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Silbran Financial Plan LA605

Silbran Financial Plan
Lion Age 605

Penned by Master Corvo di Talmerin
Effective as of New Year’s Day, Lion Age 605

Article I: Land Parcels and Provinces-
-I.A: Recognition and Declaration of Authority-
All provinces within the Valley of Stragosa are property of the Empire, the Throne of God on Earth. Silbran recognizes the authority of Stragosa’s rulership to all provinces within the Stragosa Valley with notable exception to those provinces in the Stragosa Valley which are granted by His Eminence and Imperial Majesty Siegfried von Herkheist to the Baroness, Lady Evelyn Drake. These lands, held under the banner of House Drake and the city of Silbran are to be considered right and lawfully under the rules, laws, and edicts of both His Imperial Majesty and those agreed upon by Rogalian Parliament which are agreed to hold affect over all provinces of Rogalia without exception.

-I.B: Stewardship and Management of Provinces-
Any Noble Vassal to House Drake or HIghborn citizen of the city of Silbran may petition for or be granted Stewardship of the provinces controlled under the banner of House Drake at the discretion of Her Grace, Baroness Evelyn Drake. Her Grace shall reserve the full right and authority to remove these lesser nobles or vassals from their positions of Stewardship at her discretion. Any gathering or production done within the provinces held by Silbran, unless explicitly negotiated otherwise with the Master of Coin shall be split 30/70 in favor of the Provincial Steward except in regards to precious metals and stones which will be split 20/80 in favor of the Provincial Steward.

-I.C: Taxation of Provinces-
All Provinces under the banners of House Drake and the City of Silbran, including those which are held in stewardship by vassals or other lesser nobility, shall pay all due taxes to the city of Silbran by way of the Master of Coin. In the absence of the Master of Coin, Taxes may be paid to the Seneschal, or to Her Grace, Baroness Evelyn Drake.

Taxes shall be due no later than the second forum of each season (Late Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter) at the close of Market on the second day (Saturday, no later than 4 bells). The Rate of Taxation is thus:
-Fifteen Silver Pieces per Province
-10% of all Gathered, Produced, or Manufactured Resources, Goods, Commodities, or Supply Units.
-60% of all Precious Stones and Metals, (Gold, Silver, and Jewels)

Article II: Cities and Districts-
-II.A: District Magistrates; Responsibility and Authority-
At the will of Her Grace, Baroness Evelyn Drake, any Highborn citizen or citizen of Silbran in good standing may serve as Magistrate of a district. District Magistrates are responsible for managing and administering their district. They are authorized to accept payments for use of city lots, administer the issuance and execution of warrants and administer justice in the form of levying and collecting fees and fines on behalf of the Master of Coin and/or the Lord Marshal. It is the responsibility of the District Magistrate to see that all such fees and fines collected in this manner are reported to both the Master of Coin and Lord Marshal. Additionally, District magistrates are authorized to collect taxes from the citizens of their district on behalf of the Master of Coin. District Magistrates are also responsible for making certain that any fees, fines or taxes collected in this manner are reported and delivered to the Master of Coin as soon as possible.

-II.B: Lots; Property Lease, and Management-
Each district is separated into lots. City Rulership reserves the right to claim and utilize lots for any purpose deemed necessary. Barring reservations placed upon a lot by city rulership, any district lot may be leased by any lawful citizen of Silbran and further developed for the purposes of housing, business, or both. All requests for lease of a lot shall go through the local magistrate of the district for initial consideration and all such petitions shall include a plan for the development of each leased or rented lot. After the local magistrate has approved the petition for lease of a city lot, they shall forward that request to the Master of Coin and Seneschal. All such requests must receive final approval from both the Master of Coin and Seneschal. At any time, and for any reason, Her Grace, Baroness Evelyn Drake, may revoke or otherwise deny the leasing of any city lot as is her right as ruler. It should be noted that while Her Grace, through the proxies of her Seneschal and Master of Coin grant citizens permission to do as they will upon the properties that are leased to them, Her Grace maintains full rights and ownership of the land. All lots have an initial Leasing fee of 20 Silver +the assessed value of any pre-existing buildings or structures. The assessed value of these buildings or structures is based solely upon the value of materials used to construct the building plus/minus any additional improvements or defects.

-II.C: District Taxation-
As each district is further divided into lots, each lot is taxed based on its individual value as well as taxes levied on any business in the form of both monetary taxes and a tax on goods. District Magistrates are responsible for the collection of all taxes, fees, and dues within their district. All taxes, fees, and dues thus collected are to be recorded and delivered to the Master of Coin no later than the second forum of each season (Late Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter) at the close of Market on on the second day (Saturday, no later than 4 bells). Tax rates for all lots and businesses are thus:

Lot: 5 Silver/Lot
Coin: 20% Coin Revenue
Goods: 20% of goods produced

Article III: Guilds-
The city of Silbran recognizes the necessity of guilds and encourages their existence and enterprise. Any citizen of Silbran may petition the Master of Coin to recognize and establish the monopoly of their guild’s trade. Like other businesses, guilds pay taxes but there are certain addendums or changes
-III.A: Guild Requirements-
Any founded mercantile organization may apply for guild status. In order to be considered for guild status and granted recognition, the prospective organization must meet the following criteria:
-One Master for each Craft the Guild Seeks to claim a Monopoly on. (This may be one individual who’s mastered all relevant crafts or several people who have mastered a single craft)
-One Executive Officer to act as a liaison between the Guild and other organizations such as the city or other guilds. This individual also serves to break ties in diplomatic voting processes and to mediate disputes between members within their organization.
-One Contract Officer who is, at the very least able to understand the terms and conditions of contractual trade agreements and mercantile contracts, and who is responsible for the wording and negotiations of such contracts. This individual may or may not also fulfill the role of Guild Executive
-The prospective Guild must demonstrate an ability to meet the needs of the city of Silbran in terms of service and production regarding every monopoly which they seek.
-The prospective Guild must submit a leasing proposition to the Master of Coin outlining their plan for the construction of a local guildhall or meeting place (or renovation of any such existing buildings) and any other buildings which they shall require to produce their goods or provide services.
-The prospective Guild must be willing and able to pay the annual fee to secure the monopolies they seek to claim.

-III.B: Guild Monopolies-
Each guild who meets the above criteria will be granted a monopoly on the crafts or trades they seek, provided that another guild does not already claim a monopoly on that craft or trade. In certain special circumstances, two guilds may agree to share monopolies to better stimulate local trade and economic growth. As a result, the Master of Coin may grant them special compansations with the permission of Her Grace, Baroness Evelyn Drake. Each guild must pay an annual fee of 40 Silver for each monopoly they wish to claim. Each monopoly will be clearly outlined in the guild charter (a specific contract that each guild maintains with the city), and will be subject to review each year in Early Winter. Upon this review, either the Master of Coin of the Guild Executive and Contract officer will decide if the charter is to be renewed, renegotiated, or revoked and canceled. The city maintains the right not to renew each guild’s contract. Should the city end it’s term and choose not to renew a guild’s contract that guild may continue operating, but does so without it’s monopoly. The only exception to this is if the monopoly is granted to another organization. Any individual found in violation of a guild monopoly shall face a punitive fine of 100% per transaction. 20% of the illicit sale revenue shall go to the city of Silbran while 80% shall go to the guild who’s trade monopoly was infringed upon.

-III.C: Guild Dues and Taxation-
All guilds shall, in some form or another, collect dues from their members. What an individual guild chooses to charge as dues and how those dues are paid are a matter for the guilds to decide. Guild dues are not taxable, however all other revenue, goods, and services the guild generates for sale are. In addition to paying for monopolies, Guilds pay the same lease rates on property that any other business pays. Furthermore, guilds also pay taxes in goods and coin to the Master of Coin no later than the second forum of each season (Late Spring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter) at the close of Market on on the second day (Saturday, no later than 4 bells).
Guilds are taxed thus:

10% of all goods harvested and/or produced
20% of all monetary revenue.

Article IV: Legal Notice-
-IV.A: Alternate Authority-
In the event that the Master of Coin is absent, all taxes, fees, fines, or dues may be transferred to the Seneschal or Her Grace, Baroness Evelyn Drake for deposit into the city’s treasury.
-IV.B: Tax Exchange-
At their discretion, the Master of Coin may alter the method of tax collected; In this case the Master of Coin shall collect goods in exchange for their monetary value or may collect additional coin in tax, not to exceed the value of the materials owed in tax.
-IV.C: Crime and Punishment
Any individual who is found to have willfully failed to pay taxes, fees, fines, or dues owed shall be charged with theft against the Empire and shall be prosecuted to the fullest extent of Imperial law.

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My Own Blue Eyes

—-My Own Blue Eyes—-

And you
my own blue eyes
I know you can hear me
You can always hear me
Every thought
Every fear
Every
Weakness
Belonged to you
But
You never saw me
Only a mirror
Of everything you wish you could be

Is that why you
always hated me?
Almost as much
As you hated yourself?

I will never forgive you
Not after everything
You did
Everything you
Never did
And now
You walk a sunlit path
For the first time in a dozen years
You Wear your own face

While you look upon my death hole
I watch your lips and
I cannot not feel the tender words
Dance across my skin
But I taste your tears stain
my grave
Like You
They are
brackish
And vile

Poor you
Poor fucking you
You pitious wretch
So selfish
For yourself
You could never see how I was
Myself
Selfless

The festering sun
Threatens to tear me from this world
A final time
And all you can see
Is what
You
Have lost

But I
Finally
see you now
Like you have never seen me

I am
always
watching you
protecting you
Saving you
Always
By your side
In your every thought
And every fear
You have shown me your love
My Own Blue Eyes
And I will show you mine

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Pruning Winter

The shudders of the house shake, a whistling wind passing by. She blinks her eyes as it quiets down again. A cold storm is due this time of year.

She closes her eyes, listening to the howls of the wind.

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

Wake up.

