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Flood’s Method

The rain was coming down in sheets so thick the road seemed to vanish beneath Buttercup’s hooves. The sky was a low, dense grey. Felix hunched on the bench, his coat plastered to his shoulders, reins slick in his hands. The downpour reminded him of the “uneventful” forum at the end of summer. Ah, how glad he was to be able to wear his coat in the rain this time, but even still he felt the parts he was going to have to ask Rowan to patch up. The cold sheets of rain brought him back to that night. Losing his voice in the face of an extreme threat. Working to solve one of the puzzles… then. A memory. Anger. Shame. Fear. Despair. Helplessness and then… Darkness. The smell of the woods and the sound of rain again. Silvester and the Night Warden calling his name. He shook his head, sending water flying and forcing himself back to the present. Silvester wasn’t going to be here this time. He looked around at the horizon, what little he could see through the driving rains. Well, probably not going to be here.

Slowly over the din of the rain came a different rushing of water. Apprehension filled Felix’s mind as the fast flowing water came into view through the fog of the rain. His shoulder sunk even more seeing that the little stream he’d crossed a few days prior was a roaring torrent. He glanced back over his shoulder, the Cargo was almost all paper, books, inks, and quills supplies requested specifically by Madam Leonora for herself and her Ladyship. Apparently there’s a lot of letter writing in our future. This isn’t the sort of cargo he can let get washed downstream, nor can he politely wait a few days for the weather to clear up.

He looked ahead at the flow of water and started to plan his way past it. Pulling the wagon to a halt and looking up and down the flooding stream he couldn’t see an obvious alternate route, this was always the most shallow part on the route anyway. He considered if they just try to push through it and looked to the horse. Buttercup gave him the usual cold stare. Felix sighed and got out of the wagon “yeah, I didn’t think you’d want to either.”

Taking a long stick and carefully probing where the road used to be, he determined that it was only about waist deep at the worst. There was no way the full wagon was going to make it across though. That meant only one thing. Felix frowned at the thought, but resolved himself. This was for her ladyship.

Hauling each crate across the flooded stream one at a time, he never let a single one into the flow, but he couldn’t say the same for himself. Trying not to think too much about how well most of these goods would burn and make him a wonderful, warm fire, he moved each one to the far side. Dripping his way back onto the bench. He reassured Buttercup. “See? No problem. Now just get this thing across and we’ll be that much closer to some dry hay.”

Driving the wagon to the water’s edge and getting Buttercup moving, he jumped back down and kept the wagon stable from behind. Buttercup was no slouch, and it was actually the easiest crossing yet. Back on “Dry” land on the far side, and other than being chilled to the bone and exhausted, the cargo, wagon, and horse were all no worse for wear. After loading the crates back into the wagon’s bed, he was able to climb back onto the bench and set off for the Fort. Trying to will himself to warmness, he wondered if Rhyme had a spell to dry out your clothes, or if the Court Magus could cause the rain to fall off you like it does a duck. Maybe he just needed an actual cloak…

—-

Hours later, having handed off the wagon to unload to a few porters, Felix wearily made his way back to the bunks. Arriving there, Gilbert was shocked at the state he was in.

“Benalus’ Boots, Felix!” Gilbert swore as he helped him peel his coat off “What are you doing out in a rainstorm like this?”

“Making myself useful,” he replied, wringing his hat out like an old washcloth, “That’s how things get done.”

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Flood’s Reprieve

Silvester sat underneath a tree looking at the river he had just crossed. The stream had swelled to an unrecognizable torrent in the endless rains. As he sat there he wondered if others would be able to make the journey back to Runeheim if the flooding persisted. He was lucky to find a large tree that was practically bridging the flow, making the crossing quick and easy. He figured Felix would try to and that he would make Gil as well. Damian would probably try as well at Felix’s urging but he would definitely be complaining the whole time. If they had their wagons though, totally out of the question.
The knights… probably not. Her ladyship would have a hard time as well. He couldn’t imagine Madam Leonora even attempting the scramble he had. He assumed that because her ladyship didn’t make the trip the rest of the Valariens wouldn’t be making the trip from Raven’s Castle.
Shrugging to himself he shouldered his pack and turned his back on the river. It was time to find a dryer place to rest and after that he would see who, if anyone, made it to back to the Keep this time.

