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Unsent Letters: To Mom

[There’s small, wrinkled spots on the page with ink bled into slightly rounded shapes from the written words in various places across the page. The paper is wrinkled from being crumpled and discarded, before it was unfolded by the reader.]

Mom,

I haven’t written to you in months, I think. A lot has happened since I left home and I just got around to thinking about the last time I saw you and Dad.

I met a boy and his parents while I was on the road after I left town. They helped me out, then I was in Runeheim recently. I’m in Hrafnakastali for the moment. It’s odd here but I don’t mind it much. The sudden move is a long story but I’m safe, if you were wondering.

I have a chicken now, feisty little thing but I think you’d like her. I named her Marigold. I don’t have a husband but Mom, trust me. The men here aren’t much better than the ones at home.

I saw Thyre a few seasons ago. She mentioned she was getting spring product ready last winter. I didn’t think to ask about you and Dad when she was visiting. How are you two? Did you make anything new for spring and summer? How’s the town and our neighbors?

Mama, I miss you and Dad. Can I come visit once things settle down? I can bring some ingredients, and we can make something special for a season. Are you looking for anything specific lately?

[The last sentence of the letter is roughly scribbled out in a block of ink. Unreadable to the viewer.]

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Legacy of the Red Queen

I pen this journal as an outlet for the thoughts that consume me and present such an internal conflict as I have never faced. How can you live before you die when you’re already dead on the inside? Is our humanity nothing but a mask we wear to convince others we aren’t walking husks forced to persist within a nihilistic cycle of self destruction? Learning what I have of this relic of my order, speaking with Elizabeth, it is so hard to justify not following the path set before me when it has so much potential, coupled with knowing it is one my order has walked as well. Wallowing in existentialism is far from productive, and I know the answer to what I must do. I will write father and Count Archibald. I will ask them what they know of the amulet. I will write Elizabeth. After all, we are only human, and blood is a price my people have paid for uncountable centuries.

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Letter to Java

[A folded note, written on the back of one of the flyers Fafnir spread the previous forum, with “Java” written on the outside]

One year ago, twelve brave souls left Kallevik:

Torgrim Ingrid Elna Sindri Arni Leifr Katla Olof Vestri Vogel Virgil Gisla

We did not leave in search of coin, or adventure, or glory, but instead on a dire quest. The She-Wolf Jorg had visited our village and found it wanting. We sought to find some feat that would make us worthy in her eyes – or at least if she would not turn a favorable eye on us, to at least spare our families.

I hope we’ve succeeded. If you found this, Java, we most likely have not. I’m sorry to have brought you grief, but I hope that we have helped you in some way as well. We have one last request – that you remember Kallevik and its final heroes. Please, take what we have gathered and put it to good use for Runeheim’s defense and give Fafnir hell.

Good hunting.

Gisla of Kallevik
[the Kallevik wolf’s head heraldry is drawn beside the name]

[A few blotches of ink from the pen tapping on the paper, as if the author thought for a moment about this last piece – it is an obvious addendum and written in a faster, sloppier hand]

Time is short – Her breath hot on the back of my neck – but you at least should know. “We” is a coward’s lie. It was always my fault. I’m sorry

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Did she always have Horns?

“Duck…” Relix

“…Duck…” Narez

“..Goose!” Relit

A childhood game. Stolen by the lost souls of cruel madmen.

How else would one describe it when only the sickening sounds of cackling hyenas had surrounded them.

The Hallowsong had failed their last raid and with that the games of punishment ensued.

In her childhood Java was never chosen, a flaw of her early Culler nature. No one wanted to pick the rotten one. A mirror of this current reality. The reality that they wouldn’t pick her today. Oh, no. Having a Culler, forced or not, on your side was the golden goose Marzana craved to keep ‘safe’.

The unlucky ’geese’ had been selected and thus the punishments were dealt.

4 poor thralls, now currently made to endure the twisted game of public lashings. A threat to the mass for failing them. It wasn’t even their fault.

The wolves stood there licking their lips as us sheep were forced to watch. The only solace from such a show is the blur of tears that bubbled up and would take over one’s vision. A treat Java couldn’t indulge in.

No, Java stood as close as a favored servant could to Marzana, forced just like the rest. Watching them. Whispering for them. Her chest full of their pain.

She should be up there.

Mamuri – fortify.

Each crack of the whips she casted as quietly and quickly as she could. Her spirit wilting with each blow. Growing slow with a lack of discipline. Forced to become stupid as her mind fogged and throbbed the ease their wounds.

Worum – desensitize.

She wasn’t fast enough and Marzana knew this. It was just out of the corner of Java’s eyes that she could see Marzana’s attention was fully on herself. A large hungry grin, fed by the deepest pain of Java’s sorrow. Her punishment for failing.

Sicun- endure.

The chill of anacrusis shivered through her veins. The familiar sensation of something wet and red trickling down her top lip.

The world had eventually silenced as Java melted into the ground. Her thoughts liquid and dense, the punishment was completed but she couldn’t recall how much longer it had been. The only reality drawing her back in as Marzana roughly grabbed her by the face forcing Java to stare into her fierce gaze.

