Written By Freja
April 23, 2017, 2:33 p.m.(5/1/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Aureth
Your armor was heard all the way to Farhaven and back again.
Still, looks good on you.
By the by, I owe you tremendously for the swords you pledged. When we get through this mess you get a whiskey or twelve and a few tales on me.
Fuck it.
I'm buying you and Aleksei a barrel.
Still, looks good on you.
By the by, I owe you tremendously for the swords you pledged. When we get through this mess you get a whiskey or twelve and a few tales on me.
Fuck it.
I'm buying you and Aleksei a barrel.
Written By Freja
April 23, 2017, 9:02 a.m.(4/28/1006 AR)
"You will be like me. Alone, without a chorus of your own. And no one to hear the song of the dead you left in your wake..."
So were its last words, but he never was a prophet.
I owe them all my life, ten times over at least. But for now, I sleep.
So were its last words, but he never was a prophet.
I owe them all my life, ten times over at least. But for now, I sleep.
Written By Freja
April 20, 2017, 3:14 p.m.(4/22/1006 AR)
Never in all of my days, nor perhaps even its, has the Grove seen the oddity last night's gathering brought.
The courting continues and it proves a sanguine affair.
Healer still needed. Guards at the door pointless. Only more fodder for his chorus.
The courting continues and it proves a sanguine affair.
Healer still needed. Guards at the door pointless. Only more fodder for his chorus.
Written By Freja
April 16, 2017, 11:59 p.m.(4/15/1006 AR)
The voice rang out over the forest, a tempestuous thunder that attempted to shake snow down from the mountains.
But mother mountain had roots that ran deep, older than this seasonal storm still in its spring.
The wind whipped through the crags, echoing through caverns that time had long since forgotten, and yet mother mountain did not stir.
Attention was held by the tempest, for it was the loudest and demanded to be paid heed like a petulant child.
The thunder had its hour, its time upon the stage, but died as quickly as it had been born while mother mountain remained as she always had.
But mother mountain had roots that ran deep, older than this seasonal storm still in its spring.
The wind whipped through the crags, echoing through caverns that time had long since forgotten, and yet mother mountain did not stir.
Attention was held by the tempest, for it was the loudest and demanded to be paid heed like a petulant child.
The thunder had its hour, its time upon the stage, but died as quickly as it had been born while mother mountain remained as she always had.
Written By Freja
April 16, 2017, 11:48 p.m.(4/15/1006 AR)
Finally, a marriage prospect. A tragedy it is demonic. Literally.
Written By Freja
April 10, 2017, 12:36 p.m.(4/2/1006 AR)
Thrown into not one, but two walls by the demon in Queensrest Inn. The gash on my back is just to add insult to injury.
Thing is, I heard them. All of them and him. Every soul he took. In the middle of that chaos no one tried to touch me, except him. I almost got him, felt against the brush of my fingertips before he tried to tear me in two.
Apparently, this gives him no end of pleasure of attempting to torment me with his missives. He is watching, I know. By the sound of it he intends to meet me again and I won't miss a second time.
Thing is, I heard them. All of them and him. Every soul he took. In the middle of that chaos no one tried to touch me, except him. I almost got him, felt against the brush of my fingertips before he tried to tear me in two.
Apparently, this gives him no end of pleasure of attempting to torment me with his missives. He is watching, I know. By the sound of it he intends to meet me again and I won't miss a second time.
Written By Freja
March 28, 2017, 10:12 a.m.(3/3/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Brier
Finally! A woman taller than me. Within the first five minutes of meeting her we were killing corrupted Shavs together - she took them out with her fists. No weapons, her FIST. Over the swing of my own axes I swear I heard her break one of their jaws. I love Redrain's vassals.
I'll have to find her and buy her a whiskey or twenty when this impending doom business is all over and done with.
I'll have to find her and buy her a whiskey or twenty when this impending doom business is all over and done with.
Written By Freja
March 26, 2017, 11:34 p.m.(3/1/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Anze
For all of father's tempermental cruelty that Fergus and I inherited, you had mother's kindness, her heart. It is something I both relish and envy for you seem to find joy where we could not. Even now you have the love of a miraculous woman and my heart sings for you, truly, but it is because you have mother's spirit - not ours.
