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.

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.

Tall Tales with Butch. Universal Truths Made Real.

“So what lies will you be spreading tonight Butch?”

Lies! Every word is true i tell ya, ill be havin ye know we have a reputation for a strong oral tradition of passing down wisdom.

“of telling tales you mean!”

Aye ya little shite, everything is tale till you go out and see it fer yer self. Now you guna shut it or do i need to close your teeth for ya.

In fact let that be tonight’s tale. How i went out found some lore that even i did not know.

Twas a Fifth night like any other, a drink in hand, and a stroll out to shed to make room for more, when i did become accosted by a good friend of mine, he was right worried that
two young lasses were about to follow a man into the woods in the middle of the night an asked if i would come keep them safe.

So there i did find myself, following a bloke, who’s dress sense seemed to be inspired by old tales of wraiths who stalked small children carrying on after their jewelry, into ta woods with a Rapscallion, a Mage, and Bard.

“do you honestly expect us to believe this shi–”

An there’s another tooth for my collection,

Now as i was saying, Myself, a Mage, a Bard, a Rapscallion, an a light blinded man walked off a fair way. Our dubious ferryman did have something he wanted to show us. And like all things Men clad in black robes, want to show you,
it was inevitably in the woods, in the middle of the night, and he didn’t exactly know the way.

An this will be the first bit of wisdom, The road to knowledge is often winding and full of adversity.

Now, ill spare you details of what felt like an hour of following trails in the dark while a man with a lantern did his best to destroy of night vision.

Our party did come upon a fractured piece of the Menhir, I understand your all quite familiar with it around here, but for myself it twas the first time seeing it. But it was not the menhir but the rune,
our Guide did wish to speak on. To hear him tell it, Every Rune is a representation of a universal Truth, distilled down into a pattern reflecting that Truth. in such carrying a portion of that Truths power.

Oy don go blinking at me like that there are scholars and mages out there if you want the why an how of it. Fook if i know, any ways,

He said, these Runes were both the source of both power and containment for a particular old god. Tha father who are on high and who’s names darkens our skies, had a whole collection of runes. Of universal truths as it were.
An these runes gave him his power, and the abilities to affect the world and make manifest his will.

Runes also provided a path to secure his own power, the Fadur did lay down and record his steps so others could follow. But it was not charity or kindness he had in mind. No. it was a cunning plan to secure himself.

for if any followed in his steps, they would gain power, but in doing so, they would make of themselves a vessel. one that Fadur could take. and make his own.

good thing no one would be fool enough to grasp at universal truths to try and make of themselves a God eh? but I digress,

For ya see, they also provided the bones to his prison, Twas the Dwarven king Ladrian, Ladiv?, Ladrial?

the Dwarven Lady had an idea. when you have a strong power, a universal truth as it were, the only way to suppress that, to bind it, is with more of the same. So Ladday proceeded to lay down in pairs, a series of runes into stone,
laying down bricks of a prison, each securing the other, negating the powers of each with the union of the whole. a Prison erected entirely of universal truths lade down in stone.

well.

until some bellend blew it up.

But aye, its not everyday or night you get to listen to a man educated on the esoteric share secrets of universe with you.

“an who exactly was this learn’ed man teaching class in the middle of the woods at night?”

I’m amazed you still have such diction with that tooth missing. Did’n i say, he was a member of the order of the white lions.

“fuck you, your telling us a Paladin did be taking a Mage, a Bard, a Knave, and a Drunk for lessons in the middle of the night.”

well… Former member of the order, but that’s a story for another night.

Lucian’s Math Lesson

Lucian gathers all of the kids together and Angela hands out fresh cookies to each of them.
“Alright everyone it’s time. I promised your friend that I would teach you all math and I am a man of my word. Lets start with something basic, does everyone know how old they are? There is no better way to show off how well you know math then calculating your own age! Let’s use Peter here as an example. The first step is to subtract the current year by the year you were born. It is currently 610 and Peter was born in 602. 10-2 is 8 and 600-600 is 0 which in total equals 8, but Peter was born in the late Summer so he hasn’t had his birthday yet this year. The next step is if your birthday hasn’t come yet this year you must subtract another 1 from the total. Which means Peter is…. 7 years old! So remember if anyone asks if you know math just explain to them how old you are! Now who wants to learn so more grown up math? If you have 4 gears in sequence the first with 120 teeth, the second with 60 teeth, the third with 70 and the final with 200. If you spin the first gear at 10 RPM how fast does the last one spin? You see when…”

Her Ladyship’s Tea Party

The heat from the hearth blasting warm sweet air through the kitchen as I pull a batch of scones, smells like heaven, smells like home. I bustle around preparing the many treats and snacks for the party, and joy rises in my heart as I imagine the delighted look the guests will have upon the reveal.

