Category: Scriptorium

Faith and duty; the two words he clung to with desperate strength. Faith in Mithriel and Benalus that he would survive this trial; Duty to do what must be done by the directives of his dual services to the Church as both Templar and Priest. These two words were the only things that held him together through the Despair.

In his lucid moments, gained only fleetingly through on his Oath of the Champion, was he able to see through the smog of an emotional weight rarely felt. It was ever present, threatening to bury him under his own inadequacies and failures. This feeling was not alien to him, but its strength was monumental and crippling.

He had journeyed back to the Blood Fields province to resolve the Charnel Fields that had festered there since the close of Summer. The autumn rains had beat down upon him and his steed as they had slowly traversed the trails to the front lines. Every step had seemed a weariness for the mount that bore the rider who bore a greater weight. The banner he’d completed was drenched from the rain and hung limply from the haft of the spear clutched tightly in one hand. The banner’s ability to inspire the most shaken troops and remove a deep-seated fear could not shake him from the foul cloud that clung to him.

When lucidity allowed him to reflect, he could identify when he first felt this way shortly after the death of his family all those years ago. His home sacked and destroyed by his own Shariqyn kin. His father and mother, taken from him in smoke, fire, water, and magic. His life felt now like it did then; in a mire, and though in a dream.

Reaching the front lines, he had found that the troops of Dame Blackiron were already in position and settled. The crowned skull against black device of the banner proud despite the weather and situation with the Kaurlites not very far off. A cry of greeting had reached him, and he lifted the banner with as much strength as he could to signify that he’d heard the call as his horse continued. A man had come to greet him, calling himself John ‘the Butcher’, inquiring what purpose Renatus had coming to their encampment.

Renatus had answered with as much strength as he could, “To bury the dead of war and give them rest, lest they rise again and punish us for disrespecting their warrior spirits. I do this act as a triumph sworn Knight Errant of the Most Vigilant Order of Templars and Father Superior of the Mithrihim.” The Bains troops had seemed to nod in understanding at his words and had welcomed him into the camp, taking his horse to be fed and cared for and providing him a place to rest, recover, and reside as he did his duty.

Ash…fire…pain…death…it all seemed a dream to Renatus. Returning to life with an incandescent fire coursing through his veins…a memory glimpsed through the dream, with pain following muted on its heels before slipping back into the morass of despair. The smiling face of Luca in his straw hat digging a hole into a heart that felt like it could stop at any point…and then nothing again as things blurred into a colourless swirl of lost time and perception.

Over the next few days as he gained his bearings, he’d come to know the character of the men with whom he camped. It seemed that these men weren’t of the greatest character of men, for their quarrels and disputes seemed to number as many as they were. Wherever he had walked, Renatus could tell that there was significant respect for him and his chosen office, for such disputes seemed to quiet until he had passed them by. He could almost feel the sins of Wrath in this place as waves that would crash against him. There were men here who had doubtlessly never atoned for deeds done, and he felt strangely at home. He had served on the front lines with such men before and in doing his duty he had felt a level of peace and contentment in doing what need be done to save the souls of men. After the first week in his free time not digging, he had taken to going from man to man and ministering to him in a quiet fashion, seeking to learn of them and try to correct the wrongs and issue atonements for sins done.

Food was as ash in his mouth; tasteless, powdered, dry, choking. Water likewise felt as though it parched him no matter how much he drank. He forced it down when he had to, knowing without food or water he’d suffer. In this act, he forced further suffering on himself to where it felt like every act was a task only Dumal could accomplish.

In short order however, he was toiling away in the bloody mud. Bodies…everywhere. Discarded accoutrements of war making even walking a careful exercise in avoiding a blade or an ill-timed fall. It took him weeks to dig a grave he hoped would be large enough, and then came the careful task of trying to bring the souls of the men to rest. Here and there he identified badges he knew, some he did not. With every fallen soldier, Renatus’s spirit heaved in sympathetic pain as he hauled them one by one into the trough. The rain was ever present, as though the very world wept for the fallen.