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

Her eyes open. The light peaks through the windows, “Florence, it’s time to get up.” Her mother stands over her, speaking calmly, “You must get ready or they will leave without you again.”
Florence looks over to the other two in the room; her father still shaking off the last bits of sleepiness while her brother paces about the room gathering the supplies for the morning hunt. She sits up and begins to get ready herself.

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

Florence rubs her eyes as she walks down the trail, a light dusting of snow spreads over the ground. She collects what is needed from the earth and then makes her way home.

The table is set up with vials and bowls, stems separated from their leaves, and powder spilt in miscellaneous places. Florence sets the new herbs on the table, it won’t be long till the town begins to stir this morning. She reaches up to tie her hair back and pauses- her fingers catch in a knot. Moving towards the mirror she grabs a brush and evaluates the tangles of her hair.

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

“Florence.”

Her mother speaks her name as she slowly combs Florence’s mane, “Oh Florence.” The young girl holds onto her skirt, feeling the comb struggle and pull on her hair. Her mother puts the comb down, “I’m sorry love.” scissors replace the comb and Florence sniffles as she closes her eyes.

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

Florence stares into the mirror, a smile across her face as she sets the scissors down. Her hand traces her shoulders, up the neck and finally towards her shortened hair. “Oh Florence” she whispers.

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The Reaping at the Proving Grounds

Marco rubbed his hands together and blew into his cupped palms. Even after the hand wraps he had been given, his fingers were still covered in little nicks and pricks where the tough hemp leaves had stuck him as he worked. The cold blushed his fingers into a rosy color that made each of the tiny wounds obvious as he worked. When the Festival of Reaping passed by his little hut in the Well District, he thought it would be a good opportunity to at least get away from the city for a while, and maybe make some use of himself, or have an opportunity for new experiences. It had been quite a while now since he’d done anything but beg at the refectorium or hope for work. Humiliating. Maybe some honest, hard work would snap him out of this. Maybe something exciting would happen.

Still, as he tried to bring some warmth back to his fingertips, he was having trouble remembering why he left Hestralia to come out here. His more famous and more handsome older brother, Frazio, had come here too, but he hadn’t come home. Marco still hoped to find him, though with each month he got a little more worried. As he scanned around the big crowd one more time, reflexively looking for his brother’s confident smile, he saw that that monk had come back to hand out some warm cider again. That was a blessing, if nothing else. God but the north gets cold. As he took the cup, muttering his gratitude, Marco silently wished he could remember the monk’s name. He had said it once, at the start, but Marco had forgotten immediately, not actually interested. Now that he kept showing up with kindnesses, Marco wished he remembered, but was too embarrassed to ask.

He took a moment to look over the good work being done while he sipped the hot drink. His group here was bailing up another set of hemp, while another was set up weaving it into canvas. Down the way another team almost as large was getting the next row ready to pull, and way in the distance down the forested hill, he could just see Caelistadt village doing their own Reaping Festival, gathering out in the field, though to be sure they’d gathered in large numbers now. That was a new sight. So was the smoke.

Squinting his eyes, Marco hopped up on a prominent rock, and quickly realizing it wasn’t enough, began to quickly climb a large sentinel tree near their work site. This kind of work he remembered, his hands effortlessly moving, stark contrast to the unskilled gardening. As a topman on The Colozio, he had been one of the fastest climbers aboard, and could loose or trim the shrouds faster than anyone else. It felt good to remember what kind of life he would be going back to after he found Frazio, and mentally decided then that he’d need to get back to a sailing ship sooner rather than later; maybe whatever was leaving from Portofino next. Frazio had moved on, obviously, finding Stragosa just as dismal as Marco had. As Marco mounted the top of the tree he put one hand over his brow to block the sun, and scanned the distance. What he saw confirmed his fears. He gave a midshipman’s whistle, loud as he could to get the attention of those below. Something was very wrong.

As the workers below began to rally up to heed his call, Marco watched as the great crowd down at Caelistadt began to churn. Now that he had a view, he could see that there was panic in the crowd – they scattered in all directions, but some lay still. Something was killing them. Slowly the situation took shape – armed and armored men were cutting them down, and now flames began to leap from roof to roof. “Hey, hey, something’s the matter!” Marco shouted down below, and as he continued to scan, he saw flames elsewhere too. All across the Proving Grounds there were fires, and groups of figures setting them. The village was ablaze now, and the flames could be seen in the boughs of the forests all around.. the logging camps, alight..the hemp fields, where he worked even now…The sounds of screaming began below him.

“FEAR NOT,” a voice from below boomed out, strangely loud and unusually metallic. Marco squeezed the trunk with his thighs as he came about to look below, where he saw a huge, plate-covered warrior, a rusted sollerette pressed into the back of the monk. The monk lay still below it, blood spattering the rock. A huge beast, some kind of monstrous white lion, prowled behind him, snarling at the others who had been bailing hemp. Huge, armored shadows began to step out from the trees in every direction. “THIS PUNISHMENT IS NOT FOR YOU.”

A fresh round of screams carried on the wind with the now thickening columns of smoke all throughout the province, and Marco could see the baggage train, loaded with military supply, come under attack now. Hundreds of figures were running at it from the woods on all fours, tearing the rigging from the carts.