I wish I could have your understanding, your kindness, and if I ever failed you I'll have you know I am sorry.
But then I remember, we all have that trickle of Torrud's fickle fire in us, and even -you- have had your mouth go off when it shouldn't. I don't regret making you eat snow when I was nine, you fifteen.
Do not go softly into that silent night - make as much noise as I very damn well know you are capable of.
My glacial heart may be a mercurial, tenacious tempest of the same ilk of our home's terrain, but you and Fergus have always had a way of thawing the floe I encase myself in.
Torrud's Bloody Brood will cull them, until the last.
See you on the other side, whichever side of the veil that may be.
I wish I could have your understanding, your kindness, and if I ever failed you I'll have you know I am sorry.
But then I remember, we all have that trickle of Torrud's fickle fire in us, and even -you- have had your mouth go off when it shouldn't. I don't regret making you eat snow when I was nine, you fifteen.
Do not go softly into that silent night - make as much noise as I very damn well know you are capable of.
My glacial heart may be a mercurial, tenacious tempest of the same ilk of our home's terrain, but you and Fergus have always had a way of thawing the floe I encase myself in.
Torrud's Bloody Brood will cull them, until the last.
See you on the other side, whichever side of the veil that may be.
Written By Freja
March 26, 2017, 11:18 p.m.(3/1/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Fergus
You have always been the perpetual thorn in my side, Anze and you both. It is a wound I willingly take with just as much verbal venom to give in return.
Ours was anything but a gentle upbringing; the Sword of Farhaven would not have his children thought weak, nor would he stand to abide it ever in his own thoughts - fuck what others may deem. His lessons were no crueler than the Northern winter's, perhaps even kinder?
We three grew in age and love together, sibling rivalry turned to a fierce loyalty felt in the marrow of our beings, extending past the shared familial name and responsibility we all inherited.
If we die tonight, deep in those catacombs, I die knowing I fight alongside father's sword, the family's, rightfully carried now. It is a legacy wrought in our blood more than the blade itself, for the honed edge can only be as good as the hand and heart that wields it.
Once more you and I shall stand at the brink and smile, beckoning with a curl of the lips only war hardened spirits can muster - the cold iron of the North.
Torrud's Bloody Brood will cull them all, until the last.
Ours was anything but a gentle upbringing; the Sword of Farhaven would not have his children thought weak, nor would he stand to abide it ever in his own thoughts - fuck what others may deem. His lessons were no crueler than the Northern winter's, perhaps even kinder?
We three grew in age and love together, sibling rivalry turned to a fierce loyalty felt in the marrow of our beings, extending past the shared familial name and responsibility we all inherited.
If we die tonight, deep in those catacombs, I die knowing I fight alongside father's sword, the family's, rightfully carried now. It is a legacy wrought in our blood more than the blade itself, for the honed edge can only be as good as the hand and heart that wields it.
Once more you and I shall stand at the brink and smile, beckoning with a curl of the lips only war hardened spirits can muster - the cold iron of the North.
Torrud's Bloody Brood will cull them all, until the last.
Written By Freja
March 26, 2017, 11 p.m.(2/28/1006 AR)
Bunkered down, the rip in the air behind me with shadows just through it, ghostly figures whispering in a contained cacophony about me. I heard the shouts above but heard the whispers below. The latter was far louder and resonates, echoic euphonic epiphany in repetitious recitation. Favored.
Written By Freja
March 18, 2017, 10:36 a.m.(2/11/1006 AR)
-The Woading of Warriors-
As time marches on, that steady and irrefutable drum, traditions become old and antiquated - subject to rust just as much as the blade. Brittle, worn, hung on the wall more for decoration and a sense of hereditary obligation than actual use.
Redrain is not so. We do nothing without purpose, even if the means to the end will be written off as 'savage nonsense' by those who harken from outside our borders. Back home in Farhaven I remember father taking red clay from the courtyard while one of the Shaman of the house spoke the words, the ritualistic marking and Woading of his three children to each receive the three red marks of our House on our face for all to see. We would enter the fray, the reminder of what we fight for written on our skin for all to see. He always found it worth a chuckle, father that is, he had enough children with fighting spirit to 'embody the three drops of Redrain'. "Torrud's Bloody Brood" as some back home would call us. Charming, but doesn't really inspire the suitors to come piling in.