He did not wear the white tabard of the Order while he toiled, wearing only his black under-suit and a cloak given to him by the Bains men to try to keep the worst of the rain off him. The cloud over him never abated, and only seemed to be compounded by events that caused him to stiffen at each unexpected noise. He’d push on after no attack came and no harm befell him, yet it was not easy. Those few amongst the Bains troops who had some measure of compassion in their hearts had asked if they could aid him in his toil, but he had denied them, saying “I thank you for the offer, but you cannot. This is my burden to bear, my duty to perform. Honor your oaths and follow your orders.”

In times where he needed focus, he tried to reach for his sworn blade, and old friend and steadfast companion that had helped him overcome many adversities, only to find it not there. He was sharply reminded how his blade had been damaged and his oath broken by is sovereign and his Templar brother. They’d had good intentions, but it was through their negligence and choices he now bore a mortal sin and a broken oath. This act had pushed a sharp knife into his guts and there it sat, aching, throbbing; a rare, ever present reminder through the dream.

It was when he went to bed at night, weary beyond all right, drained emotionally and physically, that the dream-like state of the ever-present despair would manifest in worse ways. The nightmares that plagued him before were now punctuated by the hellfire that had brought him back. He had been placed on the Miracle to come back to do a duty, to continue to serve, yet every night…he prayed for peace that never seemed to come.

He had been brought back to life and he was thankful that he could yet serve Benalus and God…and yet…in his darkest moments after being awoken in the middle of the night by the faces of the slain and burning memory of his rebirth that paraded through his mind’s eye as his own personal torment and punishment, weighed down by the despair of broken beliefs, lost friends, and sin forced upon him by those he trusted…he’d try to push aside the thought that threatened to undo him and practice the lessons of resolve and courage Azzam had taught him and focus on a word or phrase to try to push through; “Deus…Vult…”

It’s been a long time since I’ve organized my thoughts like this. Getting it down on paper makes me think about it, much like transcribing the Testimonium. I envy the true writers, though. I fear my own efforts, if they are ever read one day, will be deeply boring.

Hezke is gone for a few weeks. She told me what’s been weighing her down, finally. She’s chosen a dangerous path, but I’m committed to helping her and if we succeed it will be our life’s work. She told me she’s committed to resisting temptation and I trust her. I only hope she can trust her chosen ally and resist her enemies long enough to succeed. I’m happy, though. She trusts me and relies on me. Having someone really believe in me is the strongest feeling in the world.

The long work of getting Stragosa on its feet is almost complete. We’ve improved the city in every way except digging a moat- which is absurdly expensive and unnecessary. We’ve built almost every village we can manage and I hope to have a Confectioner operating in the city by mid-winter. At that point we’ll have all the food we can produce and it will be up to Reinhart to stabilize things with the military. Father apparently brought two thousand spearmen. I’m not sure he’s ever engaged in war himself before, but even I know what a waste that is.

My current frustrations lie with Silbrin and Borso. Both would be solved by transparency, but I’m also not sure how much I can trust either of them.

The Baroness exaggerates the status of her city to aggrandize herself. ‘A second district has been built’ means that a second district is being built- that sort of thing, but it’s constant. As far as I can tell, Silbrin is struggling due to far too many people and no infrastructure to feed them. In contrast, Corvo seems to be learning quickly. He’s started building villages for them, and has even discovered that such villages operate well on hills as well as plains- a boon to us all. They’ll probably need more villages and to tax them strenuously over the next year, but I believe Silbrin will survive. Hopefully they take my advice and leave some of their markets unused to slow their growth.

More personally, the Baroness and her strange Paladin companion originally claimed that she was no longer human- a fact that was disturbing enough that many were sharpening knives. However, in mixed news that was proven false when her Paladin killed her (later resurrecting her on the Miracle) and found Wrath on his soul and his Covenant broken. Those things would not have happened without her being human- happy news. Unfortunately, Areteus now is burdened by his Mortal Sloth and Deadly Wrath- a situation as dangerous as Suriel’s a year or more back. We will have to watch him closely. I hope the atonement from the Bishop is enough to heal him and the community.

Borso is another sort of problem. My fears were confirmed by a masterpiece song he commissioned and I heard in the morning at forum- his greatest drive is Greed for more gold. It affects every part of his interactions and I have fooled myself into thinking there might be something beyond it up to this point. I had hoped that gold was just his chosen method to help others and advance Mankind. But it is not so. He tempts the people with ‘silver for their pockets’ knowing that it will come back to him and what he pays is only a tenth of what he receives for their labors. He exploits the Princess’s generosity in using her lands for far less than any other noble. I have seen his ‘lack of coin should not get in the way of a good deal’ contracts- they indenture people, especially nobles, to him for years and cost three times the loaned amount to buy out of early.

