Category: Journal Entry

Svart thought back and remembered his dream and the events afterward.

The White Rabbit and others had come to him with knowledge of the thing he would need to win against the witch and her minions. As she tried to tell Svart where it was, the woods grew dark and the witch approached and which caused her to flee. The White Rabbit who always spoke the truth was very skittish. The birds of the forest, led by the Great Owl, told Svart they would leave clues to where the thing Svart sought would be. It would be hidden in the wilderness inside their eggs and he should search their eggs. That was all they could say before the darkness ended his dream and Svart woke up.

That morning was as close as Svart can remember to being his birthday. Not sure which one. Somewhere over fifty perhaps by a year or two. Svart was born in that shack. The shack mother had me in and we lived afterwards. The shack Svart still lives in. It is much better now than it was. Svart has repaired it. Svart has nice bedding now. Nice soft smallclothes. Fine boots. A rug. A foldling fan. All that Svart has made.

Svart is better than when lived with mother. Svart is a man now and good at being hardworking and dependable. Just as mother told him to be. Svart still gets up early to clean the tavern and see if people had thrown away any items on the ground just as mother made me do. Till I do that, and head to the fields or woods to gleen what I can there, the day just doesn’t feel right. His mother would be proud to have all the items he had now.

Even then, the past never lets things feel right. His Love is gone. Killed by the Witch and her bandits obviously. Svart sometimes wishes she was just taken prisoner, but it has been so long. When Svart becomes King, it will never be as it should. His marriage and queen will have to be for strategy and politics.

Then something had happened before market. A sickness had come over Svart and all the people of Runeheim. A mark had also appeared on everybody including Svart’s head. The mages certainly had something to do with this. Fire mages particularly since it was their symbol. It was an ill omen.

Still, Svart had a treasure to find. Svart went into the woods. Searching all the places I know where to find bird eggs. There was nothing unusual with most of them. Most looked normal. Others were had a strange shininess to them. I broke them open but found only yolk. Still, Sart felt he was getting closer. Finally, a strange egg I did find. Shiny like gold. I broke it open and searched the insides. The yolk poured through my hand and left teeth. Wolves teeth. I knew where the treasure was, but to far to go today. Svart returned to the forum.

However magic spirits attacked that night. They attacked and walked invisible among us infecting people’s minds with magic. The spirits attacked and the sickening magic built up in Svart until it couldn’t be restrained any more. Svart began to vomit out the magic. Svart was forcing it out when I heard somebody say “Don’t ask the magic monsters any questions. They know the answer to any question but it just makes them stronger.” Svart tried to get up to tell them to be quiet, but the urge to get the magic out of my body was too strong. Svart could not do anything but vomit and think of how they had just told the traitors and spies in Runeheim how to find out all our secrets.

The vomiting was stopping but it was too late. Svart laid there thinking about how everything he might keep secret from the Witch was now known. His love was gone. Svart’s allies would be killed or worse. She knew everything and it drove Svart into Despair. There was nothing I could do. All hope was lost. To save himself, I’d have to go into hiding. Give up my birthtright as king and my duty to his allies and friends. Others would die without Svart there. Runeheim might not even survive. Svart felt that this is what he would have to do to to survive for his own benefit. His friends in the wilderness. His subjects and allies in Runeheim. All have to be sacrificed for him to survive.

NO! No, Svart told myself. Svart would not be afraid! I was a man now. Nobody could make me do what I didn’t want to do. Svart was not a child now and could kill any who would try to make Svart do what he didn’t want to do. He could run and then extract vengeance as he did in the past. Svart could not abandon his friends and allies. The Witch could only feed off Svart giving up. Without him, there was no hope for the world against the Witch and her masters, the Witch Kings. Svart would not give up! Svart would fight. Svart would win or die! If Svart dies, my blood will go back to the land and give it power.

Svart finished vomiting and stood back up. The monsters had stopped their attack and were no longer to be seen. Our enemies had made use of them and lured them away asking questions of all our secrets. The bandits, the witch, the other countless enemies of the people of Runeheim were using them against us. The speed which the traitors in Rune Hime had worked was astounding. It was obvious that they must be ferreted out and killed as until they are, the Witch will always know everything.

