The Growth of a Flower

A small knock is heard from the door before it is answered and hidden words are exchanged. A young child with braids of coffee-colored hair sits at a table pulling the leaves off of stems, humming to herself as she does so.

“Florence?” The voice beckons her from the other room.

The girl removes herself from the kitchen and journeys towards the entrance of her home. She continues towards the standing figure with their back towards Florence. Her head peaks around her mother’s skirt, a young dirtied boy stands in the doorway.

A soft hand lays upon Florence’s head, “My sweetie, the neighbor wishes to play.” Florence shakes her head. Her mother pats Florence’s head before ushering her from behind her mother towards the door, “When Claude returns with your Father he will go out and play as well. Do not be shy.” Florence grips her skirt tightly and follows the child out into the world. Her eyes briefly looking back towards her home which shrinks as they move further.

“Let’s play Noble!” The young boy’s voice snaps Florence’s attention back to him. She remained silent. “I’ll be the Noble first.”

———————————————

“Florence.” A stern voice greets her as she enters the dining hall. Prince Lothaire sits at the table alone, an empty chalice in hand. She makes her way to his side, lifting the bottle in hand to meet the lip of his cup. The berry colored liquid fills his glass and the scent of tart fruit circles around the two. She remains standing near him awaiting for him to dismiss her.

The doorway opens once more, a round wealthy looking man marches towards them speaking loudly, “My prince!” he takes seat near the Lothaire, “I’ve had some thought-” The man pauses as he eyes the bottle in Florence’s hands, “Are you going to stand there? Pour me wine.” She nods her head and retrieves a glass for the man as he continues to speak. After fulfilling his order he waves her away but she remains. His red face distorts, he opens his mouth ready to lecture Florence.

“She stays.” Prince Lothaire interjects. “She is a loyal servant.” His face remains still as he speaks inflecting little emotion as he speaks. The hefty man lets out a boisterous laugh and begins to jest with Lothaire of the servant before moving forward with business.

———————————————-

“I said throw it!”

The young girl holds the rock in her trembling hand. She looks at the cluster of baby rabbits nesting in the grass. The dirty boy pushes Florence hard, and screams at her, “I am the Noble and you must do what I say. Or do you want me to tell on you?” he points to the hole again, “Throw it!”

Florence sniffles and hesitates before throwing the rock.

———————————————–

“Let’s play Noble.” The dirty child was older now, his voice rarely crackling anymore.

Florence’s hair was a short curled mess now, free of braids from her younger years. “No.” She grew into her voice, though still small compared to most. She hated the game, it was cruel and never fun for her.

“What if you are the Noble first?” When she was the noble he would always overthrow her after a few minutes. But she had no choice.

She led him to a quiet part of the woods behind her home and made him collect green berries. He held the berries out to her in a mocking bow.

“Now eat them.”

————————————————-

“We leave tomorrow.” The Prince continues to pack clothing into the large chest. Florence stands near the door watching as he packs, “My Prince-” she waits a moment for his attention, “I want to stay.” She folds her hands together as Prince Armand raises from his position. He looks at her with a warm smile.

“My sweet Flower.” He nears her and she holds her breath knowing she has no hand in this decision. “Of course you may stay.” He lays a hand on her shoulder, “I want you to be happy.”

“Thank you.” she whispers, the pit in her throat dissipates. He was always different from the rest of them. He allowed her a choice.

Lion Age 604, March: The Journal of Emich von Volksnand

To: Mother
From: Your First-Born

I write this as a letter, although I well know that it will become only an entry in my journal. The ravens do not currently leave Stragosa for our keep, and we have not spoken in long enough where my missive would cause discomfort, above all.

My progress in finding a wife, as instructed, is moving along well. I have identified two high-born candidates. Both are strong-minded and ample-hipped, as is our wont. One of them appears to have pledged her self to another, but that is surely only temporary. The other is much more likely to be amenable to my proposal, although I fear that she would react poorly once she discovered my youthful indiscretions. I am confident those have now been paid off, yes?

The rulership of Stragosa is where we need it to be, firmly securing it for House Fafnir. I have engineered several positions in the ruling council that will – in the long term – benefit father, and fulfill his wishes. My primary concern is the weakness of Cappacione, as Prince Armand seems to have left the city. I knew him from my youth and felt comfortable in his virtues and strengths. Losing him is something I consider a personal failure, as he never seemed at home here. Neither do I, but duty demands that I remain. Envy and pathos mingle uncomfortably in my mind as I consider Armand’s departure.

The Rogalians continue to pose a conundrum I have been unable to solve, but I maintain that they hold the key to continued prosperity in this valley. I will go into more depth on this in my second addendum to this letter. The Hestrali contingent remains untamed and utterly dangerous – and their numbers continue to swell. If they harboured meaningful political ambitions, they could become an issue. Thankfully they are blinded to this obvious truth by their misguided desire for coin and production. I will encourage them to continue along this path.

