Arx, After the Reckoning

What in the world have you all been doing to the Scholars while I was away? They look positively haggard.

I, on the other hand, am aglow from a summer spent in various scenic locales.

I expect everyone to come by the House and tell me very exciting stories about what I've missed.

I only did not win, dear nephew, because I was indisposed and unable to attend.

I'm aghast not to have read word of my own beard, which I've been cultivating these many weeks and was sure everybody would have noticed!

I was quite pleased with the titles you have come up with! I am fond of Queen Symonesse, and while she is the sweetest and most generous person I have ever had the pleasure of sharing tea with (she adores tea, and should any wish to offer her a gift, tea or night blooming flowers would make her thrilled) I would not feel comfortable being refereed to as "Queen" of anything. Perhaps I shall have to come up with something after all.

Have you seen the King's beard? His Majesty's beard is regal all on its own and holds meetings. Glorious, truly. Ask him he'll tell you.

I cannot speak to any other man's beard, but I do have a few tips. First, leave the thing alone and trim it occasionally when it gets too long.

Actually, that's it. Leave it alone.

Once upon a time, there was a spider. This spider was a free spirit, having long ago set sail on a wind and let it blow her to wherever it might, with little care for where she had ended up. Her life was a simple one, a dangerous one, but a pleasant one - and in one evening, everything changed forever. We don't need to tell the details of the story - we all know them, now.

What's important is what happened to the spider after. Disbelieved, forgotten, ignored, unable to live the only life she had ever known, there was a time when she felt herself lost, and felt despair closing in.

It was during this time that the spider had a dream. She woke up in a formless field of white, standing on nothing, but still standing, clinging to nothing, but holding on. And she heard a voice - perhaps it was her own, in a way - speaking to her.

The voice said, "What he did to you will never go away. No matter how long you live, the nightmares will come. It will always hurt. Even if your body is fixed, the scar in your mind will never fade."

"I know," said the spider. And as she said these words, shapes began to emerge out of the endless white. Dark figures, terrifying ones. Monsters and demons, or at least the hints of them, and the spider knew that these would be her constant companions going forth.

"You are angry. You will always be angry," said the voice. "Even in the happiest times of your life, even if he is dead, the anger will linger and fester."

"Yes," said the spider, and as she spoke these words, her eight legs each became wreathed in flame. Always threatening to consume her, but never quite doing so. She had always left her mark, wherever she had been, whoever she had been with - scars and broken hearts and upturned lives. That would not change. But the flames were so much more potent now, and that, in itself, terrified her.

"It can never be made right," spoke the voice.

Here, the spider paused. Instead of responding immediately, she considered that statement for a long while, all while the heat of her fury and the darkness of the world surrounded her. Finally, she spoke. "No, it can never be made right." The darkness around her seemed to grow stronger, and sharp, wicked blades and claws became visible. "But -" she began, and here the danger seemed to pause for a moment, as if it were regarding her. "But," she repeated, her voice stronger now, "I can do everything I can to make it as right as I can."

The blades and claws? They changed. No longer were they wicked weapons that would threatened to tear her apart. They were still there, but the metal became purer, took on a sheen. Elaborate, gilded hilts and sheaths formed around them, and the claws became attached to not monsters, but noble beasts of the wild: still dangerous, always dangerous, but things to be looked at with awe rather than fear.

And the spider began to realize: she was in control of what her life would look like.

"You are choosing the most difficult path," the voice intoned. "There will be pain beyond belief. Not just for yourself, but for those close to you, and for those who surrounded him. Do they all deserve it?"

"I am, there will, and I can't answer that last one for myself," the spider said. Here, the whiteness made its biggest shift yet. No longer was it formless, but a steep mountainside, covered in stones and pitfalls, treacherous loose ground, ragged bare brush and almost no sustenance. The spider did the only thing she could do: she began to climb. Every step would be a struggle, she knew. But when the other option was to sit there and quietly die? That was against everything she believed.