The next morning, Svart left Runeheim. Svart went to where I needed to go, far away. The hilltop was wooded but empty. Svart looked all over. Going round and round the area to see if there was anything I had missed. But there was nothing there. It was gone. The thing the White Rabbit had sent him after was gone. Had they managed to move it before the witch got here, or did the witch get it? That is the question.

This entry is a sad one. The lady was hosting a fabulous tea party with the wizard. It was nice to enjoy a quiet morning of luxury filled with family and friends. Of course fate was determined to ruin my nostalgia. Sadly a few bears had wondered up. I was hoping this was finally my moment to make a bear friend, had they herd the rumors about me and come for snakes. After attempting to negotiate peace with the amazing creatures with food and kindness, we came to the conclusion that they where corrupted and had to be put down. This brought me great sadness even more it there intrusion offend the lady and my sister at the tea party

In other news I watched two of my allies get their thoughts slit in front of me, they survived. From now on all missions I go on will have post briefings to discus how we could do better.

P.S. journal I think I made a friend.

When midnight’s veil doth cloak the shrouded lands,
And owls cry out in ruined, ivy halls,
I seek thee, Sleep, with open, aching hands,
And flee the world within thy shadowed thralls.
Thou art no thief, but bring’st a peace so deep,
More fair than love, more true than daylight’s grace.
Each breath I take within thy house of sleep
Leaves dream-born roses blooming o’er my face.
Disturb me not, lest death itself ye crave,
For by my flintlock, loaded, sharp, and keen,
I guard this rest more dearly than the grave,
And curse the soul who dares to come between.
So let the wind wail low, the night be steep—
For none shall wake me from my hallowed sleep.

The sun hung low as the old fort bustled with the sounds of a new life—wood scraping stone, tools clinking, shouts echoing off weather-worn ramparts. A new structure was tucked up against the walls, though the stone matched the Fort surrounding it, its timbers new and still smelling of sap and sweat. The Valerian Porter’s new Warehouse.

Felix, chief porter for the Valerian Porters, wiped his brow, setting down a crate and overseeing the final unloading of cartloads—grain, preserved foods, miscellaneous tools. He stood tall, his voice clear and commanding.
“Stack the rye near the east wall. It’ll keep cooler there,” he called out in Rogalt to the porters hauling the crates in. They made a sound of affirmation and moved eastward.
Gilbert, the warehouse’s quartermaster and poet laureate, was leaning against the wall near the entrance, his feathered hat shading tired eyes. “I still say we should’ve left the grain near the gate. Easier for offloading to the mess.”
Felix shook his head. “And easier for looters. No, we keep the stores where stone walls watch over them.”
He frowned, recalling what had happened while they were dealing with whatever those anacrusis… things were that the Fire Mages brought on them. He gave a small prayer of thanks his brother had been away from Forum for it.
He looked back to Gilbert “What do you think of the warehouse?”
“Fine place, Felix,” said Gilbert as he tapped on a ledger, the quill matched his hat. “Better than that leaky shed in Brackenford.”
Felix grimaced at the memory. “Only benefit was you never had a chance to nap in there, ‘it’s too chilly.’ Not like this last Forum”
Gilbert stretched in response to the memory. “While you were fighting off rituals and Rimelanders, I was preparing—for logistics, mentally.”
Felix shot him a look. “Sure. ‘Mentally preparing’ by napping through an assault.”
“I absorb the glories of war through dreams.” Gilbert grinned. “Victory’s exhausting, even secondhand.”
Felix sighed in mock exasperation. “You’ve got uncanny timing. One of these days you’ll sleep through a dragon.”
“Maybe I have. Hard to tell with all the snoring.”
They laughed, the sound echoing through the half-full hall. Outside, some porters offloaded the last of the barrels and began to move it into the warehouse.
“Besides, it gave me some inspiration, ‘I seek thee, Sleep, with open, aching hands, And flee the world within thy shadowed thralls.’” Gilbert clearly dictated as the two moved back into the courtyard, out of the way of the porters. Felix gave him the same look he always did when he shared his poetry. Supportive confusion.

