Category: Journal Entry

This rain though, a bit more than I expected. Not really the trek I wanted to break in my boots with. In my head it wasn’t going to be much walking so it was the right choice, but the woods seem unprepared for what has come. Happy to have Red Spade leading the cart for this one, calmly we ride “their hooves like metronomes on ancient ground”.

Just ahead I see where the rain has done its worst, turned the familiar road into a suggestion, then erased even that. We slow to a stop where the water moves fast enough to lie about its depth, and we sit there listening to it, letting Red Spade breathe and the moment settles. I take a long exaggerated breath as I begin to take off my boots, only so much breaking in I am willing to do today. Roll the pants and jump down into the mud. Feet in the cold, I walk the edge of the stream first, tracing a path where the water hesitates instead of lunges. The flood wants to rush; I want to finish my delivery.
Red Spade already knows what I’m thinking and disapproves. I walk up to him, hand on his neck, steady and familiar. I tell him we’ll be quick, that I wouldn’t ask if I did not think it would work, that he is stronger than the noise and the water and remind him it is Felix’s fault we are out in the rain not mine. Then I have a better thought and I pull an apple from my bag as I promise him a snack if he powers through for me. I bite off a piece of apple and give it to him as a teaser. He chews, considers, flicks an ear like he might forgive me later. That’s enough. I jump back in, dry off my feet and put my boots back on. A confident grip on the reins and point us at the line I found with my own feet.

He goes when I ask, not eagerly, but honestly, which is better. Water climbs his legs, pushes at the wheels, shoves the cart sideways just enough to race my heart. I stay quiet. Red Spade does the work. Then suddenly the ground is solid again, the flood behind us, the road pretending it never tried to kill us. A fist pump and an exclamation as I hop down to give Red Spade the rest of the apple. Landing squarely in a puddle… Up to the knee…

Billy Bob reached the site of the newly established sheep ranch, in a village down in the foothills of the mountain of the fort. Cold, but green pastures. Winterdún Pearroc, “A fenced area of land which is a hill used for keeping sheep in the winter,” Madam Leonora had told him. Seemed as good a place as any for some sheep.

He set to work, built a low hut of turf and pine to shelter the sheep. Took his time to learn the lie of the meadow, setting stone markers and a rough fence – helping the small village live up to its name. He knew that sheep would arrive for him, but not when they would.

Eventually, a small group of the porters arrived with one of the first herds of the village – expecting to find more of the local sheep – small and coarse – he was surprised to find they had brought good Rogalian sheep. Farthington Longwools! He thanked his lady for this chance at breeding such fine stock. They had a hearty appetite but the foothills were vast and verdant.

Watching the sheep explore their new home, he grinned. This was his chance to show his lady what he could really do for her

Watching the sheep graze, Billy Bob remembered the afternoon voices rose against him. He had been minding his own business when a crowd had formed around him. The small mob pressed close, red-faced and sharp-tongued, pointing and shouting at some “Billy” person. This Billy was accused of stripping the land, fencing greedily, and taking extra crops. Billy Bob had been stunned they had mistaken him for this ne’er-do-well. Fortunately the anger passed as quickly as it came, the Knights saw to that. He hoped they found the Billy responsible for the apparent destruction.

As he’d watched the sheep move gently across the slope, the memory had returned. He was surprised such fury had found him at all. Obviously he meant no harm, done farming the same way he’d always done it. He had not cheated anyone. He had only claimed ground no one used and worked it as he always had, trusted his instincts and made sure he and his had the food they needed.

That Billy fellow sure has whatever’s comin’ to him.

Week One

The Early Winter Storm has settled over Runeheim like a sulking god determined to remind us all of our insignificance. The winds don’t simply howl; they accuse. They claw at the shutters each night as if demanding to be let in so they can personally ruin whatever remains of my peace. The rains batter the earth with a steady, relentless cruelty, and the rivers have grown so swollen and rage-filled that even looking at them feels like tempting fate. There will be no reaching the city market anytime soon. We’re stranded at home.

Inside, my home has become the perfect proving ground for despair. I clean one thing, only for something else to fall apart. Clutter migrates like it has a mind of its own. My wards do little to help my mood; Dong pacing like a caged beast, Damascus muttering his half-formed philosophies, and Cass trying to out-perform the thunder with theatrical readings of his newest poetic catastrophes. Every time he compares himself to lightning, I feel a part of my spirit physically wilt.