Deep breath. I want Hestralian economics to work. I want to see how competition works toward innovation. But I don’t see it yet and I’m not sure Borso is the man to do it. I hope he can be convinced to do the right thing and set aside his Greed soon. The goal is to bring everyone together. But so far he just seems in it for himself.

On a brighter note, I continue to meet good people and grow my relationships with old friends. I met a huntress named Daciana at forum and hit it off immediately. She is so enthusiastic with how our little brotherhood operates that I feel like it must be Cyaniel himself guiding us together. Adrian approached me and wants to work with us more closely- I think he’s starting to see that what really unites us is the good in our hearts. That means a lot to me. He came from a pretty rough world before coming to Stragosa and it makes me happy to watch people grow. I met another young woman named Saiorse, a farmer who was going to help staff our Dairy, but she ended up going to Silbrin instead. Strangely, I’m at peace with it despite the strain on our resources. She is doing it to help those most in need and that’s admirable. Reinhart, Kirsa and I are getting closer. I love my brother, but I often kept the other nobles in our group at arm’s length to give him his space. I miss him, but his absence gives me the opportunity to know everyone a little more personally. Speaking of, Lord Volksnand is a godsend. I hope I’m not being completely deceived, but he feels to me like a good man wearing the clothing of an evil man. It makes me laugh when he speaks of villainy while selflessly helping everyone around him more than himself. As efficient as Bakara was, and the right man for the job at the time, Volksnand has added something we previously lacked in our ruling council. Ansel, Sif, Heinrich and Lysander provide me with a strong spiritual environment. It’s nice to finally talk with others who understand as I do and want to learn more about the philosophy and theology of our faith. Alonzo and Sif made me very proud this forum. Sif was knighted by Dame Rundelhaus, Ansel’s mother, which is a big commitment for her. She’s going to be an excellent Templar. I also got to know Alonzo better and he has gained a new passion for purity of action. I’m not sure I understand him fully yet, but he’s a wonderful artist and I look forward to sharing his enthusiasm. The Beggar Kings also deserve praise for bringing him closer to God with their beautiful music.

I could go on all day with the good people in my life, but I’ll save some for the next entry, I think.

Father is here in Stragosa. He is upset at his daughter for disowning the family name. Sebastian and I knew he would be, but it seems I was left holding the bag. I defended her choice as well as I was able- and as I had sworn to do- but Father was set in his purpose. He has cut her off from the brotherhood. I have mixed feelings. I want Father to reconcile with his daughter and meet his grandson, but at the same time I feel he is justified, politically. If I could choose the resolution it would be that Alexandria makes her own way, on her own merit, but that she and Father can treat each other as family again privately and spend some time together while he’s here. I pray for neither full support nor enforced distance from our brotherhood. She was never fully invested, more than materially, in the work we do and that’s ok. But she deserves credit for the help she has given us and I want to support her goals when they are good ones.

I had a revelation on Saturday evening. I used my Sacred Blade to face the plague wraith once more. The Lazarine who tricked me appears to be controlling it now. But my blade did not seem to do lasting harm to the creature, which made me think. The blade isn’t intended to defeat Malefic- it’s intended to defend against them. I drove off that creature and only one very tough Njord got sick and was subsequently healed. That is an accomplishment. But I’m not a monster slayer- monsters aren’t meant to be slain. They’re meant to be helped. Realizing this will help me work better with the Nuranihim. I can watch their backs while they help these lost souls and that feels pretty good.

Overall, I feel like I’m growing every day. I read a book on the Age of Heroes and even in there, before the time of Benalus, there is wisdom to be gleaned. One thing that resonated with me that I read from an ancient leader’s journal excerpt was that people sometimes need someone to more forcefully guide and train them into being good people. You can’t expect children to make all the right choices. That’s what parents are for- teaching them the hard lessons learned by generations past so they can stand on our shoulders and be even better. I can’t just present the information and avoid conflict anymore. I need to start really teaching and taking responsibility. I don’t know how I should do that or what it’s going to look like yet, but it feels like time to learn.