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Just a SmallThing

I stood beside my table, staring at the disheveled and exasperated Knut as he fiddled with his empty cup like it might confess secrets if swirled correctly. I placed my hands on my hips and waited for him to grasp the ancient and complicated concept of asking for more drink. His mind, however, appeared to be wandering through several distant fjords without him.

I sighed long and deep, then kicked the leg of his chair.

“Now what.”

He grunted. Of course he did.

“Tell me, Knut, with all your titles and dramatic entrances, what is weighing on you this evening? You only darken my doorway when something festers. You are forbidden from sitting here and drinking my liquor in silence. Speak, or I will put the bottle away and replace it with water.”

That got his attention.

“I had a dream,” he began, staring into his empty cup as though it were a prophetic well. “Maybe a vision. About uniting the Njords. Forming a new clan.”

From the hearth, Dong Quixote perked up immediately. “A dream?” he declared. “Excellent. We love dreams. Last time I had one, I was crowned King of the Goats. Very persuasive animals.”

Damascus Steel didn’t look up from sharpening a blade. “Prophetic dreams often follow indigestion.”

Cass A’Nueva gasped softly. “A man torn between destiny and doubt. Continue. I am emotionally available.”

Knut ignored them with admirable discipline. He continued to swirl the final half-sip in his cup as if completing the task I had set for him through interpretive performance. With a huff, I uncorked the bottle and refilled it.

“Go on.”

“Well,” he said, rubbing his brow, “I don’t know if it was fantasy or prophecy. I don’t know what to do. I could call for a thing. Not an Allthing. Something smaller.”

“A Smallthing?” I said before I could stop myself.

Knut’s head snapped up as though I had just named his firstborn child.

Dong leapt to his feet. “Yes! A Smallthing! Intimate! Cozy! Less risk of assassination!”

“It would technically still be a thing,” Damascus murmured. “Scale does not change the consequence.”

Cass clasped his hands dramatically. “The Smallthing. A fragile beginning. A trembling spark in the dark. Oh, I can already see the invitations”

“You will not be writing invitations,” I cut in.

Knut leaned forward now, alive in a way he had not been since entering my house.

“Yes. A smaller gathering. Trusted voices. Local Njords. We speak first. See if there is support.”

Dong raised a finger. “If there is food, support increases by at least forty percent.”

“Forty-two,” Damascus corrected without looking up.

Cass tilted his head. “Will there be a theme?”

“No,” Knut and I said at the same time.

Knut turned back to me, suddenly looking less like a brooding war-chief and more like a man about to ask for a dangerous favor.

“I would need a neutral place,” he said carefully. “Somewhere steady. Somewhere people will come without suspecting a trap.”

Dong slowly looked around my home.

Damascus stopped sharpening.

Cass smiled like a cat.

I narrowed my eyes. “Absolutely not.”

Knut continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “And drink. Good drink. Enough to soften edges but not dull minds.”

I folded my arms. “You are describing my bar and my liquor with alarming precision.”

He met my gaze directly now. “Host it. For me. On my name.”

Dong clutched his chest. “A political saloon.”

Damascus nodded once. “A calculated risk.”

Cass whispered, “History will remember your bar.”

“I will remember the mess,” I said sharply.

Knut leaned back, exhaling. “I’ll cover the cost. All of it. The drink, maybe even food. I’ll bring what’s needed. But it must be at your bar. You are known enough. No one would suspect you of scheming.”

Dong coughed loudly. “Bold assumption.”

Damascus added, “Suspicion is Nephele’s most charming quality.”

Cass smiled at me. “You do look magnificent while intimidating men.”

I ignored all three.

“You want me,” I said slowly, “to host a political gathering of ambitious Njords at my bar, pour them my liquor, and pretend I’m not listening to every dangerous word spoken?”

Knut did not hesitate. “Yes.”

There was a pause.

Dong leaned toward me. “Think of the drama.”

Damascus: “Think of the leverage.”

Cass: “Think of the poetry.”

