Category: Scene

The world was hollow. The scrape of chairs and murmur of voices, that in truth were likely much louder than they seemed, echoed off of the emptiness that had suddenly found home within Liora. With Testamonium held tightly to her chest, the shell shocked priest took staggered steps toward her fate. *No, not just her own. The fate of the entire population.*

Her fingers traced the waxy page, felt the rise of ink as though a lashing upon her own skin. It was real… As the revelation rose within her, she could hear someone asking something. Sir Jacqueline? *Was that their name?* Was she ok- was that it?

Yes.

No.

Whatever the answer given was, it stole what breath had been left after their sentence was laid and the room quite suddenly became smothering. Too cramped, too many people, too loud. *But why?* Heresy. Sin. **Excommunication**. *I only just got here!*

Gravel ground into the dirt beneath her feet, the cold of the wind suddenly pushing against her flushed cheeks. With heart pounding, Liora glanced out to the forest and then to the path that wound beside it and the river. It didn’t seem to matter where she ended up- home was lost to her now. *She could never go back*. Cut adrift between condemnation and horror, she pressed on without direction at increasing speed until a root halted her progress abruptly.

The wooden box that held various healing instruments clattered loudly as she attempted to catch herself, nearly spilling the books she carried in its place. Tears tore to the surface as a choked sob found its way alongside them with the jarring halt. Looking up, the face of a cloaked angel greeted her as it overlooked the burial grounds and now a somewhat disheveled woman. No warm welcome, but certainly no condemnation was held in its unmoving features as the settlement beyond the trees continued their conversations and galavanting out to the woods.

“*Why*?” She demanded of the stone figure, teeth bared and throat so tight that even the small demand had to be ripped from it.

“Why would this come **now**? I came here to help them! There was still hope for them, wasn’t there?” Her staggered steps drew closer so the features now came into clear, lichen and dirt greeting her alongside the creek of the grand tree that sheltered everything here, “Why would I be sent here at all if it’s all damned?!”

***I’m*** *damned, too*.

It wasn’t a list of names or crimes that were specified; it was the entirety of those who resided there. They were all in the same pot now- alongside the true Heretics and Evil that resided within the world. And Godfrey… one of the kindest men she knew and absolutely devoted to the lord- he was kin to it all as well? The ache bled into homesickness; something that had plagued her since arrival, but now ate into her core until a bolt of horror killed all else within but its own.

***I can never go back home.***

Blessings were that the earth here was kind, softened by those that had fallen before, so that when she dropped to meet it there was no pain that came to bare. It all came pouring out then. The homesickness, the fear, the uncertainty, the righteous anger, the ache of love for a place she didn’t understand and that for a place she could no longer return to. Tears that had begged to fall for months now, wracking her body with their weight and meaning alongside those from just that afternoon. And for their duration, Liora lay curled amongst the scattered needles and dead with only hastily whispered prayer to keep the darkness at bay.

It was a sin and of itself to suffer a heretic to live. Were they heretics now? *No, the faithful are in great number… Convocation isn’t the only moment that the Lord’s light shines through those here.*

But extending aid to the heretic was an even greater sin- perhaps that was why they all had been cut from the cloth of the Church? *No, there would have been no reason for the mission trips then.*

Certainly many strayed from the path during their time here, or simply had never known it to start. The drug addled ghosts of children haunted her memory, the immediate call to violence that enticed Erik so, the indulgence of fashions and food while so many were pulling weeds to silence the ache in their stomach, how little- if ever- she had seen Butch sobered.

*“When you call me out.* ***That. That*** *is when it weighs upon my soul!”*

*It’s not that they bear no weight of their deeds… These people do know right from wrong, there’s simply…. Simply…* The words of Solveig trapsed their way through her memory, reminding her of how little option they had with Wise Ones extorting price for their twisted form of salvation and scarcity within the reach of evil entities yet to be driven back. For a moment, it was not the weight of her book that sat within her hands but that of the bottles she herself had downed- blurring hours together and numbing the bite of this land’s demands.

The motions of tracing her way through passages of the Testamonium were so rote at that point, that when she found herself hazily drifting through the Gospel of Saint Istra- still laid across the soft dirt- it was hardly a surprise. The pages were as much a comfort as the grounds that encapsulated her from the settlement now, though the rusted stain set into the topmost edges were another reminder of failings before. She had begged for answers, begged for understanding as the minutes crept by- just as she had then with their blood weeping out under her fingers; anything that would aid to traverse this path now laid before them. After the fifth pass through The Seven Sins Against Mankind, seeking any hold to what sins they had committed, and the third of the story of Benalus, it seemed as though nothing would bring her clarity. The words stood as solemnly as they ever had, waiting for her revelation as much as she.

“It is here… I know your answer is here.” It was hardly more than a whimper, her throat sore from stifling the sounds that begged to be let free, “Lord please…. Guide me to understand your will. Your work here is not finished, I am certain; you would not have brought me to these shores elsewise.”

