Sinclair sits down at his desk. He sets down a sheet of paper and starts to write. Then he stops.
“I don’t have anything useful to report.” He thinks to himself as he suddenly drops the pen. He moves his injured wrist again, wishing he could grab it with his other hand. He can feel those same feelings rise up again. Anger. Embarrassment. Shame. He silently curses himself for showing those feelings after he nearly died. “You have a job to do. Stop trying to be a hero.” He tries to tell himself again.
Sinclair looks back down at the paper. He struggles to find an answer. Should he just go back home as a failure again? Is it really failure if it saved the lives of those under him? He still isn’t sure if he can continue to support his troops with the limited amount of coin to be found in Runeheim.
He looks to his weapon, leaning against the door. It was hard for him to not care about the people of Runeheim. But he was in more danger than anyone really knew during all the fighting during forum.
Sinclair lets out a sigh and dismisses the thoughts, putting on a casual smirk. He places his hat on his head and walks out to man the walls of Runeheim with his soldiers.
One-Eyed Wolves
Ragnar was young, just after the very edge of childhood, 15 or 16 winters, he could never keep track. This day he found himself in the deep woods surrounding his mother’s camp, a place he fled to often. His mother’s Karls were fearsome warriors but they made poor company for Ragnar and when he needed to escape their merciless teasing and downright violent games he went to the woods. At his side was a small hunting knife he’d “borrowed” from one of the Karls who’d had a bit too much to drink, in the past he’d carried a bow when he left, but that had earned him mockery in itself so he stopped that as well. Ragnar moved through the woods doing his best to put their cruel words behind him as he trekked further into the wilderness. Ragnar walked for some time until suddenly he saw a massive hairy figure crouching hidden in the bushes, at first Ragnar thought it was a bear, but as it moved shifting in it’s crouch it became clear that the figure was not an animal, but a man, a large hairy man with a sword strapped across his back. Ragnar’s heart raced, “an enemy scout?” he thought frantically, he needed to return to camp and warn his mother. He began to walk backwards slowly, hoping to escape without the mans notice. Just then his foot caught on a vine and he tripped, crashing into the brush. Ragnar didn’t look to see how the man reacted, he only ran trying to put as much distance between them as possible. Soon Ragnar felt a hand on his shoulder, he spun around with his hunting knife slashing at the hand and shouting, his assailant simply knocked the knife from his hands , stepped forward, placed one hand under either of Ragnar’s arms, and before he could do anything Ragnar was lifted from the ground, “LET GO!” Shouted Ragnar, trying to break free to no avail. As Ragnar struggled he got a look at the man, he was large, with thick dark hair covering every inch of exposed skin, he wore a heavy beard and had a lain leather eye-patch covering his left eye, with the other being a bright blue color, matching Ragnar’s own. The man held Ragnar for a moment, never budging even as he tore and bit the mans arms in a desperate attempt to be free. Slowly the man began to grin before shouting, “I’ve found you! My son!” and pulling Ragnar into an embrace. Ragnar stopped struggling as the man set him back on the ground, “Father? How did you find us?” he asked, his voice shaking and tears welling up in his eyes. His Father smiled and clapped him on the back, “Come my son, I will explain more as we go, there is much to show you.”
Ragnar awoke from the dream in a bed not his own, he looked down at the figure sleeping soundly beside where he’d lain and smiled, then silently, he began to get dressed, he needed to take a walk. A few minutes later Ragnar had left began walking the trails in the wilderness, his thoughts, scrambled and painful, were on the events of the Forum, his folly, his weakness, and his pride. The Friar had told him he needed to learn from this, maybe he did, but what was the lesson? Ragnar walked in silence for some time, his thoughts his only company, until he heard a growling in front of him, Ragnar looked up and saw a wolf. The Wolf was clearly haggard and weak, emaciated from lack of food, it’s fur turning grey along the edges marked it as an elder, and a scar running across the space where it’s right eye had been marked it as a warrior. Ragnar looked around for signs of a pack, and strangely found none, this wolf was alone. Ragnar stared at the beast blocking his bath, it bared it’s fangs at him, growling a challenge, he simply stared back. Frozen in time Ragnar was forced to make a choice, did he move forward as he always did? Did he try to take a different path, to change the way he walked? He stood at a crossroads. Finally Ragnar made his choice and he stepped back keeping his eye on the wolf, he did not wish to fight, he would not accept it’s challenge. All at once the wolf lunged at Ragnar growling, Ragnar spun to avoid it but it’s jaw still clamped down on his arm and the momentum pulled him to the ground. As he fell he spun, placing his free arm on the wolf’s neck and when the landed he landed on top of the beast, pinning it. Ragnar tried to pull his arm free, hoping the shock would have loosened the wolf’s grip, but the creature sank it’s teeth further into his flesh preventing him from leaving, Ragnar roared in pain, his free hand searches for something, anything, until his fingers close around a rock loose in the dirt. The Wolf tears at the flesh on his arm, Ragnar screams and raises the stone, he brings it down. Once, a sickening thud. Twice, a violent crack. Three times, the sound a liquid spilling. Ragnar pulls his arm free from what remains of the wolf’s jaw, covered in blood. The body of the now headless wolf lays in the dirt, spilling it’s lifeblood onto the ground, Ragnar vomits. “Why had the wolf attacked him?” Ragnar thought, but deep down he knew. In a daze Ragnar cleaned his wound, the injuries were deep, but not serious, and then he returned to the bed that was not his own where he slept once again, dreaming of One-Eyed Wolves.
