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A Moment in the Conservatory

One time highwayman, Bastione Montcorbier sits upstairs in the Black Pistol Inn’s music conservatory. The room is lit only by a small crackling flame in the hearth and a handful of floral scented candles throughout.

The interior is sparse save a broad window which looks out into a night sky , a couple of guitars, two stools, and a Gothic child named Lev. Bastione plays a series of simple chords, and instructs his young student to do the same.

You’ve learned the eight elemental chords in little time. You’ve made your first break through in simple melodies, and I think you’re ready to perform something downstairs, Lev. What do you think?”

“I could, Maestro, but I don’t know what to play. Do you have an easy song I might try?”

“Of course I have, but the point of your instruction is to teach you to write songs and perform them. Happy to offer some guidance, chlapec but the performance is yours alone.”

“But what chords shall I play, and which order?”

Bastione leaned back in his chair and hefted a huge mug to his lips. The water was cold and Bastione half expected it to be ale, which made the first sip off putting.

“Choosing chords, and putting them in order is a song, isn’t it, Lev?”

“Yes, but…”

“G major, A major and D major are good places to start, non?

“I know them well enough.”

“You know them better than well enough. That’s enough for today. You have work to do and I need a drink.”

“I will fetch one for you.”

“Kind. No need, I’m going downstairs to the taproom. Let’s see if we can’t find you some bread to take home, non?”

“Thank you, maestro. Might there be a tart or two available?”

“What!?”

“A sweet biscuit.”

“Oh, yes, a biscuit. Of course.”

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The Black Pistol Inn – A Night of Poetry

The Black Pistol Inn rumbles with a bright and cheerful crowd. Poets take the stage and give their best prose in hopes of landing the five silver pay off the Pistol has offered as a prize. A darkly clad Gothic man takes the stage. He glowers at the audience, pulling his hood and veil tightly around his gaunt face. His words are slow, dour, and hold the barest emotion.

“dreary death
shadows morbid in the flame
unrestful corpses are to blame
knife the eyes of pumpkin shell
to ward the gate of those that fell
the ancient rotting people rise
darkness crushes once blue skies
skin to flesh and bones to powder
brains to munch to brainy chowder
drowning sadness boils hearts
tearing bodies rending parts
smile for he who on this day
has no soul for he to pay”

The Gothic man bows deeply, rises, and awaits for an applause that comes in small bursts. The Gothic folk in the crowd just glower back, and he steps away from the stage.

The next poet, a well dressed Cappacian bard, and owner of the Black Pistol steps on stage. “I have a poem to share, though I am fully disqualified from entering the contest, I thought my Cappacian patrons would find it amusing.” Bastione clears his voice and takes on a sad countenance.

“There was a desert in time gone by
Where widowed men went to cry
And as their tears struck the sand
The salty drops drowned the land
And those who couldn’t stop the flood
Began to cry a salty blood
And in this way they died forlorn
And from the muck a wolf was born
The wolf was made of man’s harsh sorrow
It found no leader for it to follow
Along it starved to city near
No food was given out of fear
Its eyes fell on a forest maiden
With ample meat her bones were laden
But something exploded from her hand
As she gave a clear command
“Eat them all!” she screamed with rage
“Show them nature wont be caged.”
The wolf’s back began to twist
Paws stretched to rending fists
Its muzzle shrunk into a nose
And on each foot grew five toes
And that nightmare creature did obey
And that whole town the wolfman slayed.
The forest maiden became a tree
As she cackled merrily.”

The poem does seem to sit well with a number of Cappacian patrons. It is also causes a number of Rogalian’s in the audience to double check that their neck are covered.

Bastione steps down from the stage as a tall, well build Njordic woman greets the audience warmly.

“This is an old song, better left to competitions like this, but its sentiment has been central to my family since our axe’s crushed our foes.” She begins to sing a song, its rhythm aged.

“Ancient Ones, guide my spear so that we may feast
As we drain the blood from the beast
Our foes deceased
Sanctify our souls in the blood of our enemies
The new ways hold no sway
when the leaders bleed from their hearts
your will to be appeased
bring a storm of bloodshed
bring a storm of disease
Bring our foes low, low, low.”

The song inspires a number of patrons to howl, slam their tankards and order more drinks.

Standing in the corner, Bastione shares words with a Njordic man. The Cappacian pats his friend on the arm and wipes a tear from his eye. “Arnorr, marry that woman immediately.”

