Around him there was darkness, but that wasn’t really right it was an absence of even darkness. Word, Meaning, and Acts spiraled into one another building things around filling thoughts with Form. Aretaeus realized he was part of all of this as things grew, his awareness seemed to be on everything as Existence was. Purpose, spent meaning, intent, the weight of Judgement and the trauma of war slammed into Everything limiting what he was experiencing.
He could feel the weight of God on his brow, the scorn of God in his heart, and suddenly the voice of God to his ear. Even as he heard, he felt himself being poured into Form and felt its limitations, its uniqueness. As Meaning filled as the Form was, it changed his perspective so much, it was hard to think of what he had been aware of just moments ago, and at the same time the Firmament and the land became so much more clear with feet on the ground and the sky above him. The valley around him being defined even as he was watching there were leaves and needles, stones and seeds which more was lost to view as they became parts of trees, mountains and plains.
It was the Valley he Felt himself in, he was not sure when though, Time had yet to attach. All aspects of humanity began to form around him;
– Feet began to walk trails and roads, cross paths where they came together it slowly made something of a grid.
– Mouths and ears shared words, what it wasn’t clear but it felt of laughter, anger, all manner of feeling
– Hands sculpted stone, wrought iron, and worked wood. These hands assembled what was and would be the Great City of Stragosa, what was and would be the Husk of Stragosa. The hands of man swarmed and ebbed building all that would be seen.
Some of these were connected, others were not, feet with no earthly bodies worked off and on to the stage of the area, hands floated free as they did their work. It amazed Aretaeus, but at the same time he was not overly surprised. All too often what he had seen when looking beyond did not fully match what his eyes might see, his ears might hear. Even so knowing it was hard to tell and be prepared for what was real and what was reality.
Aretaeus closed his eyes, to take in all that was around him, and even as he did so the sounds and feeling around him changed and shifted. Ser Percival was beside him, and they were walking towards the Miracle when his mentor brought him to a stop, “Listening and what else? It has been to long since the church has committed to decisive action. You will decide what it is you are committing to, and tell me by evening. “ The Knight masters words were curt but not harsh, but even those shifted at the ends of it flowing into a time at the tavern, “Now is not the time to Act, but to learn more first” Other times began to connect and as chaos started to grow Aretaeus let go a bit with his mind that particular focus and tried to focus in general.
Opening his awareness once more Time seemed more solid, as did the Manor house he often met with the Leadership of Silbran in, still in the valley but no longer where he had stood once moments ago. Splashed colors this way and that showed the touch of magic everywhere in the city. Little stood truly warped, but just looking you could see where colors were off, creating a space that one might expect after enough herb to change the world around them. Entire paths stood out in odd coloration, a concern to the Paladins heart as they lead different directions.
What stood out the most walked into the manor, as the Baroness stepped within mouth moving as she talked to others in to room but that was not something Aretaeus was aware of as he looked on. The colors that made the Lady Drake stood out so much, evne as they were perhaps warped like a spoon in a glass of water, or light through a crystal. Broken, warped, and changed in a way that struck at part of the root of Aretaeus desire for divinity to spread. –How, how do we fix this? To shepherd this lost Meaning back to its purpose and form? Let this not be something that give up on so quickly. What must I do, I have learned as I have felt needed to understand more, what do I do now as the next step toward bringing her back to the flock? What next?-
The world came to a pause, it turned to Grey through area “She Must Die”, and it rocked him to his very core. Still he kept enough mind to try and understand; Did she need to be purged by the Fires that Cleanse? Did the words feel of Ash and Heat? No, the purge of heresies was not the demand. Cold, simple death. That the Gates open before her where all are judged equally. But there was not much more depth beyond the command, the next step.
The cold was around him now not just in him. He felt the oncoming winds of winter, an empty war camp around him and looking on to the Kaurlite stronghold as it stood standing. The Empire had an army at its gates, but it was not clear to keep to his own timeline that he had sworn to. More so Aretaeus was here, an empty camp and not leading the charge. The cutting edge of despair biting into him like the worst of bitter winter winds. Looking around him he saw the Butcher serving children at the edge of camp, but they always seemed further than he could get to and further still as the crest of Lurian fell from his shoulders.
“What else Will I get wrong? When people look to me as a source of direction, what do I show them if I feel lost? You have shown me so much darkness recently. From the Rituals hidden ones are doing through out the city, a follower of Laziel behind me, that my next steps must be a bringer of Death and what else do you give me? A Candle, which might hold the Hope of Man within it? A light that flickers so weakly at times. A light that seems to go dark when needed the most. Being a guide to others, to give them hope and direction where has that gone? Laziel, Tarraniel and Kurian all have sunk their talons so deeply here, surely those of your Intent don’t need the amount of suffering that is here? Do they? How do I show those at the edge that they should come to us and vest everything into the Faith? There is so much Discontentment here, so much for the Thorns to take root in. And … “
Suddenly he realized he was just yelling at himself, angry at himself. The loss, the pain, his own and that of which he had seen in his vision and his experience. A deep sigh came across him, and he awoke with a start, his bed a tussle from fit filled sleep.