“Strange to think this courtyard held bones and gargoyles just a season ago,” Gilbert mused, squinting at his ledger and making a mark as a porter hauled past with a barrel of dried lentils. “Now it’s grain, arrows, and some new wagons.”
“That and Java’s apology.” Felix shook his head in incredulity. “Say, you heard about that bomb Lucian got delivered to him, right? We’ll need to make sure to keep a real close eye on what’s moving into the warehouse.”
“That one that Peter delivered?” Gilbert shook his head “Disappointing to hear the people that Lord Xavier has surrounded himself with.”
“Ever the younger sibling, Lord Xavier.” Felix sighed, “I would have hoped he kept better company. Taking her Ladyship’s scraps does not look well on him. Hopefully he will be guided by her Ladyship in etiquette and constructing a reliable retinue. Did you hear about that carpenter he picked up, Brightwood? Used to work in the Port with Guy, claiming Guy was always his understudy. Haughty, a little unkempt. Honestly, I would have guessed he was drawn with my left hand.”
Gilbert visibly perked up at the news, “No, which means if it was true Guy would have mentioned it. He moving in the market already?”
Felix shrugged, “I’m sure he’s gonna be trying to show up Guy soon, something to watch for.”
Gilbert grinned, while there was some mirth there, there was something threatening about it. “It’ll be good to see him try.”
“That reminds me, we’ve got Peace Day coming up soon. You planning to make any peace this year?”
Gilbert shook his head “I made my peace last year before we left port.” he smiled at the memory.
Felix returned the smile “Ah, that fool’s gold you gave that mariner really did shut him up didn’t it. He had a great laugh about it after the shock wore off.” Gilbert raised an eyebrow to Felix, returning the question.
Felix just shrugged. “If anything, I’m hoping a few people come to me. We’ll see. If the Njords accepted something as ridiculous as Tressertag from the Gothics, I hope they took on a more civilized holiday like Peace Day. I’ve tried to… inform a few parties that the holiday is forthcoming though. I sincerely hope Sir Logain makes amends with Her Ladyship over his behavior.” He sighed heavily.

Gilbert leaned against the exterior of the warehouse, and tucked his quill and ledger away, having marked the last of the barrels entering the warehouse. “Word is your brother’s doing better.”
“Yeah,” Felix said, smirking as he looked past Gil, “He’s been working odd jobs—messenger, light hauling. Nothing that has anything to do with Magic.” A hand reached out and touched Gilbert’s shoulder, and two voices spoke in unison as the distinctive sound of a flintlock hammer being drawn back rang out, “Making himself useful. That’s how things get done.”

More responsibility, an oath, and already more troubles. Leadership outside of my house feels thankless. I can’t weigh in too heavily, and all of these differing ideals make creating a system that runs itself impossible. These people must make decisions for the land they live in and take accountability. But really? A pub? Over almshouses? And after the aghast defense of the war trodden when I offered up the Conscription Prison as a solution to the Scum problem. You’d think I’d slit their mothers’ throat in her sleep. Shelter, food, and training. Structured so as to stave off the despair of sudden levies. What do these people want for those giving nothing back to society, unable or not? Granted, the bare logic of its name is perhaps too blunt for understanding outside of Rogalia. But it seems they think Scum all babes in the cradle rather than a threat to the working populace they are.

Somehow, despite this forum being more taxing than last, the arrival of Lorelei and Leonora made it seem lighter. Our cheer seemed four-fold with Lorelei returned, and the reliable silhouette of Leonora eased my worries. The news of vampires they brought with them was more than unwelcome. I cannot believe the creatures had hidden themselves so far north. The fallout of the battle at the Monastery and all those compromised leaves me worried. Should I be thankful this is an enemy I am familiar with? Or should I be dreading that what I believe I know is nothing in comparison to what is lurking here? The matter of Alu is already something I feel unprepared to understand. The man, thing, was struck down only to get back up, and even those native to this land seem to have no clear answer.

I can do nothing, but that which I can. We cleansed the Fort, and that, at least, is a worry laid to rest. We will be able to build up a force there and lay groundwork for stability. Men and arms will be needed whatever comes, and House Valerian will see that it does its part. Despite the Drake’s sniffing about. My guess is they will make some play for the fire mages which were abandoned at the Fort. Which, I am informed, they were told of last forum. If the foppish man they have sent is any indication, I fear there will be delays in all proceedings.