I looked back at Knut, who suddenly looked almost hopeful. Which was far more unsettling than his usual brooding.

“And the drink,” he added carefully, “will be on me.”

I stared at him.

“You will provide the barrels.”

“Yes.”

“You will clean the aftermath.”

A hesitation.

Dong cleared his throat. “Say yes to that.”

“Yes,” Knut said firmly.

“You will take responsibility if your Smallthing becomes a Medium Catastrophe.”

Dong nodded solemnly. “Reasonable clause.”

Damascus: “Very reasonable.”

Cass: “Add it to the invitations”

“There are no invitations,” I snapped.

Silence fell.

Finally, I uncrossed my arms.

“You may have your Smallthing,” I said. “But if even one of your hopeful clan decides to flip my table in the name of unity, I will personally unite their skull with the floor. I will see that Aurelia is available to pour drinks if I’m not”

Dong beamed. “She’s in.”

Damascus gave a satisfied hum.

Cass looked misty-eyed. “A gathering of destiny, fueled by borrowed wine and reluctant hospitality.”

Knut allowed himself the smallest, rarest smile.

“I’ll send word,” he said.

“And Knut?”

He paused at the door.

“If this turns into an Allthing,” I said evenly, “I’m charging at least ten times more.”

Dong whispered reverently, “A true stateswoman.”

Damascus corrected him. “A true opportunist.”

Cass placed a hand over his heart. “A legend in the making.”

I corked the bottle.

The storm outside may have ended.

Apparently, a new one was scheduling itself inside my house.

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Caterina Explains her Departure from Runeheim

“It’s not that I am going back to where I came from. It’s terrible there. But I cannot stay here. Almost dying is a clear sign that something’s got to change. And this is the closest I’ve been to the cold touch of death’s hand.

“I do not know exactly what happened in the woods. I think it was that…Boy. The clansman who called himself Ragnor. Or whatever, he was touched by magic, missing an eye! The people in the town were protected by him, but by relying on his protection they coddled his need for blood. Many times I was told it was fine that he would lash out against his companions if he didn’t satisfy his need for blood.

“As soon as he started turning that blade on the wood of my shield I knew it was time for me to leave. But I resisted: The coin was good, and the people of Runeheim are great. And I might have stayed here longer if not for those ghostly women.

“Or Malefic. Whatever. The ancestors of the people here, they came for blood and rage. They punished the town for one boy giving up his vows, for not doing what he promised.

“And foolishly I offered to help, because I was thinking too much of the people of Runeheim! How stupid I was. The blue spirits were unrelenting in the woods, herding us deeper and deeper, until they brought us to the center where we were to be slaughtered like pigs. I felt the cold ghastly breath of the creature as it raised up the sword for a killing blow.

“If not for Grin, I would be dead. I do not remember much, I was bleeding and the night was dark. But she pulled me out of there. I do not know how that night ended, nor if the spirits were calmed. But it was enough. I heard their warning.

“And that is why I am gone. Already our coin-purse had moved on, and it was time for me to go as well. It was night when I packed up my things and what-do-you-know it, Grin was doing the same thing! She didn’t need her words to tell me that the party agreed. We were gone.

“We’ll take a detour, find a home for the two twi- I mean cousins, in our hands. They deserve to be somewhere safe, to find a place to put down their roots and grow a family. But me and Grin do not belong here. Death will find us if they stay. Maybe the land to the North is not ready for those from the South to join it, and this was their sign.

“…Do I regret not saying goodbye? Yeah. I do. The people of Runeheim are the best lot I’ve ever seen. Reminded me of the pub, before Father let it out of his hands and debtors swooped it away. Just goes to show that home can be found. You just have to look for it.

And you need to live in order to find it. So I wouldn’t call myself a coward. I am making sure I live long enough to find a home.”

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Become a mage

Failure that’s the only word he could think of as he watched Java leave. He did not become a mage, he bled at dominion, he couldn’t save the Doctor from the Inquisition , he couldn’t stop her from leaving. Truly a failure. So he did the only thing he could think of, He fought. And Felix and Damien watched. With Felix’s sword in his left hand and his own in his right he faced down the Knight of Spades. He discarded his bow that would bring him comfort he knew and for this fight he knew he didn’t want it. He fully embraced his house and fought with swords.

