Category: Journal Entry

If the old swamp priest was being honest with himself, it had started with Friar Bullet. He knew that wasn’t his name, but couldn’t seem to remember names of late. The old priest had asked him about his conviction, and questioned why he had wanted to give up his things (such as they were) and walk the path of the penitent. Henri hadn’t had a good answer then, it had just felt right. There had been a light, just behind his eyes. A light he could only really *see* when it was dark and he shut his eyes. A warmth that he’d always known but never been aware of. It had warmed him and comforted him, and he’d known that it was the right path for him. Not many had understood it, but it had been more than a year now, and ole Henri, Friar Henri now, wouldn’t undo that decision for all the gold in all the world.

The sun had finally burned away the clouds, lifting the oppressive muggy feel and replacing it with the dry feel of a drafty oven. The sky had been a dazzlingly pure blue. The trees a crisp vibrant green that struck awe into him each time he saw them. A lone butterfly beat its seemingly too big wings and floated in an exaggerated up-down of their bobbing stride. In the distance, melodious windchimes danced in the breeze, their clanging bodies creating wordless music that delighted the senses.

It was a fine day, indeed. His ears still rang from the whispers of divinity that had occupied his evening. He often prayed at night, finding the solitude of slumbering bodies comforting. While others slept, he’d prayed. With all his might, he’d prayed. On the nature of sin, of spirits, of God and gods, on the Forest Folk and their Circle, on Primus the weeping god of the feast, on the nature of choice within sin, and on the truth of Heresy. The humble priest had been brought up in a dilapidated moss covered home in the woods, with its slanting floors and leaking roof. Grand questions weren’t ever anything he’d had to struggle with before. He’d listened to his priest, and prayed, and done as he was told. But the truth of the matter was more complicated. In his heart, he knew that the Church of Mankind had formed a sort of shorthand code for sin, making a complicated, nuanced problem into a stark black and white issue. It was simple and straightforward, something a child could easily understand. But the trouble with childish morality is that it stunted the growth of those that cleaved to it. As a people matured, they found the world full of fine colors, not just this or that. It was better to not live in ignorance, and that choice, of all the choices he had ever made in his life had been the most dangerous by far.

As the ringing in his ears had faded, and the colors and sensations of town swirled around him, Nadja Kroozie-more had leapt into his view. She had seemed frantic, hurt maybe? Her words had come tumbling out. At first, they’d made no sense. The forest hated her because she was a Kroozie-more? That didn’t make any sense. They wanted her blood, or Kroozie-more blood, or noble blood? It hadn’t made sense to him, but it seemed genuine to her.

“How can I help?” he’d asked, once he realized that understanding the actual problem was well beyond him. She had blinked at him and said:
“Can I be a Chasseur?” she asks, reaching out to hold his forearm with both of hers. There had been a genuine pleading in her gaze. She’d come to ask honestly. And how could he say no?

And just like that, he wasn’t the only Chasseur anymore. And then Cadence. And then Milo. He’d been alone, and now he wasn’t, and the world was a brighter place for it. It felt right to be a part of a family and watch it grow. It lightened his heart, as if lead had been pumping through his veins and it had been purged from him. He wasn’t certain how his feet remained planted on the ground.

The peace had stayed with him. As he’d ran through the woods to head-off the red-hued huntsman. As folks had argued about the proper course. When the community marched into the mines, shoulder to shoulder. That peace had stayed like a great fluffy cloak wrapped about him. The blood that had trickled down his leg and palm, the fearsome face of the monster that tossed folk around like so much kindling. The poison spewing tree. The bloody visage of Gabriella. The glowing skull of Primus, sad and rejected, speaking in images and feelings. All the while, calm.

Fortified by family, community, and love, the Friar was centered and the light was pure. The faint red that he knew waited for him there was distant again. Like the layered light of a sunset, the dangerous color was just one of the symphonic voices calling him, the others so sweet.

He walked without fear through the night, though he thought that if he wished it hard enough, he could have flown.

Can a person who’s lived a life of sin be called good? I’d thought for a long time that the answer was no, but ever since I came to Luisant I’ve been reconsidering. How could someone like Cadence ever be called anything but good?

She inspired me to be a protector, instead of a killer. I watched her shield the lives and happiness of others with her body and soul, to sin so that others don’t need to. To kill so that people like Henry can save. It took me a while to figure it out, but I followed her example. I did my best to be by her side when things got dark so that I could see how she would shine, so that perhaps I could catch some of her light and learn to use it like she did.

I now see her for the rest of what she is. Someone who’s taken on more than they’re sure they can handle. Someone who rises to meet the challenges and expectations of the people around them, who pushes themself beyond their limits because it’s needed, who will burn themself at both ends if it means saving their community. Someone who is Just. So. Tired. She’s been chosen by her community to be their voice of reason, their rock, their sword, and their shield. What an Honor. What a Tragedy.