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A Visit to the Vinyard

The vineyard, still young in the old bones of Stragosa’s hills, rolled out over acres of trellises and green vines. A few people moved through the rows, carefully trimming extra buds off of the fresh creepers. Allegra trailed behind, checking the work of these inexpert helpers, pointing out mistakes when necessary and swallowing her impatience when possible.

Just before the perfectly warming sun peaked overhead, she shouted for lunchtime and the small band disbursed. Sitting in the little shelter by the edge of the fields, hardly more than one wall with a roof and stacked high with crates, she sipped her wine and considered her tiny empire.

A rustling in the nearby bushes and Luca’s head popped up, shaded from the sun by his extravagantly wide-brimmed hat.

“Eyyyyyyyyyy, Allegra! Excuse the entrance–when I got here you seemed hard at work, I didn’t want to get in the way!”

Allegra grinned widely and stood up, arms outstretched in invitation. “Luca! Welcome! I’m so glad you made it.” She motioned to the shelter, where a tapped barrel stood propped on the crates. “Come, have a drink!”

“That is an offer, my friend, that I will never refuse!” Luca embraced his friend and snuggled himself down in the shade of the shelter. “Seriously”, between drinks, “what is with this hot hot heat? It’s so pleasant right now in the shade of the forest!”

Allegra refilled her cup and settled back against the crates. “I am not going to complain. It reminds me of home. Hopefully it will remind the grapes of home, too- with all of these clouds and this soil, I’m surprised every harvest that doesn’t shrivel up before it even ripens.” She glanced over at Luca, and then back out to the fields. “How was the trip? You are not too burned, I hope?”

“No, no, my cloak and hat ‘cover the action’, so to speak.” Luca’s cloak had been rolled up and tucked into his downed hat as soon as he achieved the shade. Sweat marked his bald pate where the felt of the hat had graced it. “But they in themselves are their own irritants. Oh for the forest shade! Of course it is fine for you and your grapes. But I’m a man of Etruvia, land of cool mountain breezes and gentle morning mists! In matters of climate, we’re hardly Hestrali at all you know!”

Allegra smiled wistfully. “I was born in Etruvia. I remember it, sometimes. That is where most of this stock comes from, in fact,” she waved her arms out over the fields. “A land of grapes and rocky hills and quiet trees. How does the wood here compare with the forests of your home?”

“You know it’s not that bad! The forests of Etruvia are higher up, altitude wise, and farther from the sea, but we’re so much more northerly here. Snow this far down in the lowlands. Outlandish!” Luca fished some bread and dried apples out of his pouch. His eyes twinkled. “I know it’s a matter of pride with you only to eat grapes, but if you’d like….”

She grinned and accepted some of the offered food. “Ah, but if I eat all of the grapes, then there will be no wine,” she indicated the contents of her cup with a little shake, “and that would truly be a tragedy.”

She popped a piece of apple into her mouth and said around it: “How was your market?”

“Well, you know, it was pretty good! I got a lot of stuff done, saved the city from a plague of rats, wrote up some contracts for Borso. Spent some quality time with a variety of young ladies…” Luca got a brief, dreamy look in his eyes and subconsciously fingered a woven bracelet around his wrist. “Anyway, profitable and enjoyable! My logging proceeds are starting to pile up, I’m looking around for a good way to invest. Bishop Celestria gave me the business about hoarding wealth, I need to find a way to put it to work to benefit the community!”

“Ah yes… hoarding wealth… There needs to be more opportunity for people like you and me to spend what we’ve earned here. If this were Aquila, I’d hire children to run messages, street toughs to guard the tavern, people to cook land clean and serve and run errands… But there are no people for that here. It seems we have more jobs than people to do them.”

“You say that, but have you spent any time in the outer districts? Full of ne’erdowells, widows, orphans, general criminals. All of those people could be turned into useful members of society with the right care and backing! Bishop Celestria talked to me about those orphans too–she sort of objected when I offered to take them all out in the woods and stick axes in their hands, but only sort of…”

“You definitely are not from Aquila, my friend,” Allegra laughed. “And apparently neither is the Bishop. Those criminals are a necessary part of life in a city, and giving work to an orphan is the only opportunity they have to better themselves. Do you have enough means to feed and house these children, if you can pin them down?’

“I mean, what’s housing? I’ll just bring out a bunch more canvas with me to string up between the trees! As far as food, we pick our own food out there and do very well. I foraged 75 units of vegetables last season–how much can each kid eat?

“I was going to see if I could get somebody to come out with me to care for the little rascals, though. I’ve got no experience parenting.”

