Category: Journal Entry

Jarl Overturner’s men begin haranguing the forum this season, free from the chill on their bones and warmed by the razed capital. Fortunately, we are able to hold them off with our local cadre, though it seemed more like play watching Sir Jacquline skipping around behind them slaying them left and right.

But why do they keep getting up?

They are beaten back by the dozen, knocked to their knees and sword bent over mine. As I looked to one after breaking his blade he looked to me with a fierce anger in his eyes, scrabbling madly at my plate and blade with his nails. Why won’t you stop?

My blade fell upon him once more, in anger, and again. But as I withdrew it, I felt regret. The man before me is no more, I had taken his persistence, his vigor, and ended it. He seemed a brave man, strong and skilled.

What a pity.

These Njords are new to this kind of conflict, they had been raiding in their traditional way for so long it seems a sport. But this is different, this is War.

I breathe deep, taking in the moment. An easy victory over these forces, myself left unscathed. I had swung too far and cut too deep. My sin is my own to bear, and my shame is dwarfed by a courageous soul’s absence.

On the wider battlefield, Sir Minona, Sir Jacqueline, and Lady Lorelai along with some Dunnick skirmishers led by the O’Craigs were able to claim their victory, and we plunge deeper into this conflict.

Naught but Glory.

Alfred Black

The wheel was easy enough to replace on the wagon, a final grunt of exertion was enough to tighten on the final bolt, and with the turning of the mechanism the wagon was lowered onto the ground. Waving goodbye to the members of his flock as they left the market ground his mind looked back to the weekend and to how closely he came to falling into his favorite vice, Wrath.

The assassin said “I feel very conflicted about this” before his hammer smashed into Godfrey’s leg, the old man Agnar of Shadowhall would have cut his head off and hung it from a tree as a warning, Godfrey will knock the weapon away and run. The raiders mocked the Lord and the Prophet, Agnar would have joined in with the jeers, Godfrey will block the blows ment for his flock with his staff and needs be his very body.

“Let me guide you back to violence” said the masked man. he said that after seeing Godfrey sparing with his flock, that was a mistake, Godfrey isn’t wrathful, Agnar was, and Agnar died a long long time ago.

“FEAR” snared the raider to his flock, Agnar would have found that to be an insult and challenged the man to a duel and feasted on his heart and tongue, Godfrey found the fearful and reminded them of how God stand with them and how the lion still roars to remove the fear.

Agnar is dead, but as everyone knows the ghost of the dead can come back. So Godfrey goes to the church that he mans in the middle of the slum and does what he can to make sure Agnar and his ghost stay buried.

It breaks like strained timber,
splits like iron under frost,
leaves its mark quietly
where no one thinks to look.

A moment becomes a wound.
A choice becomes a bandage.
The world keeps moving,
asking no pardon for the trade.

One man keeps his footing.
Another learns the shape of darkness
behind a strip of cloth.

They call this virtue
because it sounds cleaner than cost.

But I have learned:
mercy is a hand thrust forward
while the blade is still falling.

It was just after the sun had settled behind the high peaks when Felix finally made it back to Hrafnakastali. Saluting the gate guards as he entered, he looked at the courtyard with the few points of light from lanterns and torches and decided it was too late to give his report for how the journey had gone and decided to head to the barracks for some rest.

A few of the guards were coming off duty and he heard them talking about how the miners were being very cooperative with the silver ore exchange. Good, that’ll help the reich. Ah, thinking about that just made him hungry. A problem for the morning.

Pushing open the door to the barracks, he glanced across the nearly empty common room, a few of the fort’s staff lounging around. He cleared his throat

“I’m surprised you beat me back here, Guy really set you on a pace didn’t he?”

Damian scoffed, abandoning his ambush, “Some of us work to finish our jobs in a timely manner. Guy was having a field day in that village. I think he’s a local hero now.”

“Glad to know things went well.” Felix nodded in satisfaction, “The others back yet?”

“Sil is, though he’s doing some scouting – probably be back in a day or two. Mitch apparently got tied up with something back at the Port and might be gone for a while. Gilbert though…” Damian shook his head, disappointed, “He’s here but… you’ll have to see for yourself.”

Felix didn’t like how that sounded. He gestured vaguely to Gilbert’s quarters, and Damian nodded, confirming he should be there. Felix gave him a short wave and set off.

