Written By Harlex
Dec. 12, 2018, 12:24 p.m.(2/28/1010 AR)
Thought for a while on this, what it all means--I'm not certain. But what I know is; every soldier's death is a standing in for every other.
That is the score. You are not taught this but come to see it with each battle.
And since Death comes for all of us, soldier or not, there really isn't a way to abate the fear of it except to love that soldier standing in for us.
We aren't just waiting for their history to be written. They passed here long ago.
That soldier who is all soldiers and who stands in place for us until our time comes and we must stand then, as they did before.
Do you love them? That soldier?
Will you honor the path they have taken?
Will you listen to their story?
Will you remember?
I think that's all we can do, in the end.
That is the score. You are not taught this but come to see it with each battle.
And since Death comes for all of us, soldier or not, there really isn't a way to abate the fear of it except to love that soldier standing in for us.
We aren't just waiting for their history to be written. They passed here long ago.
That soldier who is all soldiers and who stands in place for us until our time comes and we must stand then, as they did before.
Do you love them? That soldier?
Will you honor the path they have taken?
Will you listen to their story?
Will you remember?
I think that's all we can do, in the end.
Written By Harlex
Nov. 28, 2018, 11:57 a.m.(1/27/1010 AR)
Private Fane has suggested that, if its of interests to me since I (in her words): "Find combat more compelling than military management." I should collect information on the various martial styles from across Arvum.
That feels like a good deal of work. But I do find myself curious. If time permits, I may be so inclined.
Or maybe, as my luck holds, someone already has done it and will send it to me or point me in the right direction.
That feels like a good deal of work. But I do find myself curious. If time permits, I may be so inclined.
Or maybe, as my luck holds, someone already has done it and will send it to me or point me in the right direction.
Written By Harlex
Nov. 17, 2018, 9:13 a.m.(1/5/1010 AR)
I often do not sleep more than five or six hours a night. On a good night, undisturbed by dreams. I do not sleep alone and there is a comfort in watching your lover sleep. It is a quiet jubilation and I think one of the rare gifts of the gods.
Perhaps that is all transitory death is, between lives, is us being awake and watching our loved ones sleep.
But this morning I felt the warmth of skin and the bundles of extra furs purchased to stave off the cold. No light could find it's way into the room and that was alright. I could see fine without.
I saw the shadows of that tapestry and a hair comb on the nightstand and swords in their rack, just fine metal and no burden upon them. I swear, too, I saw the breath of the wood on the walls, yearning from the weather, or it was just a trick of the light.
And I had a notion that all this death and frustration and sorrow and the spilling of our blood on sacred land is a price that we are being asked to pay more than anything else. It is a tax, or a toll, and for it--well, we will see.
I have not really prayed beyond the accursed things I've said in anger. I do not like to ask for things. That is just my way. But that morning I asked. I prayed for a few hours more peace, an unhurried day, maybe a good fight or two and some luck. I prayed, as well, that we'd look at what's been given and we'd know as a people we did all we could, we gave all we could give, and we did right. And we are seen.
Seems only fair.
Perhaps that is all transitory death is, between lives, is us being awake and watching our loved ones sleep.
But this morning I felt the warmth of skin and the bundles of extra furs purchased to stave off the cold. No light could find it's way into the room and that was alright. I could see fine without.
I saw the shadows of that tapestry and a hair comb on the nightstand and swords in their rack, just fine metal and no burden upon them. I swear, too, I saw the breath of the wood on the walls, yearning from the weather, or it was just a trick of the light.
And I had a notion that all this death and frustration and sorrow and the spilling of our blood on sacred land is a price that we are being asked to pay more than anything else. It is a tax, or a toll, and for it--well, we will see.
I have not really prayed beyond the accursed things I've said in anger. I do not like to ask for things. That is just my way. But that morning I asked. I prayed for a few hours more peace, an unhurried day, maybe a good fight or two and some luck. I prayed, as well, that we'd look at what's been given and we'd know as a people we did all we could, we gave all we could give, and we did right. And we are seen.