Letters to Home: Arrival
Care bella madre,
We have arrived at last to Stragosa, perdonami that I have not written much during the trip. Please to let padre know Veronica has been placed safely and is pursuing her studies at a good pace. I also have met with our various venture contacts, and will be pursuing them forthwith, so he does need to be worry.
Stargosa is not as terribile as we had expected. The morale e traditions of the area are rigorosa but manageable. Even the church services, though lacking in proper fire, juggling, and artistry, are proving surprisingly enjoyable. I know, sì, please do not tell papà I have said this. As expected, many here still seem more prudente than is healthy. Others are allowed to speak though, within reason of course. Also, the priests have not been nearly as burn-at-stake crazede as we had feared. On my first night I may have done something… impulsive? What it is, it is non molto importante, do not worry. What is importante is that they absolutely have not burned me. In fairness, they Did try to sacrifice another because they were afraid her magic was a threat to her immortal soul, so… not completely diverso than we expected.
Ze locales are for the most part a very friendly sort so far. I have finally gotten to hear The Bandit Kings in person, performing ‘Vendetta’. You remember this, sì? It was the one we thought was about your sister’s cousin? I must attest that original prestazione is much better than the copy-cats. A fantastic Njordr storyteller comes through here also – we should invite someone like him to Le Sorelle. Very engaging stories, our clienti would be very entertained!
There is much more I wish to say, but I can already see your eyes with the tiredness, and I am certo that you most want to know about il pericolo e my studies. There is nothing to worry about. I have heard stories of terribile creatures and some have encountered them here. This, it is true. My only encounter however has been un poltergeist that fed me some prelibatezze – I was greatly entertained! A ghoul also attempted to break into the taverna as I was drinking, but it was dead before it made it could do any harm. It was ‘more’ dead? Other monstri came by later (it was some provincial holiday called the ‘Night Lord’s Feast’ – something about monstri e spirit) but I was attending to Veronica and missed it all. I understand it was all very exciting. I have some directions for my studies and la baronessa has agreed to steer them, so that is also progressing well. There is nothing for you to worry about.
I will cut things short as I know that you do not like me to go on and on. Please let me know how things are playing out there, and when they quiet down enough that we may return home. Things were certainly blown far out of proporzione, as you well know. Give our love to papà and to zia Mariana, they are in our hearts.
Ti voglio bene,
Maurizio (e Veronica – her letter is attached)
Downtime Journal #1
After the last forum ended, I found myself in a unique position to connect with many different people and organizations. But the first thing I did was talk through my suspicions with Saoirse. That’s when I realized that perhaps what I had witnessed regarding Marius the Masseuse was a malefica poisoning. If the Shariqyn’s are developing such a tool, they would need to be stopped. I took my concerns first to Father Renatus, then to the Mother Superior. They told me that it was more likely a drug or a poison of some kind, and not the malefica I was concerned it might be. Unfortunately, Mother Superior asked about my fiance, and asked why I hadn’t been baptized yet. Although I deflected the questions as best as I could, I’m sure she’ll have her eyes on me in the future. But my fears of malefic were allayed somewhat, though I was disappointed that nothing came of it, so I stepped back and got to work with my other projects.
Lady Gale had asked if I could be of assistance with the newsletter and I thought it might be a chance to become better connected with the woman whose cousin I worked for in the past. I was given the assignment to seek out each of the newcomers to Stragosa and learn what I could about them for the newsletter. I also managed to summarize the events of the forum for her. I found Saoirse again and asked her to decide how much of her background to share. When we had that figured out, I found Daciana and asked her as well. Hekte, unfortunately, was harder to find. Though I managed to write several letters back and forth between us. Khala and Father Gideon were definitely more complicated. I couldn’t speak to Khala, but I had overheard that she was fleeing an arranged marriage in Sha’ra. I figured they didn’t need to ultimately know that, so I wrote instead that she was seeking personal freedom, which is just as true, if less accurate. Father Gideon was hard to catch. I eventually managed to do so, but it was a long time coming.
After I had completed my task, I sent a letter to Leandro Nicostratus, a friend of mine from home. Of any of my friends, he would know Marius the Masseuse. I wish I had some contacts within the Mage Circles, that would’ve been useful in this circumstance. I hope he can uncover what Alonzo is looking for. Speaking of Alonzo, I heard that he was going to try and get involved with the new monster school that Korvath is trying to start. I asked a bit into his motivations and found out that he might have malefic parts to sell. Saoirse might be interested, so I let slip that I knew an apothecary that could probably use the business, though I didn’t give him any names. Besides that, I thought it might be of interest of him to keep extra copies of the malefic lore books. The Magi and the Shariqyn’s may be interested in getting their hands on copies. And although I hope I can help the Magi, possibly earn their trust, I am concerned about what might happen if the Shariqyn’s do.