With respect and gratitude,
your son.

Chapter 4: The Torment of Love

The smell of burnt wood was thick in the air, the cloying, heavy reak of it spreading away from the fire pit in which a nice faggot sat ablaze.

Renatus sat a short distance away from the fire, watching the flickering flames dance up and down the log. The remains of a meal sat in a small bowl on the ground, and now he gazed into the blaze, his mind drifting in time with the sizzle and pop of the log. He held a tressertag bracelet in his hands, turning it over and over again absentmindedly. He felt the memories of the sweet girl begin to spring up in his mind, moving to drown out the sadness that seemed to pervade his thoughts of late. Memories of true warmth and bliss.

Too often, his service to Benalus and the Church drove him hither and yon, testing the limits of his mind, body and spirit, but whenever he was granted some small measure of leave to recover, he always travelled back to Lethia where the small home he’d been granted. There, taking care of the home and its small affairs was a young woman whose smile always made the trip worthwhile. She’d been freed from a set of slavers he’d come across in one of his trips across the Throne, and he had cared for her and worked to nurse her back to health, as an atonement set for accidentally killing several of them in the course of freeing her. He’d never begrudged the atonement, and he’d come to care for the young woman… and even coming to love her. She was such a sweet woman, honest, funny, though she had a temper when she drank. He saw her as a pure soul to protect, and to one day wed.

On one of his infrequent trips back to Lethia, she’d asked for more, and he had had to turn her down. The sadness in her eyes was palpable, for he knew she wanted more. He had too, but he’d explained why he could not, not then in any case. And so began a romance from afar, nurtured in the mind through thought and hope, for both of them. Each year since, he’d held in his hand a tressertag bracelet, and he could feel the ache to want to be close to someone like that. He couldn’t though, not without feeling as though a betrayal of the love of a girl he yearned for from a world away.

With a loud pop, a cluster of sap burst from the heat of the flames, bringing him out of his memories. With a sigh, he gently threw the tressertag into the blaze. His heart ached, but he knew that he had ultimately no control over the future. Another year, another absence, and another silent prayer asking Benalus to keep them safe until he could see her again, hold her in his arms one last time…he prayed to be granted some peace from this torment called love.

Dreams of a Dead Girl

The spring night fell upon the city, winter’s chill still clinging when the sun went down. Jehanne had hardly begun to consider her supper and the night was already creeping into the windows of her home. She sat quietly by the hearth, absently running her bare toes over the grout of the hearth stones. So many of her friends had made themselves busy elsewhere and she found herself alone much of the time. The corner of the small kitchen was decorated with a rough hewn table and many candles. She rose from he stool by the fire to light the candles passing a small window as she walked- there were no stars in the sky tonight.

The faint scent of tallow wafted from the candles as she began to burn them and she was distantly aware that the scent would settle in her hair. On and impulse- took a seat at the table, focusing her gaze on the empty chair across from her. She had seen him seated there many nights- laughing and joking in their own language, rifles and pistols spread in front of him. This thought was accompanied by a certain heaviness in her chest, as though something had settled there. She allowed her eyes to lose focus over the candle flame, imagination bringing his shade into focus across the table.

***

A man was seated at the table, weapons laid out before him, some oiled- some in the midst of disassembly. His hooded eyes were creased with smile lines as he looked up at her, the golds and browns of his beard soft in the candle light. “ We’ve to at least finish oiling the pistols before we sleep my love- they’re needed for tomorrow’s work”. The mind-conjured version of herself smiled and winced as the skin of her right cheek burned. She lifted one of her silver cups from the table and inspected her reflection. A long scar ran from her left temple to the peak of her lips, it was still the deep red-purple of a newly healing wound.

The scraping of chair legs on the rough stones jarred her gaze from the cup. His arms slid around her waist. “It will heal. I do not think it detracts from your beauty.” His strong hands rest on her shoulders- massaging gently “In fact, I think it gives you a certain fierceness. A lady Jack indeed.” He gently turns her in his arms, voice low “I am sorry about your hair though- I wouldn’t have let Walt take it if there had been any other way to get you free.” She nods softly- a quick movement unencumbered by the usual weight of her hair. “I know- and you saved me Lucien. I could never be angry at a husband who saved my life.”

Jehanne stepped backwards from her husband’s arms- towards the assortment of weapons on the table. “So we need all of the pistols cleaned, reassembled and shot must be allocated. What about the knives? Are we in charge of inventory or does Walt expect us to do the minor repairs to the loose tine as well?”