When I began my steps to follow Aunt Drea into our Path of Shamanism I was honored, overjoyed that I could learns the words to match the woads father always insisted we paint on our skin before battle. My tradition would not rust. I will see carry on as much as the blade Fergus now carries.
That said, and with the host that now marches towards our gate, I will extend this tradition past "Torrud's Bloody Brood". I invite all those of Northern blood who have fealty to Redrain, whether through direct oath or our esteemed and honorable vassals, to join me at the cusp of light's break at Redrain's Grove to receive the ritualistic markings as I beseech the spirits for their help to guide us, to help us, to make the flight of the arrow swift and the arc of the blade true.
Redrain will march, Redrain will fight.
We will stand - Until the Last.
As time marches on, that steady and irrefutable drum, traditions become old and antiquated - subject to rust just as much as the blade. Brittle, worn, hung on the wall more for decoration and a sense of hereditary obligation than actual use.
Redrain is not so. We do nothing without purpose, even if the means to the end will be written off as 'savage nonsense' by those who harken from outside our borders. Back home in Farhaven I remember father taking red clay from the courtyard while one of the Shaman of the house spoke the words, the ritualistic marking and Woading of his three children to each receive the three red marks of our House on our face for all to see. We would enter the fray, the reminder of what we fight for written on our skin for all to see. He always found it worth a chuckle, father that is, he had enough children with fighting spirit to 'embody the three drops of Redrain'. "Torrud's Bloody Brood" as some back home would call us. Charming, but doesn't really inspire the suitors to come piling in.
When I began my steps to follow Aunt Drea into our Path of Shamanism I was honored, overjoyed that I could learns the words to match the woads father always insisted we paint on our skin before battle. My tradition would not rust. I will see carry on as much as the blade Fergus now carries.
That said, and with the host that now marches towards our gate, I will extend this tradition past "Torrud's Bloody Brood". I invite all those of Northern blood who have fealty to Redrain, whether through direct oath or our esteemed and honorable vassals, to join me at the cusp of light's break at Redrain's Grove to receive the ritualistic markings as I beseech the spirits for their help to guide us, to help us, to make the flight of the arrow swift and the arc of the blade true.
Redrain will march, Redrain will fight.
We will stand - Until the Last.
Written By Freja
March 15, 2017, 1:23 p.m.(2/6/1006 AR)
The simple things - how often I forget their pleasure.
We get so tied up in the image others wish us to project that we lose the original sketch somewhere along in the process.
I never angle to be a masterpiece, but I can control the medium and color palette at the very least.
We get so tied up in the image others wish us to project that we lose the original sketch somewhere along in the process.
I never angle to be a masterpiece, but I can control the medium and color palette at the very least.
Written By Freja
March 12, 2017, 10:39 p.m.(1/28/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Aleksei
We have more in common than I honestly ever thought we would. Consider the lesson well learned: Puns. Never. I daresay, that lesson will never leave you!
Written By Freja
March 5, 2017, 11:36 p.m.(1/15/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Kima
In another life you were still a gorgeous blonde, and I the surly axe wielder. It still only counts as one.
Written By Freja
March 5, 2017, 11:35 p.m.(1/15/1006 AR)
I found the compass, myself as true north. Time to move.
Written By Freja
Feb. 26, 2017, 11:54 p.m.(1/1/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Deva
A cousin, closer in some ways than I would ever be with the others, now we must say farewell. I am both happy and sad to see you go, but I know you will make purpose and mirth bloom where-ever you may go. The name may change, but the blood will not. You will always be a bear in my eyes - even if you do have to travel further now to share cookies and whiskey.
Written By Freja
Feb. 26, 2017, 11:25 p.m.(1/1/1006 AR)
I thought you had left me, but I hear you once more.
Thank you...even if you are vexing in your own ways as always.
Thank you...even if you are vexing in your own ways as always.