“Eh…” she waved her hand dismissively. “That will take care of itself. They will form their own hierarchy, and as long as you can show them which part of the axe to hold and keep them from mutinying, they will do what you tell them.”

“See, that’s the can-do attitude I like! The Bishop said *somethingsomething*childlabor*somethingsomething* when I proposed it! But really, if you want kids to grow up strong you need to teach them a trade! Are you really sure they don’t need a woman’s touch? I mean some of these kids grew up pretty rough, they could use some love!”

She shrugged lightly, but there was a brief moment of bitterness in her face. “That is a luxury. Give them the things they need to survive, and they will survive.” She reconsidered Luca’s words again for a second and then eyed him suspiciously. “Are you looking for a wife, Luca? Is that what you are thinking about?”

“Woah woah woah woah, let’s not get ahead of ourselves! I was just saying these urchins could use a mother, not that I need a wife! I mean I’ve got my hands plenty full of all the women in my life already without adding somebody else on top of it!

“I’ll admit it was a bit lonely up in Ebonvoss Hollow, but now that I’m staying closer to Portofino and all the Hestrali girls, the company is much more plentiful and pleasant!

“When I want kids of my own, then I’ll get a wife. No need to rush things!”

Luca gave Allegra a suspicious look. “But so I noticed what you said there, calling love a luxury. We’re not poor here in the valley–if it’s a luxury it’s one we can afford!”

She shrugged again. “There are so many more important things. You can get them love, but if it’s extra coin you have, get them meat instead. Make sure they have shoes. If what you have is time, lay boards for them to sleep on and raise walls to keep the rain off. Children need things they can touch and eat, and softness won’t teach them the lessons they’ll need to survive. Especially not here.”

“Oh, Allegra! Even here in the idyll of your vinyard you’re so grim! Sure, there’s hard work in plenty out here, and night terrors and whatnot, but really! If we built up our stockpile of love, we could build all those things you mentioned and to spare!

“I mean obviously I’m being fanciful. But there’s enough earnest, hard-working God-fearing people in this valley that nothing should be beyond our grasp!”

“You are a strange man to believe these things,” she laughed, but affectionately. “I find the more God-fearing people that gather in one place, the harder it is to get any kind of honest work done. But we can only hope that you are right.”

“I’ve got a lot of faith! Faith in God, yes, but also faith in us.” Luca drained the last of the wine from his jug with relish. “Ok, so what’s the agenda? I’ve been dying to get a look at that tower of yours, but I can see that it’s nearly nap time! Guide me, Allegra!”

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Kinship

She struck my knuckles with the flat of her blade and my small hand sprung open in pain, but I bit into my tongue to stifle the cry. I had long since learned not to cry out in pain, not when my mother was there.

“You stupid little fool,” she said through clenched teeth, pointing at my dropped sword with the tip of hers. “Your father really didn’t teach you a single gods damned thing, did he? Pick it up!”

***

Balthazar sat back in his seat, his hat sparkling—it had changed since last I saw him, though the wound on his face had remained the same since I had tore at it with my fingernails. He didn’t seem to hold it against me. He assessed me in a way that made me shift in my seat—uneasy but somehow pleased—and look away. “You are more intelligent than you let people know.”

No, I thought. You are wrong.

***

I rushed into the house to where my father’s body had fallen, the life rushing out of him in a red fountain he tried to stay with his hands. Even those large, rough hands were not strong enough to hold back the tide. There were tears in my eyes and a scream on my tongue.

Before I could get to him, my mother spun and backhanded me. “Don’t come in here screaming your weakness,” she shouted while I fell and tasted blood. “He failed me. He failed us. He left you weak. Now will you stay weak and sniveling or get back on your feet like a proper fighter?”

***

“You would like sharks. They have lots of teeth.” Jehanne, strange little creature that she was, beamed up at me from her seat. She was clad in yellow, her mismatched eyes seeming hyper focused on my face, her own smile full of sharp white teeth. “And they’re very tough. Like you!”

What does she want from me?

***

I reached out for her—I can no longer remember why, some message I had for her probably, just trying to get her attention. When my fingers settled on her shoulder, she turned. When she saw me, her lip curled like a snarling dog. She slapped my hand away and stood from her seat in the mead hall, pushing me away from her in front of the entire clan. Making my face burn red with humiliation.

“What do you want?” she barked, and I snarled in response.

***

“You should picnic with us!” Florence said with a quirk of her eyebrow and twitch of her eye that might almost have been a wink. She reached into her basket, lifting out a bottle to waggle it at me, and I wondered if she might have already helped herself to a bottle. “We have wine!”

