Category: Journal Entry

Alexandria closes the book that she had been reading aloud for the past hour and turns to the children sitting in a half circle around her.

“Just one more story?” One of the orphans asks.

“There aren’t any left,” Alexandria begins to get up, ” besides, all of you should be in bed. We wouldn’t want to upset Miss Maria.”

“If there are none left in the book, how about you tell us one you made up?” another orphan boy pipes up.

“Fine, I will think something up as you guys get into bed, okay?” Alexandria smiles and waits for the kids to get into bed. Once they’ve gotten in and are settled, she begins. “There once was a girl who was very strange. From a young age she was running around and getting into all sorts of trouble like sneaking into the stables, getting lost in the woods, getting muddy and playing outside with the dogs. She certainly did not fit in with her family and they definitely noticed. She tried her best to behave and do as they liked, but it was not enough and she failed more often than not. Her way of showing them that she loved them was too mischievous for them, too, such as when she would hide for hours in the dining hall only to sneak out and grapple her father in a hug during one of his warfare meetings with the adults. They were so tired of her. so sad was she and so she tried to change as to not disappoint them. It was never enough. She loved them, but being proper and prim seemed like something she was not born to do. She was so unlike her siblings.
One day her parents decided to send her away. She was sent off to another country. She tried and tried to get back. She even stole a horse! But it was no use. The kids in this new land didn’t like her either. They thought the way she looked and talked was weird, so they shunned her,” Alexandria says. As she speaks she gestures hand signs and paints a picture on the wall using the dust debris from the room and shaping it into figures with magic.

“So what did she do?” a little blonde girl with large brown eyes asks, her blanket pulled up over her nose as she watches from bed.

“Well, the girl was very lonely. During her studies, she discovered magic. The magic she went out into the world and used to help people–but they feared it. She would heal their wounds, build their houses, and help their crops grow big and strong yet still they treated her like an outcast… They shunned her.
She was cried most nights, ever lonesome. One day she wandered into the woods and she came across a still pond. She leaned over the edge of the water and peered down at her reflection. ‘Sometimes it seems as though my only friend is my reflection’ she muttered to herself. As a frog leaped and displaced the water, even her reflection vanished, even her reflection seemed to flee from her. Her heart ached something fierce. Finally, she came up with an idea. She crafted a blade and she headed back to the town,” Alexandria says.

“Was she going to hurt someone? hunt the mean people down?” One of the kids asks as he watches the figure drawn by magic move with a sword in her hands through the forest.

“No, no. She only ever wanted to help those people. She couldn’t change that now. Once she got to her room, she locked herself away. She took the blade and she cut herself in half, right down the middle!”
The kids all looked surprised as the figure on the wall took the blade and tore itself in two. Both halves turned to one another then reached out so they could hold hands. The frown and sad expression once painted on the figure’s face morphed into a smile as the two halves held hands and looked upon one another.
“oh, I get it, ” one of the children speaks up, “its so she would have a friend.” The figures on the wall turn to the boy and nod.

Alexandria turns to the boy as well, “So she would always have a friend.”

As Alexandria left the orphanage, she let out a deep sigh and turned her eyes to the night sky above. Her eyes became watery as she gazed at the lonely moon sitting in a sky of stars. Alexandria held out her arms as if cradling something and from her body a creature began to form. In no time a dark fox with silver claws and golden eyes was sitting in her arms and looking up at her.

“Aura, do you think anyone will ever actually accept me or will they always want me to change?” She asks the fox. Her familiar nuzzles her. “Yeah, stupid question.”

With that, they start the long walk home.

Luca woke from the nightmare with a start, his back recoiling briefly from the straw on which he lay. Nicoletta, one of the winsome Portofino girls, murmured quietly in her sleep before rolling over and sinking deeper into slumber. Luca should be so lucky.

Faerie lights danced in his memory. In their light he saw terrible beauties and sinister grotesqueries treated as conversation partners and drinking companions by his friends and betters. Paladins and knights, lords and ladies, blithely ignorant or dismissive of the only lore that could protect their souls. Maybe that’s what it was to ascend into the upper echelons of human society–to forget the ways of your ancestors and thus be cast away on the stormy sea of instinct and reason without the anchor of tradition to hold you safely from the rocks.

