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Ghosts of Raven’s Keep

Eidr trudged along the weathered stone wall of Hrafnikastali, boots scuffing against the ancient mortar with each heavy step. The cold air bit his exposed face, the wind carrying the scent of pine and distant wood smoke. Far below, the valley spread out like a vast tapestry, the lights of Kjarralund twinkling like fallen stars at the base of the mountain. The town’s warm glow seemed impossibly distant from where he stood, wrapped in the lingering chill of the high fortress.

The sight should have been comforting, but it only deepened the ache in his chest. It had been a long time since he last stood here, back when Hrafnikastali had still held hope for a future, a home for the soldiers of the Saenger House.

Back then, he hadn’t come alone. Kotkell and Hallbjorn had walked these walls with him, their hearts filled with plans and pride. The memory of Hallbjorn flashed in his mind—his towering frame, his booming laughter. He had been a giant among men, an Avalanche on the battlefield, unstoppable. And then, the grotesque image—Hallbjorn’s body, torn apart, his chest a bloodied ruin where his heart had once been. He remembered the night he’d fled into the woods, lost in grief. Alone, he had crouched in the dark, offering up the life of a fox, its blood soaking the earth, begging Aufvaldr to take the sacrifice and honor Hallbjorn, even if his friend’s faith had lain elsewhere—with the White Lion. But there had been no answer. Only silence and the cold.

Back then, the fortress had been alive with the sounds of construction—Kotkell and Hallbjorn leading the effort to build a training yard for the Saenger soldiers who were to call Hrafnikastali home. Eidr had never seen a place so grand. Even the hallowed halls of the Runespeakers in Runeheim paled in comparison to the newly restored walls of this fortress. There had been so much hope then. So much purpose. But that hope had been short-lived.

The Saenger Lords had left after only a few months. Soon after, the Doghearts came. Raiding, pillaging, tearing apart what had been so briefly restored. The Saenger soldiers who had been left behind had been scattered and defeated, only rescued when the city retaliated. He saw some of them now and again, their former livery mixed with the colors of other houses, their allegiance a distant memory, their glory forgotten.

Eidr’s heart sank as he recalled the meetings held in dimly lit chambers, the faces of the town’s leaders shadowed by their own fears and ambitions. He had stood before them, passion in his voice, imploring them to see the strategic importance of re-garrisoning Hrafnikastali. “It is vital,” he had argued, “for the defense of our supply routes and the protection of our eastern borders. This fortress stands as a bulwark against invasion, a first line of defense against the Doghearts and any others who would threaten us.” But they had been unmoved, their minds set on developing Dragomir Fort and expanding the farms at Unverbrannter, placing all their eggs in one fragile basket. A strategy that had backfired when the Fafnir’s came roaring into the city, driving them from their homes. Eidr touched his neck, feeling the weight of the stone and wood necklaces that now replaced the official chains of office he had once worn as Master of Coin.

As Eidr stood on the cold stone wall, a sense of unreality washed over him, as if he were a ghost haunting the remnants of his own past. Behind him, in the grand hall of Hrafnikastali, laughter and music spilled forth like a mockery of the fortress’s former glory. The lavish party, hosted by the new owners—the Renett family—was a jarring contrast to the memories that clung to the stone walls. Eidr had been informed that the lord of the Renett family was a slaver, his actions recognized and condemned by many, a cruel hypocrisy that the south had brought with them as they claimed to damn the very institution. It stung like a wound reopened, a reminder that what once had been a place of brotherhood and valor was now filled with unfamiliar faces and foreign banners. He had once shared the hall with brothers-in-arms, at least in service, but now he felt like an intruder, an outsider peering into a world that had moved on without him. The warmth of celebration contrasted sharply with the chill of the night air, a bitter reminder of all that had been lost.

Inside the hall, amidst the revelry, Eidr had encountered a woman whose presence felt like a spell woven from the finest threads of destiny. She was an Indr’atma, a “woman among women” from the far-off land of Sha’ra, her attire shimmering with intricate designs and colors that seemed to dance in the light. The very concept of her role was foreign to the Njordic frontier, yet her confidence held a kind of power he found captivating. She had peered into his soul, her magic revealing glimpses of his future, while he had reciprocated with a humble offering—throwing runes for her nephew as recompense. The fortune she had offered echoed in his mind, resonating with the life-casting he had undergone upon reaching adulthood, where he had clutched his heart, a stark reminder that change was not merely an option but a necessity.