A sword of pure black flashed out of the night and Silvester twisted his body to the side, the knight of spades blade missed by inches. Silvester jumped back and raised his swords, the knight raised his sword and nodded, a whispered “good” was barely audible. This was all he had said in their minutes-long fight. So far, each hit earned a “good” , each dodge “good” and each block ”good”. Silvester started to recite the incantation as he fought every “good” received the next word until he finished, once he completed Silvester restarted and on it went
“Good”
“Relix”
“Good”
“Narez”
The sword in his right hand hit the ground and the black blade missed him again by inches, He had to be better. Do better. Marzana’s words came back to him “I’ll come for you if you become a mage.” He circled momentarily distracted from his incantation. He had to get his sword back.
Don’t stop, don’t lose tempo, that’s how you lose. Silvester pushed hard with Felix’s single sword to create the space he needed to retrieve his fallen sword or to throw off those words he wasn’t sure, It worked
“Gooood” almost a purr as Sir Jacqueline swung his sword of night at the place where Silvester’s hand had been moments earlier.
“Relit”
And they continued Silvester’s gambit to reclaim his sword had put the town in his view and the fire light now cast shadows from the Jester over his sword. He could see the Valarien banner, the tavern, the people all seemed so happy, another victory for the town. But at what cost? Was this town worth it?
Once again Marzana’s promise and threat came back to him “I’ll come back for you.”
He attacked. Jokeri defended. The incantation continued. And Felix and Damien persisted in their silent vigil. He felt Felix and Damien’s stares as he fought; he wondered if they could see his tears in the fire light. Silvester was reminded of when he had first met the two Porters, a stark contrast to where he was now, a town left to smolder as Silvester looked for his parents, a town saved. Two brothers loudly talking as they walked through the ruin, two brothers silent, watching. He ran last time, he fought this time. Once again brought back to the present by a clash of blades, Silvester tried to create some space, stumbled and crashed to the ground when he raised his head. He found a black sword that reflected the moon pointed at his throat.
He grimaced “Another failure”
“It was a good fight”
“Mamuri”

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Road’s Design

Passing down the earth-guild made road, Felix guided the wagon leisurely, letting the horse plot steadily as they began passing into the forest. Beside him Gilbert was keeping his gaze forward, alert. Felix looks at the edges of the woods, scanning for movement as they enter.

“More reports from outside Runeheim,” Gilbert said. “Scum camps swelling, brigands blocking the side roads. peasants disappearing between towns.”

Felix nodded, “Heard the same. Grain going missing before it’s ever sold. Someone’s taking advantage of the unrest.”

Felix heard a familiar click, and Gilbert relaxed in his seat. “Well, nothing the four of us can’t handle.”

Nodding his agreement, Felix set the pace a little faster. “Not too fast, Felix” Gilbert cautioned “We don’t get the full payment if any of those jars break.”

“Yeah and we don’t get paid at all if we’re there after midweek. This is fine, I packed them myself anyway.”

Felix glanced back at the cargo, seeing Damian “sleeping” behind the driver’s bench. He smirked, looking back at Gilbert and mouthed ‘watch this’.

“Oh, brace yourself Gil, nasty looking rut here.”

Gilbert, immediately catching on puts his hands on the back of the bench to stabilize himself and goes “Oh Benalus!”

They both watch as Damian, in his “Sleep” stiffens his legs and presses his hand against the nearest crate, eyes closed, of course.

Speaking in a lower tone, so as not to alert Silvester, “Amazing how he senses the bumps in his sleep, isn’t it, Gil?”

Damian, realizing the gig is up, slowly cracks one eye “…Was worth a try.” Then lets all the breath in his lungs out at once when a sack lands on his chest.

Silvester, the source of the sack, “I knew you were fucking listening. Next time I’m using your ass to bait the trap for these stupid fucking bears.”

“That’ll be good for you, Damian.” Felix says “Making yourself useful. That’s how things get done.”

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Trap’s Design

“I was hunting for the stupid bear cub for Sir Jacqueline. So he can raise it or whatever.” I had been tracking a deer so the trip wasn’t a waste, ya’know?”