Perhaps it got worse the higher you got? Did La Principessa lead them into the woods because she was compelled to do so? Had her previous brushes with the fae planted hooks into her mind? Or had she lead her people into deadly spiritual peril of her own free will, on a lark? When she placed her bracelet on the Faerie King was it a desperate first strike meant to give her the leverage to protect them, or was it a whim? Or was it an earnest proposal? Who could tell?

Certainly not Luca. All he knew was that he now found himself and his closest friends under the uncertain aegis of the Queen of Summer. Maybe it meant nothing but a yearly tryste in the woods, a renewal of dark alien vows. But she’d made an off-hand remark recently, a desire to have a conversation about Hestrali forestry practices. She had some new opinions to share. Were they her opinions, or the Faerie King’s?

Luca was awake for hours ill-spared from sleep, finally falling back asleep as the first rays of light infiltrated the loft and Nicoletta crept out to her toilette and chores. Troubled dreams awaited him, dreams of faerie light and bracelets.

“Brother…”

The word floated through his waking thoughts like a cloud on a summer day. It was just a word, no different from any other in the myriad of languages he spoke, but there was such a depth of meaning in that word. Every language had different perceptions and understanding of the word; the Njord are very family and clan centric for their survival, the Rogalian nobility perceive brotherhood as a rivalry where you are a means to an end, but in the Shariqyn culture his experience was that the concept of “brother” is rare and not said lightly.

The foundation of the culture, the seven tribes, the naming structure, where you alert someone with first their tribe affiliation such that they may know whether you are friend or foe, does not encourage brotherhood. It is why he always referred to other Shariqyn as “cousin”. For one of them to call him brother, he could feel the cultural weight of it. A brother was someone who was accepted, trusted, depended on; and in such a fractured society, you depended on your tribe to protect you, to support you. You were distrusting of certain other tribes through either war, marriage, or circumstance, and the outsider you gave no trust at all.

For him, he had no claim to tribe, no claim to even be Shariqyn. His turning from Aa’boran to the ways of Benalus, to wear the cloth, to fight for God, he was as near an outsider as could be. His people viewed him with such disdain, barring him from his homelands. Even thinking on it, though he had no connection to it, his heart ached. “Brother…” That word felt as though it were cool water running over a hot limb, bringing peace and serenity where before there was pain and ache.

He examined why he felt this way; the awareness of his connection to others had been heightened when he had at last turned to the ways of Benalus, to worship God and to work towards the uniting of Humanity. He was ordained, having spent years examining the Testimonium and the Gospels for the insights to help others. He had fought with soldier, Imperial Knights, Templars and Paladins, bled with them and so forged bonds of comraderie and brotherhood. He had lived in a society where this brotherhood was offered freely and with no deceit, for this was the way of Benalus and the mission of the Church.

The more he looked, the more he came to see, that this brotherhood he had come to rely and depend on. They were true brothers in God, and he could rely on them, but the cultural significance was not there. The distrust was not there when he spoke with others in the Throne; it tainted every interaction he had with with his cousins of Sha’ra. For one of his people, who had reviled him, to call him that, to express sorrow, regret, and acceptance, it ran against the cultural norm in the extreme. It took courage and understanding for the person to have cast aside everything to call him a brother.

His mind still struggled to come to terms with it, but he felt in his heart a serentiy, a peace that he had not felt since he had been baptised and committed himself to God. Daily he spent time to listen to the Word within his soul to guide him, and it was rarely clear. Today, he felt it was crystal clear. He felt the hand of Benalus in this. With the first link, the chain is forged, and he felt that through this connection with Sir Tu’luk, the first link was made solid. His heart told him, the Word in his soul told him that his people would come to Benalus and God, and this was the beginning of how he would help them. With that, the feeling that being called “brother” shifted from what was the end of a road long walked in blindness, to the beginning new road into the light.

Opening his eyes, Renatus brought himself out of the long time of prayer he had cloistered himself to engage in, his heart lighter, his purpose focused, his course clear. “Praise be, glory to God, Deus Vult.”