But why? What can I bring to this?

***

Sitting by the fireside, bandaged and still bleeding, barely conscious, my eyes followed my mother as she paced back and forth. Her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides.

“My daughter is a weakling and a curr.” She wasn’t even shouting it, only muttering. Not looking at me. Refusing to look at me. “The shame of the Thrymsfrost. Runt of litter. How can this—” She gestured at me, who had risen from an attack that should have left me dead, who had walked home, but not before slitting the throat of the man who would have seen me dead. “—be born of my loins?”

***

“Undying!” I recognized the joviality in Bjorn’s voice before I ever set eyes on his face and his wide, manic-eyed smile. Setting my eyes on him coming at me like a bear with outstretched arms, I felt a halting wash of…relief, and softness in my heart. I hesitated, but found myself incapable of recoiling. “Friend!”

He has been among the southerners too long.

***

When she slapped me and I tasted blood, I thought, I do not understand. I won this fight. I defeated him. I won. But I did not kill him, only humiliated him, so she hit me. Hard. And again. And again. Harder.

“You defeat a man, but you do not kill him?” Strike. “What weakness did I leave in you that you would let survive a man you had defeated?” With a fist now. “What weakness in you?” She shoved me away and drew her sword. “You fight me now.”

I remembered when I was twelve and first so gravely disappointed her. I remembered her killing my father. My head was ringing but I rushed at her, every strike and curse bellowing out of me as I went—

She hit me on the side of the face with the flat of her blade as I had hit the man who challenged me. She kicked me, then she pummeled me. She was upon me, punching me, her fists pummeling my face until I was aware only of the thrumming pain and the taste of blood. The world was a gray and pink blur, and the ice was brittle in my bones.

Eventually it was over, and I a ruined, bloody, broken mess.

***

“You are fascinating, and you are beautiful!” He shouted it at me after he slipped behind me in our duel, as difficult to get hold of as the wind, and put a knife to my throat—after he took me down to the ground and held me there, the sharp blade nibbling a slow cut into my throat while I looked up at him with all his feathers and shimmering stones and mad, blue eyes. “I want to know you more, Freydis—do you accept my courtship?”

He is mad, I thought. He is absolutely mad. But the knife? There is a certain comfort in a knife.

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“So, you’re the new tavern keeper?”

“I am.” the Cappacian offers with a nod. The Bard’s dark blue eyes, shaded by a well worn Cavalier’s hat, scan the bar room. Striding towards the solid cedar bar, he draws a leather gloved hand over its surface. “It’s gorgeous.”

“It is! And this area right over here can be converted into a stage. You can produce all kinds of shows, concerts, readings, you name it. A whole band can fit here, sir.”

“I was counting on it.” The tavern was already purchased, but Bastione appreciates the man’s enthusiasm.

“I imagine you were sir, I imagine you were! You’ll find all the furnishings to your liking. Three of the thirteen rooms are empty, just waiting to be decorated, as you like. But with supplies you could open tomorrow.”

“And I just may. It’s an interesting location. This South End. Feels right.”

“I know what you mean, sir. I do. Interesting is an understatement. Your clientele will be an eclectic lot, if you ask me. Archaeologists, guards, performers, not far from the Church District. Butcher shop just that way.”

“Harder to get fresher fare than that, no?”

“Yes sir, that’s right. You’ve found yourself a nice investment. Been walking by this place, hoping someone just like you wanted to do something with it. The convertible stage is a real treasure. A fitting addition, considering performing has done so well for you.”

“Performing, and hunting. Honestly, without both avenues I’d likely still be struggling to survive out there.”

“And you’re the Valley Historian. I imagine that’s a real help.”

“It is. I don’t have to worry about food, or housing for my wards. Of course, I could always move them in here.”

“You could, but now you won’t need to. Frees up rooms for rent.”

“I like how you think, monsieur.”

“Would you like a tour of the rest of the tavern, sir?”

“No, I think I’ll just explore.”

“Alright. Did you have any questions?”

“Just one.”

“Ask away.”

“What am I going to name this place…”

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Bjorn chapter 5.5

The snow was up to his knees and the wind was blowing the snowflakes sideways, he lost feeling in his feet and hands an hour ago, he hadn’t been this cold in a long time, and Bjorn the Ironbreaker was loving every second of it. He had been tracking a deer before the storm hit and could tell that he was gaining on the beast, he was far away from Stragosa but he needed to be away from that place and needed time to think, also pride wouldn’t let him call off the hunt because of a little snow. He was gaining on the creature when he heard something familiar in the woods, the sounds of iron on iron and the cries of men dying. Pausing to get his bearings he heard a familiar shout of a friend carry over the wind.
“In the name of the Lord, Die!”
Bjorn ran to his friend with all the speed of a Barsark unleashed.