Damian nodded slightly as the boys rolled down the road in the wagon, so Silvester continued complaining about the continued pressure from one of the house’s knights.

“And honestly what is even gonna do with it? Is he gonna ride it into battle?!?” “Anyway quite by luck I thought I had found one or at least that’s what I hoped.” I found a few tracks near a stream that should have been small but was bigger than what I expected.” The tracks were faded so I wasn’t completely certain but they had the right look and indentation. So I laid a few non-lethal traps and went looking for a deer or rabbit to bring back.”

“Oh, brace yourself Gil, nasty looking rut here.” Felix called out!

Silvester braced and saw the strangest thing the “sleeping” Damian also braced for the incoming bump. He immediately reached for a sack and threw it at his chest. A satisfying grunt of pain came from Damian. As Silvester shouted “I knew you were fucking listening. Next time I’m using your ass to bait the trap.”

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Joy of a Job Completed

Damian was late and that was weird. He had agreed to meet at dawn in Mecorton a day and a half ago. Silvester checked his satchel again he had the hide, he checked his quiver next all his arrows were there, he resigned himself to another day of waiting and headed towards the tavern to look for something to eat.

In the tavern he practiced while his food was being prepared. He kept his hands under the table, wary of wandering eyes. Even with one old man in the corner and a bartender he didn’t want to cause alarm. He whispered the phrase he knew in portions. And all the while he thought, thought of how much longer it had taken to hunt this time than the last. Thought of the battle the inquisition had forced on Runeheim. Thought of his parents and how they had died.

In his rumination Silvester missed the door creak open, missed a figure in black pause in the threshold and looked around, eyes finally landing on him. Missed the figure across the room to stand directly in front of him. It wasn’t until the scrape of the chair that accompanied an accusing voice asking “are you practicing?” Silvester looked up, shaking himself from his thoughts, and his hands faltered for the first time since he started. “Yeah, yeah I am. And you’re late.”

Damian was here and he could finally leave. Damian surveyed the tavern, “Where are Pablo and Onson?” “They had something else to port and couldn’t wait until you showed up. They left this morning.”

They talked some as Silvester ate. When he finished they left some copper on the table and headed out it was time to rejoin the Porters.

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The Weight of Loss

“The duty of the living is to carry on the memories of those they have lost.”

The Voice of the Tempest looked out over the burnt and broken city that stretched out before him. Small homes and farms, as well as a few community buildings, were still smoldering from the wake of the Inquisition’s fiery trek through the town. His eyes are pulled down to take in a smattering of soot-covered copper coins spilled in some desperate attempt to flee the flames, pulling his mind back through his past.

Svanhildr, the child of his Lord Saenger, sat behind a table before him, dutifully and precisely measuring coin. They calculate all that is available, making the hard choices for how best to tend the people of Runeheim. They never complained about it, though he could still see the wear and tear of Nobility bearing down on them. Duty above all, it had seemed. They were tended by a sweet woman, making certain they had nourishment for the task. Ana was always kind like that, and Tempest thought back to the warmth of her smile. The large Skald knelt down over the coins, carefully swiping dirt and ash atop them, the image of his Lord Svanhildr and her maid similarly pushed back under the surface of his mind.

A broken drinking horn catches his eye, and he takes a moment to lift and circle it in hand. Images of the Lord Harihildr, drinking with the Avalanche and himself. Memories of how the Lord sought to bring levity and joy to all his actions, uplifting his followers while maintaining his responsibilities. Tempest tossed it into the dying embers of a small remnant flame, feeling the heat of it wash away the pain that came from realization. A realization that those joys with his Lord were no more.

A mangle of twisted and heat-warped metal helped him recall the Knight of Saenger, Sir Teitr. A sweet and persuasive man, who always put the house and his drive above all. A man who knew the value of word and camaraderie, and who always kept those around him locked in on their mission. A man who never missed a chance to lift up those at his side, regardless of station. Surely he was still this way, wherever time had taken him. A man who could no longer lift the Tempest, as he pushed himself up and on.