“FEAR NOT,” the warrior repeated, a shaggy brown pelt of a bear or some other great beast slumped across its heavy pauldrons. “FOR I AM TOLOS, THE WANDERER, AND I COME IN THE NAME OF THE RED GOD.” Its voice echoed from deep within its greathelm, and it opened its arms wide as if beginning convocation.

Marco held fast to the upper branches of his tree, and scanned around again to see if there was some kind of relief on its way from the city. He had seen some rough looking marines camped with the Scordato banner near the road, looking exhausted and bedraggled on his way to the farm. He craned around looking for them, but they weren’t anywhere to be seen. Were they already dead? Fled? Surely they wouldn’t just let this happen.

“HEAR MY MIGHTY WORDS, YOU BROKEN AND WEAK. I COME NOT FOR YOU,” and with this, a single almighty CRACK issued forth from the tree, and Marco felt it begin to tip. His guts lurched as he became weightless and his face was assaulted by sticks and branches, unable to spare more than one hand to protect it without careening from the tree entirely. With a hard thud he landed, the wind knocked from his lungs. As he finally unsqueezed his eyes, gasping, he found he was face to face with the kind monk, glassy-eyed, but somehow serene. ‘God,’ he thought stupidly, ‘what was his name?’

“NOT FOR YOU…BUT FOR THEY.” The metallic voice rang out from just above him; he looked up to see the huge ironclad mit pointing its axe at the monk. With its other hand, it pointed toward the supply train. The warrior looked down then at Marco, as if waiting for him to give some reply. Dumbfounded, and still gasping, his mind just went blank. He stammered out nonsense, then simply cried “Please! Don’t!”

The greathelm shook from side to side. “TRULY…PATHETIC.” The huge beast roared from somewhere above him, and Marco felt the jaws close on his spine like an iron gate.

* * *

Miles away, in Stragosa, iron bells began to ring out on the watchtowers as smoke filled the Southwestern sky. It seemed that the time of reaping was just beginning.

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My Good Friends

My Good Friends

I wait until morning
To see my good friends
And
I am so excited to see them again
And
Hear their warm smiles
And
see the melody of their laughter
And
They would see me
And
I would be real
And
They do not come
And
And
And

. . .

The smith is always smiling. He is happy to see me, happy to see everybody. He is my friend.
He has crafted a hundred magnificent daggers in a thousand beautiful shapes. Each a gift, each a seal of friendship. He would stand by me in arms and I knew my brother had my back.
But he is not here. He didn’t come.
Should I have let him burn?

. . .

The dawn breaks
An evil molten green
And spills like syrup
into the sickly sweet corners of the world

I want to stay
more than to breathe
But my shadow is too dark
And I cannot see the sun

Cobwebs and dust crowd out thought
And inch by horrible inch

I

am

G oNe

. . .

The Tailor’s needles and knives were almost as sharp as her smile. I loved her when she held a dagger to my throat. I loved her when she slipped bread from her parents caravan to feed her starving friend.
In those days there was nobody to tell us
That we couldn’t fly
So we did.

But when I finally let go, finally trusted her with everything I had-
She flew away.

Why do I keep trusting people when all they do is break your heart?

. . .

This world is a silent place
memories drift downward with the crisp smell of falling snow
How many of these were me?

My edges are slipshod and jagged
Unweaving and unwound
What I am just
melting in the thaw

But

I am not done here

You will not deny my story
I will not permit it
So

So last night
I went to see you
Tomorrow

And I taste the mothflame light
I hear your faces in the evening glow
A rattlechain dance of beer steins toasting
Smilies and smiles and warm hearthen fires
And I cannot help but smile
As I am come back to you
And we will laugh and sing and be friends once again

But

But

But

You look through me
Around me
And past me
And my heart drops leaden frogs into my guts

See me
Please
Just see me

Fucking Look!

I am real

Aren’t I?

But not one of you will claim the cold place at the table
So
Whether you know it or not
You do see me
But are too blind to look me in the eye.

Fucking
Cowards

. . .

The nights in the hall we shared
Were some of the best of my life
The alchemist cackled
High on her own medicine
While the gunsmith polished the beautiful brass
Of a new masterpiece

But of all of them
I trusted you the most
My brother in knives
You watched each of us when you thought we were not looking
As your hair grayed at the temple
With love
You are a better man than you know
And I am sorry you are so lost

But even you
Even you were gone when I needed you the most

She died
And I died
And we would be standing here still
If you had not abandoned us
To the alter of the vanity
And your failure

If you had been there with us
We would be here still

You will never find what you seek
You useless
Wretched
Fuck

. . .

I hear my song
It cuts through the dust
And makes me real

it is a good song
And the world goes from red to a soft waxy glow
I can disappear
Really, truly disappear
And for a moment, everything is finally right

Thank you

.
.
.

But
nothing
can last forever

And with the applause I awake from the dream
Of a world in which I’m still here

And fall hard and bloodied
In this too loud place
Where my mind begins it’s
kaleidoscope
Cracking
And now the world
Is forgetting my face
And my name
And if I was ever real
To begin with

. . .