Of Darkness and Hearts Divided
I stared at the little girl with gold ringlets sitting on my knee, she was a spitting image of her mother.
“Uncle Armand, why did the bad man take mommy?” Irinia asked me.
“He wanted to hurt me, sweet girl. He knows I love you all so much.”
“But you saved mommy and stopped the bad man!” She said with a huge smile on her face. “Uncle Armand is a hero!”
Uncle Armand is a hero. No I’m not. I am a villain through and through. A murderer and a thief and a torturer. A man who will do anything he needs to in order to secure his station.
“Maybe if you kill them all you won’t have to deal with this conflict.” It says with its oily voice. “Maybe you can embrace who you are. Who we are. Do it Armand, become one with me.”
I ignore the voice and stare at my niece, sitting there, innocence unshattered by countless lives staining her hands. What I would give to make sure she never feels what I feel, or make the decisions I have to make. What I will give.
“Are you going to kill the bad man, Uncle Armand?” She whispers quietly.
“I am. I will will protect all of you.”
I exit the small cabin into the brisk fall evening. How can I protect them if Alexis is still alive? What is he planning? It doesn’t matter. I will find him and I will do what I do best.
Uncle Armand is a hero.
Lady In Crimson
Glittering gold adorns the crimson dress sweeping the floor behind each confident step. Their skillfully-painted gaze cuts through the crowd and lands on mine – calm despite the chaos. I don’t recognize the fine fabrics nor the title, but I recognize the person wearing them. “Rollo,” I feel the overcast rime surrounding the black centers of my eyes tighten, pupils dilating at the confirmation – she does recognize me. It is her. “Come here. Now.”
My legs move on their own. I turn my face, hiding the deep purple bruise on that side. Poorly. She has my ear, “…Y-yes? …My Lady?”
“Go to my bedroom. My bed is against the wall,”
This is hardly the time, I think, but I’m very amenable to hearing them out.
“There’s a basket. Inside it is a pistol. Bring it to me.”
Ah. Well. “Yes, My Lady,” It’s easier to say it the second time. I run.
It is as described, and I gently pass the firearm to them as one might hand over a wolverine pup. I’m just grateful it didn’t go off in my hands on the way back to the tavern – who knows how those things work?
I’m offered further insight immediately, as now she is shooting a rushing branded man in the chest. I can’t help it – I jump at the sudden sound; the flash; the unexpected scent of cinders and blood. I gape, my tone both stunned and reverent, “…My Lady…!”
They stand there a moment, time suspended. I’m quick to recover and dare to touch her, “We have to run. Now,”
Ragnar Stoneskin – haggard, yes, but still undying – prevents us from running, which really cramps my style. Not all of us can be fearless and indestructible, after all. But we make it to a safer place and stand guard at the door.
After a moment (which may have been quiet if it weren’t for all of the branded slaughtering each other) and a crick in my neck from looking at the stars rather than their eyes beside me, I say what I’ve been gathering courage to all day long, “…So… My Lady?” How many offenses have I given? Behaving as though we were anywhere near equals?
“Yes,” she sighs.
“I’m sorry.” I say, “If I’d known, I would’ve…” Would’ve what? “This whole time–”
They stop me, or maybe I’d just forgotten all words and let the conversation wither enough that they step in to assist. I’ve given no offense, they say. I wasn’t meant to know. She is Lady Encarmine, but she is Esparei also.
I don’t know what I feel. A fearful guilt, certainly. Things I’ve said and done around them which I would never dare to do in front of nobility flock in my mind. A hopeful relief, as well. They ask me to come with them to their room to help them undress to a more crisis-suitable outfit.
In a moment her laces are in front of my face just like before. I tug at the tight ribbons. They turn so I can unclasp their busk. She says, “You know, I think I like you on your knees,”
The remark exorcises the tension from the room and I can’t help but smile, “You’re not the first person to say that to me,” I say. She knows.