"Each of them will have to make their own choices, as I am making mine," the spider said. "As he made his. Not everything will be like I want it to be. I might die, I see so many ways that I might die. But at least I know I will have done so fighting for something that matters."

"Why does it matter?" that voice asked. "What's the point?"

"I am not going to lie," said the spider. "It's for me." And she grew a little in size, and she also grew in strength, but there began to be whispers in the air. Other voices.

"You are selfish," they said. "You are a fool," they said.

But the spider wasn't done. "It is about me, yes, but it is also about all of those in the world who are like me, and all of those in the world who are like him." No longer was the spider alone, for now the side of the cliff was covered in hundreds, thousands of other creatures, of all shapes and sizes. Some lashed out at each other. Many lashed out at themselves. But she saw them, and she knew what they were - they were all the others who were suffering without redress, who were weakened and pained and hurting just as badly as she was.

Most of them weren't like her. Most couldn't do the things that she could do. And so, her climbing grew faster, and she began to shine. As she did, the drab rocks around her changed. Some became gemstones. Beautiful mineral veins ran through the drab mountainside, coming to life, and she focused and tried to make the climb itself a thing of beauty.

"You are going to miss out on so many things because you are doing this," the voice told the spider. "You are going to destroy so many things that could be wonderful in your life."

"I will," said the spider. "And there will be times I will be distracted - because I am not perfect - and maybe I won't be quick enough, and maybe more people will be hurt because of that." Even as she said this, she knew it was true, and more death became a part of her world. A stand of white trees appeared to her side, corpses scattered throughout, her presence there completely absent. The spider knew guilt, for how many of those lives might she have saved if she stayed focus? The spider knew regret, because she should have been there. She knew that what happened there was, at least a little, her fault. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Those words did nothing. Her apologies wouldn't change this world, what had happened, or bring people back to life. But even with him gone, that didn't truly change what she had to do. There were enough others like him in the world, and if he was capable of doing what he had done, then so were they. She needed to make what had happened as right as she could.

"They are going to try to tear you apart and tear you down in every way they know how. They will use your flaws against you, reframe your strengths as weaknesses, insult you and try to rip you apart," said the voice.

"I only ask for what is rightfully mine. They cannot hurt me worse than he did, and how they treat me will tell the world far more about them than it does about me," said the spider, and the flames around her grew bright and hot with her determination. "You cannot burn what is already aflame."

"You are flawed," the voice told her. "You share many of the same traits he did."

"I am, and not everything I do will be right, not everything I want will be perfect. All I can do is admit to my mistakes when they come and try to be more," said the spider.

At that moment, the spider made it to the top of the mountain. She could finally see the world around her, but it was murky, chaotic, conflicted.

"This is not a good time," the voice whispered to her. "How are you more important than any of that?"

"It will never be a good time," said the spider, and she screamed what had happened out from the peak of her mountain, where everyone would be able to hear it.

A million voices screamed back, and she fell silent, watching and trying to understand.

Finally, she heard the voice come through clear over it all: "What kind of world do you want?" And she knew that this had been the question from the beginning. This was the only one that mattered.

"I want a world that's better," said the spider. "I want a world that is full of light and life, love and happiness, where it's understood that pain is part of life, but where that pain does not have to define the life of anyone else in the way it has mine."

The chaos below changed, still frenetic, still constantly moving, but now instead of being terrifying, it was mesmerizing. Like swirls of water filled with golden powder that sparkled in the sunlight as it churned - it was still dangerous, but it became a beautiful thing.

"I want a world that's better," repeated the spider. "A world where we, each and every one of us, do better. Whether hero or monster, you live your life to the fullest and seek excellence, and shine brightly and truly. A world where we hold people to account who fail to live up to the very standards which they claim to live by."

The darks of the world grew darker, the lights of the world grew lighter, and everything around the spider was shown in vivid contrast, the dull blendings of the world fading away. It was so intense it sometimes hurt to look at, but there was no doubting that it was alive.

"I want a world that's better. A world where fear doesn't prevent justice, where birth doesn't mean victimization, where cruelty does not thrive just because it has power behind it. A world where we are all able to become our full potential."