My Minstral
when she came
You said nothing
Did nothing
You just disappeared

And let her swallow my heart
And my life

Keep singing my song
I hope it lets you hide from your shame

It’s no wonder you will not meet my eye

Yet

. . .

How?

My friends
How are you so happy?
Did you hate me that much?
To laugh and smile
And refuse to even see me

All While I cannot taste the rancid sun

I flee from this wicked joke
Back to the sky
Where the wind does not care
If I am alive
Or dead
Or never was at all.

What did I do wrong?
I tried so hard
I made so many friends

Didnt I?
I just thought…
Thats what you
Do
You make friends
You take care of your
Friends
And your friends
They take care of you

But
I am not real
And only real people get to have friends

I’m sorry
I’m sorry I wasn’t enough

For you
For any of you
If I had tried harder
Done more to be seen
Maybe I would have been
Worth
Saving

I just…

I I
Love Hate
You

A
L
L
So fucking m-

. . .

Oh dearest captain
I remember how you would jump
When I came silently from behind
And your tankard would fly
Spinning and spilling
casting ale to the winds
But we always smiled
And talked of distant shores
And distant dreams

You know

I never told you
But it was your hat that gave me the courage
To make my own

And yet you sailed away
Like all the rest

. . .

No

I deny you

This is not how I end
I will not fade
I will not be forgotten
I exist
I fucking exist

And you cannot steal that from me
Not anymore

My story isn’t done
I will not be denied!
My will shall be wrought upon the world
And all will know my name!

I am your good friend
I am savior of the poor
Diplomat and scoundrel
Wizard and buccaneer
Master and slave
Loved and feared

I am

I

am

I…

I am her smile
Sharp and
Undying
Even now

She calls me
To become unmade
And join her in the silence
And the dirt

I begin to let go
And the mothflame flickers

once

Twice

And I am ready

She is waiting for me waiting
To set sail
Where we will dance forever
upon our nameless ship
Through a vast and a nameless sea

And I am ready
I am

I

Am

Balthazar di Carrivaggo

I am the sky and
the lightning and
You will know name
From now until
The end of time

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Stragosa and Its Peoples; Prologue

It is my hope that this book survives to tell the world of the subject of its title, namely the mysterious city of Stragosa and the people that dwell within it, but if history is any indicator I am indulging in a futile exercise of vanity. The city has existed for an unknown period of time, but no records exist of a settlement in that northwestern corner of Gotha, either at the Parliamentary University of Port Melandir or anywhere else in the Throne to my knowledge.

Reports coming out of the city indicate the ruins are very old, and perhaps with an unknown number of layers of ruins beneath the surface. Is it possible that a city so unknowably old could escape notice for all of recorded history? I think such things impossible, save for either divine intervention, malign urgings, or sorcery. Human nature indicates curiosity would discover such a place and make a note somewhere for it to be found by others were it not somehow protected from such pryings. Which does beg the question: why now? What powers have allowed this place once hidden to be discovered in this time, and to what end? Has it happened before? I’ve a notion it has.

Perhaps such questions, too, are futile to ask but I intend to ask them all the same. If this book ends up like doubtless so many others on some pyre for containing dark secrets not meant for man to know I will rest easy in my grave knowing that I lay my fingers upon fate and tried to move her. I am on a mission to document Stragosa as it is and was in the past without obfuscation, that others might understand it clearly.

For me to accomplish this with any efficacy you must trust in me, my intentions, and my ability to accomplish the task I have taken up. I, Narcisse Lamothe, was born in the lands Bouclair in Capacionne and raised by agents of the Guild Dextera Inflammatio, as my father was among the paragons of that order of magicians. I was issued a stellar classical education to rival the finest noble tutelage in hopes that I might follow in my fathers footsteps, but I was instead taken by the arts and moved to Port Melandir to expand my education. There I excelled, completing the Trivium and Quadrivium in a mere two years, and earning the title Master of the Seven Liberal Arts. For another year I taught basic courses to the newest students while pursuing my own interests, primarily the studies relating to the human mind and human behavior both individually and in groups.

As my year teaching there came to a close I realized that I could either remain there and make a good life for myself instructing others, or I could accomplish new feats in the studies of my passion. I decided on the latter, and so headed to Stromburg where I had several former students and companions who knew me well and could assist me in preparing for my journey. It was there in discussions with a good friend of mine, Robert of Stromburg, that the topic of Stragosa first arose and an interest turned to a drive to find answers.

Tales drift across the mountains of Stragosa as it is; a melting pot of cultures from every corner of the Throne and beyond it. No small number of Rogalian and Gothic Noble Houses have representatives there, but I hear tell of a Prince of Capacionne, a Princess of Hestralia, and even a son of the Padishah Emperor of Sha’ra. All dance upon the graves of thousands, perhaps unknowable millions that came before them, and so Night Malefic walk more commonly there than any other land on God’s Earth. And the reason so many come from so far and bear so great a burden of black sorrow? An artifact known as the Miracle, a slab of stone known to return the dead to life.