—

Knocking lightly on the door, he cracked it slightly and said “Felix.” Doing so, he heard the soft click of a hammer being reset. Gilbert was at his desk, a portion covered in a mixture of ledgers and what was unmistakably his latest poem, but before him a clear area with a flintlock on a cloth with some powders and oils set around it for routine cleaning.

Felix closed the door behind him and approached the desk “Damian said there was some trouble at the farms?”

Gilbert finished wiping the barrel of the pistol and turned to face him – with an eyepatch, the space around it red. Felix couldn’t hide his surprise. “Gil! What happened!?”

Sheepishly scratching the back of his head, Gilbert started to explain, “You’ll want the whole story I imagine”

Felix folded his arms and nodded.

“We were building those heavy iron plows for the south farms, that new design from Graham. Everything’s oversized: beams, braces, the lot.” He gave a short exhale. “One of the farmers came to help us test the frame. Good man, but he bumped something he wasn’t supposed to with the lift, and the chain slipped on the rig. Whole frame started to tip forward, something like four hundred pounds of oak and iron, coming down right where the farmer was standing.”

He gestured with two fingers, remembering the angle. “No time to run in. No time to shout anything useful. Just.. line of sight.”

The quartermaster’s hand tapped the edge of his eyepatch. “I drew, fired, and took the bracket clean off the hinge pin. It held long enough for him to dive clear.”

Felix gave a low whistle. “That’s… precise.”

He gave a prideful smirk. “The shot did its job.”

He leaned back. “The problem is what happens when iron meets iron at that range. The powder flash kicked back off the brace plate. A shard of scale and soot came straight back at my face.”

He pressed a hand just to the side of his eyepatch. “This got the worst of it. Didn’t lose it, and Leonora and the other healers say it’ll mend in a few weeks. They just had to get the metal out from around it. The blood though! It looked like I died.”

“So you saved him?” Felix inquired.

“Of course.”

Letting out a heavy sigh, Felix put his head in a hand, “I’m glad you’re still here, but what possessed you to do that?”

“Why, I was only doing what you’re always saying, Felix. Making myself useful. That’s how things get done.”

Damian moved quietly across the half-built woodshed roof, balancing a bundle of cedar shingles beneath one arm while trying not to let the planks creak beneath his boots. Guy claimed a good worker, announced himself with the sound of his hammer. Damian preferred the opposite.

As he laid the shingles down, his thoughts drifted to how he ended up here.

‘A perk of being a Porter is that it takes me around enough that in time I get to spend time with everyone. Though, that time is generally short lived. This trip for example let me spend some time with Guy. Such a kind and dedicated man. The kind that reminds you of the value of completing hard work and doing so diligently.’

The villagers of Ciricraga Clyfun had taken to Guy quickly. The carpenter taught while he worked, showing the forester families how to cut straight joints, brace beams against snow weight, and shape pegs that would swell tight when rain came. Damian had expected long days of hauling lumber and listening to old men complain.

Instead, he found himself enjoying the work.

The woodsheds rose first beside the cabins. Then came the hare trapper huts along the outer trails, small lean shelters tucked beneath heavy fir branches. The tanning racks near the creek took longest – and where Damian had spent a considerable amount of effort – but even there Guy turned every mistake into a lesson instead of a curse.

As the weeks of work wore on, Damian started to hope there might be some leftover materials – if there were, maybe he could ask Guy to help him put together something to store his boots a little neater. Being honest with himself, he’d had the idea the week before they set out, after he knew he’d be working with Guy on this effort.

He worked up the courage to ask.

“Hey Guy, could I trouble you for a moment”?

“Yeah, everything alright D?”

“Of course of course. I was just wondering if maybe you thought we would have any extra materials and if -“
Guy cut him off mid request, pointing to the corner of the room.

There, a sturdy and simple, yet beautiful, multi tiered rack capable of holding maybe eight, no, ten pairs of boots. A bit stunned, Damian turned back to Guy.

Guy explained with a grin, “Gilbert and Felix had a hunch and had added it to my list of requests for the trip. You really could have asked sooner. I would have made that for you any time.”

After a brief pause, Damian responded “Thank you Guy. Should I take it back to my quarters”?

“No, no. That one is for the hare trappers. Yours is already back at The Fort. I think you will like that one a bit more”

Damian couldn’t hold back his smile. With a chuckle he retorted “I appreciate you Guy, I will get out of your hair then”.

Guy gave a simple nod as Damian departed.

They made it out of garbage, in a shitty back alley. I paid my last silver for those guys to set up a place for Callum to sell his wares, and they made it out of garbage. What the fuck.

