Minona, Late Winter 610

Minona squared up to the training dummy once more, thoughts of the forum’s events driving away her exhaustion as she swung.

Lightning coursing down her sword and arcing into the ground. Rhyme’s fireball bursting against her chest, stopped only by her chainmail. Alu and that vampire’s poisonous whispers worming their way into her head. Staring a vampire down, her sword hand stuck to the slippery-sharp mass of strings as if glued.

Is any of this sword practice going to help you if you just get your mind turned against you again? Are you a dog that craves a leash, stumbling as soon as your lady isn’t there to keep an eye on you?

Minona swung too hard and the blade bit through the straw padding to the wooden post underneath. She dropped out of her stance to wrench it back out, and checked the edge. Desiderata was unharmed, of course, but it was a good habit to have.

Sloppy. God would only guide her blade if she had proper control of it.

And God was still with her. He had still protected her and Jacqueline even when Malachi’s gifts faltered. She could rely on that, even in these dark lands.

There had been good times at forum as well. Commanding a gargoyle’s attention while Damian circled around behind it. Fighting back-to-back with Jacqueline against the Ironbloods. Hunting in the woods with Callie and Alfred and Tiffany.

And it was good to be back in a soldier’s camp. She wasn’t familiar with the Rennet county Rogalt these soldiers spoke, but the cadence was familiar and she could laugh along with the jokes.

Minona sheathed her blade – better to stop now than to make a more serious mistake – and started on cool-off stretches.

The weather was finally turning, breaking the grip of frost at least for a little while. The sun’s heat draped across her shoulders and brought a prickle of sweat under her armor.

She lived. Her lady lived. There was still time to recover, to train, to face the next threat stronger.

Hazardous Waste Removal, Winter LA610

Surveying the once-cursed fortress with a sense of cautious relief, Felix took a deep breath. The air no longer hummed with magic, but the aftermath was a chaotic mess of debris, scattered stonework, and shattered furniture. Purposefully organizing the other porters to clear away the remnants, he moved slowly through the rubble, his gait irregular because of injuries sustained fighting the vampire spawn. If he focused on delegating tasks efficiently it kept his mind off the pain. The cursed fortress, now cleansed, still felt heavy with the ghosts of its past. Lucian’s counsel that we needed to finish the clearing of the catacombs to truly lay the curse to rest was driving their efforts.

Gilbert was sifting through the wreckage nearby, his fingers brushing over discarded weapons and armor of indeterminate age and disrepair, pausing only to mutter a line of verse. “The stars, like watchful eyes in heaven’s dome…” His mind seemed split between cataloging supplies and weaving some new poetry. Felix is again reminded that he could never understand how Gilbert’s mind worked, but he appreciated his acumen and candor regardless.

As Felix surveyed the wreckage, he couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him. Damian was off at Runeheim’s Church, recovering from the touch of the Vulgaris. What other trouble were those mages brewing in the shadows? He gave a small prayer of thanks to Benalus for the timely intervention of Sir Euthymius for his intervention on that. And then another for it again after the catastrophe that was the assault on the monastery. So many Rooks… it was clear these northmen did not understand the threat of the Vampires. He unconsciously pulled his collar higher up his neck.

Wincing and pushing himself against the wall to give some clearance to other porters moving an impressively large stone, his thoughts wandered to that foppish noble from House Drake lurking at Forum. He didn’t expect something less savory than a Rennet to show itself so quickly, but they didn’t seem to have any obvious allies around either. An ongoing threat, but not yet a naked blade. He mused on how to make him scarce without resorting to… Dunnick methods.

As Felix helped shuffle some rubble into a bucket, he signaled to the waiting porter it was good to remove. Watching as the scum left the hallway he recalled the reaction at Court to the prospect of conscripting the local scum and putting them to actual service of the Reich. He was still stunned by it. Putting scum to honest labor for their liege, whom they have provided nothing, yet received food and protection, they acted like these were hordes of the war-wounded, not contributing not out of choice, but necessity. He audibly scoffed to himself. Were the northmen that raided their shores so soft-hearted? Service with arms would teach these scum discipline and give them purpose. Instill comradeship with their countymen and to love the lands they fought for. That’s how you turn scum to use for the lands they otherwise refuse to work. When you bleed for the land you learn to care for it.