As he stood there, the echoes of her fortune mingled with the laughter behind him, the stakes of his own journey pressing upon him like the weight of the fortress walls. He had become a man caught between what was and what could be, desperately seeking clarity in a world that had turned so foreign, yet resonant with the deep-seated knowledge that transformation was not just possible, but essential.

Staring out at the twinkling lights of Kjarralund below, Eidr’s thoughts turned to Rosto, his friend whose life had been shattered by a foreign knight’s brutal blow—a curse born from dangerous magical residue, the same as crusted a huge crater just north of Hrafnikastali. That cursed energy hung in the air like a specter, too close for comfort, a constant reminder of the peril that surrounded them. The very land they inhabited felt stained by that malevolent magic, a constant, gnawing reminder of the perils lurking at their borders, dangers that threatened to swallow them whole. But it was not just the land that bore scars; Rosto had been reborn from the ashes of his own death, brought back to life by Sveas, the Cold of Winter. Eidr could still feel the chilling weight of his friend’s skin under his fingertips as he frantically searched for a pulse, praying for a sign of life in the lifeless body before him, yet jealous at the same time. Perhaps his prayers had been answered.

Where had Rosto gone now? The people of this land were trapped beneath the heavy yoke of gods who turned their backs on them, invaders who pillaged their homes, and the tyranny of the strong who enforced their will upon the weak. Eidr felt the weight of this truth pressing against him, igniting a fire within him. He realized he could no longer remain a passive observer, watching the world he once cherished crumble under the burdens of fate and fear.

He had to change. Action was imperative; inertia was no longer an option. The pace of events needed to quicken, or else nothing would ever shift. A sense of urgency coursed through him like a pulse, igniting the embers of determination within his heart.

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Eljunseed

Eidr stood before the open graves, each hollow in the earth a silent testament to the lives taken too soon. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden light that felt surreal against the stark reality of the scene. Five graves, freshly dug and unevenly shaped, lay side by side like an unwilling battalion awaiting the inevitable.

Each grave cradled a body, the faces obscured by shadows but the weight of their loss palpable in the air. On the chest of each fallen warrior rested a weapon. Broken swords, their edges dulled from use, bows crushed and splintered, axes free of hafts, remnants of once proud arms that had defended their village against the She-Wolf Jorg, Daughter of the Earth.

The funeral crowd had dwindled, leaving only a few mourners whispering words of comfort to one another, their voices hushed as if speaking too loudly might awaken the spirits of the fallen. Eidr watched as the others trickled away, their sorrow etched deep into their faces. He shuddered at the thought of the She-Wolf, her tyrannical divinity looming over them all, a specter of dread that silenced their hearts.
He stepped closer to the graves, his gaze drawn to one in particular. Olof, the man he had met only hours earlier, lay there, his once vibrant presence now reduced to lifeless flesh. They had spoken of herbs and healing, a camaraderie forged in the fleeting moments of life. Olof had shared laughter and stories, and Eidr had hoped they would work together in the days to come. Now, that future had been cruelly snatched away.

Kneeling by the grave, Eidr reached into his satchel, his fingers brushing against the delicate herb he had chosen. He withdrew the Eljunseed, its fragile, serrated leaves glistening in the waning sunlight. It was an herb he’d seen before, bundled up among the herbs he’d been given as taxes over his time while serving as Master of Coin. He knew the scent of the prepared substance, taught as he’d learned what herbs worked with what, but he had only just learned its name. It was common in Runeheim, a stubborn survivor that thrived in the harsh northern soils. It was one of the many things Eidr had learned in his conversations with Olof.

With a heavy heart, Eidr dropped the herb into the grave. It nestled among the earth, a quiet offering. Folklore had taught that hanging Eljunseed in the home would ward off the malific, the cursed spirits of the dead that haunted the northern wastes. But Eidr knew better than to place faith in such tales. He had spoken to those whose knowledge he trusted, who had studied the spirits and the nature of the herbs. Eljunseed held no power against the restless dead. Yet still, it felt right to leave it with Olof, a connection to their shared knowledge.

Perhaps it could serve both purposes, he mused. The practical and the mythical could coexist, intertwined in the fabric of their lives. Maybe the comfort that folklore provided was worth something, granting the villagers courage in the face of death, allowing them to stand tall against the dark uncertainty of their existence. Though it would not prevent their deaths, he thought grimly. But their faith allowed them to be brave in the face of death.