Conversation with Alonzo finished, at least for the moment, I turned my thoughts back to making connections here. I reached out to Alegra and, after trading a bit of information to earn her trust, arranged something with her regarding Vieve and herself. Luckily, Saoirse’s got my back already. Alegra promised to get me the rumors I was looking for in exchange for mutual sharing. I promised to share relevant rumors with them and I intend to secure some protection for the tavern as well.
A very productive time for me.
True Things
Alonzo finished writing for a moment, brushing off the sand to help dry the ink of his letter to Emeric.
“Such an unexpected thing,” he mused to himself. “I’ve been blind.”
To discover the good where he expected only oppression and paternalistic pandering, to look behind the mask for a moment. If anyone knew masks, it would be himself. But for this one moment, what if it is True?
The conversations with Ansel and Emeric, the feeling that perhaps the Goal is the same after all. The assumption of authority. The burdens that will bring. Still, Alonzo smiles. It is right and good that the world is moving towards Perfection, even in its most shattered pieces.
“I’m going to act as though it IS True. I can at least do that. I can watch them with new eyes and reveal the next part of my work.”
He thinks of Renatus, returned to the World nearly destroyed by it and of the others who fell and would never return. So much to do. So many minds to soothe and then to trouble and then to soothe again.
He writes a new phrase on the inside of his Mask, under where the old motto lies.
“Rivela la verità che brilla” – Reveal the Truth that Shines
The Shield now has a Sword
Trusting Again
Marius drinks from his cup before staring at me with a look that I can assume is trying to read my soul.
“Leonce, the conversation we had last night with your friend was so interesting. He seemed like he knew a lot. How did you come across someone like that?”
I tell him how I was ambushed near his home after I fled from the Njord invasion here, how he saved me, how I almost poked him with a firestick when I woke up in his home because I was so sure he was going to kill me, how he nursed me back to health without asking for anything.
“Sounds like he’s an important friend to you.”
I chuckle at the word friend. For a moment I want to express all my feelings about the man to anyone that would hear them but I stop myself. I used to hate when people got mushy with feelings and I don’t intend to be one of them now. At least not to other people.
“He is someone very dear to me.” I reply with a tone that I hope sounds final.
Marius seems content with that response as he goes back to taking care of the tavern customers.
————————————————-
[[Two years ago]]
Something’s off today Leonce thought
Leonce tried to get a look at Alistair’s face but he couldn’t read any emotion as the man checked his ankle two months after Leonce had woken up in his cabin.
The first few weeks had been rough, Leonce trying to escape while Alistair was away. Once he got cornered by wolves right outside of Alistair’s land and had to call for help. Alistair was there so quickly that Leonce wondered how that was possible. Another time he got further but was caught in a blizzard and nearly froze to death before thankfully Alistair was able to find him. This rose to suspicion, how did Alistair knew where he was at all times while he wasn’t even in the cabin?
“It’s actually quite easy to follow your tracks…” Alistair had commented bemused after Leonce had angrily asked him when brought back from his second failed escape attempt, “you ARE dragging your injured foot through snow or mud, it leaves a trail.”
Slowly he started to trust Alistair. He figured that if someone had given him his house (and bed) to recuperate…they were one of those noble idiots that were trying to make everyone’s lives better. Leonce had met them before, and he wasn’t opposed to taking their generosity as long as they didn’t ask for anything in return.
They had a routine, Alistair would come in the morning (where he went during the night, Leonce didn’t know nor cared), checked his bandages, they would have breakfast and Alistair would write from his desk. Sometimes Leonce would ask questions, not anything that invaded the privacy of the man that helped him. Just questions of where he was, or what was the closest city. So far he hadn’t been able to check if the man had been right but something behind his answers told him Alistair was being truthful.
But there was something about today though, the air felt heavy with words unspoken.
Leonce was snapped from his thoughts as Alistair came over, a gentle hand picking up his ankle and inspecting it closely. Alistair’s eyes were furrowed, something he did when he was thinking hard about something.
Finally he let out a drawn out breath.
“Looks like it’s finally healed…” his voice sounded somber but the boy had no reason to believe Alistair felt that way “I’m guessing that you can be out of here by tomorrow if you want, though I would recommend another day…that way you can go into town and get things for your journey back home.”
Leonce felt his stomach drop. Leave? He hadn’t thought about that in more than a month. The older man’s company had been so…comforting that the idea hadn’t resurfaced again since his last escape attempt.
“Oh…right…” he messed with the hem of the shirt Alistair had let him borrow, staring intently at his hands. He hated that there was disappointment in his voice and could feel the man’s stare on him.
Alistair cleared his throat as he let go of the boy’s ankle, patting it softly before going to his desk to write.
The silence was tense, they could both feel it.
“I’ve never asked you where you were going, but I’m curious now that you’ll be leaving.”
Two months ago Leonce would have answered with a snark remark and refused to give him any information. But time had passed and trust had been gained little by little. Nevertheless he was surprised with how much ease he was able to answer the man.
“Away from Stragosa, possibly back to my country. There were people following me, just wanted to run.” he pulled the covers, around himself…feeling comfortable in the warm and realizing with disappointment that soon that comfort would be swapped for uncertainty. “I never really thought where I was going, just that I needed to leave that city.”