They call it the Miracle. We know what it does, and some of it’s limitations, but is there anyone who truly understands it?

My feelings on the miracle have always been mixed. If this was something God truly meant for us to have, why does its very purpose fly in the face of everything I am taught about death? I perform the healing rituals and beseech Lurian not to take a soul. While we are sad when someone passes, particularly violently as seems to be the norm here, we are also happy that Lurian has called them to God.

There was much turmoil, and no doubt been more in the past, regarding who should be brought back at this last forum, or at least the first time I’ve been part of it. Who makes the decision? What is the criteria used? Are the rules set in stone, or are they completely subjective? Much of the trouble was knowing what a person would want. I do have the ritual to ask the question, but if the ritual isn’t successful we’re left trying to figure it out. What happens if we get it wrong? Have we doomed a soul? If they die again, will God and Lurian turn them away because they wrongly thwarted Lurian’s will?

I have met a couple of people who have been brought back. I have for the first time witnessed someone coming back.They seem just as they were before, at least on the outside. I can never really know what goes on in their mind and soul.

The Miracle has been deemed a holy relic. I can’t help but note the wording given. Not Benalian Holy Relic, just holy relic. Splitting hairs maybe? The White Church being careful in case it turns out to be a curse and not a blessing? At the very least through all this, I know what my answer is to this question: Do I want to be resurrected by the Miracle?

No. Without question, without hesitation, no,

If I die, the it was because Lurian has made it so. I will not stray from God’s will. I have to hold myself up as an example, as my father and mother instilled in me, in being as faithful and pious as possible.

To that end, I have proposed to the city that the Lurehim be the keepers of the last will and testaments of the citizenry of Stragosa. All information will be private and consist of two documents being what to do with the worldly possessions they leave behind, and what their wishes regarding the Miracle will be. Hopefully we never have to agonize over this again.

I was seventeen when my Charismata was discovered. Most are found much earlier than myself. A member of the clergy may notice a particularly gifted or peculiar youth and have them checked by a proper paladin. We can sense each other, I’m told. I’ve never tried. I think I feel normal.

That I was able to go so long without being discovered is strange, especially given my circumstances. My father died when I was quite young, and in his place Father Clypeus helped my mother raise me. He said that his closeness with me blinded him to it. I’ve not known him to lie. When we went to convocation, my mother always seated us close to the door. She hates crowded spaces. Reminds her of the pens, she says. Nobody spoke to us much, except for Clypeus. My mother was always clearly “other,” be it the way she dressed, spoke, or behaved.

People were never mean, mind you. Just quiet. Conversations had a way if dying when she entered the room. She said it was because she was a “Shar’Aslan.” Desert lion, I believe. My knowledge of Shariqyn is broken at absolute best. She was an outsider. I suppose that’s all people could see her as. And I am her son. The boy who speaks with an accent despite not knowing any other languages. The silence that followed her had a way of clinging to myself, as well.

I was still a “Proper Gothic Man” despite my origin. I grew up on a ranch. My mother was quite talented at tending to horses. She says it’s because, in her oldest life, she was a “Rakib.” I don’t know what that means. Her skills were valuable, though. I didn’t understand them the way she did. I always enjoyed working the fields, though. The slow transformation of a barren patch of dirt to a rolling field of golden grain will always be my gospel. To create food from nothing but work hard work. The kind that leaves you sore at the end of the day, that makes the night’s sleep all the more enjoyable. It is my passion. My trade. Often times, I find myself thinking that I am more farmer than Paladin.

I fear that I may be rambling. I was already a man in my own right when I was discovered. I was expected to soon start a family of my own. My place in life was set. Or, rather, I thought it was set. Back then, if I’d been asked what I would be doing in seven years, I would never have said “repelling Malefic in a cursed valley.” In a way, I mourn for my old life. For the version of me that stayed in Woefeldt. What would he have been like? I don’t suppose I’ll ever know. That version of me is dead.

I don’t know why I’ve written this. Azzam told me to practice writing each letter a hundred times, but I’ve already done that. Perhaps I just wanted to get the thoughts out of my head and on paper. Jurnaling? I’ve just asked a clergy member, turns out it’s spelled Journaling. Maybe I should start, now that I can write. Hopefully my next entries are less dour than this one.