I pray that candles lit at home for Soldier’s Day stayed lit till the morning. Father Erasmus kindly blessed our candles for the event. It was an odd celebration visiting graves unknown to us, and without the stories connected to them shared around a fire. But something in the ritual of the Howling Flame and the oath made there held a kindred spirit. In the end, the fire burned hot all the same.

We arrived in Runeheim, and, unsurprisingly, were beset with a challenge before we could reach the township proper. Jacqueline found some respite in the fight, but its lack of an end left him on edge. Without Lorelei here I must admit I have let him run rampant. We both miss her, and nothing else but battle will temper him in her absence. Luckily, there came an end to his challenge. The branded woman, controlled by some Njordic thing called Alu came back. Unluckily, the other branded in town were also brought under Alu’s control, along with soldiers of Fafnir. We were able to stave off casualties, even amongst those under control, but it was a tough thing. The war front has led many to strike more than needed at time. With the supernatural mixing in with the humane I can’t say I’m surprised.

Besides this there was a disease of stone that moved through the populace. Unearthed from a fort which was broken open and revealed a crypt. I can’t help but feel as if this lingering despair is something that the members of House Randal felt as the plague swept over them. If I can, I will take it upon myself to take charge of the fort. It will relieve the strain on current leadership so they may focus elsewhere, and I am confident my people can lay this curse to rest.

Lady Vindicta Dragomir was poisoned at her own court. Do these nobles feel so secure they have no one check their food or drink? Especially when drinking with a Rennet. The play seems too bold to truly be done by Rennet’s hand. At least, not without someone else controlling it. What with the uncertainty at the time as to who would rule in this land, and now knowing Fafnir was compromised by a malefic. It all seems a mess.

Of all this I found solace in the woods. They are deep and ancient here. Not the clear cuts and new growth hastily tended to of Rogalia. If I could I would spend my days in them completely. To be without duty is a luxury I know I cannot afford, and so the woods become yet another among them. Here they have a ritual to stave off the cold bite of winter, so that the forest makes it through to the spring. The being that came upon us at the Grand Tree was cold, unsettling. I thank those that were with me for holding it off as I spoke the chant. I know Theopania suffered dearly for it. In the end we were successful, and something spoke to me with care. Perhaps the Grand Tree, perhaps my own pain addled and exhausted mind. If it was this, and not war and politics, how much more warmth would I have the luxury of bathing in?

Week 1
The cold has returned, creeping into everything. The wind bites. The stone walls seem to whisper, hollow with the sound of nothing. Winter in Runeheim feels less like a season and more like a judgment. The silence outside is the same as the one inside me.

I keep thinking about Santiago.
He hasn’t said it, not directly, but I see it in the way his hands linger on the edges of things—his pack, his coat, the ship manifest he pretends not to study. He’s leaving. Back to the sea. Back to wherever he calls home.

And I—I’m staying.

I could’ve asked him to stay. Gods, I could’ve told him the truth. That I needed him. That the thought of him leaving made it hard to breathe. But I didn’t. I smiled. I laughed. I acted. I’m good at pretending. I’ve always been. Hestralia taught me that—how to use charm like armor, how to turn pain into performance.

He never saw the desperation. Not once.
But I think about it now, in the stillness. How easy it would’ve been to lie, just a little. To say I needed help with the wards, that the bar couldn’t run without him. I could have invented any excuse. Why didn’t I?

Why wasn’t I selfish?

Week 2
The fire barely keeps the chill out. Santiago moves like a man already halfway gone. And I still say nothing.

Every moment feels fragile. Every word we speak is wrapped in pretend ease, but the goodbye is there, always humming beneath it. I clean obsessively, organize the same bottles and linens again and again just to stay moving. Just to stay sane.

I want to scream.

Instead, I smile and pour him his favorite drink. I tell him stories like I’m not breaking. And he thanks me, like I’m doing him a kindness, not carving out my own heart and handing it to him wrapped in honey and lies.

He still doesn’t know. And maybe that’s my fault.