The spider looked behind her, and down the mountainside, and she saw the beauty of the other creatures who had appeared. Not all would make it where she was, and many would destroy themselves, but that didn't mean any were less beautiful, and she found herself defining them by that rather than their pain - even when that was so obvious.

"Then fight for it, Celia," said the voice.

***

Bliss started awake after that dream. Her shoulder was in agony, a sheen of sweat across her body, and her bandages needed to be changed. But there was really only one thing on her mind.

"I want a world that's better," said Bliss, into the cold night air. Nothing changed. But this, she now knew, was how it began.

Once more, there have been changes that make an update of my will a good idea, so this one will take precedence of those that have come before:

All of my writs, as well as the cobalt axe in my possession, should go to house Grimhall, to be used as the head of that house sees fit.

My silver and all possessions not otherwise mentioned elsewhere in this journal entry should go to Lady Vanora Grimhall, whom I love with all of my heart.

Blood Reaver, my rubicund axe, should be set aside in the care of Lady Vanora Grimhall, to be given to my heir Arken Grimhall when he is of an appropriate age to begin weapon training.

My rubicund armor should be set aside in the care of Lady Vanora Grimhall, to be given to our child Antony Grimhall when he is of an appropriate age to begin weapon training.

The bronze dagger I keep in my belt should go to my brother Ingvar.

The pendant I wear should go to my sister Ingrid.

Care of my children, including my heir Arkyn Grimhall, is entrusted to their regent Lady Vanora Grimhall.

Finally, my black journal entries should be released only to my children, when each turns fourteen years of age so that they can better know the sort of man their father was. Otherwise, my black journal entries should remain sealed.

Today I gifted the most marvellous thing as a belated wedding gift to Joscelin. Let me tell you the tale of how it ended up in my hands!

A few months back I was doing some trading down south along the coast and we went to a small town... I don't even quite remember the name right now, but it wasn't very large at all.

As is custom, we drank with the locals in their lovely little tavern and as the night progressed I ended up spending the night with this adorable young lady... whose name escapes me right now, but let us call her Maya. (I have no idea, but I like that name.)

Apparently sometime during the night I promised her I would take her via the ship to an island where another town is, and that I also had to take along an item. I even signed a paper on it and she procured this next morning. Seeing this as not that much of a problem, I figured - why not? And I had signed!

Two days later we were leaving and Maya and four of her brothers carried out this gigantic old liquor cabinet onto a cart and proceeded to roll it down to the beach. This was to be taken with Maya to the island where she would be moving to live with her husband to be. Apparently a family heirloom that once stood in a Lycene castle and had belonged to a prince something something - they weren't even that sure themselves where it came from to begin with.

Though my crew were protesting wildly, we got the clunky furniture onto the ship somehow and we lashed it securely in the hold.

We sailed off and as soon as Maya was no longer in the presence of her family, she procured another contract and told me: 'I will not drag that piece of furniture into my new home. It is hideous and we all hate it! Here, I am signing it off to you as payment for the journey across.' We both signed copies and I was quite gleeful. It was a wonderful piece with an amazing story!

We let Maya off on the island, said our farewells and sailed onwards. I heard later that her family were livid about this and something about possibly not being welcome back in that town, ever - like I stole it! I have lost the contract, but I swear - she gave it to me.

Did you truly disagree on the topic of my beard being Best Beard?

We are no longer bros.

Wouldn't it be fun to be Princess Jaenelle, the Lycene Rose of Ledgers, Queen of Accounts and Slayer of Dread Potholes though? I mean, you likely wouldn't want to try and use such titles officially, but in casual correspondence and at social functions with family and friends it might be slightly amusing, for a little while.

There may be many negative things said in the white journals we keep, but I pen today a positive.

For weeks now I have been debating whether or not I should have armor made. The city at times has been dangerous (for those here during the Siege) and there are new foes marching in our direction. While no slight is meant against the Iron Guard, it is simple fact that there are times when our city's defenders cannot be everywhere at every time. Moreover, I find myself itching for chances to get out of the city, and for that something to keep me safe during travel would be wanted.