I know that she can’t keep it up by herself. The people don’t see me like they see her. I didn’t grow up among them, I don’t blame them. As much as I want to help her, I can’t take these responsibilities out of her hands. But I can stay with her when she’s overwhelmed. I can watch the town while she eats. I can hold a sword for a while, no matter how poorly it fits in my hand. I can be there when she feels alone. I can’t take this weight from her, but I can do my best to bear it alongside her.

I’ve never felt love in this way before. I look at her and I don’t feel giddy or nervous. My palms don’t sweat, my knees remain still, I feel none of the storybook romance tells. It was not love at first sight. Nor second, nor third. It was and is respect. Trust. It is knowing that I can show myself for what I am and not lose her, and the hope that she knows the same of me. Love like this isn’t measured in romantic notes or poems of adoration, but in the times we’ve set our jaws and faced the dark, and the sounds of our boots as we cross the bridge to protect our people.

Our wedding is as we live our lives; brief, blessed time carved out between crises almost six hours later than we’d intended. It’s no less special for its impromptu nature in my eyes, though. More people show up than intended and I feel that pit of fear rise in me. Alphonse’s magic steadies me, and Cadence quotes a curt and harsh line from the Testimonium. An insult to anyone else, but it puts me at ease. Henri asks us our vows.

I’ve never been one to put my feelings into words. And I don’t believe she is either. But we don’t need to be. Perhaps our vows seem strange to others. Harsh and pragmatic. Rude, even. But we know what they mean.

Don’t die. I love you. I trust that you will take care of yourself as you care for me. And I will care for myself as I care for you.

Kill Chiropoler. I will face the unknowable and stare down impossibility at your side. I will be at your back when I’m needed. I will be your strength when your arms falter. Nothing can defeat us if we are together.

Don’t be a bitch. I don’t trust easily. Relying on others is the hardest thing I can do, but I trust that you will be there for me. I put my soul in your hands of my own will. Do not hurt me.

We test our vows in the tunnels less than eight hours after we made them. I pull songs from my youth that I’d long thought forgotten to bolster her spirit, I cut off flanking routes for smaller threats, I distract the skull-monster so she can cut at it with impunity. I stand next to her as her family Saint blesses us, and I can’t help but see a similarity between them. Iron will and indomitable courage. I see what happens when someone gives too much of themself to protect their people in Gabrielle, and I resolve myself to not let the same thing happen to Cadence. I’ll be by her side when the end comes. We’ll face it together.

Teles flips through his notebook, searching for the tax collector’s name.

There is a section with music notes, a section for town issues, a section for people. Between the dance calls and the dossiers, there are always blank pages.

…
Do lions eat daisies?

Which witch is which? The witches switched!

one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left. one daisy left.

My house is fallen, it’s naught but rubble.
each stone moved is one less trouble.
each stone carried off by a riddle,
one step built for a mind less brittle.

……….

Teles looks up from his notes. “Ah, bonjour Aurien my cousin! Have you seen Cezanne? I think she has my pen.”

“You are my temperance and he is my conviction.”

Love is vastly complicated and terribly simple at the same time. I weigh every interaction I have constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop. Careful considerations about longevity and trust wrapped up in self doubt and insecurity. The butterflies and pleasures of lust make convincing points in the moment but true commitment is something else entirely. It’s the forming of one soul, in all its flaws and indiscretions. The assumption of aligned ambitions on the things that drive you both. And beyond that, it’s the continuous active choice to consider the happiness of someone else alongside your own, a commitment to the endless effort to maintain a relationship when things are rougher than one hopes.

I was surprised when Milo asked if I would marry them. The jokes based on the rumors had somewhere along the line become, not a joke.

I’d be lying if I didn’t have feelings for them before this. That I had hoped it wasn’t just a fleeting joke but happy at the laughs none the less. But my feelings were not the feelings of a giddy school girl. This became extremely apparent when standing in front of Henri before our chosen family. I do not stand there smiling and giddy but rather concerned with my decision and slightly guilty for the burdens we will now share. But I am satisfied that I have made the right choice. I am happy and content. It’s a deeper love, something core to who I am, an endless spring of compassion for this person.

My love is that of respect, trust, and conviction. It’s the moment when I feel doubt when facing a foe only to turn to see him beside me. The feeling of safety washing over me as we step forward together. It’s the way he is always there when I am exhausted about to give it all up. Sitting beside me uneasy in the tavern for my sake. The way they say they believe in me when I feel unsure about my path forward.

I meant to say much more at our continuously postponed wedding. I wanted to say how I trust them, how I offer them my loyalty and how I will always be there when they need me. That we together are better than we will ever be apart.