Free from their corset, I stand and offer other aid. Knowing that this is not where my skills lay, I imagine, she asks me to stay safe. I worry for her. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she promises. And she leaves.
I stand alone, safe in the cabin, and I wonder – will the scent I wore to the masquerade linger in their mind like a ghost the way theirs does now in my own?
The Ghostkeeper’s Charge
The wooden wheels creaked as the cart rumbled over the broken earth. They would reach their destination soon, and Skarde’s grim work would begin. He needed to clear his mind so he could focus on memorizing the tales he would be told on the battlefield. He didn’t often get the opportunity to ask his subjects to repeat themselves. At least Tora had offered to drive the last stretch of road here.
Normally this kind of trip would have been perfect for getting him in the right headspace, Tora was a capable lover, No thoughts needed, just action, emotion, passion. The simple way. The good way. And Lady Callistra was so much fun to torment, he could tell she enjoyed herself, despite declining to join in. One day.
So why was Skarde feeling so unsatisfied?
Lady Callistra sighed softly in her sleep and shifted slightly, her head resting on Skarde’s shoulder. He had forgotten she was even there. Even with the movement, he found it hard to convince himself she was, there was an emptiness there at his side. Like something should be pressed up against him but wasn’t.
“Hear the tale of Fritjof, pack leader” Skarde whispered to himself. No, not quite right, he would have to keep working on it.
“We’re here!” Tora called from the driver’s seat, snapping Skarde back to the present. He suddenly realized the smell of blood hung heavy in the air, how had he not recognized it yet? Focus Skarde, focus. It was time for the Ghostkeeper to do his work.
-Simpleton-
The arena was empty when the squire arrived, pre-dawn, cold, clear, and crisp. Since the end of the contests and tournaments the roped off ground had been abandoned, save for a stray animal or two… and Tumble. His shirt, heavy armor, and tower shield piled in a corner, the squires bare chest steamed in the cold air as he slowly moved though the motions of a series of strikes and blocks. He couldn’t read the sword manuals he was trained from to save his life, but his instructor had drilled these lessons into him so hard it had penetrated even his thick skull.
His foot work slipped, and the strike was sloppy.
He dug in his heels and began again
And so, each morning, he practiced. With armor, without. With his shield, and without. Over, and over, and over again, until his breath burned and his arms ached, and his lungs felt like ice. He was no Ice Hardened, but he was the son of a Smith and a Farmer, used to the pre-dawn hours.
The callouses on his palms tore and the blood made the sword too slick to hold.
He bound his hands and began again.
Visions danced before as he worked. Images of horror he could never unsee, things he would never ever forget. Burning corpses rising again, shadowy spirits that crushed his mind with a word, blood drunk clansmen feasting on human flesh as they boasted about murder.
A hollow suit of armor and flowing cloak that mocked him for his simplicity. His… ordinary mortality.
His hips turned too slowly, the cut was weak and easily punishable.
He reset and began again.
Tumble drilled until his legs felt like frozen stumps and he couldn’t lift the heavy training blade anymore. Until the whispered jokes and jests and quiet laugher he had heard the last two days faded to the back on his mind. Until, mortal as he was, simple as he was, he had to stop and rest and watch the dawn break over the trees.
His breath in steaming clouds, he counts on his shield hand fingers:
“One: I will never take a human life”
“Two: I will never flee from the face of Evil.”
“Three: I will stand for those cannot stand for themselves”
Then he stands and begins again.
Apple blossom
Esparei had delayed unpacking for as long as possible. But she’d finally caved and put everything away carefully, every gown, every robe, all of her furs, her books, things that reminded her of Capacionne. She unpacked the portrait last- her family, in a dreamy pastoral scene, a smaller copy of the painting in their home in Beauclair. A tree laden with blossoms on an island that had never known a storm. Whole and perfectly preserved for all time. She couldn’t look at it for long. It hurt too much. It just made her think of…that night four years ago. There had been so much blood. And fire. And- no. Don’t dwell on it. She already couldn’t shake the image of Victor collapsing, bloody and shocked. She’d thrown up after, begging Rollo to help her out of her masquerade gown, nearly in tears as he helped her change into something easier to move in, so she could go help that reckless Njord.
Ragnar.
She looked at the red flowers on her desk, next to a little wooden figure painted crimson. Such sweet gestures, from a person who was so loud, so, so chaotic- the gentle nature of his gifts was jarring, almost. When he’d been stabbed in the tavern, when Victor had gone after him, she’d shielded his body with hers, unthinking. That’s what you do when you protect someone, right? Not just with words and titles. Not hiding away waiting for her grandfather to call her home.