He closed the distance between them – hands settling into the pockets of her trousers “Let me make you laugh again Jehanne. I miss your laugh. Remember when someone mistook you for my apprentice? They thought you were a boy and nearly fell over laughing when I told them that you were my wife.” She felt the curve of her lips twitch involuntarily and laughter erupted with the recollection. “I love the sound of your laugh.” She leaned back into his arms “And I love the sound of yours.”

She reluctantly returned to her seat at the table “If I ever wish to take my husband to bed- I’d best start re-assembling these weapons” She pulled a pistol barrel towards her and began to swab it clean. Lucien remained standing, eyes surveying his wife. She was more muscular than when they had first met- her forearms had become much more defined as she had began practicing knife work. “You really do look ferociously beautiful my love- and you knife work is improving” his hands casually traced their way down her forearms, fingers tracing the outlines of a small braided leather bracelet. The strands had been deeply colored when he’d given it to her; rich brown and cold and red. The bracelet had faded now- the colored softened with ware and in the years since he’d gifted it to her it had lost its leathery roughness- becoming a part of her as they’de become a part of one another.

Her eyes followed his hand to the bracelet- and she felt his thoughts in that way of spouses “You’re remembering the night you gave that to me?” Lucien nodded softly- a smile creasing his eyes, “to be fair”- she added softly “after all of that wine- terrible wine I might add” “which you kept drinking!” He interjected in jest, “which we drank together” she emphasized. They laughed. She brought her lips to his wrist kissing the pulse there. “I really hadn’t expected that you know- I didn’t know you felt that way about me- but we made sense and I suppose there was something to be said for a night spent dancing and laughing, and avoiding everyone who would interrupt us.” She turned her head so she could meet his eyes, they were a lovely pale green and she smiled. He would always remind her of Spring and hope and briefly she wondered if their baby would have had his eyes.

Another occupational hazard. Mercenaries didn’t have children- not usually. She hadn’t known she wanted children until she had seen the joy in Lucien’s eyes that first summer after their wedding. Heard the joy in his voice when the spoke of all the things they would teach their son- who he would be. As if reading her mind he kissed her cheek softly “it wasn’t your fault Jehanne. These things happen. Thistle said you were lucky to live- and selfishly” he swallowed and she could feel a tear sliding down his cheek “I couldn’t have lost you.”

Their daughter had died in the fall. Born too soon- it wasn’t clear what had caused the birth. It could have been the fighting- or the new poisons she had been experimenting with. They had named her Amelia before laying her to rest in the cemetery. He had held her- and Stragosa had become Home- they wouldn’t leave her like that.

“I think about her too Jehanne.” “We never said it would be easy- I still choose you- I choose this” she gestured to the table and the small kitchen- to everything that represented their life. “if all the losses of my life brought me to you- and us- it has been worth it” his eyes welled as he spoke. She kissed him fully- silencing his words and her mind. “it’s still worth it- you’re worth it-“ there was something else there, but the words stuck and she let them rest. “Now help me with these weapons. We’ve still work left.”

*****
The snapping of a damp log on the fire broke the silence of the kitchen, jarring Jehanne from imagined memories of a life that never was and would never be. Something that was not quite a smile passed over her lips. With images of his spring-green eyes still in her mind she knew that somewhere in herself she could have- or did- feel love for Lucien. The feeling gaped somewhere just above her stomach, hollow and tender and knowing. It was a satisfied ache, no longing or eagerness in that pain. It didn’t gnaw or pull, rather it lay contented with feline grace with her. The anger she had felt for him- for his words- stung less in the presence of those feelings, as if they provided some insight into the source of his anger. She sighed and began rummaging in the basket near her feet, searching for her own pistols- they were due for a cleaning. She paused, momentarily startled as her fingertips glanced over the smooth surface of an enameled music box. Her heart skipped a beat, recalling the letter inside. Picturing in her mind’s eye- the life that could have been

*****
The spring air was thick with the scent of wild flowers blooming sweetly in the meadow beyond the estate and she welcomed the breeze as it blew through the open window offering a momentary respite from the flushed discomfort that seemed her perpetual state of being these days. Lady Jehanne Durant smiled as she adjusted her bulk against the cushioned window seat. Lord Sebastian- she still called him Sebo, as she always had and always would- had commissioned the window seat especially for her. A gift to remind of the window seat in her childhood home where she had so often waited for him to arrive. A pulsing flutter in her abdomen brought a smile to her face- less than two months now before they would meet their next child. She briefly wondered if this one would have his deep inviting eyes like her the other two boys- or the tawny gold of their youngest- Elise. Running her hand over the swell of her stomach, maybe they would be blue- they hadn’t had a blue eyed child yet and there was something so beautiful about blue eyes and dark hair. She was certain the child would have dark hair, even Hector who’s hair had been pale when he was born had come to have his father’s rich dark waves by the time he was four years old.