I get a few friends to help me carry out the food for the party, and I carefully inspect each item for poison. You can never be too careful when feeding Her Ladyship! Her ladyship smiled and nodded at me! she is delighted with the offerings! I am so Happ- What’s that? animals approaching us? Not at my party!

*Tiffany reached for her bow, and deals death to defend her Ladyship, even killing one of the creatures with her new handaxe!

Porter Warehouse Njodr Branch Christening

The sun hangs low as I approach the Valerian Porter’s new warehouse. I made up some time on my journey back because I took the path Sil recommended. Without that tip I wouldn’t have been able to make it here in time for moving day. It was important to me that I was here to christen the Warehouse with the other Valerian Porters. I even made sure to grab a bottle of 585 pinot noir from the Jokeri Vineyards for the occasion.

Felix had let me take on deliveries through last Forum. Mostly working odd jobs—messenger, light hauling. Nothing that had anything to do with Magic. I hadn’t felt like myself since that seemingly mundane letter delivery that went sideways. Like most problems in my life, throwing myself into my work is how I got through it. I find it easy to undervalue the weight of my interactions when not focused on them. What may seem like a simple letter delivery, could actually be a confession of love that remains secret unless we deliver. That light package could be the stuffed animal a newborn cherishes through their youth. The path to excellence is paved through consistency. The better I can accomplish these tasks in the manner promised, the better I become. I allowed myself to be consumed in that effort and the next thing I knew an entire season had past. “Yet ‘neath the snow, a promise glimmers bright” is what I would say if I had Gil’s pen.

I continue to close the gap between myself and the warehouse, allowing myself to appreciate my comrade’s handiwork. Honestly, the more I look at the warehouse, the more it reminds me a bit of the old fort. Almost as if they repurposed the stones. Some of the Porters look to be moving the rye. I would have kept it near the entrance, easier for offloading to the mess. Felix is probably being cautious about thieves. Actually, Felix and Gil look to be moving out front now, I should catch up with them first.

Better yet, I should get in some practice for Peace Day and see if I can sneak up on them. I take a wide berth of the entrance and start creeping up behind Gil. The anticipation brings a smile to my face. This however was quickly wiped away when I see the look of recognition in Felix’s eyes. He doesn’t sell me out though, so I tune in to the conversation. Felix prompts an opening for me and as I reach out to place my hand on Gil’s shoulder I join in the conversation “Making himself useful. That’s how things get done.”

Hunting Trip

Silvester fell to his knees in front of the deer. He was breathing hard, blood was thundering in his ears. He skinned it. He needed to buy time, to think. The acrid smell still hadn’t faded, and whenever he glanced at Arvid, the head of the deer caught his eye and stared back accusingly. He found it better to keep his head down and finish the work he had set before himself.

Finally, when he finished, he looked at the impassive mage. “Are you done wasting time?” Silvester nodded, a forced calm spreading across his face. He slowly got up from the grass where he had been working. Bent down and grab the flank he could carry. The rest of this kill he left for the wolf’s and other wildlife of the Forest.

As he turned his back and prepared to head back into town he could have sworn he heard his name behind him. When he looked back it was only the deer carcass. With a shudder he shouldered his pack, sheathed his knife, and began to walk the same path back to Runeheim.

At the edge of town, Arvid stopped them both and they surveyed Runeheim. They could see the inhabitants of Runeheim going about their lives. The tavern loudly complaining as people entered or exited, the purple livery just barley in sight, a meeting on a porch of a log cabin a little closer to the forest then the rest. “This is where I leave you. I will be back for the next forum. To begin your initiation.”

Silvester just nodded, too numb to say anything. With that, Arvid turned on his heel and headed back into the forest.
After watching the town go about it’s routine preparations –and other tasks he hadn’t taken the time to notice before– Silvester finished the walk from wilderness to civilization with one thought on his mind, “He needed to talk to Java.”

As he was passing the cabin he heard a familiar voice.
“Heeey Silvester,” Felix called out, jogging out to meet him, “I hadn’t seen you in a while. Just wanted to see how are doing?”
With a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes Silvester looked at Felix, “Yeah, things are good, thanks for asking.”

Brittle

“You trust that I want to help you, yes?”

“No.”

“Then can you at least trust that I don’t want to hurt you?”

“No.” My reply shocked us both, stinging like an angry welt beneath the weight of the lash.

Why did I say that? We do trust Ragnar, don’t we? He’s always been someone to depend on: admirable, caring, courageous (to a foolhardy degree at times, even he admits), protective, strong– Ragnar has only ever done what was in the best interest of the people.

That’s just it though, isn’t it?

He would put the danger down– as he’s done for every parlous threat that faces the town– as he did with Brenna.

But it’s not that bad (yet). No need to catastrophize (yet). They don’t see ██ that way (yet).

“Alright, then we are operating from a baseline of zero trust.” Ivor observed the resultant silence, her tone humored. “Off to a good start.”