A tree laden with blossoms on an island that had never known a storm. Until the storm came. And now…being able to speak openly about the coup with Saga had felt like a cork had been pulled from her soul and everything poured out in that moment. They knew. They’d heard terrible things. They listened when she said how important it was to serve the people you are responsible for. They told her the plight of the Njords, of the suffering and the harsh, unyielding land they fought so hard to preserve. And it made her heart ache. She wanted to talk to Vernon more too, she’d felt so guilty for ruining her atonement. She wanted to tell Svanhildr everything. She wanted to hug Ragnar- he gave such good hugs, like nothing could happen and she was safe, if only for a moment. That comfort meant a lot when she was painfully homesick and lonely.
A tree, stripped bare by the storm. But still living.
A Lady, alone.
-Too Big, Just Right-
Willam Smith looked at the stranger in the polished copper mirror, dressed in fine boots and homespun clothes under a worn gambeson and armor that was anything but shining. He lifted one arm the stranger followed in lock step, metal plates rubbing and clinking together with the simple movements. A slow spin in place and a rolling of the shoulders produced a sound like a coin purse being aggressively shaken and Tumble couldn’t help but chuckled at himself. All dressed up like a maid at her first barn dance and twice as nervous.
A shield sat in the corner of his small room, stoically guarding the corner with zealous fervor, his sister’s painting scrawled across the front. He still wasn’t sure where she got the paints, and he wasn’t going to ask either. The white wings and knight’s golden helmet were straight from one of their childhood fairy tales, the kind of knight who slew monsters, who saved princesses and nobles, whos armor gleamed like noonday sun. Again, Tumble stared at the stranger in the mirror and the too-big armor it wore.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and recalls what his father told him when he first helped his son into the thick cloth and metal plates. When Willam had expressed concern over the size of the armor, worried it would be too big for him. But his father had seen the true issue, the anxiety over being a squire, of the responsibility of being the first Smith to leave the farm in several generations, of being the first son to leave Murten in an age.
Roain Smith’s response was the same to all worries, spoken and unsaid
“You’ll grow into it.”
Calculations of an Apothecary
“I was told you were the man to see.” A burly njord squeezes himself sideways through Helgi’s small door. Helgi scowls for only a moment before adopting his pleasant smile reserved for dealing with brutes. This man was trouble, but also in need. Trouble and opportunity so often come hand in hand, he mused.
“And who told you such things?” Helgi prepared some tea and gestured to his sturdiest bench as a seat.
“That doesn’t matter, can I trust your discretion?”
“Of course, if you trust your friend’s referral then you can trust me as well. If you don’t, then feel free to leave before wasting my tea.” A light jab, test the ice, how desperate is the brute.
The brute scowls but shrugs and takes the tea. Good, he’s committed. Such a small step, but it’s a step over the line. “I need to kill a man.” He reveals, looking at the floor. Yes there it is. But he feels guilty. No, ashamed.
“And you cannot challenge him directly. So you come to me. You need something slow, so that you will not be there when he dies?” The man nods at the floor. “Tell, me why do you want him dead?”
“What does it matter?”
“I have my rules.”
The man pulls at his face. Tired eyes finally meet Helgi’s piercing gaze. “He killed my father. Then when my brother challenged him he killed my brother as well. I cannot face him in the challenge, but I must avenge them.”
Helgi nods, “And why did he kill your father?”
Eyes to the floor again. His tea grows cold, still untouched. “In battle. my father was raiding his homestead.”
Helgi’s scowl returned to stay. “And does he have children?”
“… No.” The pause was too long.
“How many children does he have?”
The man eyes burn a hole in the floor. “Two.”
“And a wife?”
“Yes”
“Twenty silver.”
The man looked up in surprise. “Why…?” He falters.
“You need four doses.”
A Wrong Thing for a Right Reason
I haven’t even slept overnight before Haxl comes to me. My hands have only known my own pockets since entering the Lord Saenger’s service – and I intended for that to remain the case – but when she explains her story, my heart tugs with a camaraderie it hasn’t since my life in the Rimeland. She doesn’t ask for anything not rightfully hers, wrongfully taken from her, and I find her request difficult to refuse.
I wait until after convocation and out from under the eyes of the Gothics’ Lion God to pinch her necklace from the guardsman. Can someone do a wrong thing for a right reason?
We end up sitting and simply talking together for a moment under the smokey, fire-mage moon. An ominous omen, but beautiful when filtered through the black pines and shared with a fellow. I’ll admit to a touch of pride at her surprise to discover I’d slipped the trinket into her pocket in passing.
She assures me she’ll be alright without the coins she offers in return. “We have to look out for each other,” she says. I trust my lord to take care of my needs and yet… I hope our paths cross again.