Alistair stopped writing, and Leonce waited to see if the man had something he wanted to say. If there was an idea though, he kept quiet about it and resumed writing. There was a small smile on his face, barely seen.
“It’s been nice having you around, Leonce.” he glanced up from his parchment, a true smile now on his face “but I understand the need to run, we all have our demons after all.”
Why was his heart beating so fast? There were no words that came out, the Cappacian merely nodded silently and pulled the covers over his face…trying to sleep comfortably one last night and trying to hide the heat that was coming on his cheeks at the moment.
—–
It took Leonce two more days to decide to leave. He kept putting it off, lying about his ankle was not feeling up to travelling yet. He was sure Alistair could see through his lies but indulged him anyway…something Leonce was grateful for.
There was a constant struggle in his mind-
One side was telling him that what he had here was special…reminded him of Ciro, his father figure. Hadn’t his best moments been with Ciro? Hadn’t these last four months felt like a weird dream? When was the last time Leonce had felt safe before meeting Alistair? When was the last time that he had felt this comfortable with anyone? Or rather when was the last time anyone had been this kind to him?
The other side was more insistent though. It was the side that reminded him how he had trusted Bouchard, a noble of Stragosa and what had happened then. Bouchard had broken that wall first, Leonce had grown an idiotic sense of loyalty towards the Capacian noble and that had ended up in the worst two nights of his life. He remembered calling for his lord and not seeing him come to his aid. He didn’t want to have that feeling again, to feel betrayed and alone.
The latter side had won in the end, and he packs food into a bag given to him by Alistair.
He walks towards the door, aware of Alistair’s silence and for a moment he wants to ask if he can stay. But the idea of rejection keeps him from opening his mouth. Alistair’s gaze feels burning on the back of his neck, he wants to ask Alistair if he is sad to see him go but doesn’t. It’s none of his business, and part of him thinks it’s maybe better not knowing.
Standing at the front door, he turns around to face the older man. There is a knot in his throat that he’s trying hard to ignore.
“I…” he clears his throat, trying not to look at Alistair or else he thinks his resolve to leave will waver “…..thank you…”
It’s not something that comes out of his mouth very often, but it feels strangely satisfying to say it to the man in front of him.
“I was glad I was able to help you…” and again there’s honesty in Alistair’s tone “If you are ever around these parts, my home is always open to you. I rather enjoyed your company…”
He nods, his heart beating fast as he turns away without another word. If he doesn’t leave now, he knows he won’t. But he can’t stay, he can’t be vulnerable again. Leonce walks without turning back, knows the cabin has disappeared from sight as he enters the forest.
“On the road again…” he whispers, and the hopelessness that escapes him takes him by surprise. So do the tears that he didn’t even know were already streaming down his face. Why now? He leans against a tree, hiding his face in his hands. These had been the best two months of his life, why was he so eager to end it? Was cautiousness really worth being unhappy his whole life?
He looked up at the sky, remembering a specific moment in time with Ciro that he hadn’t thought of in a long time.
~“Are you happy Leonce?”~
~The small young boy nods as he cooks a fish in front of a small fire. “I wasn’t before, but I am now.”~
~“This is what we live for, to prolong the good times as much as possible and to remember them when bad times try to suffocate us. Don’t seclude yourself from what makes you happy. Remember that.”~
He’s a mess now, tears seem a downpour and he’s not sure how to stop them. He wanted to be happy for once, wasn’t he always saying how selfish he was? This is the selfish thing he wanted above all, and damn it all he deserved to be selfish after the last year in that cursed city.
He doesn’t realize he’s running until he is gasping for air.
—–
The rain is heavy, sound soothing outside. Yet it somehow sounds hollow today.
There is a knock on the door and it startles Alistair as he drops the quill he’s been writing with. He moves cautiously towards the sound, unsure of what he will find at the other side.
His breath hitches as he opens the door and glances at the soaking boy staring up at him.
There’s nothing to be said, he simply smiles and moves aside to let Leonce in. The boy steps in without a word, panting and soaking wet from the rain outside.
Alistair closes the door as Leonce takes off his backpack and throws it in a forgotten corner.
The rain doesn’t sound so hollow anymore
The Only Two Certain Things in Life
He turns to her absent-mindedly, mumbling something about wine, and goes in. The treasury door is heavy, and closing it requires him to strain at the ornate wrought-iron ring. Huffing in – obviously illogical – annoyance at himself, he steps across the carved wooden desk and past the other furniture, eager to finally sit. There is a mouse on the upholstered armchair behind the desk, eyeing him curiously. He can feel his temper rising. “Shush, you. Begone.” The mouse skitters away, and he almost flings himself into the seat, grimacing at the recent battle injury twinging in his left shoulder as he does so. “Idiot,” he mutters, the annoyance returning with a hot flash of embarrassment. “Commanding troops in the field as if you knew what you were doing. Too slow to even know what’s going on until it’s over. Clueless about formations. And all because your commander went back to Verunheim with Edwyn.” He covers his eyes with his hand. Minutes pass.