With a deep, staggered breath her eyes cast over to the book that had been granted to her not hours earlier. Its weight had been a burden, but the words within rang familiar as Liora lifted it to parse through the stories of the High Canon. Inked carefully by a hand unfamiliar to her but with great care in every stroke, it seemed every bit the same intent as her own. *Was it? Was this a genuine copy of the faith’s works?* The book charted a place that was so very recognizable and yet entirely unfamiliar to her, with sketches and corrections that spoke to her as though ghosts lingering at the edges of her periphery.

Finding herself fretting with one of many slivers of red silk that threaded their way through the passages, Liora flipped carefully to the passages that had been noted by whoever last parsed these pages. Though it was plaited neatly within a much grander story than her own, the answer radiated to her from the top of that page. Her pacing, started at some point unbeknownst to her, halted immediately as the world grew both grand and absolutely finite for a brief and glorious moment.

*“This is the path the Lord hath laid before you. Never stray from it. Every obstacle is a test of faith to see if you are truly worthy of His favor.”*

Though the agony of her trial had not abated, nor the tears quite dried, a warmth grew in her chest all the same. Invigorated with her discovery, she read the lines again and again. Committing the moment and words to memory so that the guidance would not be lost to her again. *This is not damnation… This is an err of Mankind, just as any other.* And with the epiphany came another revelation. A deep and agonizing rush of longing not for the home she had left behind, though the child within her still wept for it, but for those she had left within the confines of their simple tenement. For her flock.

For her very, very worthy flock.

Leonora winces behind her handfan as the cart wheel splashes through another divot in the road back to Hrafnakastali. Age has given her the right to ride on the cart instead of horseback, but today it feels like all her bones are grinding together with every bump and jostle. Getting old isn’t for the weak, as her mothers were fond of saying.

Ahead of the creaking wagons, Leonora can see Lorelei swaying on her horse next to her brother. The usually boisterous knight is quiet now, hunched under the veil draped over her hair and snagging on the edges of her armor. Jacqueline says nothing to her, but Leonora’s experienced eyes can see that he is sitting straighter than usual, shoulders shifting as he scans both sides of the road, picking up the slack for his distracted sibling.

The gesture brings a warm smile to Leonora’s face. Protecting each other. Shouldering burdens. “The kind of love he has to give,” she has told Lorelei before. “Just like you have your own ways of showing love. You cannot force yourself, or others, into a narrative. No one is just an archetype. And if you think of people that way, you will miss all the best and worst parts of them. You’ll miss all the best parts of yourself.”

A welcome breeze picks up, rustling the purple banners of their convoy and tugging at the edge of Lorelei’s veil. The motion pulls the knight out of her slump for a moment, and her spine straightens as she readjusts her posture. Leonora resists the urge to call out to her, to pin her veil a little tighter, to ask if she’s thirsty. Her love, the mother-henning variety, will be the most unwelcome at the moment. What young person wants their peers to see them be cared for like a child? What lord or lady needs those they command to see them being coddled? No, Lorelei will have to soothe herself while they travel.

And I will do the same, Leonora reminds herself. Her gaze drifts further up the column, catching the white flash of Lady Olivia for a moment before the crossed spears of the House crest block her view again. If it is the duty of the young to learn their lessons and grow into their responsibilities, it is the duty of the old to teach those lessons and then get out of the way. We cannot teach them how to stand back up after they fall, she thinks. They have to prove to themselves they can live through the pain and try again.

But it is hard to let these children walk out into the world on their own when she can sometimes still feel the warmth of their tiny hands tugging at her sleeve. The knight who marches into battle and returns covered in gore and glory still has the eyes of the child who brought her a handful of tadpoles. The lord who now speaks so openly about the uses of sex and power once cried when he learned that bumblebees died after they stung you. She loves them, every version of them, and can’t help holding on to her overlapping memories. It is her lesson to learn how to step back and let them find their glory alone.

The cart rattles its way across another set of puddles, and Leonora sits up a little straighter and begins to scan both sides of the road.

Erik sits down at a fire and takes a charred haunch of venison off the rack. He takes a bite of food and doesn’t finish chewing before looking at the other karls in the encampment and speaks.
“So how did you guys join up under Knut?”
He listens to their stories of glory and honor. Stories of Knut winning duels with other branded, stories of Knut personally convincing them to fall under his banner, and stories of travels from across Njordr to join with Knut Witchbane, Champion of Runeheim. When it’s Erik’s turn to speak about Knut he sets the half eaten haunch on his lap and wipes his hands on his shirt.
“I came here following Gorm The Lion Killer. That man was one of a kind. I’ve never met another man who can hate like that guy, it was beautiful. And inspiring. And he died. Nobody boasted about it, but it turns out it was Knut who killed him. When I met him I realized that this was a guy who really embodied the best parts about Njordr. He’s a champion for all of us, and he’s branded for standing up to great evils. I mean he can face things that would make cowards out of any of us and not even blink. There’s really no one like him. And I’ll be the best karl he’s ever had!”
With that, the circle of fighting men are in an uproar, arguing about how best to prove themselves to their leader until the sun rises or they pass out drunk.

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.”

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.

“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.”

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”

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.”

“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.”