Eidr’s thoughts spiraled deeper, the weight of his own guilt pressing against his chest. What the community believed mattered, and it could not be dismissed lightly. The faith in the White Lion and the ancient traditions of Njordr shaped their lives, woven into the very fabric of their existence, both of them. Though he knew better than to rely on the whims of any deity, that understanding felt like a hollow victory in the face of overwhelming grief. Faith was just a different kind of strength—one he felt slipping through his fingers like sand. It was a comforting lie that people told themselves to remain resilient against the storms of life. As he knelt by Olof’s grave, Eidr couldn’t help but envy those who still held on to such illusions, wishing desperately that he could believe in something, anything, to help carry him through the dark days ahead.

Lucien had been speaking passionately to Eivor just after the graves had been dug, his voice resolute as he urged every man to open their eyes and recognize the oppression forced upon them. He implored them to see the lies that their oppressors told themselves to justify their cruelty, to rise against the injustices that stained their lives. Eidr couldn’t help but agree with his sentiments, yet he struggled to dismiss the good that had emerged from their shared strength. In a land where the weak often perished and only the strong survived, the vulnerable in Runeheim were protected by the very community that rallied around them. It was this bond that had allowed Eidr to survive thus far, the knowledge that he was not alone, that he had found a refuge among those who would defend him when the darkness closed in.

Perhaps, he mused, two truths could indeed exist in parallel. Good and bad, lies and truths, they danced together in a complex tapestry of life, interwoven in a way that made the world both beautiful and grotesque. Hypocrisy was part of nature itself, an inevitable duality that shaped their existence. It was a bittersweet realization; while he yearned for clarity, for a black-and-white understanding of the world that other people seemed to see, he found himself caught in the gray.

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Lurian Take Me

It was the first time someone asked me my name since arriving here.

Aspira Lethe Nihlus.
Sister
Mother
Grave Warden

Within the graveyard on the first night of the forum, we were able to put to rest several of the walking dead. Death should never be easy to witness, yet, it is peaceful when the dead can finally rest.

On a ferry of ebony
He comes to us all
Sleep soundly my children
As the sun does now fall

So too, did I.
I fell that night and awoke in peaceful darkness.
It was not oppressive.
I felt at peace in that moment, curious, but at peace.

With alabaster robes
And stars in his eyes
He carries us all
Across endless skies

A figure stood there, blue light in his eyes.
A blue light surrounded them.
I knew, in that peaceful place, who I stood before.
The Archangel Lurian.

We the Lurihim stand for all
Equal are we when he comes to call
Your patience we trust, we ask for more time
Only until the final bell chimes

I stood before him and I was given a choice.
Yet, it was not a choice for me.
From the first days I arrived in Runeheim and stood over the body of the one called Avalanche, protecting him, even though I did not know at that moment he was dead. I did not fear the possible death that could have come from those that brought his corpse back to us.

We the Lurihim stand for all
Equal are we when he comes to call
Lurian take us to thine holy rest
Another day we ask, to serve and be Blessed.

I had been blessed to follow Lurian, keeping the graves as tended as I could.
Runeheim was not an easy place to live, yet we stand for all that we protect.
Equal, all of us, in the eyes of death.

With the moon overhead
And dreams on their way
Lurian comes
But do not dismay

I had no dismay in those seconds, minutes, hours…. It did not matter.
Lurian came to me.

For when we breathe
Our final breath
We will be ready
To accept our death

A powerful relic to fight the Darkness.
A Light in the night
I had to accept my death.
To give my heart to Lurian.

We the Lurihim stand for all
Equal are we when he comes to call
Your patience we trust, we ask for more time

I had a day.
The day was warm, many of us went to the water and enjoyed the cold water.
I spoke to a mage for sometime, speaking about faith, power, choice.
It was a moment that stood still, we had time, all the time.
Time was given to me, to all.
To return to answer the call.

Only until the final bell chimes
We the Lurihim stand for all
Equal are we when he comes to call

The final bell chimed.
My Eparch blessed me.
My heartbeat once more.

Benalus hear me,
hear my final words:
To forget time,
To never forget life,
To bring peace,
To never forget the dead,
IN HIS NAME, MAY IT BE SO

Lurian take me to thine holy rest
I ask to serve and be Blessed.

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Serpent-dreamer

She dreamed of blood. Hip deep in it, like she was wading into the Kaltlina.