Aurelia fares no better. She’s been obsessively cleaning around her forge, as though order might somehow hold back the storm’s madness. Her wards; the trio of elderly sages whose sole purpose seems to be dispensing commentary no one asked for, hover at her shoulders offering advice like, “Your spine will regret that posture,” and “Have you considered warming your hands more gently?” One of them said “Fire is a responsibility, dear” and Aurelia nearly dropped her hammer on her own foot.

They’ve begun drifting into my house when they tire of harassing her. I walk into the kitchen to find old women rearranging my spice shelf out of pity, murmuring things like, “She tries, bless her.” I don’t know whether to thank them or throw myself into the violent river.

Morale reached its lowest point this morning, until, miraculously, there was a break in the storm.

A sudden hush.
A stillness.
A crack in the sky where a weak, watery light trickled down like some divine tease.

Not a word was spoken. We all simply looked at each other; and bolted for the door.
Dong charged out first, barefoot and triumphant. Damascus lifted his face to the sky like he’d forgotten what fresh air tasted like. Cass tried to proclaim something poetic about rebirth but got cut off when he slipped in the mud. Aurelia sprinted out of her forge, hair wild, waving her hammer like she’d been released from captivity. Even the three elderly ladies shuffled out as quickly as their joints allowed, gossiping excitedly about “good omens.”

For one fleeting moment, it felt like freedom.

A breath.
A reminder that we are not meant to live like trapped rats.
And then the sky snapped shut.
A single, mocking boom echoed overhead before the heavens unloaded everything they’d been saving.

Sheets of icy rain came crashing down in an instant. Dong screamed something unintelligible. Damascus tripped over a stump. Cass yelled about “divine betrayal.” Aurelia cursed so creatively I’m certain it summoned a minor spirit. The old women somehow moved faster than all of us, herding everyone back inside with surprising authority.

Now the storm is back, angrier than before, as if offended that we dared to enjoy ourselves. The winds rattle the walls with renewed fury. Everything is damp again—clothes, floors, spirits.

Hope feels like a foolish, expensive luxury.

Still… I write this down so that I remember: there was light today. Brief, ridiculous, stolen light.
If the Early Winter Storm wishes to grind us down, it will have to try harder. I have lived through worse than weather—though admittedly, those things didn’t involve being trapped indoors with lunatics and elderly critics.

If tomorrow brings even one moment of calm, we will run outside again.

Lunatics or not.

Even if the storm laughs at us.

Week Two

The Early Winter Storm has now dragged into its second miserable week, proving that it is not a passing tantrum of the sky but a full, calculated act of cruelty. The winds have settled into a pattern—less dramatic, but somehow more oppressive, like the slow exhale of something colossal waiting for us to break. The rain continues its assault, sometimes soft as whispers, sometimes vicious as thrown stones, but always present.

It’s becoming less of a storm and more of… a condition of life.

Inside the house, the atmosphere has soured like spoiled milk.

Dong has stopped pacing and now stares listlessly out the window as though willing the weather to change through sheer resentment. Damascus has entered a phase I can only describe as “prophetic despair.” He sits by the fire making vague pronouncements such as, “The river remembers who we were.” I don’t know what that means and I’m afraid to ask. Cass has fallen into a creative slump, which would be a blessing if it didn’t mean he’s now wandering around sighing dramatically—loudly, constantly, with the weight of the entire world compressed into each exhale. If he sighs one more time near the cooking pot, I swear the stew will sour out of spite.

Aurelia is beginning to fray at the edges. She’s still working at her forge, but the spark in her eyes has dimmed to something brittle, like she’s carefully rationing her sanity. Her trio of elderly matrons, however, remain unwavering in their campaign of well-intentioned torment. This week alone they have: rearranged my kitchen twice, refolded all our blankets incorrectly, informed us daily about the hazards of “sitting too gloomily,” and tried to teach Dong how to knit “to quiet his spirit.” He nearly cried. Truly.