The knocking is getting more insistent. It takes several attempts for him to rouse; grimacing, he opens the door to let her in. She has changed – for the better – and rests the goblet and carafe on her hip while eyeing him warily.
“One of those nights, is it? Will you require the large decanter, Lord.. Volksnand?”
With a curt nod, he motions vaguely. “Just leave it there.”
She delicately places the wine on the desk, having to push aside a sheaf of papers to make room within his reach. “These look recent, Lord Volksnand. Did you place them on your desk sometime last night, maybe? In the darker hours of the evening, thinking you would get to them early today?”
He looks up, startled. Yes, that he had. But now an entire day had gone, inspecting pig farms and trying to figure out where Stragosa’s money was going, and despairing at the state of the books.
“I meant to look at them tonight, but thank you for your..” he attempts a smile and realizes it’s a smirk, “efforts at assistance.” He waves her off before she can say more. “You have served me well, and you will be rewarded. You may leave.”
Looking at him appraisingly, she pours some wine then holds on to the wine bottle as she leans over him. “When you start to feel better, let me know. You are focusing too much on being paranoid and you do much better when you don’t look this way.” As he covers his eyes again, she waits for an answer, but none comes. Shrugging, she turns and leaves quietly, door swinging shut behind her.
Time passes and he needs to refill his glass several times before mustering the strength to lean forward and pick up the first parchment. He smiles at the name on the outside, but it quickly turns into a frown at the words inside. Groaning, he throws himself back into his seat and rings the bell, opening the door as he does so. Shortly after, his chamberlain enters.
“Take down the following note from me and have it sent to Lady Gale and Sir Sanguine.”
He coughs, clearing his throat, and reaches for his cup.
“From the desk of Lord Emich von Volksnand, in the year of the lion 604, under the benevolent and watchful eyes of Benalus, in solemn fulfilment of my pious duty as the Master of Coin of the City of Stragosa, duly appointed by the hand of Reichsgrafin Sir Hezke von Heidrich, long may she reign.”
He pauses. “I’ll have to recite this every single time until the letterhead arrives? You can’t remember it? Or pre-write it? Fine. FINE. Next. No, don’t write this part down. Write down the next part. Yes, starting now.”
A moment passes as he rubs his eyes.
“As to the matter of the Night Lord’s Feast that you have been arranging and for which I have helped provide a guest list, and the requisite – and priceless, not easily replenished – materials from the Treasury:
Please remove my name from the guest list. I would like to address some of the assembled, but will not participate myself in the feast. In my place, please add Dame Khorshid, the feared warlord of the Indra’tariq, whose contributions to safeguarding Stragosa,” he pauses, touching hands to temples and closing his eyes, “far outstrip my own. If another spot becomes available, please consider adding Lady Shamara of the Indr’atma, whose efforts to fix malingering issues in Stragosa and overall contributions are..” he clenches his teeth but continues speaking, albeit strained, “highly admirable.”
He pauses.
“It probably does NOT need to be mentioned too broadly to the attendees at the feast – or indeed the general populace – that I nobly sacrificed my own spot at the table for a Sha’Ra warlord. Even though we both commanded troops in battle. I am sure dwelling on it too much would come across as unnecessary glorification. It wouldn’t do at all. I would hate it so. It would be most… upsetting to hear others praising my virtue.”
Walking over to the chamberlain, he hesitates, then resumes talking.
“Capitalize or underline the ‘not’ in the first sentence and make sure there are three dots between ‘most’ and ‘upsetting.’ Also, Khorshid is spelled K-H-O.. Oh, you have a cheat sheet? Good. Who? Yes, she’s the one I’ve talked about befo.. wait, no, that is none of your business. How dare you. We will talk about this later. Now, the next letter.”
The wine glass is starting to look bare, and he eyes the rapidly-emptying carafe with studied disinterest. Once the wine is gone, he will have to send for her again, and she will probably just tell him off once more. Curious.
“Now, private reply in a sealed envelope to recipient “R” as per the standard code book. Enclose their original letter and ensure both are destroyed after reading.”
Volksnand walks behind his desk, downs the remainder of his glass, and places his hands on the table surface.
“My kind and attentive friend. I appreciate your concerns and that you bring such scurrilous rumors to my attention at once. I wish to be clear. At no point have I refused to ‘release Spice’ from the Stragosa Treasury in my capacity as Master of Coin, and I have not neglected certain women despite my prior claims to the contrary. To the contrary, I have in fact followed Sir Hezke’s desire to support an official feast and am highly agreeable to reward those citizens of Stragosa who have helped in the recent battles, helped improve the city, or provided other vital services to the Throne. At no point have I opposed having even the most inferior and debased cultures and their warped religions participate in the feast, as long as the practitioners of those abhorrent, vile practices have improved our city. To suggest otherwise is a slanderous blood libel the likes of which I will fight with the full force of Fafnir’s fulgurous fury.”
He looks up and catches the chamberlain’s expression, then leans back.