The raid had been brief, but successful. Now, they headed south, following an old logging trail. The wounded were culled, so they wouldn’t be slowed. They hadn’t even been buried properly, left for the carrion birds to pick at, bloated and unrecognizable under thick, dark dried blood. She didn’t look back, stumbling to keep up with the horse he was tied to.

She dreamed of blood. It was whispering something, she couldn’t catch it over the splashing underfoot.

Her feet were bleeding. She could feel it soaking through the wrappings, was she leaving a trail, a clear “here, follow me, right this way” drawn along the trail like a child with paints? Don’t look back, don’t turn around- just go, go-
She’d stopped briefly, getting as close as she dared to the river, to bathe and check her wounds. The cold felt like knives. But she was clean, she was awake. She was alive. More than she could say for others. Keep going. Keep going.

She dreamed of blood. Faces appeared, distorted, ran away with the current. Netta, laying just out of reach. Her father’s braid, hanging on a belt- she knew whose but the face was blurred. The dream wouldn’t let her see clearly-

“Do you speak Gothic?”
She shook her head.
“Another refugee- poor thing.”
The woman made a sympathetic noise and motioned her inside. She was given a change of clothes. A pair of boots. Food. When she made a confused noise- she didn’t want to take it from someone who needed it more- the two women shook their heads. They tried to pray over her, tried to bathe her. She panicked and shoved them away, expecting a slap or a shout. But they just…looked at her. Like a wild thing. Like something to be pitied.

She didn’t want to dream anymore, frenzied and exhausted, trudging on towards the next settlement, the next safety.

But it came in again, like the tide, when fatigue pulled her down.

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A Folktale for Rowan

Long ago, there was a little cottage perched high up the side of a mountain. This mountain towered over a little village and only one steep little footpath wound down from the heights. In that cottage, a druid named Bridget lived with her chickens Ruis and Luis, and her lovely red cow Caorann.

So as all observant children know, few things can grow in the high mountains. But the rowan tree loves the rocky cliffs and the wind in her leaves, and folk called the tree flying Rowan because of this. As it happened, the Druid’s cottage had five flying rowan trees growing around it, and in the spring when the tree was in full bloom the frothy white petals made it look like her house was ringed in clouds. In the late Summer, these flowers would ripen into flame red berries and were the favorite treat of Caorann the cow, the chickens, and the Druid herself.

Now on the lower slopes of this mountain, was the finest grazing land for miles around, and Bridget would take her cow to those fields to let her eat her fill. But the villagers would also use these grazing lands for their own cows. For years the druid and the villagers were able to share this land. But the Druid, being wise in the way of the trees, knew that when her rowan trees had a bountiful summer harvest, the following winter would be a hard one; and that the snows would last near to April and the grass on the slopes would be thin and late. So the druid saved the rowan berries. She threaded them on a string and dried them in her rafters, she made them into jelly, jam, and pies.

The druid weathered the long hard winter and sated herself on the rowan jams and other saved summer crops. But hunger struck hard at the village below, and where there are hungry bellies, malefic spirits will come to fill them. Knowing this, the Druid turned once again to her protectors, the rowan trees. She remembered that her mother had taught her the rhyme:

“Red thread and Rowan tree make evil spirits (Malefic) lose their speed.”

So the druid tied charms of rowan twigs with red thread and hung them above her chicken coop, and around the neck of the cow, and on the lintels of every door and window in her home for protection. By night she burned a few rowan twigs to aid her in her divination spells and listened well to what the gods told her. Her divinations told her that a mob of villagers, possessed by hunger spirits would come to burn down her cottage under the light of the full wolf moon.

To prepare, The druid wet down the walls of her cottage and her barn and redoubled her charms and she set trip threads with alarm bells along the narrow path up the mountain and wove red yarn into nets that she strung from her Rowan trees. When the moon rose full behind the winter clouds, a mob from the village tromped up the winding mountain path to her cottage. Blinded by the might of spirits that possessed them, the villagers stumbled over the alarms, and the druid knew that her predictions had been true. As the mob approached her door, she hid among her rowan trees, just as the possessed villager came under their canopies, she whispered to her tree friends, and the roots rose to bind their feet, and the nets fell upon them from above. Thus captured, she drove the spirits out of the villagers and banished them from the world. Now clear of mind, she freed the hapless and hungry people and shared with them some of the food she had saved for winter. She gave each one a protection charm of rowan and told them to plant the seeds near their houses, and sent them back down the mountain. Soon the spring came and new rowans sprouted, and all was well for many more years.