He came to a spot in the woods where a small road cut through the deepest parts of the forest an overturned wagon and a dead horse marked the beginning of the ambush. He saw his friend surround by a half a dozen deformed creatures that might at one point have been human holding crude weapons and some having cruel claws, on the ground was a half dozen more smashed apart by his friend. His friend was wounded though and freely bleeding from cuts all over his body his weapon making his body sag with the weight, Above them all on a fallen tree was the largest of the creatures chanting a foul name. Coming onto the road Bjorn roared “I am Bjorn the Ironbreaker and I am your doom!” and fell into the crowd of foul creatures.

“Bjorn!” his friend shouted “what are you doing here?”
“Well Whitefire I was hunting but then heard you were having a good time without me!” laughed Bjorn as he hacked off an arm of a heretic. “Are you going to be ok you look a little rough?”
Whitefire smiled as a small trickle of blood escaped the side of his mouth. A cold chill ran up Bjorn’s spine, he had to get his friend healed and fast. The seconds stretched to minutes as adrenaline took over and he felt rage rising, then in a moment he was separated from his friend by a wall of flesh and watched with horror as the large heretic leaped over all of them and slammed his sword through the back of Whitefire. The mob of heretics screamed with joy as whitefire slumped to the ground supporting himself by his weapon the monster’s sword impaled through him. With one final burst of energy Whitefire drew his knife and twisted around and plunged the dagger into the Heretic’s heart up to the hilt. Both of them tumbling over, the mobs cries of joy turned to horror as they watched their leader die.

Bjorn wepted for his friend and envied his glorious death, he would survived this to tell everyone he met how he fell surrounded by his foes. He cut down the rest with white hot fury screaming “Whitefire!” with every blow. After the last was cut down he ran over to the body of his friend and rolled him onto his back hoping that his Lion God was watching over him this day. Whitefire was coughing up blood and smiling.

“Bjorn” he smiled blood flowing from wounds and his mouth, a sword sticking out of his chest hilt buried in his back. The only thing keeping him awake now was shock and battle fury. “Did we win?” the storm was breaking now as the snow slowed and finally stopped

“Oh yes we did” Bjorn said his eyes searching and trying to figure out how he was going to patch up his friend and make it back to town during the storm. “We are getting you a shield when we get back to town after we get you patched up my friend.”

“I don’t think im making it that far Bjorn” he said ending his sentence with a cough that brought a bubble of blood up to his mouth.

“What are you talking about Whitefire? You’re tougher than old boots you’re going to to walk this off.” Bjorn was panicking trying to stem all of his wounds while keeping a smile up, he didn’t even want to think about how he was going to remove the sword in his chest without killing him.

“Enough Ironbreaker, just stop, we both know I’m dead, let me go, and don’t bring me back this time, tell no one of this i do not wish to grief my friends” Whitefire sighed his face growing pale.

“No, I’m not going to lose you here, and besides you can’t die we have so much more to talk about, I still have so much more to learn from you.” Bjorns hands moving frantically now.

The light was beginning to fade from Whitefire’s eyes. “im sorry my friend but someone else has to teach you now i have one more request from you. take this.” His fingers numbly grasping his holy symbol, the Lion on it covered in martyrs blood now. “The key inside will unlock my chest” his words were fading fast now “take everything you find inside of it and” he never finished his words as his head sagged as his spirit left his body.

Bjorn let out a mighty howl as the clouds broke and a ray of sunlight bathed the broken body in warm light. The rest of the day was spent clean the body of its wounds and wrapping it in a sheet provided by the wagon. Hosting his friend over his shoulders he marched to a small church outside of Stragosa. It was a long walk slowed by the snows and the weight he had to camp for two days.
“You know for being a shorter man Whitefire you are very heavy, of course i have been carrying you for two days And you’re not getting any lighter. Let me sit you down for a moment and catch my breath.” Gently he set the body down leaning against a tree, bjorn took a long drink from his water skin. “I miss you already my friend, I miss your boldness and drive, and that quiet confidence that was around you wherever you went. I don’t think we shall see that again in the valley for a long time, especially from the other priests. I miss your understanding and kindness.”