Her window overlooked the rear courtyard of the estate, and she could see Sebo- his hair escapings its tie as he lifted Henri above his head as Hector circled him planning his next strike with a wooden toy sword. The little boy was only three, but already sharing his mother’s love of the birds and the sky. She watched Sebo’s shoulders tense slightly, as though he could feel her eyes on him, and he slowly turned to meet her gaze. Even across the distance of the courtyard and through the window pane she could see the way his eyes shone- as though lit from within- and she waved as he smiled.

He gaze was drawn away from the window by the presence of a small hand pulling at her skirt. “Ma? To Ma?” the little voice inquired. Elise’s golden eyes peered up at her, perfectly matched to the ribbon around the waist of her tiny pink dress. Even though she was just learning to speak there was a precociousness to her voice and Jehanne imagined she would grow up to be a true Lady, in name and demeanor.

She lifted the little girl into her arms, only briefly regretting the additional heat the small girl brought to he already warm body. Elise placed her small palms against the glass, leaving little smudges as she moved her fingers to point at the boys in the garden. “Da- Heeri, Hecy” Jehanne giggled under her breath at her daughter’s pronunciation of her brothers’ names, but replied “Yes, Elise- its Da and Henri and Hector they are all outside”. The little girl turned to look at her as she spoke “We go side too.” It was more a statement than a question, but Jehanne replied simply “Ofcourse we can.” She scooped Elise up in her arms, shifting the little girl to her left hip as she slid from the window seat. Jehanne noticed with annoyance that it was less of a slide and more of a scooting motion- and for a moment she longed for her long misplaced agility. As she turned to face the door of the study she cast a glance towards the discarded notebook that was resting on the cushions. She hadn’t written in it in ages, and a part of her missed those afternoons she used to spend dreaming- but these days there was little time for dreams. So much of her life was a dream come true, there wasn’t a great need to dwell on what she didn’t have time for. Slowly she began to make her way into the hallway and out towards the courtyard, her love, and her beautiful sons.

********
A gentle rapping on the kitchen door startled her and she swiftly moved her hand to the pistol in her basket, suddenly aware of how alone she was in the guildhall. The blue of his cloak was the first thing that registered and she felt her body relax almost before her mind had connected the pieces. “Its you.” she giggled at the sight of her husband. She could call him that now, and the notion made her smile in an uncontrolled way only he seemed to elicit.

Bakara raised his eyebrows quizzically “Assan has moved the last of you belonging into the wagon- are you ready to leave?”

Had she ever been ready? Was anyone ever ready for a fall like that. To love in a way that burned all the lives she could have had to ash in its wake- scattering them to the winds like glancing memories. She had never been ready- but that hadn’t really mattered. Loving him had never depended on her readiness- but her acceptance that he was the force which bound her to the earth. She had chosen him, had chosen this- the one life she couldn’t imagine in perfect detail. She didn’t know what the future held for them- but she knew it held them together and that was enough. Having him was enough.

“As ready as I will ever be- take me home, husband.” She smiled as she offered him her hand and he took it eagerly, engulfing her small hand in his own. And without a backward glance they made their way to the wagon and to the life they have chosen.

An Evening at the Theater

The applause is thunderous as the patrons of the theater stand for an ovation. The actors, each taking turns to bow, are feeling positively ecstatic at the gratitude of the audience.

When the applause finally subsides, the Cappacian Bard Bastione, and his companions offer several ear piercing whistles in support of the troupe. After, they head outside where the crowd has gathered to discuss the performance…

BASTIONE: (In a moderate Cappacian accent)
The quality of performers continues to improve. I have to admit, that play rivaled many I have seen in Cappacione.

HIS COMPANION: (Certainly Hestrali)
It should tour to Hestralia. It is there it would truly find the audience it deserves. The actors were not bad, but can you imagine an entire cast of Hestrali thespians?

BASTIONE:
I’d rather not.

HIS COMPANION:
You jest, but it would truly reach the pinnacle of artistry if it were cast entirely with us. We invented drama!

BASTIONE:
But have no skill with comedy.

HIS COMPANION:
A crude, and false assumption.

BASTIONE:
La vérité fait mal. I will give you that the Hestrali are some of the most over dramatic of all peoples, but how many are truly funny? La comédie belongs to the Cappacians.

HIS COMPANION:
Judging by your face, it is certainly true.

BASTIONE:
Touche, mon amie. But you should show me some respect. Did you hear? I am the new Valley Historian. Perhaps some little wart of embarrassment of yours finds its way into my reports. Ha! Then who will laugh?

HIS COMPANION:
I know you well, Bastione and have no fear. Though why anyone entrusted that job to you, I will never guess.

BASTIONE:
Is it not plain to see? I am the perfect one for the job, I spend most of my time writing songs, drinking in the tavern, and talking to strange people. I could not be a more perfect fit, monsieur.