I used to run a God-damned criminal empire. I had a dozen of some of the most competent people you’ve ever met working for me. I had my hands in every dark dealing going on in this fucking place, and loyal lackies who would jump at any command I gave them. I could snap my fucking fingers and get a full new shop set up in an hour, set to sell the finest drugs and contraband this side of the Kaltlina. And now I’m poor and my shop is made out of garbage.

Doing the right thing sucks. I forgot just how much it fucking sucks. Do-gooders don’t have an easy time. We have to worry about feeding the whole damned town instead of just ourselves. We have to consider the far and away repercussions of our actions. We have to make money ~ethically~ and try not to fuck the stupid prideful members of town over. We have to think carefully before threatening to kill an entire noble house…. fuck. Fuck fuck FUCK fuck FUCK FUCK FUCK. Piece of shit town, piece of shit nobles, stupid fucking piece of shit SHOP made out of FUCKING GARBAGE.

…

I lost my way for a long time. Years. Let the anger take me, let my morals slip because all I wanted was… I don’t know. To fuck people over? To cause problems for the fun of it? To hurt people like I’ve been hurt? I found others similar to me. At first. Eventually I started finding people who were just mad. Angry. People with bones to pick with the people of town. Bounty hunters, mad bombers, angry siblings, spiteful winemakers. Anyone willing to do what I said and a lack of morals. It was exhilirating, having all that reach, all that power. But it was poison to my soul. I had to leave, or I don’t think I would’ve remained the sort of person my friends would recognize.

I’m still in debt to the fucking Disinherited, the damn gang that I MADE. I gave up everything to be here. But I’m doing the right thing. I feel it. This is what the wielder of the Blade of Sorrows is meant to do. And soon Blair, Ciaran, and Callum will be here. The Ordugh Croy back together!

…

You know, maybe it’s not ENTIRELY made of garbage. I guess the canvas tent top is pretty nice, actually. And that poster board isn’t so bad. And the back alley location sort of reminds me of an old clubhouse B and me used to hang out in… I guess those guys didn’t do all bad…. And it was pretty last minute. Hopefully Callum will like it.

Maybe it wasn’t a waste of silver after all.

Sleepless nights of studying, the order and etiquette of interacting with those with the highest amount of coin, the responsibility thrust upon me with the expectancy to fail all I became accustom to growing up. The thick miasma of stress, anxiety, and mental strain became like fresh air to me in those years. Even in my success there were those who looked down on me. Picked apart my accomplishments to either make themselves feel better or to make me work harder. I hadn’t resented them back then for I was only trying to follow their rules and play the game I had no choice in playing. However, in this crisp, cool, Nordic air among the sliver of freedom I’ve somehow earned myself, I’ve gained equal parts clarity. Those who called me brother, or friend, or ally back then were not what they claimed to be. We were bound by circumstance, not family, endearment, or cause as they would have me believe.

In this northern war-torn city, where crisis is abound, I’ve reunited with people I can actually call friend, brother, and ally. Those whose family we share, whose values align, and, potentially, whose endearment can flourish. Those of the Furguson clan, who hadn’t been so lucky or keen in their appeasement of our country’s occupants as I had, still see me as one of them, despite my time away. The standard barer of the clan I’ve, somewhat unceremoniously, joined sees me, in someway, as a partner in his and his clan’s endeavors. There’s something here that I was missing back in Dunland under the Rogalians. Is it the sincerity of everyone’s actions? Is it possible that the people around me are actually trying to do what’s good for everyone, not just their people? Even as I write that, I know that can’t be it. It might be the chaos and tension that’s in the environment that forces people to prioritize survival, but wouldn’t that make people more selfish? This is something that should be studied.

Regardless, things are different now, and it has made me realize how destructive and oppressive my previous environs were. I knew not of an alternative, or even how to change the things that were slowly killing me. It took a disaster to give me the clarity that I need not endure the things I cared not to. I looked for help and found reprieve here in the north. I hope it lasts and that this change of perspective helps me find that which I can hold fast to.