I come to this place with no preconceptions, and will record every aspect of my significant encounters with the people, entities, and places of Stragosa as I experience them to the best of my ability. I expect I will encounter individuals of every class and culture to garner their unique perspectives on the present state of the city. I will seek out those who have seen it at each significant event known to us, from its discovery and first settlement to the present day. Further, I expect if stories have traveled as far as the University of layers of ruins beneath the first, there are those delving into those ruins I could speak to in order to discover elements of the cities history before our involvement I would doubtless wish to encounter. Beyond that I will of course record any events of significance I experience in my time there, in order that this text may be not only a record of second hand tales, but a primary source written by a critical academic.

That said, I write this before I cross the mountains, and cannot say what adversity I will meet once there. They say the mountain pass is frozen over at this time of year, but I will not allow this to stop me. I have been told there is a trail guide that knows of a goat path they have used in previous winters to escort travelers to the city on foot. Though I am loathe to leave my carriage behind, adventure waits for no man and I will not be left behind for want of creature comforts.

One last note, and perhaps a somewhat morbid one. If you are reading this text and it comes to an end with no conclusion, only an abrupt stop with little in way of explanation, you must assume I have passed before completing my work. Stragosa is notoriously dangerous, awash in monsters, heretics, and wicked souls. If I fall to any such beast and do not complete my work, I ask you pray for my soul, and that someone else might take up the torch and finish my work. Let curiosity and a sincere desire for truth drive us into a more complete understanding of the mysteries of the world and our fellow man.

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Welcome Newcomers!

For the benefit of the new faces making their way into our fair city Niall MacCraig will be hosting a ‘Spirit of Stragosa’ mixer on the first night of this coming forum at the Farmer’s Daughter tavern. Enjoy snacks and drink provided by the host and make the most of your first forum night. Don’t pass up this excellent opportunity to make connections and forge friendships. As representatives of the community Sir Lysander Freiheit and the city census taker Eloi will be in attendance to speak on life in the city and offer any assistance in getting situated that might be needed.

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A Letter Home

Decembris 604
Father,
I thank you for sending Der Rachenritter. It is my hope that I can end this crusade as soon as possible. With the Imperial forces under Imperator Corvinus and the other commanders, including Graf Trakt we should be able to remove the Kuarlite threat to the Valley. I should like to remove the stain of vile heresy from this part of Gotha.
I have agreed to become the Marshal of Stragosa since Sebastian has travelled back to Woefeldt. It allows me to direct the campaign more fully against the heretical forces that have coalesced in this forsaken Valley. We have had several setbacks, these creatures are extremely hard to kill while being lethal combatants. I have however taken battle to them as well with several victories of my own.
During these last seasons fighting, between my duties within the City, I have kept up with my studies. I think often on your adage: “Tree which is not growing is dying.” I have been reading in my few moments alone to keep the darkness from overtaking me, so many lives lost like embers of a campfire doused before moving camps. I cannot help but think about all of the men that I have lost in this valley.
This place may be an untapped resource for the Empire but it is requiring a very steep price in terms of blood from our family. I am beginning to think that this place may not be worth the cost of lives. But I will discharge the duties of the position to which I have been appointed. I also fully intend on destroying every heretic force in this valley as payment for my men’s lives.
On a happier note, your Grandson “requires” that I inform you that he has grown more skilled with a blade and has been studying his books “diligently” in order to show you that he is ready to become a page. It is my hope that within the next year to foster him with another family to help educate him further prior to him returning to become a squire in Sonnenberg. I know that my time in Lystadt as a youth was important to where I sit now. If you have any recommendations to that regard I should like to hear them from you.
I look forward to hearing from you about the happenings back home. Give my regards to mother. Until next we correspond.

Reinhart

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To El Maestro di Mille Delize

To El Maestro di Mille Delize
I have done as you have asked and learned some fascinating things. Despite having followed them and learned what I could, I learned much less than I expected. I was surprised to find their information gathering skill the same or higher than my own. But despite this, I have still learned much. Their current practice and occupation seems the least of their skills. They are a skilled craftsman and inventor, who’s focus seems lit on the incendiary. Specifically those outside the techniques of Capacionne-born technology. But I also learned that if they are capable beyond natural means of creating this fire, they are unrelated to the guild. Unfortunately I was unable to determine the full truth of their abilities. Additionally, I have been told that their current services are quite addictive, though they had few, if any, customers at this last gathering. Unfortunately I don’t know how much of that is innuendo or if it just emphasizes the skill of their practice. I know they prefer wine to beer, and the current deal they have arranged with the Farmer’s Daughter.
Despite my small harvest, what I did learn has given me much to think about. I don’t know how much you knew about them before, but I hope that this service has been performed adequately.
With Regards,
The Friends of the Orange Baron.

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To Consume the Heart

~His heart I would eat first.

I flex my hand.

Fire and brittle ice collide in my bones, shattering up their lengths and jumping joints, from the tips of my fingers all the way to my shoulder. I gasp at the pain, but pull in no air. My lungs are a sucking void, screaming silent in the dark.