HIS COMPANION:
Yes, your large nose is a perfect fit for your large head.

BASTIONE:
This I cannot deny.

HIS COMPANION:
So, what do you make of the opportunity to become a citizen of Stragosa? I can’t help but feel there is some sort of ulterior motive to the entire thing.

BASTIONE:
That’s your Hestrali blood talking. The rewards for taking the oath are impressive. Freedom to travel, my wards are well taken care of, respect. What more could you ask of a burgeoning city? The chance to serve as a true citizen with rights is unmistakably wonderful, don’t you think?

HIS COMPANION:
Perhaps. But I could do all of this on my own before without permission! Perhaps not legally…

BASTIONE:
You are looking at it the wrong way around. Citizenship is not simply about what you get out of it, it’s about all of us coming together for the greater good of our city.

HIS COMPANION:
Yes, yes. I know. You are a true believer. I have many questions.

BASTIONE:
Then ask them of the officials. Do not let stubbornness, or fear detour you from making the right choice.

HIS COMPANION:
Yes, yes, Bastione. You prattle on, and on. You are driving me to drink, mio amico. Care to join me?

BASTIONE:
Certainly, but we go someplace that offers Cappacian wine, I can’t stomach the cheaply made Hestrali stuff. It smells of a musty basement, and tastes like vinegar.

HIS COMPANION:
I should slap you with my glove for such an insult.

BASTIONE:
Duel over wine? I must demur. Your wine isn’t worth dying for. Ha!

My Thoughts on Stragosa

Stragosa has been my first true test of faith, greed and pragmatism flow like water here. Part of me believes that Stragosa has the potential to be the greatest city in the Throne, the other part believeing that the miracle should be taken to Lethia and the cursed place should be burnt to the ground, forgotten in the same stroke. None of the training I received in Holy Lethia could have prepared me for this, there are simply not enough hands God have mercy on Stragosa and its people.

Death or Freedom, A Legendary Tale by Clagh O’Mugnahn, True Son of Dunland

To you, my humble reader, I bid welcome and congratulations. You have the pleasure of reading one of the finest works of literature ever to be produced in the world, and certainly the finest in Gotha. For it is I, Sebastian de Aquila, who the people acclaim as none other than the most infamous charmer, poet, dandy and impeccable lover of Costa Luceste; whose penmanship and swordsmanship is unparalleled, whose poise and grace is unmatchable, and whose sonnets and ballads woo the noble ladies of Aquila.

Alas, my humble bibliophile, I cannot once again steal the show, as I did to Gottfried von Laatzen in the summer of 600. Instead I will narrate to you the description of a man who, after sharing an evening sharing glasses of wine and flagons of dark ale, I have come to admire as a man of action, of tenacity, of effrontery, and of intrepid spirit. He calls himself Clagh O’Mugnahn, which he has disclosed translates to “Stone, descendant of Mugnahn,” in Gothic. It is a fitting name for him as he is by trade a miner. You may be tempted to cease your perusal of this document upon learning that the subject is but a common man, but I bid you to continue, as I have seldom met a soul as gilded as that of Good Clagh. And it is known that great deeds often stem from humble origins, as I portrayed in my critically acclaimed drama Blacksmith of Wood.

That night, as the ale and spirits cascaded, Good Clagh regaled me with the origination tale of his surname. It seems that long ago in the Age of Heroes there was a Good King Caomhán and his loyal knight, the seminal Mugnahn, who lived on the island of Íomhair, on which Good Clagh and his house still live. Good King Caomhán’s rule was wise and just and the people thrived under his jurisdiction, but those from without began to grow envious of Íomhair’s growing bounty. All of these ne’er-do-wells coalesced under the banner of Nathair, a sea-captain who had set his sights on possessing fertile lands. The bannermen of Good King Caomhán and Cunning Nathair met on the field of Réimse Glas to decide once and for all who the Lord of Íomhair would be. At this point in the telling of this tale Good Clagh must have had enough dark ale to kill a lesser man, and yet he still continued though I admit that I may have misheard some of the names given in his account due to my own battle with the spirits of the bottle. Continuing on, Good Clagh details how, at the height of the battle, Good King Caomhán is fighting furiously with the Cunning Nathair but ever so slowly, the Good King is gaining the upper hand. Then, just as it seems that the Good King is about to deal the finishing blow, Cunning Nathair transforms into a giant winged blue serpent, who is hereafter referred to as Nathair Gorm. Nathair Gorm regains their advantage, and the Good King is struck low by Nathair Gorm’s devilish form. The men of Íomhair, suffering greatly against Nathair’s Invaders, begin to buckle at the sight of Nathair Gorm and they begin to flee. It is at the point that the Great Warrior Mugnahn, previously defending his lord’s life against the Invaders, shouts a challenge of single combat to Nathair Gorm. The conditions are thus; if Mugnahn dies, his people shall be free from persecution. If Nathair Gorm dies, the Invaders shall turn back and be exiled from this land. Possibly incensed by his recent fortunes and amused by the absurd proposition that the Invaders would agree to the outcome one way or another, Nathair Gorm accepts. These two titans clash and Nathair Gorm is taken aback by Mugnahn’s ferocity. Mugnahn fights with the strength of twenty men, and bit by bit, he is able to pierce Nathair Gorm’s armored hide enough to deliver the final fatal blow. The Good King’s men cheer and Nathair’s Invaders are shocked by Mugnahn’s ferocity but move as if they mean to continue the battle just as it had left off, that is until they look upon the visage of Mugnahn, who has stripped bare and bathed himself in the blood of the defeated Nathair Gorm. The sight was too much for Nathair’s Invaders to bear and they turned and fled back into the sea from which they came.