A typical time in Svart’s head:

What are they doing with their Time?
Of course Svart is already here farming.
It’s been almost two weeks since everybody was told to be farming Near Farmhouse.
Oh, a message from Nephele.
Things are going strong and we think the witch is showing their strain.
All the Rogalians aren’t lazy.
Or at least some of them are up by sunrise, or soon after.
They are now sending war dead malefic and vampire spawn at us.
Something is weird going on with the one mage.
First, they, along with another mage, tried to lure Svart away for nefarious reasons.
Each assault is rebuffed. Need some alcohol for the bar. Perhaps salmon schnapps?
The Rogalians continue to attempt to feast off the Dunns like vampires.
Could they actually be vampires?
She has forced the bears to come into town again.
Following them are starving wretches of bandits.
Svart led a mission to put down the malefics and it was successful.
A village was saved and hopefully, their numbers will dwindle from now on.
Later Svart finds out the two are no longer one person.
They have adopted new names.
The real bandits that have always plagued Svart are nowhere to be seen.
I even wore my crown, as to draw them out, but instead I think I put the fear into them.
Could it be that the soul destroying fire magic, described and admitted to by the mage Wolf-Rick, has finally progressed too far with the mage?
It cannot hold onto the other person’s soul any longer to eat it also?
There are deeper mysteries here. Perhaps tied to those of the Gothics.
Need some alcohol for the bar.
Perhaps salmon schnapps?
They hid and never showed themselves.
Did they try and get Svart’s superior soul to try and eat it?
Svart will have to keep an eye on that one to see how far its existence has degraded.
Yes, salmon schnapps.

I did not think it possible for a storm to settle inside a person, but here I am. My heart and stomach raging and howling inside of me, untempered and out of control.

The feast is long over. The candles have burned low. The plates were cleared, all but Tomaso’s. Nephele barked that it remained until he showed up. The other glasses were polished and returned to their place amongst our luggage. The tavern felt quiet though it was filled with the joy of new and old people from Runeheim alike.

Tomaso did not come.

Nephele arranged everything precisely. Ten settings, my good silver, the goblets I forged myself. I selected the wine carefully, one I had been saving, the bottle that deserved an occasion worthy of it, one such as my birthday of course. I had dusted it twice and realigned the label before packing it in our luggage to bring to town. I even rehearsed the moment I would hand it to him, some remark about his atrocious timing and my unparalleled generosity.

Still, he did not come.

At first, I told myself it was maybe the cold winter. The roads are treacherous and the winds are unkind. Perhaps he was delayed at his last crossing before coming to town. Maybe he would arrive late, breathless and apologetic, with some extravagant explanation and a gift too heavy to be practical.

I kept glancing at the door, but it remained closed. All I could see was Graham lingering in the window, sulking, as we awaited our food to be served. Good.

Nephele noticed, of course. She notices everything. She tried to distract me with conversation, with praise for the feastware, with gentle commentary about how beautiful the table looked adorned in my feastware, the meal I prepared “so delicious and satisfying”, I did not acknowledge it. She even tried to have everyone sing happy birthday to me, but my ears were too preoccupied trying to listen for the sound of my brother to hear everyone celebrate me.

Our crew tried to fill up the space that was missing, but all I could bear to feel was my blood boiling progressively hotter with each passing moment that Tomaso did not walk through the door.

They were nice.

They were not my brother.

I took a brief moment of pride shortly after our food was served and I heard that Graham was curled in a ball under a tree sobbing. I hope it was because he realized he is a traitorous little shit and felt bad after I revoked his invitation to my birthday feast. He deserves to cry. Maybe if he cries, I won’t need to.

I had saved Tomaso a seat on my right hand side. It remained empty.

I have always told myself that I am above sentimentality. That I am composed of finer materials than simple longing. I am Aurelia. I host, I dazzle, I command rooms, I craft masterful things at my forge, I am the embodiment of luxury and refinement.

And yet tonight, when I finally returned the unopened bottle to its shelf, I felt like something dangerously close to insignificant. Horrific. A nightmare that became true.

He has never missed my birthday. Ever.

Not when we were children and the cakes were uneven and the ribbons cheap. Not when we were older and the celebrations grew more elaborate. He has always appeared; sometimes late, sometimes smug, sometimes with an excuse already prepared, but he was always there no matter the distance it took him to travel to find me.

I do not know whether to be angry or afraid.

Anger is easier, it has edges, I can mold it, bend it like the steel at my forge. I can decide it was an insult, a lapse in judgment, a failure to prioritize the most important day of the year.

Fear is softer. It slips through my fingertips. What if he takes more after our mother than I had thought? What if, deep down, I’m not his favorite after all? What if he doesn’t love me?

I despise that my mind goes there. I reassure myself that he has no reason to have missed my day but that, when he arrives, it will be something stupid. It feels less impossible and painful to swallow.