They arrived at the small church just before dusk, Bjorn gently knocked on the door and an old Gothic priest came out. “father i have a body for you to bury, he was killed by heretics on the road, he needs a good burial.” The priest took them out behind the church and handed bjorn a shovel and with a small smile said “young man could you please dig the grave my back isn’t what it use to be, and tell me about your friend so i can send him off to the Lord properly.”
Bjorn smiled and took the shovel and started to dig. He told the old man how Whitefire’s blade was never sheathed in the face of evil, about their first meeting, about fighting hordes of the undead in the church district failing at first, facing down witches and heretics, burning down forests, fighting kauralites, and finally freeing the church district and slaying the creature far below. Then Bjorn told the priest of his arrest, and Whitefire’s visit to him in jail and how his words comforted and uplifted him and tilted his world view and made him no longer as afraid of the Gods. Finally he told him of his trial and how he was set free.
The priest was quite throughout all of it listening intently, and the end he asked on question “What was Whitefire’s given name? I want to make sure i get it right.” Climbing out of the finished grave Bjorn said with a smile, tears marking his face “Caelius”

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“I’m ok”

It happened infrequently, but with a regularity that was easy to predict. A few days out of the month before or after forum, the smile disappeared and the man soon followed.

Sheafs of paper and books. Building plans, citizenship rolls and early drafts, a half written journal and an unfinished song. A rumpled shirt stained with sand from the fighting pit. A sword and shield lying askew under a perfectly good weapon rack. The clutter of the room was getting unmanageable.

The man lay in bed, occasionally taking pen to paper only to crumple it and toss it aside a few pen strokes in.

The gentry of the manor left him to his melancholy during these spells- he’d been there long enough for most to have seen them before and those who hadn’t were told. Water and tea were brought along with plain bread, and dishes were taken, but the man told them to touch nothing else with guilt in his eyes.

Hours before the forum began, he would finally rise, wash his face and stare at himself in the mirrored glass. Silently he’d clean his mess and put on a fresh shirt. And when he emerged his room was neat, his smile was back, and his stride was sure again.

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The Path of Inner Peace

Kaykavoos nods to Davyn as they sit on the temple floor, for their second discussion of the week.

“On the path to enlightenment, we all face moments that challenge us. Often when we talk about such things, we focus on the significant life-changing moments which are grand. Perhaps you choose to risk your life to save a child by giving her the last of your food. Perhaps you choose to stand up to a bully who has wronged your family. These are not the things I speak of today. Instead I speak the way you think of yourself.

Let me speak of myself for context. In my youth, I was offered the opportunity to use a pottery wheel with a master for an afternoon along with a small class. I had not done it before, but it seemed like an enjoyable opportunity. Seeking to impress the master potter, I spent all day, missing dinner even to complete my work. After it was fired and glazed, I realized it was not as beautiful as many of the bowls I had seen from other students, but I was still proud of the work I had done.

As the master appraised it, he made a simple comment about how it was middling at best of the efforts he had received. I was crestfallen, I had invested myself into that work and thought that I had made a valiant effort for one who had not been trained. Yet the master’s words indicated that I lacked potential in this area. Today I look to the skills that Dame Kirsa, Lady Shamara, and Lady Alexandria have to craft in their own ways and am in awe of their work. I do not seek to find a craft of my own though, for you see, I have no potential at such endeavors.

This is of course a lie that I tell myself. A lie that some part of me believes because of the trauma I felt on that day. A reasonable person would say that the master only said that my effort was middling, not that I lacked potential. A reasonable person would say that I was middling at best because I had never received training or applied myself significantly to that task before. A reasonable person would say that even if I did particularly poorly, that as the Principle goes, ‘Nothing is impossible with sufficient will.” Yet I still hear this voice inside of me whenever I attempt the most basic elements of certain topics. I am not comfortable with the skill I possess, and am seemingly afraid of repeating the experience of judgement for being poor at the form.

Each of us has such a voice inside of us. It may not speak to you about being poor at crafting, but instead focus on a matters of mathematics and the market. Perhaps it causes you to distrust your leadership of others or even your judgement about life in general. Each of these thoughts is entirely common and undoubted is something that you have observed in others before. These thoughts reflect your self-doubt. and draw you away from your highest self. To banish these voices is not a simple ritual you might perform with a priest to remove your fear, but a persistent trial we face each day.

These voices are of our own construction, crafted to protect us from the world we have endured. They are not maelific to be vanquished in a moment with a blessed weapon or resolution, for to destroy them is to destroy who you are. Rather we note when we hear them, to recognize the fears that we still must work through, and rather than listen to them, we move past them and in so doing, we remake the image we have of ourselves.