It is my opinion that such an outlandish tale cannot possibly be anything but a child’s fable, with a narrative structure similar to Certainty Of Eternity, but Good Clagh told the tale with such impassioned zeal that I could naught by be impressed. Having at this time been into our cups for some while, I bid the Good Clagh good night and slipped silently into a slumber, but I hope to have the pleasure of dining with the True Son of Dunland once again.

The fox and the hunt

The sound of the footfall of horses and hounds rang through the forest, disrupting the song of nature and making the birds fall silent. Alexandria let out a deep sigh and set her mushroom shaped mace and shield behind a tree, calling out “vindicur” which allowed the items to get rooted and stand up on their own. She placed a hand out, as if to say “wait” to the black fox behind her. Reluctantly following the command, the fox let out a grumpy growl and crawled beneath the mushroom.

“Manach, manach, Manach,” alexandria said to herself, flipped her cloak inside out, and began to walk towards the sound. She could tell the animals were fast approaching, for the animals riding on the back of the horses were loud and obnoxious in their chase. A rabbit raced from the brush and past alexandria who called to it and told it where to hide. Short on its tail, several hounds broke through the clearing. Alexandria spoke and the dogs came to a quick hault.

“What are you doing you lazy mutts!–oh? What do we have here?” a large man on horseback came through the trees followed by two scrawnier men in furs and leathers wielding guns. “What is a little lady like yourself doing out here?”

“Oh, I was walkin’ through the forest, gatherin’ ‘erbs when I came upon this clearin’ and stopped to catch me breath. Ye can imagine the surprise I got when yer dogs came a runnin’ through the bushes, gave me quite a fright!” Alexandria said with sincerity and acted as though she had been scared by the dogs who now laid down and watched her as if waiting for another command. I really need to work on my Dunnick accent, she thought to herself.

“Well, lil’ lady, what do you call yourself?” the head huntsman asked, a grin on his cocky face.

“Saoirse,” she said sincerely once more and bowed some with her black cloak dipping with her movement and sweeping the ground, “What ‘er you fine gentlemen doin’ out in these lands? If it were huntin’, I would warn ye against it. There is a guardian up’in these woods who protects it. I hear there is good huntin’ ov’r yonder that be just the same if not bett’r. ‘Sides, this land is owned by a Lady in Stragosa who don’t like any poachin’ on ‘er land,” she makes a point of pointing to the north east, away from her parcels when she mentions the other hunting spot.

The huntsman stops for a moment, his brow raised as he looked upon the woman before him. Alexandria stood before him, her cloak turned black, her hair grown out to a dark red that was tucked partially inside the cloak, her eyes rust brown, and her pale skin painted with freckles. She certainly looked the like a Dunnick woman and they definitely seemed to believe her. Alexandria was happy they didn’t examine her up close or they’d see the freckles were more like spots and the hair like that of a horses mane. Though even then they likely would not notice the likeness to an animal she displayed.

“Well, young lady, we’d best be getting back to the hunt. I haven’t heard of any guardians and this land seems full of game. Can’t miss out on the opportunity and so long as you don’t go snitching,” the man leaned over his horse in a threatening manner, “ain’t nobody gonna know. Don’t do anything you’ll regret, just go on as if you never even saw us.”

Alexandria held back a growl. She was more disciplined than to fall to his intimidation tactics, but he didn’t know that. She turned her eyes to the ground and nodded once as if to say she agreed, then allowed the men to go on their way. Once they and the dogs had left the clearing, she shook the magic away and growled. Her hands we balled up in fists at her sides.

“I tried to warn them, these are MY lands and MY animals. But no, fine, want to be like that? Fine. Want to play intimidation games? I’ll show you intimidation games. I hate when men try and intimidate women like that and I hate when they don’t take women seriously. You think you’re scary, guy? Okay, let’s do this,” Alexandria walked with purpose back to her mushroom and fox. “Aura, lets go.”