A group of chairs circling what was likely a teacher’s board next pulled his focus. He sat in the burnt foliage that surrounded them, his mind going back across the Pack. Fritjolf, ever-smiling, wily, and cunning. Powerful in a way the Tempest was not. Inge, fast and aware. A pack member who never let anything go unseen, said, or forgotten. Rollo, sweet and insecure. He was always the first to complain, but the last to give up on what was right. A sudden breeze took the field, scattering ash and bits of parchment that had somehow survived the blaze skyward. Tempest watched the bits until he could no longer see them, much like the backs of his former Pack as they’d departed. His eyes pulled to the bracelet he wore on his right wrist, the etched wolves in leather staring back. His last reminder of their brotherhood. Soot covered fingers worked the strap, and he laid it in one of the chairs before walking on.

A skulking field mouse flit through bits of rubble and debris, and for some reason the memory of Eiðr came to mind. A low-born man who started out as just a darting figure in the dark, ever listening to and spreading whispers, almost unseen until the responsibility of Master of Coin was dumped into his lap. A task he did to his fullest until he too was lost.

A stone beside the road caught his eye. A line bisected it, in the kind of way that made it look cracked in half, leading him back to the memory of his Branded brother, Mountain-Cleaver. The Tempest crouched beside it, running his dirtied thumb up along the split, a sad smile finding his lips. There never was a vein of valued resource too deep for the Mountain-Cleaver. He hoped that the man was still pulling bounty from the earth, wherever his path had taken him. The only thing Tempest knew for certain, was that it was far, far away from Runeheim.

Memories of his brotherhood came flooding back, and he turned his left hand over to read a brand he carried. A brand not his own. His heart somehow find a new level to sink to, even though he hated that it was true. The Avalanche. A man so powerful he brought foes to their knees on a magnitude typically reserved for armies themselves. A man who held a zest and fervor for life that was as big as his legend. A man who outgrew the title of just man and became legend. One so powerful, none could kill the Avalanche save the Avalanche. A task he chose instead of becoming Anathema. When Tempest told the tale, it included joining Jordermund in defeating Svaes, and joining in the fight for warriors who sought not to traverse her gate. He paused to trace the runes on his wrist, bound in leather. He knew the Avalanche would punch him in the mouth and drag him onward if he were here. Someone to push the Skald along when his feet felt too heavy to move. He let his fist fly, slamming it into his own jaw for good measure, causing the taste of copper to fill his mouth. He spat blood to the ground and forced another smile, ignoring the heat rolling down his chin as he moved on.

The community was coming together in the heart of the town now. People offering aid and succor to those who lost all in the fire. A fancier dress on one of those offering assistance brought Lady Esparei fleeting back to mind. She’d come to Runeheim with high hopes and higher aspirations. A promise of those in Noble station being servants to those beneath them. A promise of using their station to enrich the lives of the peasantry, and see them through to a brighter life. A life Tempest had dreamed would befall his people. A dream that felt as ashy on the tongue now as the air of the Inquisition’s actions. A promise that now felt as dead as the kind woman who had made it. Tempest couldn’t help but wonder if she were still here, if things might have been different.

More of Runeheim’s protectors came flooding back. Elf’s Blood, a proud yet calculating Knight and Branded alike. He fought through every manner of horrible monster and man alike. His forces rivaled any Tempest had ever laid eyes upon, and yet he found himself reminiscing about the times they shared philosophy. The memory of being trained that a Warlord fought for themselves, but a Knight fought for their people being one of the most poignant in his mind. A lesson taken so heavily that the Tempest had become inspired to use his Branded name as a shield for those that may one day follow him. To make his boasts and promises be heard throughout the lands to account for them – to protect them. He had planned to become a Warlord who embodied the strengths of a Knight, yet his voice had not inspired armies. He wasn’t even sure it inspired anyone.