Week 3
I caught myself reaching for his hand today. He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did and let it slide. We’re living in a soft denial—one we both know will end with the tide.

I hate him for leaving.

No. That’s not fair. I hate myself for letting him.

Tomasso mentioned the forum again—just once, in passing, like he knew better than to press. He said Runeheim changes with the thaw, that things bloom here when the snow pulls back.

Maybe. But right now, everything inside me is frozen.

Week 4
Santiago’s departure is close now. I watch him sleep and wonder if this is the last time I’ll see him like this. I memorize the slope of his nose, the rhythm of his breath, the way he murmurs my name in dreams. I want to wake him. I want to beg him to stay.

But I won’t.

When he wakes, I’ll smile and hand him tea. I’ll joke about the weather. I’ll watch him go like it’s just another errand. And then I’ll break, alone.

Week 5
He’s gone.

I stood on the dock, hands clenched inside my sleeves, head high. I watched him walk away and never once let him see me cry.

I should’ve stopped him. I could’ve.
I could’ve told him the truth. That he made this place bearable. That I didn’t care about the sea, or his home, or his promises. I only cared that he was here. With me.

But I didn’t. I acted.

I waited until he was gone before I let myself fall apart. Now the rooms are too quiet. The bed too cold. The silence in Runeheim no longer just surrounds me—it lives in me.

Week 6
I tried to lose myself in routine, but the wards won’t let me.

Three grown men—once Hestralia’s finest charms-for-hire—now under my roof and somehow more exhausting than they ever were in their prime. I took them in out of pity. Or guilt. Or loneliness. I honestly don’t remember anymore.

Dong Quixote still walks around half-clothed and dramatically quoting his old client poems like someone’s paying to hear them. He insists it’s “for morale,” but the only morale it affects is mine, and not in the direction he thinks. Damascus Steele, who used to have noblewomen eating out of his hand, now insists he’s become a master chef. He isn’t. If I hear the words “secret aphrodisiac blend” again while he’s dumping cinnamon into stew, I may bury him in the snow. And Cassius A’Nuevo—gods help me—he just broods in the corner like a sulking cat, chiming in only to criticize the others, or recite dramatic soliloquies from his stage days when he’s had too much mulled wine.

They are loud, stubborn, petty, infuriating… and I care for them.

I feed them. I keep them warm. I referee their absurd arguments about whose pillow is softer or who snored during whose shift. But they don’t know what it costs me. They don’t see how much I’m carrying, how every little act of care is done with trembling hands behind a practiced smile.

And still, they remind me that I’m not alone. That I’m needed. That I’m still here.

And they remind me I need coin. The forum is coming. I need to put food on the table, refill the stores, earn enough to keep us through what’s left of winter. I need to be seen again—not for Santiago, not even for the wards—but for me.

Week 7
I’ve begun preparing for the forum. Slowly. Carefully. The bar won’t run itself, and the wards certainly won’t do anything useful. Packing the bottles, checking the mixes, cleaning the linens—it helps. It gives my hands purpose when my heart still feels heavy.

I’m not ready.

But I can’t let the memory of Santiago be the only warmth I carry. I need something new. Someone new, maybe. Not to replace him—he was never mine to keep—but to remind me I can still feel.

Maybe there’s room for someone else in this space he left behind.

Maybe.

Week 8
The snow is thinner now. Meltwater runs in quiet little rivers through the stone alleys. People are talking about the thaw like it’s a miracle. I don’t feel it yet.

But I’m trying.

I have to believe that things can change. That I can.

I’m not expecting love. I’m not even expecting kindness. But maybe there’s someone out there who will make me feel a little less like I’m pretending all the time. Someone who won’t need a performance.

I’ve lived too long in silence. It’s time to speak, to laugh, to feel again.

Even if just a little.

Week 9
We’re nearly ready.

The booth is packed, the bar supplies arranged, and the wards are… marginally less useless than usual. I may actually survive this trip without throttling one of them.

I’m afraid. Not of the travel, not even of the forum, but of being seen again. What if I don’t know how to be charming anymore? What if my smile cracks too easily now?

I’ll wear it anyway. I always do.

But maybe this time, I’ll let the mask slip—just a little.