I may never choose to be a potter, and I acknowledge in this moment that I am not skilled at such, but that is a path that is not closed off to me.

Think upon this, what paths have you closed off to yourself? What do the voices tell you?”

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A Light in the Dark

Whispers permeate the gloom….

“What does it do?”

” We have a general idea.”

“Let’s find out….”

A match is struck in the dark.

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The Courting of a Bird

These southern lands are strange—with their formalities, their caution, their thin skins, their lion god. They are suspicious of me, following me with eyes that are wary and uncertain—though a few rare seem drawn to me. That Walt, half a mute that he is, inviting me to join his Black Jacks, for one. And this one—this man I’m watching now, though my eyes are more incredulous today than they were yesterday. It is a surprise to even think I may have found a spirit kindred to my own in this place—kindred of a sorts. A spirit so strange and bird-like. Feathers and all.
Stranger still that I might be so intrigued by a bird.
To watch him walk today, however, he no longer seems a bird. Feathers gone, feet no longer such wings moving him to and fro, today he moves slowly, hunched, a dreary look in his eyes—dreary, not dread. I suppose this is an improvement from last night.
Though last night he was no bird, either. Last night he was resigned dread. How he stared at the ruined flesh of his arm while his own fresh blood still clung in the stubble on his cheek. No bird was he any longer, though his words were as wind. I only listened, and ground my teeth, and picked at the rough edges of my mace.
And pondered.
This Stragosa is a strange place, with its ruins and its Miracle and its monsters. I have been assured that these things are connected, though how? I am as intrigued by this stone that resurrects the dead as I am by this Balthazar, though I do not know how I will learn more about it. Of this bird, however, this Balthazar…
He has promised to test his mettle against mine. Today, he looks in no shape for such a testing. I chew my hard bread and drink my wine while he speaks with some mage about the disease he contracted during the attack last night.
Last night with all its monsters. How he’d rushed without armor and but one blade into the beasts—an attempt at suicide if I’ve ever seen one. And a brilliant one at that. No bird then, but still something wild, perhaps something…rabid. The kind of thing that, when cornered, becomes all claws and ravening teeth. But oh, how he bled on that floor, while I turned away and gathered my mace for the fight.
I would have eaten his heart first, for he did promise me his corpse.
When he was a bird.
Yesterday.
Was it truly so recent?
Oh how his eyes lit up when I told him of how I’d earned my name at the bottom of a glacial crevasse, rending the flesh of my human enemy from his bones with my teeth. When I showed him the skull I kept as a token, and he touched it very lightly with the tips of his fingers and said, “Marvelous.” He had leaned toward that skull with eyes sharp and focused, lips slightly parted—like it were some long-dreamed of treat, finally laid before him.
And when he leaned back and put his fingers over his mouth, eyes gleaming as he assessed me, I delighted in his delight. In his musing fingers over his mouth.
“Should I die,” he said, leaning toward me, “I would be honored for you to eat my corpse.”
I smiled. Should he die, I would lay his body out and peel his skin back from the muscle beneath. I would make gentle work of it, and savor the last remnant of his scent off the nape of his neck. I would do it while the blood was still hot in his veins so that it would slip warm over my fingers. And I would take the flesh from his bones with care—but not before I reached into the hollow of his chest and wrested free his heart.
His heart I would eat first.
“I would be happy to make a feast of your flesh,” I told him, and watched his features alight once more.
It was not much after that—mere stories of sharks and werewolves later—that another of the Jacks, whom I had only seen in passing before, stopped to introduce herself. She carried with her a bouquet of blue roses—more strangeness of Stragosa I assume—and she offered one to Balthazar.
“Instead of Tresser Tag,” she said, “I have been offering these flowers. But—” She withdrew it quickly before Balthazar could take it. “This is only as a friend, Balthazar.”
“Of course,” he said, spreading his hands. “And what a good friend to me you are, Florence.”
Bestowing the flower upon him, she turned then to me. “I am Florence. I do not believe we have met.”
“We have not. I am Freydis the Undying.”
“The Undying?”
“It is a fantastic story,” Balthazar said.
“You will have to tell me sometime.” Florence looked on me with a bright gleam in her eye. I already like her. We would make good friends someday soon, I could tell.
“Perhaps I shall.” I nodded to her, but said no more.
“Would you mind,” Balthazar asked, gesturing with long fingers to the blue roses, “if I might have another? So I may give it to a friend—and then! You can keep watch for it, see if you can spot it.”