The little gold eyed fox looked up at her with what appeared to be a grin, knowing exactly what Alexandria was planning. Alexandria uprooted her mushroom and carried it off, getting ready for an experiment that would soon be under way.

——–
The three men and their dogs ran throughout the woods for what seemed to be hours. The birds’ songs had died down and the animals all seemed to be in hiding. They cursed and swore, but still they could find anything to bring down and show for their day’s trek.

“Not one fucking deer or fox or even rabbit! I’m starting to think that guardian chased them off,” the scraggly brown black haired man on the last horse whined.

“Don’t buy into that shit. It’s probably just some rumor the noble who owns the parcel spread to keep people off of it, thinking the peasants would be too stupid to challenge their words,” the master huntsman grumbled. “If there were a guardian, we’d take it and gather it’s fur. Bear or monster alike, I dare it to come out and taste the bullets I have waiting for it. We’d hit it and let it run till it died then grab its hide all the same!” The man held up his gun and called to the woods as if taunting them.

Just as the man finished his sentence, a fox burst from the ground before the hounds who began to wail and bark. “Finally!” the men cried and they began their chase. Several shots rang out, but never did the shots seem to hit their mark. They chased the black furred fox through the trees and down to a river bank long enough that the dogs and horses seemed to grow tired. Once to the water’s edge, the fox still did not yield and it swam to the other side.

Once upon the other bank, the fox turned to them men and let out a startling, near human laugh which made the dogs shudder and retreat behind the horses. Though the men urged the dogs and horses forward, they would not listen to their commands. The men cursed and were about to shoot from where they sat when their eyes were drawn to the fox’s strange behavior. At first it seemed to taunt them, but then it dove clear out of sight and behind a rather large tree only to have a much larger figure appear from the other side. As it crept forward, the men all ceased their swearing and became fixated on the creature before them.

It stood the size of a man on four legs with black fur the color of a moonless night and looked upon the men with eyes that burned gold like the sun. Its legs were long and elegant and tipped in long black claws and it hoped upon a stump with speed and grace then sat before them in the dimming evening light. Even the remaining sunlight that sifted through the trees seemed to be swallowed up by the darkness of its fur. “You called, here I am, huntsmen. You have such disdain for the land, no respect, only in it for the next kill,” the horrifying creature spoke, “You have hunted me, you have hunted and tried to take from the land that I protect. Tell me then, why should I not come for you in turn? Were you not warned?”

The men stared in disbelief for several moments and the horses’ breaths became panicked though they did not dare move. The hounds had all gone into hiding.

The main huntsman seemed to begin to speak and lifted his gun just slightly, though at that moment the creature hopped from the stump and leaped to the bank across from them, readying itself to leap forward. “I, too, enjoy the hunt!” The creature roared. The horses with the men clinging to their saddles and the crying hounds began their frantic run from the woods. For a while the creature chased them, though by the time they were closing in to stragosa, they seemed to only be chased by a small black fox who ran hard on their heels all the way back. Many of the peasants who watched the men run into the city seemed perplexed and even laughed as they saw all the animals and hunters running so frightened with only a cute little fox in toe. The fox even stopped to pleasantly greet some of the people watching once the men had fled out of sight and into the city before returning to its woodland home.

——-

The next day the men found themselves seats at the bar, their eyes sunken, tired, and still filled with terror. They tried to drink away the memory of the traumatic experience, when they found themselves listening to a curious song. They turned their attention to the stage only to see the same Dunnick woman from before, singing:

“And up there sprung like lightning a fox from out of his hole
His fur was the colour of a starless night, and his eyes like burning coals

And they chased him over the valley, and they chased him over the fields;
They chased him down to the river bank, but never would he yield
And he’s jumped into the water, and he’s swum to the other side
And he’s laughed so loud that the green woods shook
Then he’s turned to the huntsmen and he’s cried:

‘Ride on, my gallant huntsmen! When must I come again?
For you should never want for a fox to chase all over the glen
And when your need is greatest, just call upon my name
And I will come, and you shall have the best of sport and game!’

And the men looked up in wonder and the hounds run back to hide
For the fox, it changed to the Devil himself where he stood on the other side
And the men, the hounds, the horses went flying back to town
And hard on their heels come a little black fox, laughing as he ran…”

The woman smiled as she looked over the audience until her eyes fell upon the huntsmen. As they did, for a moment, her eyes reminded them of the beasts and seemed to burn holes in their souls. While the others in the room seemed captivated by the woman’s voice and hopeful, the men were traumatized and quickly ran from the bar, hopped on their horses, and fled the city.

After the song had finally ended, the woman dismissed herself from the stage and the band who had played so beautifully beside her. She went up to the bar with a smile, and paid off the rest of their tab. Then returned home at last, confident that they had been taught a lesson, and ready to be her normal self once more.