Lucian’s Second Runeheim Lesson

Lucian is preparing for his speech for the members of House Valerian’s expedition.
“Angela, thanks for gathering everyone can you make sure Peter pays attention”

“Thank you for coming everyone I glad you all are safe after such a raucous forum.
First of all, as you know, we have successfully purified Fort Hrafnakastali. The curse dates back to the forts original construction. Some of the workers were buried alive in the walls and in their dying breaths cast a curse over the fort leading to the influx of spirits that were pulling people into solid walls. With the curse purged those and the stone monsters referred to as gargoyles should disappear entirely.

Secondly there was a powerful vampire controlling a Cyanahim monastery. She was performing a ritual on ‘Threads of Fate’ which was stopped. Many members of forum succumbed to her powerful mind control including a number of mages and the Night Warden. Due to this we sustained heavy losses but, everyone was recovered and due to the kindness of the Charismata Euthymius none of our injuries were permanent. Unfortunately the vampire escaped.

Next, the man Alu, who was responsible for the brainwashing of some of the town’s Branded during the previous forum, was captured and executed. Of course knowing this place he immediately rose as some sort of spirit and began brainwashing even more people. No one was seriously injured but, this entity also escaped.

Also members of House Drake have been seen in the area and were trying to purchase the service of a mercenary band so be on guard.

And lastly there have been groups of bandits roving the nearby woods, some of which were accompanied by rogue mages. The group I encountered were attempting to kidnap children, including my son Peter, for god knows what reason possibly to sell as slaves or to train as new bandits. Maybe even just to feed their dogs. Fortunately Silvester, Alfred and I were present to drive them off. I would recommend anyone who cannot defend themselves to only travel with armed guards.

Thank you all for coming sorry it was a long one. Hopefully with the Fort under our control things will get a little calmer.”

Afterwards he meets up with Angela and Peter. “Hopefully that wasn’t too boring or scary so much happens around here. And Peter I’m trying my hardest to keep you both safe while we are out here. You saw what happened when you came into forum to surprise me. How do you think your mom and I would feel if you disappeared. I love you son and I couldn’t live with myself if some monster took you away from me”

Hazardous Waste Removal, Winter LA610

Surveying the once-cursed fortress with a sense of cautious relief, Felix took a deep breath. The air no longer hummed with magic, but the aftermath was a chaotic mess of debris, scattered stonework, and shattered furniture. Purposefully organizing the other porters to clear away the remnants, he moved slowly through the rubble, his gait irregular because of injuries sustained fighting the vampire spawn. If he focused on delegating tasks efficiently it kept his mind off the pain. The cursed fortress, now cleansed, still felt heavy with the ghosts of its past. Lucian’s counsel that we needed to finish the clearing of the catacombs to truly lay the curse to rest was driving their efforts.

Gilbert was sifting through the wreckage nearby, his fingers brushing over discarded weapons and armor of indeterminate age and disrepair, pausing only to mutter a line of verse. “The stars, like watchful eyes in heaven’s dome…” His mind seemed split between cataloging supplies and weaving some new poetry. Felix is again reminded that he could never understand how Gilbert’s mind worked, but he appreciated his acumen and candor regardless.

As Felix surveyed the wreckage, he couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him. Damian was off at Runeheim’s Church, recovering from the touch of the Vulgaris. What other trouble were those mages brewing in the shadows? He gave a small prayer of thanks to Benalus for the timely intervention of Sir Euthymius for his intervention on that. And then another for it again after the catastrophe that was the assault on the monastery. So many Rooks… it was clear these northmen did not understand the threat of the Vampires. He unconsciously pulled his collar higher up his neck.

Wincing and pushing himself against the wall to give some clearance to other porters moving an impressively large stone, his thoughts wandered to that foppish noble from House Drake lurking at Forum. He didn’t expect something less savory than a Rennet to show itself so quickly, but they didn’t seem to have any obvious allies around either. An ongoing threat, but not yet a naked blade. He mused on how to make him scarce without resorting to… Dunnick methods.

As Felix helped shuffle some rubble into a bucket, he signaled to the waiting porter it was good to remove. Watching as the scum left the hallway he recalled the reaction at Court to the prospect of conscripting the local scum and putting them to actual service of the Reich. He was still stunned by it. Putting scum to honest labor for their liege, whom they have provided nothing, yet received food and protection, they acted like these were hordes of the war-wounded, not contributing not out of choice, but necessity. He audibly scoffed to himself. Were the northmen that raided their shores so soft-hearted? Service with arms would teach these scum discipline and give them purpose. Instill comradeship with their countymen and to love the lands they fought for. That’s how you turn scum to use for the lands they otherwise refuse to work. When you bleed for the land you learn to care for it.

He groaned while pulling himself up along the wall and wiped his dusty hands on his pants. It’s fine. Her Ladyship was Seneschal now. We will aid the people here. Build their almshouse, whenever they deign it’s time. “We’ll make ourselves useful.” he reaffirmed “That’s how things get done.”