Nephele tried to reassure me without saying too much. She placed a steady hand at my back as the guests departed. She did not offer false certainty, she simply said she would look into it.

That is how she loves; quietly, efficiently, without spectacle. Today I hate her for it. I am left here as a spectacle regardless and full of silent rage. I want her to scream and storm the room, publically shame Tomaso for insulting me on my birthday, I want her to make a scene because I have been so deeply and personally wronged. I want to feel justified in my anger. I want her to share my anger.

The feast was flawless. The wine, obviously exquisite – though the bottle intended specifically for Tomaso and myself sat untouched. The table was radiant and the laughter sincere. Yet the seat at my right hand felt like a sore in my mouth that I could not stop tonguing, each time I made contact with it only encouraged it to grow and sting more.

I tell myself he will appear tomorrow with apologies and some absurd story about a washed-out bridge or a stubborn horse. I tell myself I will scold him dramatically and then forgive him magnanimously. But tonight, the tavern feels too large. It feels empty, even while I’m surrounded by new friends.

Though the storm has passed outside, it festers and lingers within me. I am inconsolable.

A storm has rolled in, melodramatic and ill-timed, preventing safe travel for those who intended to attend market weekend. It is, I suspect, a jealous display. Not everyone handles my approaching birthday with maturity.

So I remain at my forge, shaping steel into submission while thunder grumbles overhead. Unlike the sky, I possess patience. Inside the house, however, discipline is a suggestion at best.

It was Nephele’s idea, and mine, brilliantly co-signed, that her wards; Dong Quixote, Damascus Steel, and Cass a’Nueva, might coexist harmoniously with my own formidable trio. A merging of households. The finest Hestralian exchange. A masterpiece of domestic ambition. What we have achieved instead is operatic.

Dong Quixote has appointed himself defender of righteousness in all forms, which currently includes guarding cooling bread from “tyranny.” His bravery is disproportionate to his size and I adore him for it. When he squared off against Abuela Pan Duro’s stern baking regime, I very nearly intervened; out of pride, of course. He recovered admirably after being corrected by a loaf. There is resilience in him. A slightly flour-dusted formidability.

Damascus Steel, ever earnest and methodical, attempted to bring order to Abuela del Ron’s generous distribution of “fortification.” He approached the matter like a scholar of liquids, which she interpreted as a challenge to her authority. The debate that followed was philosophical, emotional, and mildly intoxicating. I watched with great fondness. His seriousness against her exuberance is a thing of beauty.

Last, but not least, Cass a’Nueva; a radiant, poetic man, has become the focal point of Tía Besitos’ unstoppable belief in destiny. She circles him as if he were a tragic prince awaiting discovery. He attempts dignity. He tries to charm. He bravely takes a shot at out-flirting a woman who weaponizes affection. It is adorable. He does not stand a chance.

Nephele is in the center of it all, attempting to maintain peace with the expression of someone who regrets agreeing to this alliance. I can hear her issuing firm instructions, negotiating boundaries, perhaps reconsidering her life choices. It fills me with warmth because I’m so fond of her wards. Truly. They are chaotic in the most sincere ways; brave, earnest, dramatic, and sometimes clever. They bring life into every room they occupy. They clash and tumble, argue and aspire, and it makes this house feel less like stone and timber and more like something alive. Even when Dong Quixote declares a pastry uprising, when Damascus Steel insists on measurable rum allocations, or when Cass accidentally encourages matchmaking sermons, they are splendid. Nephele, after all, deserves the chaos of it all with how much she owes me. Sometimes I catch her clenching her teeth, and this miniscule detail brings me no end of delight.

Between hammer strikes, I step inside to check on them under the guise of inspecting my wine collection. I count each bottle, dust them lovingly, ensure the labels face forward in immaculate alignment. My birthday approaches, and I will choose one bottle worthy of the occasion, one bottle of perfection to share with Tomaso and the rest of this beautiful, exhausting household.

I glance at the feastware I forged myself, polished to a reverent gleam. Ten settings. Balanced and prepared to travel with us to the market as soon as the storm permits.

The storm may howl, and the house may shake with laughter and flour and loud affection. Nephele may sigh in theatrical defeat while throwing her exasperated hands in the air. The truth is this: our home is fuller for their presence, and when the candles are lit and the table is set, and every chaotic, beloved soul gathers beneath this roof to celebrate me, as they absolutely should, it will not just be a feast in my honor.

It will be a feast for all of us.