Love and Duty 7: Olive Branch

Lion Age Spring 604

The knight strode out of the meeting hall, head high observing the surrounding with one hand resting on one of a pair of sheathed swords. Once fully clear of the shadow cast by the building, she whistles a few precise notes. Moments later, ten rugged looking men and women with bows and knives move out of the shadows before taking up positions around her.

The small group winds their way through the city taking multiple back alleys and switchbacks. As they progress through the city, additional men and women join the small procession until they make 20. A final women joins their group prior to leaving the city proper.

Once safely within the forest-line outside the city a final group of 10 joins.A man in this final group smiles at the knight. “As you appear unhurried Dana Isabella, I assume the meeting went well?”

Isabella takes the reins of her war horse, Serena, from one of the Spotters and begins leading her alongside the man. “It went as well as one could expect Captain Franco. We will be striking camp to deploy to the Bloodfields to somehow try and hold it potentially against both Orcs and Kuaralites.” She shakes her head, “If we are not betrayed and are both provisioned and supported with the additional troops promised from Heidrich and Trakt and we somehow we survive any battles, your Corsairs are to to return the swords to the city.” She pauses in speaking but keeps walking while she waits for the inevitable.

It only takes a few moments before the quiet of the forest is interrupted by every curse imagined by soldiers and pirates both. After a few loud minutes have passed, “Dana, we can take that dragon’s city and raid all of their parcel’s like you suggested when they first threatened to starve us out. How can you let them insult House Scordato in…..” The man stops mid sentence as he finds himself face to face with an increasingly too common look of rage in his commander’s eyes as of late. Meanwhile, the rest of the Spotters have moved, as if my magic, away from the captain.

“You would do well to remember what happened to your predecessor captain. Our position is tenuous and you know it.” Her voice raises in volume, “Si, I know we could plow through the flimsy defenses that House Drake has stationed within Silbren to obtain rations while our multiple scouting forces raid the countryside.” Again the volume increases as her hand reaches for a short blade strapped to the small of her back. “I HAVE LITTLE INTEREST IN COMMITTING AN ACT THAT SOME MIGHT CONSIDER TREASON WHEN AN OLIVE BRANCH HAS BEEN OFFERED.” The blade slips free and Franco’s eyes go wide with fear as he watches the knight swiftly cut her own wrist before returning the blade to its home.

Isabella closes her eyes and breathes deeply for a feel moments before holding her arm out for one of the soldiers to begin applying fresh bandages to stem the bleeding. “Graci, Pippo. As for the honor of the house, I have arranged a duel between myself and the Grafin to be held if we survive the blood fields.”

Captain Franco chokes out a nervous laugh, “I guess I will having to make a wager soon. May House Scordato always be blessed in the grace of God.”

Isabella turns away and again begins the long trek again to the Black Tower, “Yes captain, may House Scordato always flourish.”

The next step, the long step

Mother Superior.

As I write those two words, I still can’t believe they are in reference to me. Mitzi the farm girl. Mitzi the hobbler. I never would have dreamed it would happen so soon. I am not going to get too caught up in my pride, but even Mum said a little bit of pride is not bad, especially if it is something you worked hard for and earned.

I came to Stragosa to heal and now I am needed more than ever. I learned much from Bishop Carsten but I know God needs him elsewhere to deal with his grief. Even all these years of watching Mum be a vessel for healing and seeing the rituals, performing them feels so different.

I felt so helpless this last forum, that I was letting everyone down who had come to me for healing but there were rituals I was unable to perform. I have always been afraid to try rituals above my rank, but things became necessary if anyone had a chance of survival. Thank Lurian that he chose not yet to take the two people I treated to heaven.

I did my best with what I can do, and my leeches have never failed me since I gathered my own. Even the smallest creature can do great things. Am I a small creature? I suppose I am in the grand scheme of things it is true. I still have the visions that guided my path to where I am today. I have my injuries as a reminder of what I went through to get to them. Every day my faith is tested, as it should be.

For now, I have a church to tend to. A representative from House Trackt asked that I tend to the one they have built in the Library district. They wanted someone from home and that of course is me. I did make it clear this will not mean I am a House Priest. I must be a healer of all people. While we do have a Bishop of Lurian here, he is also a Paladin and is needed elsewhere. I have a rather large community to serve and the less people rely on one of those mages, the better.

And speaking of Mages, it turns out a new Prosecutor for the inquisition, is not only one of them, but a cursed Fire Mage. Memories came back to me of what my Aunt did that almost destroyed my family once her fire powers corrupted her beyond repair. I can only hope I am past any age where those kinds of powers might manifest in me. I am a woman of God, not of whatever or whomever those powers come from. I don’t know what I would do if it ever happened, as it is something I always fear.

God has a plan for me and I am following it to the best of my capability