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Straßen, the Game of Kings

Straßen is played on a square board with even spaces not unlike a chessboard. Though there are variations, the most common boards used in the court of Morgstadt from whence the game originates are 7×7 spaces. At the start of the game the board is empty, and in a standard game each player is given 40 common stones and 2 schloss stones.

Starting Play
Players alternate turns throughout the game. You must play on your turn – there is no option to pass. Straßen is played with only orthogonal movement and connection; squares are not connected diagonally and diagonal movement is not possible. On each player’s first turn, they will place one of their stones flat on any empty square of the board. Play then continues with players placing new stones or moving existing stones they control.

On Your Turn
On each turn, you can do one of two things: place a stone on an empty space, or move stones you control.

Placing Stones
On your turn, you can opt to place a stone from your reserve onto any empty square on the board. There are three stone types that can be placed: Flat Stone – The basic stone, laid flat on its face. This is what you use to build your straßen, or road. Standing Stone​ – The basic stone, but standing on an edge. Also called a wall. This does not count as part of a straßen, but other stones cannot stack on top of it. Schloss Stone – This is the most powerful piece. It, like a flat stone, counts as part of your road. Other stones cannot stack on top of it. The capstone also has the ability to move by itself onto a standing stone and flatten the standing stone into a flat stone. You can flatten both your opponent’s and your own standing stones in this way.

Moving Stones
The other option on your turn is to move stones that you control. If your stone is on the top of a stack, you control that entire stack. All three stone types (flat, standing, and schloss) can be moved, and moving is the only way to create stacks. There is no limit to how tall a stack can be. When moving stacks of stones, you cannot move more than 7 stones.

Stack Moves
Pick up any number of stones up to 7. Do not change the order of these stones. Move in a straight line in the direction of your choice – no diagonals and no changing direction. You must drop at least one stone from the bottom of the stack in your hand on each square you move over. You do not need to leave a stone in that stack’s starting space. You may not jump over walls or schloss stones. The schloss stone, if on the stack, may drop by itself onto a standing stone at the end of a move to flatten it.

Winning
The object of Straßen is to connect any two opposite edges of the board with your flat stones and schloss stone, creating a road. Any square or stack you control can count as part of a road (except ones with walls on them), but stones in a stack controlled by the other player do not. A road does not have to be a straight line; it can zig-zag across the board as long as all squares in the road are adjacent, not diagonal. If a player makes a single move that creates a road for both players, then the player who made the move wins. In the event that neither player creates a road and the board is either completely filled (no empty squares) or one of the players places their last piece, a secondary win condition comes into effect. When either of those cases is met, the game immediately ends and the winner is determined by counting who has more flat stones controlling the board. Only flat stones on the top of stacks or solely occupying a square are counted. The player with the higher flat count wins. A tie in the count results in a tie game.

Etiquette & Variants
As this game has been declared by many to be the Game of Kings, proper manners whilst playing have become an integral part of the game. That said, what constitutes good manners varies based upon the context of the game, and some variations have become standard for different rules sets.

The most commonly used etiquette is what is known as Court Manners, a style of play that is intimate and deferential, and is most closely associated with the game in its standard 7×7 variation. When threatening a road win on the next move, you must declare “Straßen”. Undoing your moves is both permissible and acceptable.

There is a variation of the game popular with the underclasses for its ease of transport played on a 5×5 board with 21 stones and one schloss per player, commonly known as Tavern Manners Straßen or derisively as “The Game of Merchants”. It’s a rowdier game than one played with Court Manners, and is prone to spectators, boasting, and betting. The goal is to win at any cost; as such declaring “Straßen” is considered to be against the spirit of the game, and taking back moves is not allowed.

A less common variant is known as Mage’s Manners Straßen, and originates from the halls of the Infragilis Vigilo in Scrow. Played on an 8×8 board with 50 stones and two schloss to a player, with the goal being to prove one’s cleverness and foresight. Moves can be taken back, but asking to do so means admitting a mistake. “Straßen” isn’t called; rather, when a player completes a road through an oversight of another player, it counts as a win, but the move is then taken back and the game continues. The player who wins three times first, or else orchestrates and inescapable win, is the one considered to have properly won the match.