He groaned while pulling himself up along the wall and wiped his dusty hands on his pants. It’s fine. Her Ladyship was Seneschal now. We will aid the people here. Build their almshouse, whenever they deign it’s time. “We’ll make ourselves useful.” he reaffirmed “That’s how things get done.”

What’s going on in Svart’s head:

Svart’s Journal – Game 15

What’s going on in Svart’s head:

Should have taken direct actions sooner. We have retaken Runehime and our enemies are fleeing. Morale is high.

Gothics were Njords that moved south. Benalius must have been descended from the Snow Lions clan. The Best Lions. He brought back true Njord culture. It’s so obvious. How easily the deeper revelations of the universe reveal themselves to Svart once he realized that he and the land are one.

Town cheered for Svart for helping feed them and providing salt. Malachi even said so. Vart must continue to strive to feed the town. Without me, the enemy would starve the people.

My spies have found where the witch is. They revealed its location in the warfare meeting. It and its coven are to the east, surrounded by woods filled with its bandits. The bandits that have always plagued Svart are in the woods protecting them. They’ll have to be dealt before attacking the witches and Lodi. First, Svart needs to find the spies in Runeheim that are informing the bandits and deal with them. The mages are suspect, to be sure, but for some reason, the church has been lured into trusting them. Still, I am sure there are others.

Probably mind magic. They have been very clever lately with their attempts to ensnare Svart. The Color Wizard has made attempts to be friendly towards Svart. Apparently, its name is Clemmens. The one that calls itself Java keeps insisting on joining in on community projects such as the Wise events. It bothers Svart to see her try and infect them with Wyrd magics. When Father Erasamus came in with the rings and the oath of community, she tried to edge her way into it.

I worry about Vernon. After Cnut, he is Svart’s oldest friend who has not died, been killed, abducted, or disappeared mysteriously. With the forces that have removed Cnut from the playing field still in play. Their next step would be Father Erasamus. Svart needs to protect him. I warned him of such but he is strong and says he can handle it, although he is grateful for Svart’s concern. He is probably trying to put himself between Svart and Svart’s enemies, but it is time to take a stand and prevent those enemies from gaining any more ground.

We marshaled our forces and marched on the forces of Sven, the friend of Cnut’s who was turned into a vampire. We did fight many vampires and hurt them drastically. Svart went into battle bravely and struck down vampires himself. I jumped and dodged so quick they could not strike me. Then I had to bandage some of the other warriors.

This Santiago merchant seems too nice and too good with a sword. Svart will need to keep a close eye on him to see if he is an ally or a plant by the bandits to get an assassin close to Svart. They try these things sometimes, but Svart is too clever for them to work.

Bandages. We need more bandages. Svart should make all his people bandages. Everybody gets bandages so everybody has bandages. Svart could make little pouches with bandages. They could all go on the very back of the belt so people know where to find them. People shouldn’t use their own bandages on themselves, as those are for them. Others will apply the bandages. Svart will give them to the most trusted and worthy first.

Head(space)

Rhyme turned the bezoar over in their hand, reflecting silently on the way it cast flecks of golden light off into the far corners of the room. The Lady was gone now, and with her fled the feeble grapple for a distraction the mage had clung to in attempts to shut out the echo of voices thundering in their skull.

‘Your student is betraying you … He holds himself back from killing you.’ ███ ██████ ███████.

‘I’ll take care of Mother Amelia…’ ███ ██████.

‘You put everyone in danger … If you want to defect and join the Vulgaris then…go do it. Just leave me out of it.’ Matthias.

‘What you do– it’s against nature.’ ████.

‘You burned Rowan–’ Sir Rowland.

‘You lied to me.’ Malachi.

The harsh gravity of their mistakes ran through their mind on a tired loop, competing loudly to drown out the now-familiar chorus driving Rhyme towards indulgence of their abnormal psyche. The madness they could suppress if they put in the willpower to steel their mind; but the distinct absence of insanity left all the more room for reflection to steal its way in. Silence was never absolute.

‘You want to see true power? … Little Interloper … I can teach you.’ ███ ██████ ███████.