“Change the words after ‘fight’ to a single word — ‘vigorously.’ Then add the following — ‘Given that we have essentially no Spice left in the Treasury, and are dangerously low on Coin, I am primarily concerned with re-filling Stragosa’s coffers and planning prudently for the long winter ahead. We can feast fully once the dreams of spring have turned into sunlight and sprouting.’ Yes, that is it. Deliver unsigned.”
Volksnand paces back and forth in front of his desk. “Next: to Corvo di Talmerin, Master of Coin to the City of Silbran.”
He takes a deep breath.
“I intend to agree with your proposal and we shall discuss at forum. However, as to the matter of taxation, for now I intend to uphold the taxation system that was implemented by Master Bakara during his short-lived tenure as Master of Coin in Stragosa. Most of the levies have not so far been .. uh.. levied.. Yes, rewrite that. Have not so far been raised, and as such I intend to give it at least another forum before seeking to make changes to it. Now, as you are not from Gotha yourself, you may not be familiar with this core principle of House Fafnir – a principle that has made the house great. It is a principle of conservatism – indeed, a principle of prudence. It is known by the people as the parable of the moat. When a man is appointed or rises to a position, they wish to improve things. Inevitably, they have ideas. Let us assume for instance that they see a moat or a portcullis. The reformer – let us call him the progressive, who wishes to bring progress to his lands – goes gaily up to it and says, “I don’t see the use of this; let us clear it away.” However, the prudent man – nay, perhaps even the man possessed of uncommon wisdom – retorts: “If you don’t see the use of it, I certainly won’t let you clear it away. Go away and think. Then, when you can come back and tell me that you do see the use of it, I may allow you to destroy it.” This indeed is how I believe the matter of Bakara’s tax code for Stragosa is to be viewed. I am not yet wise enough to seek to destroy that which was created by a man who was here for longer, whose hair was whiter, and thus who was arguably possessed of relative local knowledge that I do not – yet! – possess. Regardless of his other many obvious inferiorities. For Sir Hezke would not have appointed a fool. Certainly not twice. Undersigned yours Lord et cetera.”
The carafe is empty. He hadn’t noticed it at all. The remainder of the wine swishes slowly around the wide goblet, leaving a lazy, thick trail along the side. What a curious colour indeed. Yet he cannot help but feel pleased, almost as if wrapped in a warm, slightly damp blanket, sticking tightly to his ribs, back, and legs. Where was his sword again? Ah, yes. What a glorious feeling to run it across his arm, shaving off hairs with a razor-sharp blade.
“You aren’t done yet,” the words come. Thickly, distantly, almost as if spoken by another man. But the chamberlain turns and picks up his quill expectantly.
“Hello mother. Lady mother. High-born lady mother in the castle. Your favourite son here. You’ve been expecting my letter, yes? Here is it. She left. The woman left. I felt close. So close. But she left, and didn’t want me to come along. That was great. No, I didn’t try everything. You know full well I didn’t. And yes, I could’ve sent her home with … a gift. I didn’t do that either. TRIPLE ELLIPSES BEFORE GIFT, MORON. No, I didn’t do that either. But look, I have a different gift for you. I give you, dot dot dot, four enemies. No, I haven’t stayed out of trouble. And no, none of them are from Sha’Ra, despite what you may have heard from a letter last year when I hilariously misspoke at the wrong time and almost got turned into a jug of piss by a wizard. They have them here, you know? Magicians. Anyway, as I was saying, I have made four enemies. There is the slayer, who means me ill simply because they see through me without even trying. The stag, whose hide I prize and whose antlers I shall mount on my castle walls. The stiletto, bared in the open yet unaware of its true strength. And finally, finally, the serpent, its poison dripping ever more sweetly. Many of my friends are gone or dead, mother, and my enemies are in ascendance.
Signed, your devoted son, full name and title, signet ring, red wax. It’s in the hollow book, third from the left on the middle shelf, fifth volume in “The Great Houses of Gotha,”’
He rises unsteadily and takes the finished letter from his chamberlain. “Take a few extra coppers on your way out. Get your daughter something nice, yes? Something to remind her of home. We.. you can all go back soon, one way or another.”
With the door thudding shut, Volksnand looks at the envelope. Folded once, it fits neatly into the brazier. A single hot coal from the fireplace ignites it with a quiet huff, black specks dancing their way towards the high ceiling as his eyes follow their ascent.
“More wine.”
Budded Truth
-I should tell him.-
Stepping outside she snuggly wraps the scarf around her, feeling the brisk air of early autumn nipping at the town. She inhales and begins walking down the street- opening two jars, one empty and one full of rose petals. Grabbing a few petals she then places them into her mouth.
-Should I tell him?-
She chews the petals slowly and nods at those nearby. After passing Florence then holds up the empty jar and allows the tinted liquid to leave her mouth, swallowing the rest of the flower. As she continues her journey she would replace the petals and repeat the process, filling the jar with the rosey color. It is around this time of year she finds herself with less to do. The season of growth fading.