Later, my oaths clash as I walk down these tunnels made of ribs. I worry that I will break my vows, that I will fall in battle and leave my family alone to pick up the pieces. That Henri will sacrifice too much without me. Alphonse won’t continue towards the person I know he can be. And that Milo will lose himself trying to finish what I started.

We speak about self sacrifice as though it’s easy and maybe it is when it is just us that we are sacrificing. When we don’t stop to think about the despair and void we will leave behind with our departure.

As the skulled face bites through my armor attempting to tear away my flesh while I can not pull away I realize I may have misjudged the situation, have I broken all of my vows so quickly? The world stops for the briefest surreal moment and I can hear the words,

“Spurn a man who would lie, who is lax, who is lazy; any man or woman who abandons a sworn oath is a coward and base; and shun he who rejects responsibility, and shun he who allows injustice to transgress unchallenged.”

So I plunged the dagger that Lysenna, who somehow must have foreseen this moment, gifted to me into its side unwilling to leave this injustice to my family unchallenged.

As the creature drops to the ground, he is standing there, my conviction, asking if I am okay.

Solfyre puts down her quill and allows the ink on the paper to dry. Leaning back in the creaky chair of the small kitchen at her grandmother’s house she takes time to simply stare off.

“Is something troubling you? You’ve been so… quiet and unenthusiastic. It’s not like you,” her grandmother says, placing a plate of sweets in front of Solfyre.

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that, grandma. I don’t even know if I have much of an appetite,” Solfyre says as she looks at the plate. The warm scent of baked berries and shortbread fill her nostrils and her stomach grumbles audibly, betraying her. Her grandmother takes a seat beside her and raises an eyebrow.

“Fine. You know that I’m a beacon mage? the ‘love mages’, as it were.? Well, aside from my adoptive family, you, my mother, and my father… well, I don’t know if anyone else can or will love me. Hell, I got stood up by the one who possessed my heart, rejected by my longtime crush, AND rejected by a ghost all in one forum. I think perhaps I am not lovable outside of my family and I just have to be okay with that. I’ll probably die in some battle or another anyways so,” she shrugs, “it’s probably for the better. Anyways, I made a local chapter of my guild here so I suppose I will simply focus on that.”

Solfyre takes a steadying breath and fortifies her resolve so she can force a smile, “it all sucks, even the guild stuff because one of the firemages refuses to cooperate with things because he often believes himself more wise and intelligent than all those around him. It’s all upsetting. Ugh… but I won’t break. I can’t afford to.”

Her grandma listens and puts a reassuring hand on her back, “honey, anyone who doesn’t return your love isn’t worth it. You’re a fighter and can be wrathful, but I also have seen you sacrifice so much for people who won’t do the same for you. Perhaps you need to focus on those who would and those alone. As for the one who can’t be a team player, well, then let him go. He will be worse off for it, but that is his decision. Loners exist, you don’t need to include those who make things more difficult for you and who don’t want to cooperate.”

To make a point, her grandma sweeps some of the hair from her left shoulder and traces a couple of scars from when she was tortured in the place of other captive women who had been held prisoner by Rimelander raiders. She also traces another left from a battle in which an uncooperative member of her fighting unit had left her in a bad position and she’d almost gotten killed.

“You’re not wrong, grandmother, you’re not wrong.”

“Would you like me to make the chicken soup you like?” She asks Solfyre. Solfyre’s stomach grumbles again as if to respond, the traitor.

Solfyre looks to her grandma rather embarrassed and nods, “yes please? I have to write a letter with Hans, but I should be back in time for dinner. Anything you need while I’m out?” Solfyre stands from the table and heads towards the door.

“For you to be happy, dear one,” her grandmother replies sweetly.

“I will try,” Solfyre smiles back. With that she closes the door and slips away towards the woods rather than directly to where Hans would be. Tears fall from her eyes, but no sounds of sorrow fill the air. No one could see her cry, especially over such a selfish thing as to want to be loved.

And so, before heading to see Hans, Solfyre sits in the woods with her thoughts for a while letting the tears fall unbidden, washes her face in the creek, puts on a pleasant expression, and heads off to complete her duties.

Alphonse finished sweeping the laboratory, frowning in thought. Each bit of broken glass, sticky residue and ash that he swept out the door mirrored the clarity that had crept over him in recent months. Around him brushes scrubbed and rags boiled themselves, animated by his art.

The mists were clearing. He could feel it. And somehow that was affecting him, too. His listlessness, his cravings and his distractions were all fading. It was time to work.

He considered the bottles on the counter one last time. Then, with a nod of conviction to himself, he scooped them up and stepped outside. Methodically, he bound the burdens of Earth and called upon the beasts of the land and air. Birds and squirrels surrounded him as he continued to cast until finally he had enough for the task. He tied the recently cleaned vials to each animal carefully, not wanting to impede their movement. Then with a gesture, he bade each of them go. Eight directions by land and eight directions by sky.