Maybe I’ll let someone see the woman behind it.

Maybe it’s time.

There had been so much chatter about malefic, about anacrusis, about faith, about this, about that…. It was nice just to have someone sit down with me at 1:00 am and say, “Tell me about your day…”

Well, it was an early start with Java preparing for her folkwise celebration. So I got up with her and made some coffee and a little breakfast. Then went to attend some guild tasks as requested, and back over to the folkwise to enjoy the remainder of the walk through the woods. It was lovely, you should consider joining the town in its seasonal celebrations.

Following this was a wonderful tea hosted by Lady Valarian. Have you tried any of the pastries they make? Such a treat. Tea went long so it was right back to guild tasks afterwards and a meeting with one of my mentors. There’s been a lot going on lately and it was nice to have a check in with them and get some advice.

Afternoons are always a nice time to relax and work on paperwork. I’m sure you have lots of that as well so I won’t bore you with the details. Late afternoon the town assembles for court with our local sovereign, Lady Dragomir, and we take the time to discuss business around town. Important topics, town finances, old business, new business, grievances, etc…I stepped into the position of court mage, which will act to be a point of contact for folks in town regarding arcane occurrences, and other issues of the sort. Should at least help keep town leadership updated on these things.

Then of course the day was starting to get late and lunch had been a looooong was off so it was time to get dinner together. It’s still a bit chilly this spring so I opted to get a large pot of beef and barley together, with some bread and little cheese for snacking. I had to chase down my guild mates to ensure they ate, you know how academic types can be always chasing after the next book. After dinner, Ragnar led a huge portion of the town out somewhere, I’m not sure where, but they seemed successful upon their return? You’ll have to ask him about it, I don’t really have any details on what occurred there right now.

Anyway, that brings us back to a bit earlier than now. There had been a bit of an arcane mishap that led to some anacrusis issues which is what we were just doing outside of the tavern now. Fortunately, all of that seems to have settled for now, so we’ll get back to resolving that in the morning. Potentially discuss it over coffee tomorrow with other guild members present to see their thoughts on the situation and hopefully move forward? Ahh, ahh anyway. What time is it?

Oh? Anyways that’s how my day went for the most part. Thanks for asking.

Rowan’s hands cupped my face, “Your not going to leave me to do this on my own, are you?”

The gesture was heartbreaking.

Grabbing her hands into mine, I couldn’t help but respond with the harsh truth, “I have done it alone long before you’ve arrived, if anything happens to me I fully believe in you.”

‐————————————

Java’s feet kicked in the creek as she thought back on that night, the water still touched by the chilly remnants of the winter. The sharp bite of cold felt good on her skin, a reminder of how strong she is even in the recent darkest of days.

How strong everyone has been becoming.

The turn of the season only bringing redemption and favor.

“So, Java. This one wyrd touched?” Ormhildr held up a fresh caught salmon for her to look over. He was a funny old man, always insisted she minded herself and care over Ura and Jorg as a priority. But recently shes felt compelled to visit her neglected ward.

Yes he could take care of himself, but as her eyes looked over the fish they drifted, now focusing only on his marred hand. His thumb and first finger all that was left.

“Looks fresh and healthy to me.” She gave him a nod, then looked back over the rippling water and nature that was blooming with the colors of Spring.

The fish was flopped into the basket between them and he recasted his line, “It’s not yer fault, y’know that.”

She always shy’d away from this subject. In truth it was her fault, she was the one who held the knife. She who was ordered to remove a finger for each time she had refused to cast for Marzana, three times to learn this lesson. Yet here he was always comforting her and calmly reassuring her like a grandfather would.

“There’s a Rogalian noble house at Runehiem. You should see the shade of purple they wear.”

“Royal color, eh?” He let out a low husky laugh, he was never bothered by the changes in subjects. They’ve had the conversation often but the wounds have long been healed and forgiven.

“They brought vampires with them…”

All Ormhildr ever wanted was a good story when she was around so for the next hour she gave him a dramatic re-telling of the vampire in the monestary, the mind controll, the battles. The entire time she spoke his eyes were closed and a small smile on his face as if he was watching the entire scene play out in his mind.