-I should tell him.-
Florence stops at the doors of a church and swallows the last bit of petals. She takes hold of the handle and walks inside. The room is warm and silent- few people are seated or kneeling in prayer. She quietly takes a seat on one of the empty pews and closes her eyes-mimicking those around her.
“Excuse me.”
Florence stirs from her thoughts as a hand is placed on her shoulder, a priest stands before her. His tone is hushed as to not disrupt the prayers of others.
“Are you alright?”
He gestures a finger towards the corner of his mouth tracing down his chin. She lets out a quiet, “Oh” and scrubs her chin with her scarf.
“Yes,” she whispers back at him, “a little bit of dye.” she points to the jar of liquid in her basket for him to see her truth. His gaze follows and he briefly nods, releasing her shoulder.
-Tell him.-
“Wait.” her voice is less of a whisper as the priest had already begun to move away. He halts and returns, “Yes?”
“Confessions are private?”
His eyes close as he bobs his head.
“I, uh, would like to make a confession.”
She stands from the pew and follows the priest towards the back room. Her hands clasped together- clutching hard at the handles of her basket. Knowing whatever she says will only alleviate some of her stresses but will never help her wicked guilt.
Love and Duty 9: Horrors of War
In a forest clearing, the knight watched as Captain Franco moved to another pair of wounded marines. Like many in the camp, the soldiers were slumped on the ground, their despair visible even from where the knight stood. Her own appearance must have been just as pitiful with her once bright heraldry torn to shreds, pieces of leather armor barely holding together and face caked in grime and dried blood.
From an outside observer, this scene would look more like a refugee camp than the site of an experienced army. No tents had been setup for the men and women were too weary from the consecutive battles and following route that they couldn’t raise the energy to assemble more than a few lean-tos for the many wounded. With a great internal motivational effort, the knight located a piece of only relatively dirty cloth to wipe some of the grime from her face. After smearing off what she cold, the knight made her way to the captain who happened to be near the center of the camp.
“Ascoltami, soldati of House Scordato, il no, my fratelli e sorelle in arms! As I walked the camp, I see in your eyes the same fear that would take me from the horrors we fought on this day. We must not forget that we might have lost many of our comrades and friends this day but we blooded the great enemy. Just like we did during the battle of Tusk Groove. For today we stood, fought and died not for personal glory nor riches but for the sake of a greater humanity. Today was not a defeat but a victory against the taint that plagues this land. We fight for the sake of our glorious empire! We fight for the dream that Holy Benalus gave his very life so that we may be here this day to build a greater, purer world!”
With practiced skill, she drew her sword.
“Do not give into the enslaving fear and bloodlust of Kuarl for I swear this to each of you here and now my amici. I, Dana Isabella Scordato, will see that we avenge the fallen.”
She had not expected cheers nor did she receive any but she could tell that the air of dread suffocating the camp had begun to lift. In time, her soldiers would begin to forget the horrors of this day and return to their dice, cards and drinking games. With a quick nod to Captain Franco, Isabella left to take care of a familial matter.
Black Bard Journal 4
Roger Black Bard Journal 4
Setting: very late at night at the Black Pistol Inn
Some hours earlier Roger and his young minstrel friend Claude heard performances by local bards and poets. They are only patrons left in the tavern. Roger is finishing up a page of lyrics.
“Roger, what are you writing? You seemed to be in a trance during the last performance.”
“Well… ze Night Lord’s Feast eez coming up, an’ I’ve been tinking about someting new. Zat bard wis ze story of heez dead parent inspire me. I have dis music in my ‘ead a long time and now I ‘ave ze story to go wis it… an’… Violá!”
“That’s a new song? May I see it?”
“But of course.”
The tavern is deathly quiet as Claude reads the Black Bard’s latest composition. Upon finishing it young Claude looks ashen and speaks hesitantly.
“My friend… I know you have a… shall we say… darker sense of things than I have… but this… this is the darkest piece I’ve ever read. I think I want to cry.”
“Eef ze piece move you, zen I am pleased.”
“But… why do you want me to feel sad? I thought you cared for me.”
“Oh, oh, oh”, laughed the Black Bard, “Oh, but I absolutely do! Perhaps you need to see ze deeper meaning of zis story. Tell me what you see.”
“I see it opens with a reference to a king and his soldiers on a quest, or conquest, to unite various countries. They all die, whether they were good or bad, and are laid into their graves.”
“Oui.”
“And the refrain is about a dance they do, the Danse Macabre. What does that mean?”
“Eet eez ze Dance of Death. Ze dance we all make in ze end.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Read on. What else do you see?”
“Then there’s a bishop and his Templars who fight against heretics, apparently with some success.”
“An’ what ‘appen to zem?”
“They all die.”
“Oui.”
“And do the Dance of Death too.”
“Read on.”
“Then you write of a cruel and heartless merchant who dies and then his widow uses his wealth to make amends to all the people he wronged in life.”
“An’ what ‘appen to zem?”
“They both do the… Dance of Death.”
“Oui.”