‘You are not free … I can almost see the weave– but you still have a role to play to make it clear to me.’ The Lady.

‘Rhyme, you need to slow down.’ Matthias.

‘We’ll figure this out.’ Sygrun.

‘What’s wrong with me?’ Jester. Dun. Beacon of the Fire Guild. Rook to a vampire. Soulsplit. Daemon-haunted. Insane. “Interloper”. Vulgaris-minded. “Hero of Dunland”. ████████. Malefactor. Ally. Enemy. Rhyme. O’shea.

Why couldn’t they get it right? The others have been patient so far– but that kindness won’t last forever. If they keep moving perhaps they could tamp down the swell of all this neglected emotion and bury this sense of unease. If they worked a little harder then maybe they could outpace their ignorance, and repair what rifts they’d sown. One more act– one more study– one more apology…

‘You’re telling me what happened– that has nothing to do with how you feel.’ Sir Jacqueline…

“I’m a problem. I’m a burden. All I ever do is push everyone away.” Rhyme couldn’t remember when they’d arrived before Malachi– or why they had deigned to tell him this. They clutched at the bezoar in their pocket like a lifeline as the unfamiliar sting of tears clawed their way out from someplace buried and bricked over.

“No, Rhyme. I’ll always be here.” He looked so sad when he said it.

▲▲▲

‘I find it best to set aside your defenses, and to simply act as you are. They just want to make sure that you’re safe.’ ████.

“Enough!” Rhyme cast the bezoar across the room, breathless by the time it had clattered into obscurity somewhere behind their bed. No sooner had they unhanded the item did the flood of insanity return to deafen all other intrusions.

‘Find the bezoars,’ it demanded. ‘Find them all. Get them. Hoard them. Think how pretty they’d look– all lined up on your mantle…’

Compared to all that had come prior, the return of this particular preoccupation was a welcome relief from introspection, and it was with a thin sheen of sweat that Rhyme finally dropped back onto their and Reason’s empty bed. While a hand over their eyes blocked out the faint reflection of moonlight glancing off the snow and through their window, their thoughts supplemented a dancing array of crystalline reflections to attest to the beauty of the many bezoars their addled mind craved. Yet– somehow– Rhyme began to drift towards sleep in spite of the star-bright fireworks lighting up the backsides of their eyelids.

‘They just want … sure … you’re safe…’ An echo…

‘Huh… Is that true…?’ They wondered blearily. That thought hadn’t ever occurred to Rhyme– genuinely. That alone made them feel more messed up than any amount of meddling the vampire, Alu– or even the daemon could do…

Collateral Damage

The Woodswise fire crackled merrily, sending up sparks to spar with the snowflakes that were beginning to come down from gloomy skies. Spirits were high, the gaggle around the flame unphased by the wandering cloaked figures, drawn in by the revelry. Songs and stories were shared, merry spirits doing more to stave off the cold than the fire itself.

For once, Reason did not feel inclined to share in the fun. The weight of their decisions lay heavy upon them, the burdens of the day stacking like bricks on their back. They were tired, tired that every time an opportunity arose to help some, others around them got hurt. Each little victory came with its own shadow, haunting their footsteps with a vicious smirk.

The fire, at least, provided some temporary comfort to their clouded thoughts. They were reminded of recent travels with Rhyme, huddled over a small flame conjured in the palm of their other half’s hand as they rested before the next step of their journey, humming a song together.

Reason mulled on if their recent political appointment would actually help assuage the continually rising tensions, tensions they were at least in part responsible for. They would have no doubt refused the proposal from the nobles had they not pointed out that it would do well to symbolize Runeheim’s respect for the Dunnick people. With no desire to lead their fellow Duns to inevitable bloodshed, Reason had accepted. For once, it felt the path to offer aid and respite to their people was clear.

Still, Reason was aware how this was just another sign of the inability of nobles to change their ways. They suspected the number of Duns joining the freedom fighters would continue to grow regardless. Fighting may be inevitable, but Reason was of the opinion that it was a short term solution. It hurt a deep part of their fragmented soul that their countrymen had lost so much hope of a free Dunland that they were driven to find Home somewhere else.