“They’re okay now” she had just finished the part of the story where she had acted against them during the battle against the vampires, “well maybe not Damian, but hey I’ve given the nobles an abundance of gifts as an apology. I think they thought I was going to give myself up to Marzana or something.”

The fishing line tensed but he wasn’t acting on it, “Why would they think that?”

Turning towards him, his gaze hard set on her, a worn look of pain, misery, and worry written all over him.

“Because she’s back.”

The two stared at eachother, reading the small expressions on eachothers face, a silent conversation being held between the two.

Marzana was back, with horns, the usual dying of constant hunger for power, and now as of recently an ultimatum for Java.

“So the Vulgaris are a group of rogue mages,” Java broke the silence again shying away from the risk of a truth she couldn’t yet face, not infront of him.

Ormhildr’s brows furrowed but released quickly, his demeanor returning to his usual self. A new line casted for the next fish.

“They messed a friend up pretty bad, so I returned the favor. Of course that led to an invitation and right as we were getting ready to deal out magic justice, they opened their mouth and I became a fool. A quick witted and charming Gothic, can you even believe that?”

The laughter that came from him, warmed her and settled the nerves that were acting up and only encouraged her share her stories with him.

Spring is a time for redemption and favor.

The agent of House Drake, Lord Gilbert Drake, stared at me in the tavern, blanketed in an aura so smug it was almost physical. Perhaps it was some sort of new fire magic the degenerates in Torchgutter had developed.
“Give me the unit of mages under your command, Sir Lorain,” the pompous second son of the likely related said.
”No.”
”I do not like being told no. It makes me angry,” he said.
”No one likes being told no Drake, but no. Fuck off.” I told him.
Sir Dipshit Drake then proceeded to unleash a flood of magic against me, and only my reflexes saved me. I felt the heat of the flames brush my skin, damn near leaving me sunburnt. I watched Java rise from her place at the table with a look of unadulterated rage on her face.
”No you don’t!” She shouted, forming arcane signs with her hands as Drake attempted to follow up his first attack.
Nothing. Apparently her efforts had cut him off. I went for my blade but the weasel proceeded to run while yelling insults and threats. I let him go so that I might return to my feast in progress and finish compiling the latest orders for aunt Tahliya.
”I’m gonna need your support when they inevitably come back causing trouble,” Java said.
”You have it,” I told her. “I won’t let the worm get away next time.”
The next morning I arose to hear my name shouted by a vaguely familiar voice. I was newly rousing and headed to do my morning business when I saw Hans, the mentor of the fire mages. Before I could reply to him, he unleashed a flurry of magic on me, dropping me to the ground. My bodyguard, Butch, the lovely man that he is, saw it was time to intervene, and struck Hans. Unfortunately, Hans had wrapped himself in vile fire magic, causing a retributive strike on Butch, dropping him as well. Hans turned to me, and stopped my bleeding.
”Give me those fire mages you refused to give Lord Drake,” he shouted. “This is guild business, not noble matters.
Little did Hans the obviously insane know, he had just made it noble matters by assaulting me.
“I would have been more than happy to hand them over had blanket demands by a rival faction of my homeland not vaguely demand them and then attack me. You knew these mages were in the forum and under my command. Communication is key, Hans.”
He threw another fucking fireball at me.
Thadeus pulled me off the floor, and had he been armed I would have insisted we strike the villain down then and there, after all, Butch had gotten quite close and triggered whatever contingency he had in place. Java and Sygrun saw to Butch, and we both rose. Dr. Heimr, the saint of a man he is, started seeing to my healing getting me back on my feet.
As I recollect these events to keep them clear in my mind and for posterity in case the mad dog seeks me out again, I prepare the letter I will be sending home. A noble agent of House Drake had struck me publicly. We may not be in Rogalia where the Pactum Domini reigns supreme, but damages would be claimed, or I would claim Gilbert’s life blood.
As for Hans Flamehand, mad dog of the fire guild, when a good animal goes rabid, you don’t keep it alive for the sake of the hard work it had done previously, you do the humane thing and you put it down. A fucking peasant struck me with his sorcery, and this would not stand. Let’s see how your magic stands against the laws of the emperor, Hansy boy.