Then my eyes open. Staring into the sky, all glimmering with stars, and I’m trying to breathe but there is no breath.

It hurts.

Sitting up, I lift my hands. Stare at them, slicked in black blood. I look down to the earth beside me, at the grass growing there in nighttime shadow. Everything in gray. I touch the grass, but I cannot feel it. All I feel is jagged, brittle pain like saw teeth.

Bending my head back, I stare into the stars. I stare long, letting ice-water memories trickle down my spine. The gnawing teeth. The slashing hands.

Balthazar vanishing before my eyes while I was eaten alive.

The ice and the howling and madness.

With the feeling of bursting blisters, my lips peel back from my teeth and I scream at the sky. He made me promises. I made him promises in turn. I am dead, and Balthazar too will die.

***

My feet shamble weak beneath my legs. My body is taken by tremors, as though the disparate parts of it are trying to shake themselves free of one another. I fix my eyes on the lights of the tavern, then the two figures standing outside. Watching me.

“BALTHAZAR!” The sound spills out of me like a waterfall, rising from my bowels to my throat and tumbling out. “WHERE IS BALTHAZAR?”

“Who is asking for him?”

“I am Freydis the Undead.” I feel my voice reverberating through my body more than I hear it with my ears. The senses are nothing to me now, except for the pain. “And I want Balthazar.”

There are whispers in the air—some giggle sharp like glass and joyful like children playing in spring. I hear it and I shudder. My body wants to pull itself to pieces.

More voices. My head snaps to the side, the bones of my neck clicking and grinding against each other. A tremor runs through my body as I watch people pour out of the tavern. Not one of them adorned in feathers, not one of them a bird. I open my mouth, teeth bared, and snarl at them.

“What do you want with Balthazar?”

Whipping around to this voice, I set my eyes on him. Some features begin to take form in the gray. The voice is familiar. Long robes, deliberate steps. Ansel. “Priest,” I snarl.

“Yes,” he says, “you know me, Freydis.”

A laugh rumbles in my chest. My hand pulses like a heart around my dagger. “Your god is not real,” I growl at him. I feel flashes of Sveas, cruel and horrible, tearing through me a tremor takes me almost tumble to my knees. “I have died. I have looked on the face of god and it was not your god I saw.”

“But we’re still friends,” he says, extending a hand to me.

I watch the hand—out, then in, like a beckon. I briefly recall him putting himself between me and a Malefic just the night before.

I remember Sveas’s hand outstretched, the push like howling wind at my core and the pull from behind. Being torn apart.

“She doesn’t want me,” I croak out, my eyes on fire in their sockets. “I looked on her horrible and beautiful—and she still doesn’t want me. Because of this!” I hold out my arms, force him—force all of them—to look on the horror that I am. “Because he did this to me!” I turn on the gathering crowd and watch them flinch back. “WHERE IS BALTHAZAR?”

“What do you want with him?” Ansel calls to me.

My head snaps around, and I lurch forward and scream. My feet drag through the grass, toward the priest who circles out of my reach but holds out a hand to signal all the gathering southerners to stand down.

“We’re still friends,” Ansel says, gesturing to the space between us as though there were a bridge there.

“Friends!” I throw my head back and laugh. “Friends.” I grip my knife. “I have no friends.” I run toward him, slicing the air and as he dodges back, turning on another who is close at hand to slice at them. If they cannot give me Balthazar, perhaps I should take them all instead.

“What do you want with Balthazar?” Ansel is asking, shouting at me as people lunge out of my way, panic-stricken and drawing their swords. He tries to wave them down. “What do you want with him?”

“I made him a promise!” I scream back.

“And what was this promise?” Ansel asks.

“I would be honored for you to eat my corpse.”

“I promised I would devour him,” I growl, my legs lurching me towards the priest, “and I am so hungry.”

I swipe with my blade. It glances off shields and scrapes through fabric, but fails to find flesh and I scream. Someone grabs me but I dodge and I parry, I slip and slide away until suddenly there are hands on me, holding me on my knees in the gray light of the tavern.

Their hands are a thousand shards of electric ice and glass—and my stomach is tearing itself apart. I bend under their grasp, my back arching with brittle snaps and pops, my skin pulling at the seams, and I scream. Their swords strike me in a dozen brilliant bursts of flame, but they cannot kill me.

***

There was a place I remember him going, where he took Sir Connor and I. Where I watched him cast his circle and weave his magic. It was horrible, and beautiful—as horrible things so often tend to be.

This is where I am, where my memories have drawn me. I stand here in the dark, listening to the whispers in the wind. Despair whispers, laughing wickedly as the door creaks. I see shadow pass through, and I tip my head. I listen. I hear. His voice.

Balthazar.

I rush the door, slamming it with my hands, with the whole of my body as I scream to him. “BALTHAZAR!” I am so hungry. “BALTHAZAR! COME OUT YOU COWARD!” I beat the door with fists and forearms but he does not come. I hear the voices within and grind my fingertips against the door. “LET ME IN.” Slamming and pulling and gripping and…

Finding the doorknob.

