Category: Journal Entry

As a child growing up hoping to be a priest my best guess is that I would travel to a neighboring country like Rogalia or the like. But my life has taken me to places I never thought possible. I have gone as for east as Shara, and as far west as the oceans of Rogalia. I have been to the northern frosts and I have been to the southern Gotha boarder as well.

Everywhere I go; someone writes a letter, dies, retires, or in some way opens a door for me to advance. I feel like I am barely keeping up with my own reputation, yet alone actually being that person. When I came to Stragosa I expected to die within a fortnight. Every Mithrihim that had come here either died, fell to evil, or just vanished. Aside from a templar Mithrihim, I am the longest Mithrihim in attendance in this four year long war. I expected that it would be my time to die.

But then something happened. Again someone left, and a void had to be filled. For two markets the Head of the Diocese of the Defiant Light, threatened to put me in charge as he went off and nearly gets killed. He even had another priest scribe down his wishes for it. I knew the man for all of a day before he was ready to hand over the symbols of authority here. By the third market, he was gone. A messenger left me his contracts and church resources. By the time the market began, the other clergy were looking at me like I new what to do.

I can’t claim to know what to do. But I do know what feels right and what feels wrong. Unceremoniously it was just decided that until someone felt I couldn’t do the job, I was it. I was a farm hand who couldn’t even remember what season to sow what seeds. But I never stopped working. I pushed myself to always move forward.

So yet again, I have to move forward. No one is really sure what that will mean, or how long I will have to do it. I will not let the people in the most watched province of the throne go without spiritual leadership. All of the Throne of God on Earth is watching this place. And somehow, this farm hand turned priest … is in charge of the soul here. Did I ask for it, I did not. Did I accept my role, yes I did.

Do I even know what I am doing?

Alexandria huffed as she broke into a run, heading away from the border of Prince Araga’s estate. For the last two weeks she had been cooped up in her room, with everyone and everything telling her that it was for her own good and that the baby was bound to arrive any minute. They had brought her meals, pampered her, brushed her hair, everything. It was too much for a creature of the forest like herself and she loathed the attention. Alexandria had tried to escape several times. All of those times, sadly, she had been caught and escorted back into the room by servants or Sir Tul’uk or a very grumpy husband.
This morning was different, though. The Prince was meeting with various members of the council and discussing the sewer project and Sir Tul’uk was, hopefully, out on some errand, for she had not seen him about. In the time between the bath the servants nearly forced upon her and the time she was allowed to spend in her garden, a measly thirty minutes, Alexandria managed to forge a distraction. As she left the room, she shed Aura, her familiar, from her body and let her spirit wander off with very specific instructions.
Just as they were about to enter the garden, the servants who were escorting Alexandria had seen smoke billow from the main hall of the dining room followed by a loud, shrill cackle.The second they disappeared, so did Alexandria. Behind her, she could hear cries and the bustle of many servants, likely trying to put out whatever small fires Aura had set, or so, she had figured Aura had set. The instructions had been more of permission, really, a “yes, you may eat the shiny chandelier”, a statement Alexandria never imagined she would have to say, let alone that she would be gifting her soul with permission for such a task. Either way, Aura had likely knocked candles from the giant metal object and set the table cloth alight. Alexandria would pay for it later, but it was a small price to pay for her freedom.
Despite being rather heavy and not at all well balanced, Alexandria managed to reach the garden’s edge, called for the plants to give her aid, and pulled herself onto the roof then over the other side and fell to the ground, landing with a light thud on a large pile of moss she had called forth. From there, she made a break for it and began to sprint as hard as her pregnant body would allow, making a beeline into the trees and across the busy Stragosa streets. All people and animals in her way were but obstacles and she danced around them, only once knocking into a person, though it was hard enough to make him drop a basket of fruit. She had no time for apologies now, though, and needed to get to the forest before someone returned her back to the prison.
Closely behind her, Alexandria heard a cackle and a howl and a wiry blonde with great ears of a fox, black with gold tips, and eyes of gold bolted up and alongside her. Shoving one leftover arm of the chandelier into her gullet as she ran. Aura, in the form of a small blonde girl, laughed again then proceeded to merge into Alexandria as soon as they crossed the border into the green brush.
Alexandria slowed as she passed through the line of trees, trying desperately to catch her breath while maintaining a steady jog. A couple dull aches spread from her back to her abdomen, but she paid them no heed. Pushing on almost another quarter mile, she finally could go no more and leaned against a broad pine’s bark at the edge of a large hill to catch her breath. She didn’t even notice the one man who had followed her from the street and into the forest, despite him not being particularly stealthy. Her head was elsewhere, the taste of freedom burning her lungs and urging her to leave all else behind.
When she finally did notice, it was because she had been struck by some sort of weapon in the back. A seal broke on her body, magic coming to life, and she whipped around, eyes glowing and teeth newly bared. The man, scared, dropped the knife he had been holding and fled immediately. In Alexandria’s brief carelessness and surprise, she had stepped away from the tree and as she stepped back to lean against it once more, found nothing beneath her foot. Down the hill she went, avoiding some of the trees and stumps, but not all as she tumbled. When she finally reached the bottom, she found herself on the bank of a creek, looking up at the hill and panting. The spell on her had minimized the damage to nearly nothing, but something felt strange.
Convincing herself that she just needed to get up, she rolled to her side and found her balance. The second she rose to her feet, there was a feeling of wetness running down her legs and onto the embankment. A bit puzzled and dazed, she looked from the water’s edge to herself, thinking it odd that she had managed to get so wet when having not even fallen into the water itself. Then it dawned on her, coming with it an alarming ache and a brief cry as her spell could not protect her from this sort of pain. The baby was coming. A slight panic seeped into her as she realized there was no way she would be able to get up the hill, at least not with out considerable effort, and that she didn’t wish to cry out and alert her attacker to her current dilemma, should he have remained close by or had friends. Now she was regretting her desire for freedom, if only a little, but was more regretting having not left anyone any clues as to where she may have departed off to. Another dull ache spread and became more menacing as it grew stronger and she staggered over to the deepest portion of the creek ahead of her and fell into it.
“Just another obstacle to overcome,” she muttered to herself aloud.