He couldn’t think of Runeheim’s protectors without thinking of the 3Ms. A title that always churned his stomach and made him feel both endlessly proud, and endlessly alone. An awkwardness in wanting to fit in had left them feeling unsure of his intent, even after their hundred year visit to the Fae lands together. The quiet voice that whispered “4Ms” in the back of his mind felt quieted even more, now all but fully muted by the crushing weight of their loss. Mechanic Tora was all that remained, still doing far more for Runeheim than most. Medic Heimir, a man Tempest had known love for all too late was now branded a heretic – anathema. A man who had given his all to heal and help everyone in the city. A man who had personally tended Tempest’s wounds so many times that he was certain he’d go long before the doctor himself… Yet here he stood. In the wake of the verdict and decision, the Medic had left with the Mage. The Mage who had found ways to bend the very laws of creation beneath her will and yet still used it to purge sickness and evil from the world. A woman who, even in the throes of despair, couldn’t say no to helping those in need. The Three had anchored him in the loss of the Avalanche, and become his driving force to fight forward – a purpose when he’d felt himself lost. The silent fourth M felt his shoulders sag, feeling too weak to try and hold the forgotten title of Muscle any longer.

Was this how she felt? He found himself wondering as he turned away and began his exit from the desolation. Was her faith so strong she’d have joined the Inquisition, or would she have fought them off to protect people at their side. A guiding hand who gave all to the city, yet was blind to just how much the community relied on her, Tempest’s thoughts lingered on the Mother Superior Solace as he walked. Her words rang clearer now than ever before. “We always think there will be more time.” Truer now than ever, he wondered if he should have told her his heart before she left. If only he’d listened then, would it have changed anything?

At the far edge of the city, he stopped to look back. His eyes caught the fluttering purple banners of the Valerians, the risen white and black of Dragomir, the Knights and forces the ones who had been the most recent protectors of this land. He couldn’t help but think of the chaos of battle that was the Inquisition’s arsonist intent – seeking purification through the heat of their flames. A battle he’d fought in and done his part, yet not once could he find the pride to boast his name. Not once could he feel the strength to remind people of his title nor brand. The whispers of shame from his father’s cursed hammer reminding him that was the fight to die in. The quietest part of his mind even agreeing and recognizing that he’d tried to. He’d not been asked to be saved, and yet here he stood. The whispers felt louder than ever. No longer could he remind himself that his father would never say such things, instead only finding that the little voice was right. What more did he have to lose? Could he even bear the weight of so many people much longer? Their stories felt heavy on his heart as he walked away from Runeheim, quietly reminding himself that the duty of the living is to carry on the memories of those they have lost.

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Ash in the Wake of Inquisition

A day is just a series of moments.

*

There is a moment, when Minona is standing nose to nose with a member of the Inquisition on the porch of the church cabin, watching her Lady disappear behind a closing door.

Callie had asked her yesterday how the Valerians felt about the Inquisition, and she had told her, with some reproach, that the Inquisition was a valued member of the Church of Mankind, and she had meant every word as she said it.

And yet now she is still on edge, calculating how long it would take to summon Alfred to break the lock on the door. Wondering if she made her final mistake. Thinking about her Lady, subdued, clad only in robe and hood, facing a danger Minona failed to protect her from.

*

There is a moment, when Minona is standing out on the road, her Lady in front of her, then Dragomir, then O’Craig. A moment of quiet, miserable eye contact as the seal on the writ is proven true, that the Inquisition has condemned Runeheim and its people to the flames.

O’Craig is raucous, jubilant, and these children around him are taking up the cry of “Freedom!”, and in the middle there are two Valerians trying to find the question to ask that isn’t a mournful “But what do we do?”

Grasping at straws. Feeling the certainties in the world cracking. All to the sound of the seething rot, the thing that the Inquisition should have been cauterizing, filling the air.

*

There is a moment, when Minona is standing in the firelight cast from the tavern, in her habitual place behind her Lady’s right hand. Her Lady, with a voice like steel, reminds Runeheim of its duty to the Throne. The Paladins concur.

Even the Njordic rabble listen to the Paladins, if they won’t listen to Lady Valerian. She thinks, Maybe this will be enough.

*

There is a moment, when Minona is standing out in the woods, mages behind and naught but shadows and twisting anacrusis ahead. It’s all she can do to keep them off of her, to batter them back with her shield.

Then an arrow streaks over her shoulder, and Silvester takes up position behind her. This is strength, this is certainty – a Valerian would never let her down.