Category: Scene

It was sometimes a difficult thing to keep her promises.

She didn’t make many to other people, but she made plenty to herself…which was just as important, but without the witnesses and social pressures, were reliant on her to be the promiser, the promised, and the arbiter.

Her own personal codes – the things that were important to the integrity of her own self image – were at times also alien to the people around here…and sometimes to herself.

She had vowed to never marry; to never engage in sexual relations. And at the time she made this promise, it made perfect sense. It still did, she told herself.

The kiss with Corbin. If had been her first and her last. Fourteen and overcome with the wants and passions of love.

She had felt out of control. Like she wanted to spend every moment with him – waking and not. She was hungry for him in desperate ways that were all-encompassing where he was nearly all she thought about.

It was infatuation and it was all so new.

And all her guards were let down, and she hadn’t been attentive to the sermons at Convocation. Her heart hadn’t been in her prayers. Her thoughts had been full of lust and selfishness.

And it was shortly thereafter that the…atrocity…of what happened to Miette had occurred.

It should make a difference that Miette was resting peacefully now, and that the Rocheaux tomb had been cleansed. And it did. Miette had told her she was forgiven. And she believed her.

But…

But the guilt had always been so heavy that its residual mass still lingered. It was like wearing a tight piece of jewelry or corset for so long that even if the item was removed, the body still remembered its shape.

She could never undo what had been done – she could only keep moving forward and trying to be better.

And in the terrible aftermath of her crimes, in the days that followed the blood and stains and sleepwalking, she turned over in her mind every single thing she could have done differently.

At first, she had tried to find an explanation for the signs of violence that she had woken up to – anything that would explain that it had nothing to do with her.

She had been hunting. She had tried to defend Miette. Maybe she had been wounded in a way that had closed up? A really terrible nosebleed.

And then when logic intruded onto her thoughts, and she was left with the conclusion that she must have somehow harmed Miette…then the sickening guilt, the loathing, and the backtracking into what she could have done differently started.

She could never afford to be distracted again. She was a person that demons, spirits, and Malefic could influence and infect. She was not safe.

And so she would never love – not in that way. She promised herself.

And then, one day, god wiling, she would take the vow of the Nuranihim officially. Then it would be a promise to god, and not just to herself.

That was the plan. And she had stuck to it.

At this point in her life, age 31, she was past the point that most married, and soon the danger would be past. She would age, and everyone around her…even Corbin…would pair off. And she could remain, steadfast and devout…laying Malefic to rest in eternal penance.

The Sanctum had never turned up, but she had taken on the cloth all the same – different vow, and different rites, but needed all the same.

She might never be able to rely on god to bear witness to her oath and keep her promise.

So she had to tread carefully – because if she let herself down, others would surely follow.

The heat that lingered outside was more oppressive in Isabel’s small workshop.

No, her father’s workshop.

She still couldn’t really think of it as her workshop. His presence was still everywhere here, even if he no longer tinkered, polished, or hammered in this space. She could no longer remember all of the causes of the various scorch marks, missing table chunks, and oil stains, but many of them had been there since she was a small girl. They were reminders of the lessons she had been taught here. The minor injuries and lectures. She sometimes caught herself whistling the same tunes while she worked that he always had- as though the sounds in the air were just as much a permanent part of the space as the walls. It was like there were certain things that needed to be done just so; almost like the elements of ritual in a sacred space.

Nowadays, he and her mother rested their swollen joints, looked out the front door, and spoke of the past. She hoped that the cushions, boots, and various comfort items that the community had banded together to obtain for them had made their last several months more enjoyable – at the very least less painful.

She idly wished she could have obtained what they needed by herself, but her talents had never been particularly marketable, and she had no taste for business dealings. And that was really the whole theme of how she ended up making such a mess of things when her parents could no longer support themselves. The people here…her people…they gave without any expectations. They reached out their hands to her and steadied her when she stumbled again and again. She didn’t know how to repay all of the debts she seemed to accrue – both of coin and of goodwill.

She frowned, and brushed some of her untameable hair out of her face, relying on the sweat to keep it momentarily in place. Her kerchief veil was never of any help at all.

Someday, mama and papa would be gone. God willing, someday she would reach their age. And who would take care of her when the time came?

Her dear friends? She hoped that they would all be happily married with families of their own. She hoped they would be bogged down with only the simple worries of a comfortable life, and that these questions of hunger, want, and morality would have already long ago been answered. Would she continue to be a burden in that bright future?

She was full of a gnawing, nervous energy.

She had been so immersed in her burials and duties as a priestess that she had not actually *built* anything in some time.

She always seemed to be running from one mutilated corpse to the next, and it made it difficult to even make the things specifically requested of her – let alone having the time to experiment and improve on her designs.