The study to the manor is quiet. Books line the walls, casting small shadows by dancing candlelight. A cold sweat runs down the baroness’ forehead as her face lay in her hands. Elbows perched against her desk, doubled over forward in her chair.

—–

On her knees in a dried, yellow field of grass she screams. Tears are running down her face, and her hands are clenched into fists, pressed into the ground. Edward is standing beside of her. Folding forward, she grabs her scarred hand and clenches it tightly. It’s hard to breathe.

—–

A campfire in a forest with overcast skies. There are tents surrounding the fire in formation, but.. some of them have been torn apart and have collapsed. The fire illuminates the gore on the ground. Torn human bodies. Imperial colors. Something large, furred, wolflike is wheezing its last few breaths before Evelyn drives a sword through it. There’s so much blood.

—–

The same field as before, now covered in snow. Evelyn is here alone now. Gravity is different. The air is electric. Around her, the ground is scorched black in a radius with her as the center. Is she.. floating? Everything hurts so much. Darkness.

—–

A knock on the door jolts Evelyn from her thoughts. “Come in,” she says aloud while wiping at her face. Kalon, a njord man enters the room with a bow of his head. In a njordic accent he offers with a hint of excitement, “Baroness, I have the report from the bursary.” He produces a small leather-bound book. Evelyn gestures for him to come closer, and as he does, she takes the offered book. “Thank you so much, Kalon. I would be lost without you.”

She sets the book on her desk and opens it to read the contents.

With a hint of concern in the njord’s voice he comments, “Are you alright, Evelyn?” There’s a tangible silence for a brief couple moments before Evelyn looks up with a sullen smile. “Some bad memories.”

“I think we’re getting close to some Night Malefic…” a brown haired knight said excitedly, grabbing the pommel of his sword…ready to strike.

Leonce laughed softly “We’re not anywhere near them, it’s very early in the morning. If we were close to them, we would already be dead.” he paused for a second before giving the knight a mocking grin. “…my lord.”

The knight glares at the scum, his ego slightly smaller now. “I have killed many men and have heard their cries of despair. I am not afraid of some heretical creatures. God will guide me”

And there was his problem, Leonce thought. Not being afraid is foolish, only an idiot would be fearless in the face of supernatural forces. A classic human mistake, thinking we’re invincible or that good will always triumph or whatever the fuck they’ve been fed their whole lives. Leonce knew different, good people die all the time. Good people die lame deaths, good people die without being ever found, good people die shitting their pants. He wondered if this knight was going to shit his pants on the last moments of his death.

The knight makes an exasperated noise when Leonce doesn’t say anything back to him.

“How long until we meet the the guide to get to Stragosa?” the knight sounded impatient, the worst human quality according to Leonce.

“A week at most, my Lord. His timing is very unpredictable.”

Another exasperated sound.

Leonce reminded himself that this knight had offered to pay him silver for taking him to where the guide was to meet everyone, silver was always welcomed; otherwise he would have left this petulant child already. From what he could tell, the knight was of no important house…a self made house by the sounds of it, looking for glory to raise his status. The boy was amused that this knight thought he would find glory in a place like Stragosa, there was only death there…If the knight made it that far…

—————————

They came in the dark, like they always did. Leonce had wandered off to find more wood for the fire, the knight had been shivering and complaining…if that shut him up then he would go out of his way to find dry wood for the diminishing flame.

Leonce’s movements stop as he hears a painful yell from where the campfire was. He hears the knight scream for help, Leonce almost pities him as he hears his how bloodcurdling his voice carries through the forest. It sounds like a slow, painful death. He hears the ghouls tear into the flesh…the forest echoes those noises as well.

Poor brave knight, he thinks. He wants to let out a chuckle but that would give away his position. So instead he just sits against a tree, eyes vigilant to any attack. Hands wrapping his bloodstained coat tighter around himself.

It’s freezing cold. He can see his own breath as he tries to stay hidden. He stays awake until dawn comes and listens to make sure there are no groaning sounds close by.

With no danger nearby he gets up and stretches. Arriving at the camp, the boy assess the situation. The death had been more brutal than he thought; body parts everywhere, muscle torn to the bone. The knight’s face looks like it’s been half eaten as well, truly unfortunate.

