoy working with Viktor, he has quite the sense of humor, which does make work go faster at any rate. And I think it will be a good chance to examine areas I’m weak in. Always Learning.
Even musing I keep turning to business, like a crutch.
I had tried to be…open about this with Mother Superior Solace. I think we’re friends? At least friendly. Maybe Lady Callistra too? But it feels hard to know. I think they would not mind if I talked about my thoughts? But its so hard to know when its safe. The wolfpack would not understand, they’ve always had each other. And I think they mostly speak in punches, which is…not how I speak at all.
How to people make friends so quickly? How do they share things so soon to build such a friendship?
Ah….Ana is done with the water. Hopefully the heat loosens my ankles, I’d like to be able to walk without hobbling.
(the paper with these musings is quickly fed to the hearth)
Labora et Ora 2: Twice-worn Knuckles
His hand flashed out smashing into the wall. Petya awoke with a start and yelped. He heard the sudden shift, creak of a bed, and song-sigh of a sword being drawn.
“Saurry. Nitemare” Petya said softly. There was a short grunt of response and the blade slipped back into its sheath. He stared at the dark wall and gingerly touched it. His fingers came back chilled and slick. He frowned to himself, he would not be able to clean up the mess until dawn. The others deserved to sleep, as long as they were able. He rolled over and saw Sir Sven staring at him. The grizzled knight hardly slept anymore. Sir Sven’s eyes caught the flame of a candle causing them to reflect some barely contained malevolence. Petya did not move, like a rabbit who wandered to the wolf without thinking. In that space between heartbeats they stared at each other.
Petya felt his breath begin to tighten and his muscles protest. Sir Sven, he must know. The thought, the spell, the frozen heartbeat freed all at once. A sound of a guttural moan and the idle scratch at the door. Sir Sven stood without word and Petya moved to begin assembling the shell around the knight. They worked for a brief few minutes as the scratching became more insistent. Others stirred and saw the duo preparing, considered the noise, and promptly rolled over and went back to sleep.
Once clad in armor Petya handed the knight his shield and took up place nearby. His eyes wandered over the nearby table of food scraps and noticed a dull knife. With a shrug Petya took the knife in hand and prepared himself.
As they took a step into the knight the night seemed to deepen. The stars pulled away, tucked behind tree boughs and cloud. Petya shut the door behind them as they began their patrol. They moved back and forth. The practiced knight moved as if he had cut their surroundings into their own diminutive territories and was proceeding to check and clear each. Petya rotated, ending up with his back to nearby foliage. He felt the sense of fear and impurity run up his spin before he heard the snap of a branch. Sir Sven moved past Petya and readied himself. Nothing leapt from the bush, no creature, just stillness. Sir Sven took a cautious step into the foliage and then another. Stepping off of the path and out of what little excuse for light existed.
Petya waited.
The soft squelch of something behind him shifted his attention. He turned to see a hideous, rancid, pallid creature. Its maw gaping wide and dripping with bile. Petya considered calling out but doing so might distract the knight. He stood his ground and leveled the knife. The creature circled slowly as if measuring the meager farmer. In a single motion it made up its mind and launched itself at Petya. He thrust forward and shut his eye tight waiting for the pain to rip through his body.
But the pain never came. He did not feel the creature collide into him. Petya opened his eye experimentally and looked around. The creature was gone. No sign it had even been. Petya glanced around to see if it had run off.
Petya turned to see the figure of Sir Sven towering over him, his features replaced by that terrible creature! It collapsed down on him bent on devouring him whole or in whatever pieces it could get.
His hand flashed out smashing into the wall. Petya awoke with a start and yelped.
He felt the weight of bad sleep under his eyes and saw that the dawn had already come. He could hear the sounds of the others quietly chatting and preparing to break the morning fast. He considered telling Sir Sven about his nightmares and asking his thoughts or maybe Sister Solace.
Regardless, there was nothing he could do right now. He knew what was expected of him and all that was left was to work and pray.
Labora et Ora 1: A Heavy Coin
A cruel ray of light pushed past his sleeping mind gently rubbing at the edges of his consciousness. The offending light brought other concerns to his attention. Petya caught the smell of twice-burnt wood just beginning to turn to charcoal, the sound of seabirds and hammers meant they were close to the settlement, and the uneven roll of the cart placed an unbearable pressure on his bladder.
With effort he opened his eye and squinted at the indifferent daylight. Timing the sway of the cart he let the next opportune shift help him roll free from his wedge sleeping nook. A few of the travelers nodded at him as he wandered from the procession and found a larger tree to step behind.
After his relief Petya walked on in companionable silence, rejoining the convoy. He listened to those around him speak of their concerns, hopes, and goals. He wanted them all to find the things they wanted and to avoid the worst of what they feared. Though he imagined that not half of these would still be with them when the thaw came. The nights were growing longer and the fields as stiff as iron. He recounted watching a shovel snap just yesterday. Some of the Gothic born had met the morning with the same vigor they would have back home. They didn’t know that the handle of the shovel needs time to warm from its work. The wood too brittle from the nights-chill.
Petya let his hand continue his idle work. They mindlessly wove back and forth moving a pair of crooked sticks as he knit. He paused looking at his work and with a sigh began to unweave the last few rows. He had not been giving his craft any attention and he had absently switched patterns. Without letting the frustration settle he began his plodding walk once more.
As he walked he thought of all the various things to happen in Runehiem since he arrived. The terrible creatures, wonton suffering, and disingenuous ploys. It was enough to make one turn up their nose and return to lands of proper behavior and understanding. Petya shook his head as if to dismiss the thought. He learned to love God and the Throne. He traced his memories, his time in the Monastery. The contemplative and reserved nature of the monks was often just the moments between great bursts of energy and fervor. It was all one could do once a monk caught that spark of insight to not get caught up in the excitement and pursuit. Petya felt a chill in his palm. The weight, the solidness, the chill of those heavy doors still lingered on in his hands. He may have grown with them, learned with them, and loved with them but always kept separated.
He knew somewhere in the mindful part of his head, that it was not personal. They sought to protect him along with all others of humanity who were not ready for the misadventures of unsanctified knowledge. He wondered if the priests of Zuriel would have come up with a way to prevent his homeland from turning to this fetid stalemate.
A call came out from the head of the convoy. They had reached the stockpile and were going to begin to unload. He moved to start unpacking but stopped himself short. With a calming breath Petya pulled his hand back and stepped off the path. He knelt down on his haunches and bowed his head. The words flowed like a mumbled stream from his lips. The prayers of blessings, favor, hearth and home. The small honorings and chiding of the tiny spirits who only hear in whispers. The calling of the Archangels and their dominions and reverence. Someone leaned in close and briefly placed their hand in his pouch. Petya neither moved nor let the matter distract him from his prayer. Almost as soon as it started the individual removed their hand and wandered away. Petya finished his prayer, standing and stretching. He moved to collect a load to transfer to the stockpile. He felt two weights, one was the sack placed on his shoulders, the other hung lightly from his belt and heavy on his mind. He would have to wait till later to see what he had been given.
For now, all that was left was to work and pray.