She mused on how much time a person actually has in their life. It’s an unknown quantity and a finite surprise. But ultimately there are only so many hours; so many minutes allotted to a person to do what they believe they need to do.

She tightened her clamps and glared down at her quite lethal spike trap. How could she ever have thought it was a good idea to try to sell or trade something like this? No one was actually using this sort of thing for animals. All she could do now was pull them and try to modify so as not to have wasted the time spent developing them.

Perhaps she should break off or file down most of the spikes, but leave a few that could have a soporific applied to them. They would wound, but they would not kill.

Sighing, she thought back on all the times she had lectured Alphonse about his sinful alchemical preparations, and now here she was thinking of the ways in which she could use some of them.

She asked herself for the thousand thousandth time if she was a hypocrite. Was her recent stand during Convocation regarding the nature of sin just a self-serving argument?

She thought of Lysenna, of Little Hugo, Granny Jo…Corbin…and all the rest.

No. No, they were human and a divine reflection of god. They were her friends and they all were trying to do the right thing even if they disagreed on what that was. The Testimonium had it wrong. She knew it. The true sin was that of Discord – of turning away from one another; hurtful divisions.

Now, the trick was trying to strengthen the faith of the community so that the rest of the sins were not questioned.

She blinked. What an odd thought. The rest of the sins made perfect sense to her.

Just changing one thing does not invalidate the whole.

She looked down at the trap in front of her, and got down to the work of modifying it.

Eidr sat alone on a rugged stump at the edge of the cliff, his quill poised above a sheet of parchment as the wind tousled his unkempt hair. Below him, the grotto stretched out, a dark and mysterious abyss that had captured the interest of the Runeheim Society of Scholars. To Eidr in that moment, this was a much-needed sanctuary, a place where he could let his mind roam freely, far from the prying eyes of the highborn who now looked to him as the temporary Master of Coin.

His rise from a lowly gravedigger to the position of tax collector was nothing short of miraculous. But it was a miracle he intended to exploit to its fullest extent. The sudden vacancy in the position of Master of Coin, resulting from the execution of one of the previous Masters for slave trading, had presented him with an opportunity like no other. He had planned on using that title, planned on manipulating things as tax collector. But Lady Vindicta had given him something far greater than he had ever had before. He would repay the debt with work befitting.

Eidr dipped his quill into the inkwell and began to draft his proposal to Lady Vindicta Dragomir. He knew that in order to wield power, he must first appear legitimate, which was something he could never achieve in person. His social class had been one of servitude and poverty, but his mind was his weapon. It was his knowledge of academics and logistics that had set him apart.

As he wrote, his thoughts flowed like a river, each word carefully chosen to convey his intentions without ever stating them outright. He spoke of fiscal responsibility, of the need to maintain the stability of the realm’s finances, and of the importance of fair taxation. He emphasized his commitment to upholding the laws and values of the land.

Eidr knew that Lady Vindicta Dragomir was no fool. She would read between the lines, see the potential for mutual benefit in his proposal. He couldn’t afford to be seen as a threat, not with so many eyes on him. He needed her support, her trust, and he had to earn it subtly.

The grotto below him whispered secrets of forgotten ages, and the cliffside stood as a symbol of his ascent from the depths of society. Yet Eidr couldn’t help but think that he still had to descend into it. He still had to investigate the blood-stained grotto beneath him.

With a final flourish, he signed his name at the bottom of the parchment. The proposal was complete, carefully crafted to give him the legitimacy he so desperately needed. He would send it to Lady Vindicta, and for now, let the ink on the parchment speak on his behalf. He would have to get second opinions, his words alone weren’t enough.

As he folded the document and pocketed it, Eidr gazed out at the grotto once more. It was a reminder of the lengths he had come, and the depths he was willing to explore to secure his position. The wind carried his thoughts away into the abyss below. He saw only shadows below.

Sitting at his workbench, Valentin is trying to modify a pump valve, his hands fumbling with the machinery as if he had forgotten what it was for. He is desperate to lose himself in his work, but his mind keeps wandering to a lovely face. ‘The very idea is ridiculous. I am too old for her.’

The metal parts in his hands felt like strangers, despite having fitted valves to piston’s dozens of times. No matter how Valentin turned the pieces, they would just not fit correctly. This was made all the worse by his increasing inattention. ‘If I were to marry Sophie, Camille would be at peace. Juliene might be safe. I might. No, I cannot ask that of her.’ With a shake of his head Valentin forces himself to pay attention to the task at hand. To the reliability of metal fitting with Metal.

Valentin takes out a file, and shaves a small amount of metal off of the recalcitrant piston. He goes back to trying to jam it back into place, despite the fit still not being quite right. ‘She is everything I could want in a wife. A brilliant mind. Possibly the most compassionate woman I know. She loves knowledge and learning as much as I do. She is beautiful. And she has so many books. I could easily’

Valentin’s inattention causes his hand to slip, throwing him forward. He lets out a gasp of pain as his arm slams into the edge of a nearby metal plate. Looking down he sees the cloth of his shirt has been sliced open, and below that his arm.