The door wails as it swings slowly open. There is someone blocking the way, and Ansel is here, and—

He is a bright splash of color against the unrelenting gray. Red feathers in a flaming burst. Blue tundra eyes. I break in half.

“Balthazar…” He doesn’t look, keeps his head bowed, his brow furrowed, he closes his eyes. “Balthazar?” My throat creaks weakness. When was I rendered so weak? “Why won’t you come to me, Balthazar?”

“Freydis,” he murmurs, and lifts his eyes. There is such darkness hanging over him. The whispers swirling within them palpable.

I step up, reach my hand over the shoulder of the woman in the doorway—and he takes it. Warm—warm in the bitter, aching cold. This hand that had caressed my cheek, this hand that had beckoned me to dance in the clouds.

Never again will I be beckoned to dance in the clouds.

“You left me.” I hear my voice come out, low and breaking. I feel fire streak my cheeks. I clutch at his hand and I sob. “Why did you leave me? Balthazar, it hurt—it hurt so bad—”

“I didn’t,” he says, “I didn’t Freydis—I came back for you.” He’s gripping my hand now, and the pressure of his fingers is a sweet release from the cascading pain rolling through my brittle skin. “I love you—”

“You never loved me.” The words spill out of me as I remember him dropping me from the sky for being too coy. “No one ever loved me.” I remember my mother’s fists raining down on me in the snow.

“Freydis—” There’s a frantic panic in his eyes now, and he pushes toward me, looks to Ansel and the woman standing between us while the darkness looming behind him giggles sweetly. “Let me go to her!”

I don’t hear what Ansel or the woman says, I only hear his voice. Only see the bright color of him—the cream of his flesh, the brown of the stubble on his jaw. I grip his hand and pull, as though I can pull him through his woman, this—

A scream splits me in half as I yank at him, then slam into the woman, bringing the knife I’d forgotten I had to her throat. Her body goes rigid and she bends back as I pull her with the blade, pull her to force her to look up into the face of Freydis the Undead. I stare down at her—stare into one white, dead eye. I recognize her as a Njord—then, through the furs and the armor—recognize the sigil of Benalus on her breast. Traitor. My whole body quivers as I press the blade to her throat—I see her lips moving but all I hear is white-noise screaming. I could end her now, she who turned her back on us, I could end her and have Balthazar—

His grip is loosening on my hand. I feel myself slipping away. No, no—he’s all I want, he’s all I’m here for—

I lose my grip on him. My veins are submerged in ice as I tear away, pain flooding me. I turn on the first person I see, wanting nothing more than blood to pay for this pain. I fall on the stranger, all open mouth and screaming teeth and hungry tongue, and I am swinging, catching shields and arms and scraping flesh and drawing blood and—

I am struck. And again. And again. I am descending into the darkness and in the darkness there are whispers and icy laughter. The Miracle, I tell the whispers, and I don’t know how I know, but they’ll tell him to come.

I will have Balthazar’s heart tonight.

***

~Should he die, I would lay his body out and peel his skin back from the muscle beneath.

Somehow, from somewhere, I hear them come in. He is not alone, but that does not matter. I open my eyes. In the darkness of the church, all I see is the rich color of his being.

~I would make gentle work of it, and savor the last remnant of his scent off the nape of his neck.

When he sees me, already walking toward him with feet I’m barely aware of, he stretches his hand out to me. Gratefully, I take it. The heat of his skin pushes back the pain. I sigh.

~I would do it while the blood was still hot in his veins so that it would slip warm over my fingers.

“Freydis,” he says softly, “I’m here.” I kick aside the chairs that stand between us, so I can be closer to him. Stepping into the aura of his color and his heat, the pain begins to dull. “I’m here,” he says. “I love you.”

~And I would take the flesh from his bones with care—but not before I reached into the hollow of his chest and wrested free his heart.

I kiss him. Ice melts away. Fires are doused.

I slit his throat.

His eyes widening as a stiff shudder of shock rushes through his body—it is exquisite. I cannot recall having ever seen anything so beautiful in all my life—save for, perhaps, the sprawling snowy tundra of my homelands. Balthazar DiCarvagio—tumbling to the ground, his life spilling bright and red from his body, as beautiful as the tundras of Njordr.

I fall on him. His blood on my hands makes me feel alive again. I can remember what it feels like to live. Thank you, I think, frantically breaking him open. Thank you thank you thank you. The pain subsides though my stomach is broken glass grinding from within.

~His heart I would eat first.

Descending, I sink my teeth into his open chest cavity. He is so warm. His heart still fighting to live, up to the very moment my teeth break into it, and its bursts, bloody and hot in my mouth. I cannot stop—cannot stop the chewing, the gulping, the ravenous swallowing, cannot stop….

Until, suddenly, I can. Stomach no longer wailing, pain no longer bristling the length of my skin. I sit back, looking down on him, on the fading glint of light in his bright blue blue eyes.

All else falls away. Soft. Quiet.

I smile at him as the light dims, and the darkness descends.

What is this strange peace?