She was too weak to do much as Marzana’s other hand reached up and a thumb swiping at the trickle of blood coming from her eye.

“Wouldn’t it be fun if we put you up there next?” her voice harsh, as she mocked Java.

“Would you scream like them…” Java watched as Marzana brought her thumb to her own lips smearing Java’s blood across them, “..or would you sing for me? Hmm? Cause you sure don’t cry like them, do you now?”

How does one even answer a monster like that? So Java didn’t.

“Disappoint me again Java.”

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How do we thank you? (House Drake call-out post)

Dear Dina,

The quill froze. We tried this yesterday…and the day before– but what do we say to the person who saved our life?

By all rights, our warlord should have sent us back to Torchgutter– if not in the instant that she announced her retirement, then at least in the breath thereafter. She had no authority to excuse us from our contract of servitude (surely only Count Drake could do that), but Dina dismissed us just the same.

She gave us a place to go, far from the Dragon’s Maw and the symphony of screams the pyre swallows daily– out from the smoke, into streets unencumbered by the overflow of charred corpses and the suffocating blanket of fear and dread that they elicit. She must have hoped that, in Runeheim, we could finally escape the horrors we had both endured and committed in the past two decades under their authority.

She’ll had to have invented a cover story for our absence that House Drake would believe. Perhaps she reported back that O’shea died– gloriously on the Rogalian warfront…or unceremoniously, brought early to the Thicket by a particularly heinous batch of moldy berries.

Or perhaps she simply said that we ran away– violated the terms of our contract and fled in the night. We look so different now; perhaps she thought it a safe enough half-truth to tell. There was wisdom behind not lying to fire mages– much less to House Drake.

….Maybe they’ll come looking for us? Maybe they’ve forgotten that we exist. We’re only a number to them, surely, whether that number was a negligible solo casualty on the battlefield– or the identification number House Renett had assigned to us when we received our writ of permission to live (or, more accurately, to serve) outside of Dunland all those years ago…

Stop there– don’t dwell on it.

That train of thought is interrupted before the scant thought of House Renett buds from resentment to malice. We don’t stoke that fire; we strive to swallow it down.

Vengeance and cruelty was House Drake’s way. Anything gained under their rule is accomplished through fire and blood. Aggress, escalate, immolate your enemies. We have to leave it behind if we are to survive.

But we’d been on the warfront under their gruesome flag for so long…I don’t know how to live out from their shadow.

–We. I meant we.

Right…?

The quill rests, and the page remains empty. Maybe tomorrow we’ll find the words to thank her.

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Through the ashen looking glass

I was told once by my father

“The only difference between Respect and Fear, is how one presents their blade to others”

Just visiting Sistegard now would tell any young magician why the common people hate and fear magic.

I can still hear the crackling of the earth beneath my feet and feel the unnatural heat through my shoes and clothes.

I can still see the remains of the people of Sistegrad. The souls are gone, but the bodies are still mangled and manipulated by rampant energies. Every movement cracking their skin and bones just a little more.

The anacrusis here will likely persist for centuries.

There is no village called Sistegrad here.

Not anymore.

I know we are at war, but…

These were people…

They had families…

Was it truly necessary to destroy Sistegrad so thoroughly?

If this is a war for the soul of Njordr…

What soul will be left when the wages of war have been paid?

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To Honor the Lost

My mentor once said “The past cannot be erased, merely hidden away waiting to be uncovered once again.”

He said this both as an encouragement for my archaeology training and a warning to be careful and considerate when exploring unknown ruins.

Normally this was just to encourage making sure the local wildlife hadn’t taken up old buildings or caves as their home. I didn’t ever think he meant ghosts as well.

My veins turned to ice as he approached. I didn’t know his name, no one probably could, but something told me deep down that a mistake I made long ago in my younger days was here to claim dues.

Thank Benalus, Knut was their to negotiate nameless branded ghost to named branded man, otherwise I’d probably be a ghost writing this to parchment now.

The foot race was a farce. There was no way I could win against a specter over a foot my height, the crow creatures suddenly appearing halfway didn’t help either

No excuses from me however. I made a promise to a branded man that I intended to keep.

A monument for those fallen in service to Runeheim and its people.

As for the first name on that monument…

The name I lost and will find again.

I promise you. All will know your name.

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Tora

One of the first people I met when I arrived in Runeheim was Tora. As soon as I sat down and introduced myself as a fellow engineer, she asked “do you want to see some schematics?” She retrieved an entire box filled with recipes and diagrams. She showed me just a few, and what I saw was incredible. Black powder weapons beyond anything humans built, a spyglass powerful enough to observe the surface of the moon, a build plan for an functional greenhouse underground. She’d show me a seemingly impossible diagram that would take me hours to understand, let alone invent, and go “oh, that’s just something I scribbled while drunk”. This woman is a true genius, and may be one of the most brilliant people alive in the world, period. She solves impossible problems as a drunken joke and works with dwarven secrets most men will never see. And yet…

She would rather spend the night making lewd jokes with the Grey Company than talking about engineering. She could be building marvelous devices to improve the town, but wastes her time smithing wagon parts and repairing armours. She could have a thriving business selling the things she can make and amass a fortune with just a fraction of her skills and resources, and just… doesn’t care. She can make flame launchers and bombs and fights with a sword instead. I don’t think she knows what a gift she has and the true value of her talents. Or perhaps she does and simply believes it’s hers to do with as she pleases?