“Merde” he mutters under his breath, watching the blood start to stain the white cloth. Crossing the workshop he grab an old piece of mostly clean linen and presses it against his arm. Gritting his teeth, Valentin presses the gashed arm against a work bench while he ties the bandage with his other hand. ‘I don’t need to be happy. I have my work. And I have Julienne to watch over. That is enough.’

Valentin lowers himself into an old chair as he waits for the throbbing in his arm to go away and the sweat to dry on his forehead. Now he has no familiar distraction to pull him away from the thoughts run through his mind. ‘I could be happy with her. But she deserves better than me. Sophie gives so much to Luisant; she has a right to ask for her own happiness.’

Sinking deeper into the chair. Valentin closes his eyes and fights off the pain. After a long time he rises and goes back to work.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The ringing of hammer meeting anvil echoed in the lonely smithy. The heat of the forge a comfort in the rainy autumn evening. Sparks flew after each impact and gently floated down as embers. A strong steady hand held the piece in place as the the man worked his craft. Focus, concentration, strength, endurance all cycled in the man’s mind. On the wind a voice danced, “I’m still here”.

The man paused, deafened by the noise of his labor, but still able to hear the whispered words. “You think I’m gone, but you know me better.”

The man looked now through the open door, into the gentle rain, and amongst the foliage appeared a…shape? A human? A wolf? A spirit?

“You run but I will find you. You fight, but you know me stronger. Remember what you were taught.”

Suddenly, the skies darkened and lightning ripped across them, the figure now standing just outside the door to the smithy. The flames of the forge were snuffed out, leaving the man in darkness. Another lightning crack illuminated the creature’s mangled form just moments before them man was struck.

Then a bird chirp echoed in the darkness. Light crept through a window and roused the man in bed. His sweat soaked the linens and his breath galloped from his lungs. He sat up not believing what had happened and questioned what was and wasn’t real. He touched his face where he imagined the strike to have connected and found no scar, no wound, only a memory of the event. He sat for many a minute trying to work what had happened, what meaning there was in this…dream? returned memory? false memory?

He was stirred from his thoughts as the door to his room burst open

“Big Brother!!! Good morning! Did you sleep well?” A young girl bound into his room as sunny as this pleasant early morning.

“Uh, Yeah. I slept fine. How’s our little daisy doing this morning?”

“I’m good. One of Father’s friends came by earlier wanting to talk to me, but he scared me. I don’t want to talk to scary people”

“It’s okay. We can talk to him together another time. Would that be okay? You wouldn’t have to be scared if your big brother’s there” The man gave the little girl a warm smile.

“Hm, maybe. Only if we can get pastries after”

“Haha, alright then.” The man smiled again, but buried in his eyes were the pangs of doubt, anger, and hatred. The girl was right to be afraid, and the man would protect her and the rest of his family with his life.

Theo: A Community Apart

Why do we even try? Etienne was right. Peace is a lie. They will never truly welcome us as equals.

Recently they had been kind, caring, or at least giving. They consider us better than the outsiders, better than the malefic. Such praise! Maybe someday we can aspire to be as appreciated as the animals in the forests and swamps! They’re just bribing us into not being a problem for them later. Whatever. Do they actually like us though? Do they really believe we are part of their community? Of course not.

Some try to convince us that we can join them, that we will be happier if we were part of their community. I’m not even sure what that even means. Seems like just another way people try to make us go away, to put us under their thumbs. One more group for them to balance. They don’t really know us, they don’t really care. Maybe someday they’ll actually explain it to Cole. I bet now that Etienne and Aryeh refuse to come to market, they think we are easy to break off from the group and consume. To fix us like those priests did to Nadja.

One minute you torturing an elf for information is wrong and you should talk nicely with it instead. The next talking to it makes you evil and someone no one should trust.
You can listen to them about how to do a thing, but they will use it as a weapon against you.

They might seem happy to hear your opinions, the next they will reject you for trying to give advice they don’t like or don’t understand. Clearly your advice was meant as an attack upon someone they liked better. An apology is too much to ask of them.
You can pretend to include yourself, but they will turn their back on you in favor of anyone else at the first opportunity.

They might ask you for information about something, and you might give it to them. You might expect them to include you in whatever is going to happen. You would be wrong.
You can try to be part of their community, but they will make their own plans behind closed doors and exclude you. They don’t really trust you.

You can give them the tools and encourage them to find a solution, but somehow there is malice in your hear
We are just a cog in their machine that never really fit or worked the way they wanted.
Always one step away from being thrown away.