What bewilders me most is their unfazed determination. Storm or no storm, they shuffle around offering commentary on everything from our posture to our emotional deficiencies. One of them told me my aura looked “wilted.” I didn’t know whether to apologize or weep.

The brief break in the rain last week has not repeated itself. We keep hoping for another sliver of sunlight, but the sky remains adamant. Even stepping outside for a moment results in being pelted with sideways rain that feels personal. Yesterday, Cass attempted to open the door to “taste the air for omens,” only for a gust of wind to instantly blow mud into his face. I’m choosing to believe that it was a gift from the gods.
Supplies are holding, but tempers are not. Conversations devolve into arguments over nothing—how many candles should be lit, whether the fire is too hot or too cold, whether Damascus’s “mystical insights” are actual insights or hallucinations from boredom. For the record: they are hallucinations.

Emotionally, I feel… thin. Not in a poetic way; gods forbid I start sounding like Cass, but stretched. Worn. The kind of tired that settles behind the ribs. Every morning I wake hoping to hear silence outside, and every morning the storm assures me that hope is foolish. Early Winter has always been harsh in Runeheim, but this storm feels different. Heavier. Old. Like a memory repeating itself.
Still, we endure. We complain, we bicker, we despair; but we endure.

If Week Three brings even the faintest glimpse of sunlight, I fear we will fling ourselves outside again with even less dignity than last time. And if the sky chooses to betray us once more, well… At this point, we may deserve it.

The Early Winter Storm continues.
And so do we – begrudgingly.

Week Three

The Early Winter Storm has dredged up memories I had long pressed to the back of my mind; storm-torn days that shaped me long before Runeheim ever claimed a piece of my life. Tonight, with the winds rattling the shutters like a persistent ghost, I find myself thinking back to one storm in particular. I must have been nine, maybe ten. Tomaso a few years older. Aurelia only eleven, all skinny elbows and stubborn fire, clutching her father’s oversized cloak around her shoulders.

We were crossing the channel between Hestralia’s coast and the open sea; a trip we’d taken countless times. Tomaso’s uncle (my father) captained the ship, a man who swore he could smell storms the way others smell wine. But even he didn’t smell this one coming.
It swallowed us whole.

One moment the sea was calm; uneasy, yes, but calm. The next, a wall of black clouds rose on the horizon like something alive. I remember the sound most vividly: the crackling roar of thunder so fierce it felt like the sky was splitting open. The waves heaved beneath us, lifting and dropping the ship with violent indifference. The deck became a battlefield of slick ropes and shouting sailors.

Aurelia tried to be brave. She clung to my arm with one hand and the railing with the other, chin trembling but stubbornly raised. A little spark of fire in the middle of all that chaos. Tomaso, ever the silver tongue even then, tried to coax comfort into both of us with soft promises:
“We’ll make it,” he said. “Storms don’t win unless you let them.”
His voice shook, but he said it anyway.

A wave slammed the ship sideways. Aurelia slipped. I lunged to grab her, but she was small, too small, and my fingers brushed only air before Tomaso caught her hood and yanked her back with a strength I swear he didn’t possess yet. He held her against him, shielding her with his whole body as if the sea itself were gunning for her.

We huddled together behind the main mast while the crew fought the storm tooth and nail. The rain stung like thrown sand. The wind tore our voices away. The ocean clawed at the hull. At one point I truly believed we would all be dragged under and claimed by something ancient and hungry.

But the ship held.
The crew shouted.
The sails screamed.
We endured.

I remember the moment the storm finally broke: a thin sliver of morning light piercing through a tear in the clouds. The sea, moments before a raging titan, suddenly rested like a spent beast. Tomaso laughed first; a sharp, disbelieving sound, and Aurelia, still shaking, buried her face against his shoulder and sobbed. I just leaned against the railing, soaked to my bones, watching the sky soften as if it hadn’t just tried to kill us.

That storm taught me something I didn’t understand until years later:

Sometimes survival is less about strength and more about stubbornness.

About holding on; literally, in Aurelia’s case, until the world stops tearing itself apart around you.
Tonight’s storm outside is nowhere near as monstrous as that one was. But it has the same taste of something ancient, something testing us. And remembering that day with Tomaso and Aurelia reminds me of a truth the sea carved into me long ago:
We have weathered worse.