Worse was the question if their newfound role would strip them of the title of hero of Dunland in the eyes of their people. How funny, that Reason had just started to feel the lightness of freedom, being no longer chained to a contract or a mage’s guild.

And Rhyme… So many times, Rhyme had gotten hurt. It did not help that in their fervor they would always push through their pain, endlessly seeking the answers that they thought would bring them clarity. And who was Reason to stop that? After all, the answers compelled them too. The deep, secretive part of them that remained O’shea ached to uncover all that was hidden from him. Ultimately, they felt the costs incurred were worth it.

Any cost, except for that of Rhyme.

△ △ △

Reason could still hear the fresh snow crunching beneath their feet as they and Sygurn raced through the streets of the forum after Rhyme. Wisps of smoke rose up from small, charred spots upon the ground, evidence of the demon’s power surging through the hapless fire mage.

Somehow able to catch up, Reason had latched onto Rhyme, helplessly begging them to resist the demon’s hold, ignoring Rhyme’s own pleas for Reason to get away. They struggled to still Rhyme’s hands as a horrified crowd looked on, wishing for the onlookers to be safe, for the demonic entity to quit puppeting Rhyme. And then –

“Deflagrate Ignis et Auctorita…”

△ △ △

“I was but a maid, doin’ me job.”

Reason whipped around, the horrifying memory still flitting in their thoughts, the phantom sensation of flame magic hot on their arms. In their fidgeting, they had shuffled further from the crowd and away from the safety of the fire. A pale figure hovered uncomfortably close, staring straight through the carpenter at the blazing fire.

Reason gauged it carefully, curiously even. It made no move to threaten them.

“I never harmed no soul in me life. Jus’ tryin’ to provide for me kiddos,” the Malefic uttered, its gravely voice hardly audible.

“And then the whole house collapsed on me.”

Reason’s blood ran cold.

The Woodswise folk broke into a howl, and a cluster of ghosts that had gotten too close to the fire rushed past Reason with a hiss. The Malefic’s gaze flicked to meet Reason’s, then vanished.

When will you learn?

‘You have some explaining to do’

‘Yup, this one is under the control of a vampire, stronger than the others. Must have been there recently’

‘Somebody come get Java! Help us!’

‘Java, please. Dont.’

STOP!

Java curled into a fetal postion in her bed, she covered her ears with her palms and squeezed her eyes closed. It wasnt supposed to be like this. She was just trying to help them.

Her heart ached, “Why does this keep happening to me” she let out a quiet sob.
***

“You are my favorite, Java. Do you know why?”

She remained silent. Marzana continued to stalk around her, monologueing while tossing and playing with a knife. She knew better than to speak, better than to make eye contact, better than to risk angering the one who kept her leashed.

“.. you are just so obedient.”

Marzana stood infront of Java, the cold tip of the blade pressed under her chin encouraging her to look up from the ground.

“Now,” Marzana flipped the knife around and offered Java the handle, “show me just how obedient you are.”

***

The blood trickled from her hand into the bowl. The amount no more than the usual cuts she’d make for the Grand Tree or to the land when the folkwise demanded it.

She wrapped her hand and they escorted her from the room into a private study. It was for the best she didn’t see the Lady consume her blood.

Sygrun and her had talked in depth the importance of this research against Alu. The cost of a little bit of blood meant nothing when the reward was to protect her people. Her home.

***

“Java-” Reason clutched their stomach and began to throw up foul rot. She watched for a moment before tense heat washed over her again. Another command from the Lady.

Now, where did Sygrun go?

She giggled and danced around the chaos. Upon seeing her fellow guild mate her hands moved swiftly on their own. A new trick she had just picked up to combat the Vulgaris. ‘Arcane Burn’

The betrayal in her eyes pierced Java in the chest. Wait, she was hurting them. Clawing for her discipline she tried to stop herself. Her blood boiled, her body again moving on command.

Forced to be obedient.

***

3 days had gone by and she couldn’t get out of bed. She couldn’t face them, she could only hope they’d forget.

“I’m so tired.”