I’ve been working on an invention of my own. A woman named Grin came to town on the same caravan as me. She doesn’t speak due to an injured throat, and I saw an opportunity to help her. I’m designing a device that will produce sounds for her, allowing her to speak aloud once more. A chance to use my skills to make something new and meaningfully make a person’s life better. It’s a hard problem, and I’ve been relying on the help of Dr. Heimer for the anatomical knowledge required. I showed my plans to Tora, she didn’t seem all that interested. What has our resident genius been working on that time? What goal more important and engaging than giving a person her voice back? She showed me her schematics. She wants to build a statuette… of herself. Tiny Tora, she calls it. And all the skills and knowledge and talents of the world’s greatest engineer are brought to focus in order to design an intricate clockwork contraption. So Tiny Tora can shake her ass.

Tora truly is intelligent beyond belief. I could tell that from a single look at her diagrams and five minutes of conversation with her. Even the ass-shaking motor is an impeccable work of artifice. But the woman is borderline insane! She knows every science from physics to anatomy, but can’t grasp basic economic concepts that are obvious to Ragnar, a man who can’t read and talks to his sword. One moment she’s solemn, rational and insightful, the next she’s poisoning a vindictive noble with magical toxins as a prank. I see her passionately fighting to protect the dwarves from oppression and cruelty, then I find out she’s studying to become a torturer? What kind of career aspiration is that? Who in their right mind goes “I really wish I knew more about torture”?!

Everyone here trusts and respects her. Lady Dragomir respects her. The dwarves trust her, alone out of all the humans here. Hell, even I trust her, when she speaks seriously and I can feel the amount of thought and wisdom her words reflect. But I legitimately cannot tell if she is a madwoman who happens to wield incredible skills, or a bored genius playing dumb as one big joke. Or perhaps she really is just a person of great intellect and terrible judgement. A powerful mind with no principles to guide it. Runeheim will be making many important decisions soon, and I do not know if following Tora’s advice will lead us to a bright future only she understands right now, or bring us all to ruin as she laughs.

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Gisla’s Journal, Late Summer 609

Ragnar Stoneskin and Knut Witchbane: the two poles of Runeheim leadership. Knut is Lady Vindicta’s knight, a pillar of respectability and authority; Ragnar, so young and so full of enthusiasm, is a champion of the downtrodden. They are everything I should aspire to be, or – if I am being more realistic – I should aspire to follow, if I am to be my father’s daughter.

But I decide not only for myself but for my friends as well, my little band of survivors, and this forum I saw enough to give me pause. Knut so readily taking orders from a ghost, Ragnar swayed by the spirit in his sword – I have to choose carefully, and choose correctly.

On the other hand, one of my own may be joining their esteemed ranks soon, so that may make the whole point moot.

I should be happy for Vogel. I *am* happy for Vogel. He earned the acclaim, the story Eskel told like a true skald. He saw what had to be done when I didn’t, and he pulled it off.

A voice in the back of my head whispers: “There’s a reason, Gisla, you keep failing – that black stain in your heart seeps through to everything you do.” I can’t contest that. I can’t even stand up in court, can’t get properly mad at Ragnar for forgetting our deal. Even if the position is cursed, they don’t need me to make it any worse.

Regardless, I have my duty. I will not fail Kallevik again.

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Wrath

The plan was simple. Gather the town for an exorcism. A man who had been at rest was corrupted by a dark power and all Malachi needed to do to help was to protect the inner circle while the man was helped.
If only it were that simple.

The fight began. A fight had been expected, but the only thing that had been known was that the anger of this man would manifest and try to enter the circle.

It was dark. Malachi’s eyes had trouble adjusting but he stood fast, protecting his section of the circle. It was just him and Neccio so they would need to remain vigilant at all times and work quickly. Something rushed Malachi and he stepped forward on instinct and struck out. When his blade came back to a guard position there was fresh blood. And a cry of pain from his opponent. He had harmed a man. Horror scraped up from his gut, threatening to reach his heart.

“Remember your training. Stay calm. The wound isn’t fatal, he can be stabilized.

The soul does violence to itself to itself when it harms any man – for all humankind is but a single emanation of God.”

Malachi stood there for several seconds on that battlefield, staring down at the man on the ground. Another assailant charged forward and struck Malachi, but their blade seemed to slide off his flesh as he took a breath to center himself against the pull of his anguish. In another moment he was mobile again, moving to put himself in between the soldiers and the members of the Runeheim Forum, in the hopes of preventing any more harm coming to people.

——————————

The battle ends. The malefic releases the soldiers and many of them fall to the ground screaming in pain. Several people move over to help them. Malachi is relieved, knowing that those that remain will be okay. And so Malachi also falls to the ground and cleans the blood remaining on his blade.