After hearing some of Mother Bianca's adventures and the dangers involved while serving the Compact, I decided I could not wait. If I want to take advantage of what my patron can offer, I need to be willing to put myself out there and take a risk.

This week, Mistress Josephine was kind enough to help with that decision, and I will be sure to put the armor she has helped me assemble to good use. She has my thanks, and as does House Bisland and all those that helped fund her efforts, and I wish them penned here for prosperity.

And if this entry is a bit wordy and long? Well, I'm certain you will all read this and understand that the weight of the new armor is considerably, and my apartment has quite a view from its high floor... and I do not at all look forward to those stairs with this weight.

On the topic of best beards...

It was decided some months ago that Lord Geralt Crovane, Sword of Stormwall has the best beard in the city. This was voted on by a committee of interested observers at the Beards and Brew sponsored by House Redrain at the Spirits.

If the results are questioned there will be a beard and brew once the Lodge has been deemed secure. If you feel your beard is better than the rest. Put your face rug to the test. Come and display your finely groomed jaw.

Which bottle? I've been deep in many cups since then and I don't remember.

But the Duke oils it with the blood of his enemies! That's how he keeps it so sleek and smooth and magnificent.

What does your daily beard grooming regime entail? And if not Duke Vercyn then who has the best beard of beards (currently residing in the city)? If you contest my claim, you must have another in mind. Your own? (It is a good one. I'm not trying to disparage your tremendous beard but you have stiff competition).

If only there were some way to settle this that would involve you taking off your shirt, Lord Brogan.

Well.

It has been a TIME! I mean, it's always a time. Time progresses, and that's the way of it. But it has been adventurous time! I went on an expedition (at last!) with my very good business partner, Mayir, and we actually ended up with a fairly decent set of takeaways from it - sometimes despite my best efforts. Don't judge! I'm just not very much a SEAFARER, really. And being inside of a great, spooky ship was very exciting, but also very wet and very full of sand. Sand is the enemy!

Anyway. We did bring back some nice pieces. And then I promptly got rather ill, and laid in my bed for a while bemoaning my fate. But once that was done, I went back to restoring and looking in my old stock for some materials, and finally, three more pieces are available at the shop! At least three - I might be able to get a couple more all ship shape (ha! See what I did there??) before the end of the day. I feel energetic! Productive! Profitable!

So, remember Storied Treasures, near the Blackrose Theatre for all of your occasional antique needs.

I am not a Minister, certainly not of coin. Looking at my bank account, the tellers have been giving me despairing looks. I might have depleted all of my funds paying off people in the various bits of research I've been working on over the last year to help with the coming battle to come with the Lodge. Money well spent, and I am starting to grow it back to full capacity by saving the allowance I am given and trading favors for silver. In time, I shall be able to grow it back to the small fortune that was there, assuming there are no other crises to look into that require my attention.

In the meantime, I spend bits here and there - smaller bits than looking for those answers for the Lodge - to travel, and see the world once more. I really ought to write a book about my recent mountain adventure; a report for the Explorers at the very least, since it also involved a bit about Brass, and there are two more trips involved - the very least - that stem from our exploration efforts.

In the Dead Crows we each had our personal philosophies.

We came from all walks of life and we did our best to respect it.

But as mercenaries, we held to one singular Law:

"That which is taken by the sword can only be recovered by it."

A simpler view of things. Though I'm not here to say it's the right way, but it has always been my way. And I think I want it recorded.

Maybe in the future someone wiser and sharper than us will make sense of how soldiers become this way. Never found an answer I liked completely.

If we're discussing best beards, I would like to nominate Baron Norwood. No one has a more well curated beard than that man. Perhaps he'll share his secrets with the rest of us.

A lot of people have listened to me lately. Listened and comforted, listened and distracted, or listened and advised.

The common thread is that they listened.

I really appreciated it, all of you.