“Then there’s a peasant woman who is always afraid, but pretends to have a happy life.”
“An’ zen?”
“She… kills herself?”
“Oui.”
“Roger, this is a horrible song! I don’t understand!”
“Read on to ze end.”
Young Claude takes a moment to gather strength, and continues.
“You have a hungry beggar who gets sick and dies alone in a pile of debris. No one notices he’s died and he doesn’t receive any funeral rites. His spirit… can’t be free…”
“An’ yet?”
“He too dances the Dance of Death.”
“An’ finally?”
“You have a happy innocent child drown in a river… and…”
Young Claude’s eyes begin to well up again, his face wet with streaming tears as he reads the last stanza again.
“Ze child too dance wit death, no?”
“But… this song says that nothing matters! It says it doesn’t matter who you are or what you do, we all die in the end. I don’t understand. Are you saying… nothing matters in life at all?”
“Au contraire, mon frère. Eez zat all you take from ze lyric? Nutting matter, eh?
Young Claude composes himself, wiping his eyes and looking intently at the tearstained page.
“Maybe it’s saying… we all are doomed to the grave eventually… but…”
The Black Bard smiled cryptically, quietly proud of his young music friend as if he could see the wheels turning inside the younger bard’s head.
“Ohh… maybe it means, we are all the same in one way, no matter what position we hold in this life.”
“An’ zo…?”
“Maybe we could all be a little kinder to each other, while we still live and breathe?”
“Yes, I tink zo. I tink zat eez exactamente what eet mean. You see?”
“Wow…”
“Zo… now you like?”
“I’m moved, yes, but I think I’ll enjoy the one about the Mother Pheasant Plucker a little better.
FIN
Bjorn: The Fall
He didn’t know why he had left, one morning he woke up and felt a powerful pull on his bones calling him home. quickly he had taking all of his worldly goods and threw them in a bag on his back after a few short goodbyes was away. He had walked to Portofino and bartered a passage till the end of the river, from there he had hugged the coast north till the mountains had rose before him. Then he climbed the rugged mountains using at first deer trails and streams to guide him up the dangerous ridges, higher and higher and more north he climb till at times he was clinging on the sides mountains with his fingertips all the while the feeling in his bones pulling him harder and harder north.
After 3 weeks of grueling place he crossed the border of Njordr, but the pull was just as strong. Bjorn had hit a plateau and was thankful for the short break of flatness. Bjorn was collecting food and other supplies for his continued journey, when he realized that he wasn’t alone anymore. A large pack of dire wolves had found their next meal when they first caught the Ironbreakers scent, and was quickly closing the distance, so he did what any sane man of the north would do, He ran.
Crashing through the undergrowth and the fallen pine needles he could see the flanking members of the pack on his left and right as the main body of the beast closed in on his flank. he could hear their many feet gliding along the forest floor and their hot breath on the high mountain air pressing into his back and for a split second he almost could swear that he heard laughter coming from the pack. He could tell that a clearing was up ahead and was hoping that in an open space he could at least have a small chance of scaring off the pack after killing a few of it members, but to his shock an horror he realized that the pack had been guiding him to their killing ground this entire time, a cliff were a ravine dropped into a valley after hundreds of feet of steep cliff.
Getting to the edge and looking over he turned around and with a grimace, drew his axe. “time to make myself a fine wolf blanket for the winter” he said to himself, seeing the dozens of hungry eyes in the woods drawing need and knowing their was no where else to go he prepared for this fight and the last fight at the gates. He raised his shield and yelled as the wolves charged the very first one leaped at his throat but Bjorn raised his shield just in time to see the large wolf lowering its held to crash its full weight into the blow shoving him past the edge and in the frantic move he grasped the edge of the cliff and with all this might and tried to pull himself up. He had managed to get his head back over the edge when he thought he saw something moving in the woods a large as the great ship that had taken him down the river, then the earth he so desperately clinging to gave way and gravity took over.
With shock and horror knowing it was all over he felt the first blow from the fall then an endless procession of twisting and falling landing on rocks and being caught for a moment by trees but carried by his weight and speed, spinning and spinning, the glint of a stream at the bottom the ravine catching his eye for a moment before being replaced by a pine in his line of site that he cracked his head on. the world when white and still he fell. The color and sound returned to him as the spinning started to slow down then he hit with full force the bottom of the valley with a crash of metal and meat.
Bjorn didn’t move and wondered how many things he had just broken and how and more importantly why he was still alive. then for the first time in weeks he felt like he had done the thing that was required of him his bones no longer felt the pulling, that brought a smile to his face. Then he smelled the smell of fire and cooking food, his hunger rose up in him and reminded him that falling down and almost dying was very hungry work, he looked over and saw a women not ten feet away from him walking over to him and another man tied up with chains and rope by a fire and a cooking meal. The women dressed in rotting furs and covered in tattoos walked up to him with a smile and said the last friendly words he would hear in a very very long time. “Ironbreaker, right on time, they said you would be coming” she then drew a wicked looking knife. For the next few hours nothing but screams came from the valley.