Facing My Fears

Hi Journal, sorry if my handwriting is bad. As you know I only learned to read after…The Incident… Leaving home was one of the hardest desicons, sorry! Decisions, I’ve ever made. I went as far from home as I could. Luckily I stumbled across Master Porter who offered me a job and took me even farther from home. Working for her Ladie, oops! Working for her Ladyship has been a dream come true! She’s the best boss and a noble who ensures us beneath her have what we need. I can only hope I don’t dissapoint her.
When Mr. Woodsmen was hired on, I worry my world will come tumbling down. His hometown is mine. Does he know what happend to my last boss? Does he know my parents!? Dear journal, I pray my little bit of happiness remains safe. I’ve made so many new friends, what will they think if they know what i’ve done? What I could do and how I’ve learnd-learned.
Wish me luck journal… The next forum is just around the corner. I will serve my lady well. I will serve my house well for as long as they will have me.

Silvester’s complaints

Man, I’ve had it with bears. Don’t get me wrong, they’re cool to look at and all, but why do they gotta break everything? doors, spears, even bows—nothing’s safe from those big furry battering rams. It’s like they wake up every day thinking, “What can I tear apart today?” I know they’re just doing their bear thing, but it’s hard not to get pissed when all they leave behind is a mess for someone else to clean up.

And don’t even get me started on people in charge. How do some of these idiots even get the job? Like, you’d think running something—anything—would require basic common sense, but nope. They’re out here making the dumbest decisions, acting like they’ve never lived a real day in their lives. It’s frustrating watching people screw up stuff that shouldn’t be that hard to figure out.

At least the forest is still out there. When it gets too much, I can just head out, breathe in the fresh air, and walk around for a bit. No trash, no clueless nobles—just trees and quiet. It’s the one place where everything feels normal, and honestly, that’s all I need sometimes.

Porting Logs, Autumn 609

Felix gripped the cold, weathered strap of his shield and surveyed the frosty city of Runeheim. The convoy had arrived late the previous night, tired and disheveled, and now the work began. The northern cold clung to their bones like an unseen weight. He wiped his brow, though the chill made it feel useless.

“Careful with that crate, lad!” he called to a younger porter struggling with a heavy chest of supplies, oils for the Knight’s blades jostled menacingly in the crate. Directing another porter to help him handle it, Felix waved them off.

Gilbert, the Quartermaster, was pacing nearby, muttering under his breath, occasionally pausing to jot down lines in his ledger or whisper fragments of his latest poem. He’d been inspired to write after Forum, and Felix was never any help with them.

“Yet ‘neath the snow,… a promise glimmers bright,” Gilbert recited to himself, tapping his quill against his lips.

Felix flashed Gilbert a weary smile, but didn’t say anything. The city walls were tall and suspiciously quiet, with the locals watching from their doorways, eyes narrowed. The guards had barely spoken as they passed through the gates.

As they unloaded their goods—clothes, tools, and crates of travel rations—the cold gnawed at their fingers. Yet, Felix kept the crew moving. He barked orders, kept the crates organized, and Gilbert ensured no goods were left behind or mishandled. Felix’s boots crunched in the snow as he crossed the courtyard to the warehouse, moving steadily despite the chill.

Pausing to look out towards where the sun still hung low in the sky, and failing to feel any warmth from it, he thought of Damian and Silvester. It would have been good to have more of the lads here, but they were both engaged moving goods a bit more important than tomorrow’s lunch.

Gilbert’s inventory ended, and the Quartermaster approached him. “Felix, do you think we’ll be accepted here?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“Don’t worry about it,” Felix muttered. “We’ll make ourselves useful. That’s how things get done.”

Upon the frozen fields

Upon the frozen fields where frost doth bite,
The barren earth seems locked in winter’s chain.
Yet ‘neath the snow, a promise glimmers bright,
And dreams of spring within the heart remain.

For through the night’s cold veil of dread and blight,
The hunter wields his artful black powder’s might.
Its thunder splits the heavens, fierce and raw,
And bends the beast beneath its mortal law.

But lo, though courage crowns the valiant fight,
The toll of labor finds a bitter bane.
For kings and lords, in greed, do claim their right,
And tax the hand that wrought their gilded gain.

Thus winter yields, yet man remains oppressed—
The fields may bloom, but burdens steal his rest.