We will weather this.

Snow dusted the beach of the Kaltlina, the heavy flakes quickly piling up on any surface they could stick to. Reason brushed off the powder from their cloak and hair, frustrated; the weather was quickly becoming a nuisance. They were running a check on the materials, ensuring there was enough lumber hauled over and that it would withstand the often treacherous waters of the river. At least the construction of the shipyard was making steady progress, despite the churning waters swollen from recent storms.

Reason felt a sudden tap on their shoulder, startling a little.

A worker had walked up. “Should we call it? We’ve already had someone fall into the river.”

“Are they all right?”

“Yeah, just slipped on ice. Luckily he was over shallow water.”

Reason frowned, peering up at the sky. Dark clouds threatened a blizzard. “It’ll be dark soon anyways. I’d rather lose a few hours of work than a few crew members.”

The worker nodded, trudging off to notify the others. Reason returned to their work, scratching a mark into the bark of any lumber that would need to be repurposed.

The last dregs of sun were hovering just above the horizon, though Reason wasn’t ready to head back to town just yet. They stepped out onto one of the unfinished docks, balancing carefully as they made their way towards the furthest point. With the rushing of water drowning out any other noise, it was peaceful. Perching on an exposed truss, they gazed into the dark water, too murky to see the bottom of, too agitated to see their own reflection in.

For the best, really; mirrors felt jarring as of late.

From the beginning of the memories that were distinctly Reason’s, the Dunn felt more like a tattered cloth than a person, frayed and vulnerable in the wind. But the hollow feeling currently did not come from something missing, but rather from there being too much, like the dread of sorting through a cluttered attic one reluctantly inherits.

Reason was grateful for the amount of work the Reich needed, as any moment not spent asleep or working, their mind spiraled down deeper and darker pathways, wading through memories that felt like someone else’s. At this point, they were someone else’s, these strange ideals and goals that Reason no longer felt any connection to.

As their waking life began with fiery Anacrusis, so did it follow them after they were pulled out of a smoldering pit that had decimated half of a war camp. It dogged Reason’s very footsteps, spreading its rot through everything they touched. Magic came at a cost that O’shea had ignored, which now came to haunt them instead.

Every path that had led O’shea into the arcane had been an accident, every push into the guild a means of self-preservation, every scrap of knowledge a way to demand back power he was never entitled to, every social manipulation an arcane trick to avoid a fight he could never win. O’shea had been too alone, too desperate to see how much it weighed him down. He was a man who chased after the unattainable whilst barely surviving within his own skin.

What Reason did not expect from avoiding magic to lay low was the utter relief it brought. They could lose themselves in their work, in their music, and still feel like a person afterward, that they did not need to spend every minute honing their mind and body into a weapon to be used by an unfeeling warfront. They could connect with others without relying on anything other than the softness of their words. Sure, Reason sought something deeper than themself, but did it really need to transcend that which they could not see or touch?

Yet the more Reason rejected the arcane, the more it seemed to cling to their very skin, as even dire methods barely staved away the worst of it. Every time their back turned, they were burned by embers from a fire they feared they could never put out.

And then there was the poisonous hearth within that burned persistently, the memories and reflexes that were so ingrained into their flesh that Reason wondered if their body was even truly their own. All it would take was one terrible encounter for it all to come flooding back against their will.

It made them want to sink down into the thick mud of the river, where such flames could not follow.

Felix was rubbing his temples as he was going through the requests.
“And you’re certain we didn’t already bring this with us, Gil?”
Nodding solemnly, the Quartermaster assured him, “No, we traveled with only the essentials. Having established the Fort here, requests have been piling up for various equipment only found in the County. There was no way we could have brought this with us on that first trip.”
“Lets review the list then – I don’t want us sending a bunch of the boys out for something we can acquire or craft out here of appropriate quality.”

Gilbert looks a little tired, but tapped his quill against the ledger and begins the review without comment. “Alfred wants a fresh bellows skin, says hides up here don’t produce the same quality.”
Felix nods “He’s the expert.”

“Your brother wanted new boots.”
“He… convinced me. I know the cobbler to contract. Soft leather lining, wide toe, good Valerian leatherwork.” he tapped his own boot, “Same as the rest of us.”