Each bore the same note, written in a neat hand:

“My name is Dr Alphonse Veneaux. I serve House Beauchene of Luisant in the Lorrasaint region of Capacionne.

All is not well. We have been lost in strange mists for generations. These same mists bind some remnant of the Witchking Chiropoler and ancient malefic created by his atrocities. Our House is fallen and we are without leadership or protection.

The mists are now clearing. Some here wish to make deals with strange spirits to make them stronger, but not I. No devil’s deal can compare to the might of mankind united. Send the questing heroes and knights of House Marseilles. Send the Templars and the Church to guide us in these dark times. Tell them there are monsters here. And tell them there are people, too. People who need their help.”

Sweet standing ones what have I done? They tell me I had a sister but she’s gone. Neatly clipped out with sewing shears. I have the edges, but not exactly what happened.

Someone held me in the dark while I cried and sang me lullabies the nights after my mother died. It wasn’t Papa, he was drunk as a bear and shouting at everything and nothing. I was sad and scared.

Someone tricked me into climbing into a barrel and then tipped it over and rolled me down the hill. I don’t think it was Pascal M, they helped me climb out and get the stains out of my skirts. I remember how embarrassed I was.

I spilled someone’s favorite perfume all over her favorite dress and then threw it into the pigpen. I remember someone being furious at me. This was after Mama passed so it couldn’t have been hers. I felt really guilty, but also triumphant.

Someone cut all fur off the cat’s tail and blamed me for it. I got in so much trouble! Papa beat me black and blue. I couldn’t sit down for three days! I was so mad!

Maybe Axé can help me put the pieces back together. I will go ask him, once I get over how stupid I was.

I knew it would happen.

You do something foolish once, and get away with it, and people expect you to do it again. It was a miracle it worked at all in the first place. It doesn’t matter all the little things that made it work—the quirks of fate, the quick thoughts, and fast hands.

All they know is you did it before. you can do it again.

Right?

Well. I did.

Walked right out that door and at the first yell, slipped into the dark, dragging that blasted box the whole way.

Doesn’t matter we got what we wanted out of it.

Doesnt matter that we dealt a blow to the drug dealers, to the people hurting our man.

No. All they care about is the greed. that golden glint in their eyes.

Not even for riches they ever managed but for the riches they might.

Worst part is.

The story will spread.

You’ve done it twice? you can do it again.

Right?

[Recommended listening: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQQnxm8FNog&list=OLAK5uy_kd3XarZHq7VOt3BXK4ba_05iHa3iB3s14]

Rain poured down from the roiling mass of thunderheads, bouncing and tumbling off of leaves and branches alike, seeking their new home in thirsty soil and sodden clothing, weighing down wool and linen to cling to flesh. It was all the same to Etienne. The dirt, the roots of the great trees, his pale skin shivering beneath the weeping skies, all were numb before the haze in his mind, locking him into a state of reliving the night before as a series of images; no sound, no touch, merely light and shadow, red and hungry. If someone were to come across him in this state, only the slight steam of his breath would reveal he yet lived.

‘Why do I try so hard, when we can’t even agree on something as simple as upholding a promise?’

‘When have they sacrificed anything for this town, this place sacred to us all? We give, and give, and always bow to their sensibilities, and for what? More loss? More pieces of ourselves torn away?’

His hat, long since sodden, gave up the fight against gravity and slipped off with a squelch of wool and bark meeting at force, sending the small planter dangerously close to tipping over and losing its precious cargo. The sight snapped him from his thoughts, lunging to save the seedlings, and successful at the cost of a face of mud and loam. The scent of rich earth dragged him back to this time, this place, letting the shades of the past evening finally lose their grip and retreat back into memory.

In their place came tears. Of sorrow. Of rage. Of helplessness and frustration and a thousand things and none, all mingling with and becoming lost in the steady rain that refused to quit, determined to accomplish its goal of returning life to the land after such a harsh winter.

Above it all, a distant cry of a hawk, the voice somehow overlaid with the feeling of [Hunger/Hunt/Prey] as it carried across the forest. It seemed his friend was awake, and starving. A sudden snort of laughter at the thought was cut off by a surge of mud meeting sinus, leaving him sputtering and fighting to clear his face of the invader, before turning face to sky, allowing the cool drops to wash away his tears.

Maybe he had convinced them, maybe he had not, and would soon be an oath-breaker. There was nothing more he could do but to *be*, and hope it would be enough. What was the old saying again? Ah yes: “Faire flèche de tout bois.”

“Make your arrows from any wood, my children, as each is as precious as the last, and you never know which will feed you and which will feed the forest.”