A simple variant rule that can apply to any game variant is known as the Peasant’s Rule, which states “A player may not play their schloss stone until an opponent has played a wall or a schloss stone”. Though simple, this variant creates a clear delineation between two phases of gameplay: one where only flat stones may be played, and a second phase where anything goes. This variant rule is growing in popularity, as it grants the early game a unique flavor, opens the door for interesting strategy as to when one might wish to place the first wall, and leads to a dramatic ramping of tension throughout the game.

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In Cold Blood

*Click.*
The mechanisms of his crossbow turned as Rosto thumbed the brass cylinder, a new habit formed quickly with the unusual machine. A bolt, tip honed to a murderous edge , settled snugly into place along side it’s siblings
*Click.*
His tools laid out on oil cloth, cleaned and tended to after a Market of hard use. Knives sharped and polished, throwing daggers honed and balanced, bow unstrung to rest and fouling blood and wrenched rust removed with the care of a master craftsman preparing for the next day.
*Click.*
His mind wandered, lulled by the familiarity of routine. To the Market, to the forest, to the cold and wet and dark. To his death. He hadn’t wanted to worry them, and with the murder of Nobility his own death was… inconsequential. Wrong place at the wrong time, trying to do the right thing. A great-blade singing through flesh and bone and fat and gore.
Funny, he remembered his blood being a different shade of red last time….
*Click.*
Laying in a pool of his own blood, the chilling mists stealing what warmth he had left, dim lights fading as everyone else left him behind. A whispered voice he could still hear, cold and soft, like freshly fallen snow
“How was your first death, hmm?”
*Click.*
Some part of his brain, far off and distant, wondered if he would ever be warm again.

*Click.*

*Click.*

*Click…*

Unlikely
After all, they always said he was a cold blooded killer

*Click.*

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Postmortem

Esparei had died.
She knew that with terrible clarity.
Murdered on the bridge, then hidden in the woods. How cowardly. How cruel. How- cold the world suddenly was. Like nothing she’d ever felt. There was no gentle embrace of the divine. No final comfort. Just- cold.

“You poor girl.”
She didn’t know the voice. Her limbs started to twitch. Her skin knit together.

You’ll never be warm again.

She could sit up by some miracle- her fine gown crusted in blood and dirt, her pistol still clutched in her right hand. And the feeling of absolute dread, making the back of her neck tingle. Alone? No- not this time. Not her murderers. A woman.

Then- she was at the tavern door. Then, she was speaking plainly, artlessly, feeling hollow and violated until the anger shot up unexpectedly like a viper.

She had stripped bare, showing Vernon the ugly gashes across her torso- hacked at like she was nothing more than a thing, a piece of meat. She had demanded blood for blood, as was her right. She- she-

You’ll never be warm again.

She screamed. Like something had come undone in her. Like all the grief and rage were pouring out like a storm and she couldn’t stop. Not even if she tried. Screaming and sobbing and pressing herself as far into the corner of her room as she could, until Vernon, barely awake and panicking, rushed in and held her. Soothed her. Let her cry herself out while murmuring prayers softly and squeezing her hand.
“I think you should let the High Inquisitor examine you. I’m worried about you.”

She didn’t respond. Just squeezed his hand a little tighter.

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Apple blossom

Esparei had delayed unpacking for as long as possible. But she’d finally caved and put everything away carefully, every gown, every robe, all of her furs, her books, things that reminded her of Capacionne. She unpacked the portrait last- her family, in a dreamy pastoral scene, a smaller copy of the painting in their home in Beauclair. A tree laden with blossoms on an island that had never known a storm. Whole and perfectly preserved for all time. She couldn’t look at it for long. It hurt too much. It just made her think of…that night four years ago. There had been so much blood. And fire. And- no. Don’t dwell on it. She already couldn’t shake the image of Victor collapsing, bloody and shocked. She’d thrown up after, begging Rollo to help her out of her masquerade gown, nearly in tears as he helped her change into something easier to move in, so she could go help that reckless Njord.

Ragnar.
She looked at the red flowers on her desk, next to a little wooden figure painted crimson. Such sweet gestures, from a person who was so loud, so, so chaotic- the gentle nature of his gifts was jarring, almost. When he’d been stabbed in the tavern, when Victor had gone after him, she’d shielded his body with hers, unthinking. That’s what you do when you protect someone, right? Not just with words and titles. Not hiding away waiting for her grandfather to call her home.