Florence had a beautiful smile. She gave Balthazar the flower before saying her farewells, and once she had slipped away Balthazar leaned toward me once more, offering me the flower. “If you would,” he said. I have never been offered a flower before. I have never been offered…well, anything but knives in the back. Or the stomach. And fists to the face.
So I took it, and found the smile on my face as strange as the rest of this place.
The flower is on my belt now—two blue flowers, side by side—while I watch Balzathar move about the tavern like a de-winged bird. Sagging toward the floor. When he spots me I look away.
I had thought to be interested in the man, but last night…
Last night when his eyes could focus on nothing and his voice moved like a breeze through the air. Speaking of this sister of his.
A wretched bitch she sounds, like someone who could make trouble in the future. For Balthazar clearly, for myself, for the Jacks. She sounds like someone who must be put down.
Where I might find this sister of his though, I have no idea. I have only just arrived to Stragosa, and only just begun to learn of the strangeness here. It may take some time to learn enough of the sister to track her down, let alone to put her down, and besides…there are so many things here yet to be explored.
For a moment last night, I had thought of simply putting him out of his misery. His suffering was so great, I could feel it like spilled acid on my skin. By the looks of her, Florence could feel it, too—while she looked away from him and drank her wine, and he spoke of not even knowing if he was real, or just a figment dreamed up to be played with by his sister.
And the man had wanted to die. Rushing into battle without armor. It would have been easy enough to go to him where he laid in his bed. To sit beside him and say farewell to whatever possibilities he might have offered and slit his throat so that he could be done with it. I wonder what Walt would have thought. What Florence would have thought.
I take another bite of the hard bread as Balthazar eases himself into a seat at the table, moving as though every bone within him aches. “Good morning,” he says. His voice sounds more solid than it had last night, though rough around the edges. Not drifting like the clouds, but…rattling. Like the leaves in the trees.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better,” he said. “I still…need to have this—this disease, tended to, but…I feel quite a bit better than last night.”
Good. It is good that he is recovering, and quickly. It seems, at least. It is yet to be seen, I suppose, what strength still lingers within. “Tell me of this sister of yours.”
He is quiet a moment. I am unsure if this quiet is hesitancy, or if it’s a careful choosing of words. When he finally did speak, he told me of his sister—his twin, who was trained in the same arts as he, who never came to him himself but sent mind-controlled people to him instead. “Meat puppets,” he called them. The phrase made my spine feel as though it were full of worms. I assessed him again while he spoke.
Air mage. I still not quite understand what that meant. I still was not sure that I wanted to.
“She is powerful,” he says. “She’s the most powerful person I know.”
He said it as though she has no weakness. But even the most powerful of people have weaknesses. They have only to be uncovered.
“And what do you plan to do about it?” I asked.
A frown passes over his face. “There is nothing that can be done—”
“She must die.”
Balthazar withdraws—the smallest of motions—and the frown on his face deepens. “She is more powerful than me, and—and her mind, it is connected to my own. She can hear what I think, and I can hear what she thinks. It doesn’t happen as frequently as it once did, but it does still happen. Anything I plan against her, if I even think about it, she’ll know. And, besides—” He shakes his head as though disgusted. He would not be the first to be disgusted by me. I only met the man yesterday, so I grit my teeth refuse to care. “—she is my twin sister. I will not kill my twin sister.”
A fire flares in me. I refuse to have been tempted to be interested in a man whose spine so easily bends.
I refuse.
“Tell me,” I say through my teeth and a curling sneer. “Are you a weak man, Balthazar?”
His body goes rigid, and for a moment he stares into his breakfast. When he lifts his eyes, they are dark. His mouth—smiling so fiercely yesterday—is set in a hard line. His jaw is tense, his shoulders stiff. With barely parted lips, through gritted teeth he says, “I am not weak.”
Good.
I lean closer and stand, my body bending over and toward him as I snarl: “Then make your choice, Balthazar. You, or her. I am going to make sacrifice. You make your choice.”
Before he can voice a word to break in, I leave, bringing my unfinished breakfast with me. I throw wide the door and let myself into the chill and the snow. The sound of it crunching beneath my boots brings me peace. I close my eyes, I breathe in the cold and breathe out mist.
My fingers pluck the blue flower from my belt. I lift it as I turn toward the forest. I eye it while I walk, but only for a moment before I press it into my pocket.
I will not have been tempted into being intrigued by a weak man.