Something sired in the Ironbreaker, news of the north about another great battle now filled him with a mixture of emotions. The news was brought to him by a group of Njords that was trying to rough him up admittedly, but the news did seem genuine. it had been too long since he had been home, years of fighting in the south for the petty lords and ladies of Rogalia, then a long stop here in this Stragosa had softened him. He had only been reminded of his weakness by The Undying who had come with true northern fire in her heart. He had forgotten what it means to be Rimelander, had it been right after his branding he would have slaughter those poor fools who had tried to do him harm and wore their heads on his belt for the rest of market, but he had grown merciful and soft, he had eaten their sweet food, drunk their grape wines, and made friends with them. He was even willingly going to their Convocations.

Tightening his armor as he left the Blackjack hall he had a mask of displeasure on his face, with the words of a Gothic Noble still ringing in his head “Anyone can legally kill you Bjorn”, He smiled let them try. After all he had done for this place he was and always would be an outsider after his death for the town, and his constant fights to keep everyone safe last market he had lead the charge into battle and was the first into battle, but they still only saw the painted outsider, of course that is his path. To struggle was his people’s way, struggle was their purpose, we have laid it all on the line so we could keep our freedom from the rulership of soft southlanders. The Throne had everything to their advantage but for the last 30 years his people had kept their lands and their ways whole, with axe and shield they had turned back southern armies, they had been laid low first by the ice and snow then finished like an exhausted deer that had been ran down by the wolf pack.

Now his heart was pumping fast and sounds and voices pressed against his ears until it hurt his head. He tasted and smelled blood and realized he had chewed his lip again. His eyes were moving fast and searching for a enemy to slay, the crowed streets with their noise and smell only heightened his fury and bloodlust, he heard a scream in the distance and his mind took him back to the night of slaughter were he unleashed upon defeated foes and got to know the darkness within him. A man dressed all in black like the rest of the people around him asked him if he needed a priest Bjorn laughed in his face, the man scurried away saying something about sins.

What do sins matter for a Branded Man of the North? Sins are how you mark the world with your power and will. the only sins that matter are sins that could tarnished your name, that is what his father had taught him as a boy. That is what they could never understand, or refused to understand. still shaking with rage he walked into the Metalli building ignoring all of his friends and walked to only consent good thing in this entire world, his forge. tossing extra fuel on the fire enjoying the blast of heat and sparks he channeled his endless rage into his work, and the world was drowned out in a blast of metal on metal and the roar of flames.

Dearest ———-,

I wake every morning to a room covered in feathers of black and red.
The darkest of feathers remind me of home- a familiarity.
The red give me unease- they move freely alone, without consequences.

I still do not eat breakfast-
in hopes to hear you scorn me again.

While out on the Earth I feel it shake
A mother bear who has lost her kin- she has adopted me,
teaching me a lick of pain and protection.

I watched as that branch whipped my skin,
thinking it will harden like bark.

I still pick herbs– hoping–wishing to hear those voices again.
while they evade me, two friendly grass sprites encourage me.
And while I need no teachings- their kind words accompany me, smiles that are true.

I hope you are following-
you taught me everything up to here.

The tavern is full every night-
I myself have been caught dancing. So many offer their hand.
Only one holds a true beat. Asking me for trust in return of favors- allowing me to lead these rhythmic circles.

The wolf in the corner of the tavern asks me to watch them sleep
I accept- it’s claws dried with months old blood, the luster gone from its eyes.
“Do not worry Florence, they will be gone soon” he whispers in my ear.
The bear speaks with him often- they have adorn me with a fur coat of safety.

Many crowns have kissed my forehead
A radiate golden asking of honey- fitting for its sweet song
their right hand visits often, helping me to smile- I wish they would stay.

In their attic a great sword and beautiful necklace are displayed.
A necklace once worn gives a feeling of wine washing down the throat- it is pleasurable.
While the sword has on many occasions taken to my hand and led me home- it is honorable

Looking out this window I can see the two.
Siblings I envy who dance with great joy- smiles blessing their beautiful faces
A past memory of my arrival, not yet knowing how dark it can get here.
Two outside and one in. Is this fair?

But I will always return home,
A single empty glass with a bow around the stem decorated the table.
My first gift- I was hasty to drink it. Do I regret drinking it, or not drinking more.
There is a lust for it but the consequences deem too expensive for my shallow pockets.

Before I console my bed I look into the mirror,
An impersonal spade looks back- this is and is not me.
Could you believe that? Opposites sharing a reflection- is this my —–

======================

The writing abruptly stops, “Hm?” Florence glances up and across the table.

“Florence.” Walt speaks, he sits directly opposite from her with his hand gesturing towards the table. The pen in her right hand drops as she reaches into her basket- 3 sealed pieces of parchment appear.

“Bjorn. Balthazaar. Two silver reward, each.” she passes the contract around the table and their meeting continues.

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.