Written By Freja
Feb. 19, 2017, 4:36 p.m.(12/14/1005 AR)
The heart beats.
It races, ignited with the hunt and the impending battle.
Amid the clash of steel, the ringing of weapon against armor, arcing and singing through the air to cut through that deafening din.
Above all, it is the swift staccato I hear. The soldier's metronome to dictate the rhythm of my riposte and axe's rise.
I had once thought it imperative, vital that I find further use for it - but the song is false, the prose poison.
The blade is cunning, culling, and a straight a path as I'll ever need and I'll use it to carve out the fount of caustic cause if the beat ever skips to another's melody.
And thus, will vanish the thaw.
It races, ignited with the hunt and the impending battle.
Amid the clash of steel, the ringing of weapon against armor, arcing and singing through the air to cut through that deafening din.
Above all, it is the swift staccato I hear. The soldier's metronome to dictate the rhythm of my riposte and axe's rise.
I had once thought it imperative, vital that I find further use for it - but the song is false, the prose poison.
The blade is cunning, culling, and a straight a path as I'll ever need and I'll use it to carve out the fount of caustic cause if the beat ever skips to another's melody.
And thus, will vanish the thaw.
Written By Freja
Feb. 15, 2017, 12:47 p.m.(12/6/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Nadia
We may have not always seen eye to eye, but a soldier's death is an honorable one. May the Spirits keep and guide you, Duchess.
Written By Freja
Feb. 15, 2017, 12:25 p.m.(12/6/1005 AR)
-Gray Forest Ghost and Battle of Pridehall-
I've been 'instructed' that I am to keep a better record of things, at least martially speaking.
A few weeks prior to the Battle of Pridehall - left while the city slept, albeit bruised and bearing marks from a previous day/night of rigorous training. Saddle sore has a whole new meaning to me now.
I took the paths skirting the mountains, up towards Whitehold, pushing up into the Northern snows and then back down again to press any remaining Shavs out of hiding from that direction.
Well, I found myself playing the cat and mouse games I earned a reputation for back home in the North.
I had picked off dozens of their sentries before a force of two thousand shavs was sent to search for me.
Two. Thousand.
Sadly, or rather hilariously, it was ineffective and they only ever found the bodies - some of them cheekily arranged around a stump as if at a game of dice. A gal has to get her kicks while freezing her ass off, doesn't she? Apparently, they have taken to calling me the Ghost of the Gray Forest for this, ha! Scout of the Snows, Gray Forest Ghost? I wonder what other monikers I can collect in varying territories.
When that business was done, the two thousand shav force distracted and broken off from the main contingent, we moved to join the Battle of Pridehall. We kept to the outskirts, picking off the wanderers and those trying to creep up on the lines.
When the hammer of the Oathlands and Thraxians hit from the rear, we joined in the Redrain force that hit from the north.
The snow has thawed, and how grand it feels to have direction again.
I've been 'instructed' that I am to keep a better record of things, at least martially speaking.
A few weeks prior to the Battle of Pridehall - left while the city slept, albeit bruised and bearing marks from a previous day/night of rigorous training. Saddle sore has a whole new meaning to me now.
I took the paths skirting the mountains, up towards Whitehold, pushing up into the Northern snows and then back down again to press any remaining Shavs out of hiding from that direction.
Well, I found myself playing the cat and mouse games I earned a reputation for back home in the North.
I had picked off dozens of their sentries before a force of two thousand shavs was sent to search for me.
Two. Thousand.
Sadly, or rather hilariously, it was ineffective and they only ever found the bodies - some of them cheekily arranged around a stump as if at a game of dice. A gal has to get her kicks while freezing her ass off, doesn't she? Apparently, they have taken to calling me the Ghost of the Gray Forest for this, ha! Scout of the Snows, Gray Forest Ghost? I wonder what other monikers I can collect in varying territories.
When that business was done, the two thousand shav force distracted and broken off from the main contingent, we moved to join the Battle of Pridehall. We kept to the outskirts, picking off the wanderers and those trying to creep up on the lines.
When the hammer of the Oathlands and Thraxians hit from the rear, we joined in the Redrain force that hit from the north.
The snow has thawed, and how grand it feels to have direction again.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.