“He did shit himself…” he said quietly, a soft amusement on his voice as he found the legs of the knight smeared with excrement. Another “hero” gone.

He kneels down to rummage through the knights bag, there he finds his purse.

“You’re not going to need it where you are headed.” He speaks to the half eaten head, which is staring at the sky in frozen horror.

Grabbing his travel bag, he walks quietly towards the pass to Stragosa.

My nervousness made me too blunt, too harsh.

He startled at the question, his scowl conveyed, surprise? No, anger? Disgust? I’m bad at this game of emotional judgement. As I’m unable to determine if his berating me about my incompetences is a deflection or actual concern.

He rambled about who he was as a person, trying to change my mind. And then back to yelling about how little I know about the world. Which clearly thrills me to the core. And steadily I become closer to being done with our conversation via force.

I’m once again disgusted by him.

And then suddenly interested again.

You see, I feel drawn to him. Maybe it was by the chase? To uncover what he is made of. If my disgust at his words are genuine or if he deflects because he knows I judge everything he says. Is that all that makes him clever, his ability to deflect my interest?

I shouldn’t have told him. I had sat on these feelings for so long though, not knowing if they were true. Every word he says blurred by the unknown. The constant questioning if how I feel about him is real.

How was I going to face him in public now?

I could see him trying to figure it out, trying to place my wants and desires. What answer would make me happy, content for at least a while so he could weigh his choices.

That’s the funny thing though, I don’t know what I wanted.

“Would you like some wine?”

There was a long pause as his fingers combed through soft long dark hair. The head on his lap shifts. There is a sigh and the voice that responds is a whisper.

“No…shouldn’t I be the one asking you that? You’re in my home, father would have disapproved of me for being such a terrible host.”

There’s so much sorrow in his tone, it cuts Armand so deep. “I’m sure he was proud of the person you have become, Jantis. You and Hezke both…you’ve become great people. You’ve both made his House proud.”

Jantis frowns, the way he does when he is deep in thought.

“I’m not sure what to do now. How to move on…”

Armand knew that train of thought too well. He’s been there too, he can’t think of a worse feeling than losing someone you love to Death.

“You will move on. All of you will. But for now it’s the time to grief, let your emotions surface. You know I’m here to listen and there is no weakness in sorrow, lets you know you’re human.”

Jantis nods and tries to give Armand a small smile. It comes out as a grimace instead.

“Thank you for accompanying Hezke after she told you of our loss. It’s been nice to have you around, even in these circumstances.”

Armand continues to runs his fingers through Jantis’ hair. The movement ever so gently. “I saw you in my dream.” He can feel Jantis twitch at the mention of dreams. “I didn’t see you, I saw a shadow…surrounded by despair. I knew it was you…though I had no idea what had happened. I thought I would ride here and see you before going back to Bravestone….and then Hezke told me of the sad news.”

Jantis gives a soft chuckle “dreams still happening I see. Just like when we were children.”

Not just like it, Armand thought. He still hadn’t asked Hezke or Jantis how their father died, he figured when they felt like telling him they would. Still, he wondered in his dreams could have prevented Graf Heidrich’s death…and there would be a pang of guilt in the future if he found out he could have. But his dreams latety had been more enigmatic than before…sometimes they would give him premonitions of things he had been worrying about, other times his dreams would take him in directions he was not expecting. He had yet to have a grasp on controlling them and even how to interpret the imagery he was given.

He feels Jantis shifts and then stand up slowly, fixing his clothes as he tries to regain composure.

“I should get ready, in case other houses come to pay respects.”

Armand nods, getting up himself and straightening his jacket. There’s a long comfortable silence as they both slowly try to make themselves more presentable in front of the mirror. Armand feels like Jantis wants to say something but is holding it back…he can feel it by the way he shifts his body back and forth. He decides to take the initiative.

“I know this is probably not a time to have guests here in the house. I wanted to comfort you, wanting to be of help if I could. But I also don’t want to be a burden, and if you’d rather be alone I can travel home after the funeral. I promise I understand needing space right now.”

They stare at each other for a while before Jantis crosses the room to open the door, looking back at Armand with a hint of relief in his voice.