A tree laden with blossoms on an island that had never known a storm. Until the storm came. And now…being able to speak openly about the coup with Saga had felt like a cork had been pulled from her soul and everything poured out in that moment. They knew. They’d heard terrible things. They listened when she said how important it was to serve the people you are responsible for. They told her the plight of the Njords, of the suffering and the harsh, unyielding land they fought so hard to preserve. And it made her heart ache. She wanted to talk to Vernon more too, she’d felt so guilty for ruining her atonement. She wanted to tell Svanhildr everything. She wanted to hug Ragnar- he gave such good hugs, like nothing could happen and she was safe, if only for a moment. That comfort meant a lot when she was painfully homesick and lonely.

A tree, stripped bare by the storm. But still living.
A Lady, alone.

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The Woodsman’s Hope

((Sentences or parts of sentences in all capitals seem to be written by a much more frantic and chaotic hand))

The warm summer sun shone down through the verdant canopy as a woodsman, new to this particular area, trudged on through the underbrush. There was a bit of a reprieve from the hotter-than-normal summer Njordir was having in the cool shade of the forest just outside Runehiem, but the evidence of hard work and exertion showed on this man’s clothes and brow. His pack, filled with materials gathered from the land, weighed on his shoulders, albeit still a burden he could bare. His clan taught him well the value of hard work and respect for the land. He ventured toward the top of a hill deep in the woods in search of a vantage point to get a lay of this new land, as well as a place to sit to enjoy his hand-made trail rations.

As he shifts through the brush, steps over fallen trees and rocks, and skips over small sinkholes, he thinks back on his parents. They were so caring and knowledgeable in their craft and taught him much raising him. HE’S JUST SO DISAPPOINTED THAT THEY HAD TO BREAK THE FAMILY APART. They taught him the best mixture of nuts, berries, flour, honey, and just a bit of animal fat to make these trail rations just the right thing for a hungry gatherer. All he’s learned in life has been from either his parents or his clan, EXCEPT VIOLENCE. He still misses them, EVEN THOUGH THEY DID THE UNTHINKABLE. As the woodsman sits on a fallen log atop the hill to enjoy his trail rations, he looks out into the forest and hopes he continues to make friends in this new village. For the short time he’s been here, it’s felt more and more like home AND WHERE HE BELONGS. He sees new paths forming toward bright futures, and not only the one involving taking a priestly vow. As he’s dwelling on the new friends he’s made, he finishes his trail rations and is ready to venture forth again.

He looks back from where he came, and a small ephemeral bird darts across his sight line. It was so quick, even the trained woodsman couldn’t fully catch it. He looks toward where it went and is met with just the typical sight of the dense foliage with several rays of sun piercing through the canopy for illumination. A voice stirs in his mind, “I HOPE YOU ENJOY YOUR LIFE, EVERY ASPECT OF IT”. He blinks a few times and shakes his head. For good measure, he takes a drink from his water skin, and tries to focus on the voice again. Nothing but the chirping of the birds, the buzzing of insects, and, in the distances, the soft rushing of the river. He says a brief prayer for safety and turns to make his way back to his work and to town. This incident sits uneasy in his mind, BUT AS SOON AS HE LEAVES THE FOREST AND GETS BACK TO TOWN, IT IS OF LITTLE CONCERN TO HIM. He finds peace in his community and the act of helping them with their needs.

Over the next few weeks, during days when he ventures not into the wilderness, the woodsman is found practicing archery in whatever suitable open area is available, mostly out of preparation for the next season’s hunt BUT ALSO YOU NEVER KNOW WHEN YOU NEED TO PROTECT YOURSELF. His thoughts, again, drift back to his parents. His mother was such a dependable hunter and member of the clan, BUT SUCH A DISAPPOINTMENT IN THE END. The clan trusted her with many a folkwise and leaned on her frequently for food and clothing for the winter. WHY DID SHE HAVE TO DO IT? WHY? WHY? WHY? The woodsman, gathering his arrows from his last volley, had tears welling up in his eyes. He wiped his eyes, nocked another arrow, and took just a second to aim. Just before he let the arrow fly, he closed his eyes and let images of hope fill his mind. Next he opened his eyes, he was met with the arrow jutting from the center of the makeshift target. “The light of Benalus is the gateway to hope, the road to salvation. I feel I have hope, so I must be on the right road,” The woodsman mumbles to himself.