Sir Minona requested dice, a folding table, and a screen. “For simulations,” Gilbert said.

Lady Lorelei requested silk ribbons, rosewater, a velvet lined box for letters, and a small mirror.

Sir Jaqueline’s list followed, the Quartermaster did not comment. Felix waved it through. The Knights got what they wanted.

Madam Leonora asked for shelving brackets, a press for flattening damp pages, and a bell to mark quiet hours. “That won’t survive a week,” Gilbert said. “Guy should be able to make a press – but let’s get the bell from home.”

Callie wanted a specific kind of chalk that comes from some cliffs in one of the County’s northern regions. “They don’t have chalk up here?” Felix asked.
“The taste is wrong for the job, apparently.” Gilbert answered.

Lucian needed a specific set of gears, surplus rivets, three identical measuring rods in case one proved wrong, and a few measuring chains from his workshop. “Sensible,” Gilbert noted, “If tedious.”

Rowan’s requests were practical as always. Some specific types of needles, some specific colors of thread, and a specific soap. “For washing out blood.”

Woodsman asked for spare wedges and a single iron spike. “For when trees argue,” Gilbert said.
Felix waved his hand, dismissing the request “Lets get Alfred on that, then. He makes all manner of argument-enders”
…and a whetstone from a particular quarry. “He swears others don’t sing right,” Gilbert said. Felix lowered his hand in clear defeat.

Tiffany’s list of reagents wasn’t clear if it was for potions or for making the meals taste a bit more like home.

Billy Bob was asking for some bells for the livestock, twine, and a book on northern soils. “Not that he can read.” Gilbert noted.
“Maybe he wants Leonora to read it to him,” Felix posited.

“Anything for Silvester?” asked Felix.
Gilbert shook his head. “He says he can take care of whatever he needs from what’s available.” Felix nodded with satisfaction.

The Quartermaster closed the ledger at last. “An army of specialists,” he said. “All of them convinced the world ends if they lack one small comfort.”
Felix sighed wearily. “Then we ship in the comforts. Lets get some lads to head south with Mitch. When people feel prepared they make themselves useful. And that’s how things get done.”

Along the winding trail where dust doth rise,
And sunlight weaves through canopies of gold,
Our wagon moves beneath the open skies,
A steadfast craft through wilderness untold.

Three comrades dear sit solemn by my side,
Their presence firm as stone in evening’s breath;
Through forest deep and over plains wide,
They share each mile, each silence, and each depth.

The horses lead with calm, unyielding pace,
Their hooves like metronomes on ancient ground;
While distant peaks stand guard in solemn grace,
As though they mark the path where we are bound.

So rolls our caravan through fate’s design—
For truest strength is theirs, and wholly mine.

If I am being honest, I have been awake the whole time. Having a brother who is always talking you would think would train you to sleep through the chatter, but I have remained a light sleeper. I can only act like I care about Sil’s hunts, or the two in the front plan through how to optimize storage space so many times. That is the big advantage of the hat, tilt it over your eyes and none are the wiser.

I am being ungrateful though, as Gil wrote “Yet truest bond is friendship’s gentle thread” and having us all together for a trip like this is becoming rarer and rarer. What I have been thinking about though are the new boots I was able to convince Felix to let me buy. They are the updated version of the boots I, and the majority of the crew currently have. The sole on these are a bit more rigid which should help with the rockier terrain I have been running through lately. Really though, the main driver for the new boots are that my current pair are too small. Plus we all know I enjoy being just a bit different than the group.

On my run this evening, for the first time in a long time, it felt easy. Not effortless, but focused honest effort. The trail wound between the pines, and my legs responded exactly as I had been hoping they would after these past few months of training. The ache in my knee is manageable, my heart remained steady, and the second guessing of the path ahead subsided. All I felt was the steady rhythm of my feet on the dirt and the cool air urging me forward. It was not from the beginning but it came shortly thereafter as the trees opened up and I realized I wasn’t fighting the run anymore, I was part of it. All those late nights and long stubborn treks have finally turned into something real. Now I am doing nothing but celebrating the run ahead of me at the end of this week, the longest of my life. The vision I have been refining for months has become clear enough to feel. My success impending, my day of celebration.