“You can send a raven to Bravestone…let the King know that you’ll be staying here for the foreseeable future.”

The Prince gives Jantis Heidrich a soft smile “At once, my lord.”

Black Bard Journal 3
Setting: very late at night in a small roadside tavern
Some hours earlier Roger and his young minstrel friend Claude heard a performance by a local bard called Bumsen Goodhand. They are only patrons left in the tavern.

“Roger, what did you think of Bumsen Goodhand?”

“Well… heez left hand eez obviously ze good one. But his songwriting impress me ze most. I trade ‘im one of mine for eez closing number. Eef I can learn ‘ow ‘e plays it.”

“That tune is getting popular, I’ve been hearing it all over, it’s very catchy. Roger, why do you play another bard’s tune, you have so many?”

“Well… nobody can know everything, zo I like to listen to stories I don’t know, maybe I learn someting new. Ze music world is a paradox, you know? Ze more you give away, ze more you ‘ave.”

“What do you mean? I don’t get it.”

“Well, take zis local bard, he’s a nobody. But ‘e come up wis someting good one time, everybody want to do ‘is song. Ze more he share, ze more people ‘ear ‘is song. He become popular maybe. Now ‘e ‘as more power to influence ze world. To make ze world a little brighter, make people feel someting. Zat eez what eez all about, no? Maybe ‘e become famous because everybody know ‘is song and zey feel ‘appy, uh?”

“He just gives away his song for other bards to play?”

“If zey are honest, zey give ‘im ze credit when zey perform. And I usually offer a song in exchange eef I want to play someone else’s tune, zo ‘e comes away wis someting.”

“How come you never traded songs with me?”

“Well, I don’t tink I can sing any of your songs, your vocal style eez… um, too advanced for me to follow. I cannot hit ze high note anymore…”

“Can I have one of your songs anyway?”

“Ha-ha-ha! Which one deed you ‘ave in mind, Claude?”

“I sort of like that new one you wrote this winter—‘Gibbets and Crows’. It’s cute! Wherever did you get the idea for such darkly humorous story?”

“Mm, well, zis winter was… ‘ow should one say…? A challenge.”

“I’m all ears, my good fellow! Do tell!”

“Well, since leaving Stragosa last winter, ze hunting game seem not so profitable, you know, an’ I find myself wis an opportunity to do some good for ze poor people living in the city. Zey need farm workers tout de suite. Zere eez a food shortage, ze poor are ‘ungry, an’ I see zere eez need for my assistance.”

“I didn’t know you were a Farmer!”

“Oh, I’m not.”

“But…”

“Ze good man in charge tell me, uh, go study Farming from a book an’ zen you can staff ze dairy providing milk, cheese, curds, and whey to ze ‘ungry poor. I say yes.”

“Sounds like a lot of effort!”

“I never found out. Zere was a ‘orrible dark secret about zat dairy and zis enterprise… I will spare your tender ‘eart ze details. Suffice to say eet would curdle your blood to see what I saw.”

“Oh, dear! What did you do?”

“Zo I left zat ‘orrible place and went back to ze good man who wish to ‘elp ze poor, an’ I say, hey, I am ze Black Bard of Capacionne! I don’t ‘ave to put up wis zees kind of disgusting nonsense!”

“What did he say?”

“I explain what happen an’ he understand. Zo, I’m tinking I just go out into ze woods and live off ze land all winter, but he say, hey, I have anozer way you can help feed ze poor—staffing ze butcher shop behind ze prison, next to ze gallows. I still want to ‘elp, zo I say ‘fine’.”

“The butcher shop behind the prison, next to the gallows. THAT was less disgusting than the dairy?!”

“Oh, yes, most certainly.”

“But you’re cutting up meat and dealing with blood and customers! Right next to where they hang criminals! It sounds… absolutely ghastly!”

“No, eet ees important work to ‘elp ze poor, eet eez honorable and just. I know what I’m doing.”

Claude let out a horrified gasp.
“THAT’s where you wrote ‘Gibbets and Crows’?”

“Yes.”

“In the butcher shop next to the gallows?”

“Yes.”

“Well, if it’s all the same to you… will you let me do ’Behind the Farmer’s Daughter’ instead?”