Seems only fair.
Written By Harlex
Nov. 12, 2018, 9:07 a.m.(12/23/1009 AR)
This poem is not my own but read and recorded from a scrap of paper marked Siegfried S. Found while combing through borrowed books. Nestled in the blinding of a work on military maneuvers.
"I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter camp, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a knife through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The abyss where youth and laughter go."
(OOC Footnote: Siegfried Sassoon's "Suicide in the Trenches" (1918))
"I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter camp, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a knife through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.
You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The abyss where youth and laughter go."
(OOC Footnote: Siegfried Sassoon's "Suicide in the Trenches" (1918))
Written By Harlex
Nov. 11, 2018, 4:35 p.m.(12/21/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Bashira
I should have just left you alone at that bonfire. We weren't so different. You came from the sea and I came from the road and behind us were a thousand miles of hard times and an uncertain future.
More than your beauty, you looked kind. I needed kindness like a shivering wretch craved the warmth of flames.
Maybe it was the northern spirits but I let you paint my face with your fingers. I drew a little black bird on yours.
I prowled into your life.
Do you remember when you came to bring me Red Sky? You were so thrilled.
I made a fool of myself in Ms. Lottie's shop, bumping and wumping and nearly knocking that table over. You didn't care. I'm so slick now. But I was just a fool then. You didn't care.
At the butterfly garden it was like I had stepped right out of a bad dream and into a good one.
I thought I saw the end of the story.
I was wrong.
When I came back from the Northlands you could tell I had changed. But it wasn't a change. I had seen my self again. My real self.
It was an awakening.
I thrashed and broke apart everything around me in that wakefulness until I had a grip. Until I saw I wanted something else. Something more.
I hurt you. I gave you a wound on the heart. And you still wanted the best for me. You were kind to a fault.
And here we are. Me outliving you.
These things you left behind. Sitting on my table. The fire casting their shadows in strange and writhing torments. Memories. Sometimes I think I'm so steeped in memories, I may drown.
All you ever wanted was to help others. You deserved better for it. I hope you find it in the Wheel's turn.
More than your beauty, you looked kind. I needed kindness like a shivering wretch craved the warmth of flames.
Maybe it was the northern spirits but I let you paint my face with your fingers. I drew a little black bird on yours.
I prowled into your life.
Do you remember when you came to bring me Red Sky? You were so thrilled.
I made a fool of myself in Ms. Lottie's shop, bumping and wumping and nearly knocking that table over. You didn't care. I'm so slick now. But I was just a fool then. You didn't care.
At the butterfly garden it was like I had stepped right out of a bad dream and into a good one.
I thought I saw the end of the story.
I was wrong.
When I came back from the Northlands you could tell I had changed. But it wasn't a change. I had seen my self again. My real self.
It was an awakening.
I thrashed and broke apart everything around me in that wakefulness until I had a grip. Until I saw I wanted something else. Something more.
I hurt you. I gave you a wound on the heart. And you still wanted the best for me. You were kind to a fault.
And here we are. Me outliving you.
These things you left behind. Sitting on my table. The fire casting their shadows in strange and writhing torments. Memories. Sometimes I think I'm so steeped in memories, I may drown.
All you ever wanted was to help others. You deserved better for it. I hope you find it in the Wheel's turn.
Written By Harlex
Nov. 7, 2018, 1:58 p.m.(12/13/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Violet
We didn't have ranks in the Dead Crows.
There was Captain Nazares and his man, Lieutenant Dvorak. Leaders of squads would be appointed based on the operation.
It was informal. But then, we were an informal bunch. Far more interested in the work than the structure.
Colonel Harlex Valtyr. It sounds so strange.
But thank you for your faith in me. I'll wear it proudly. I will continue to not let you down.
There was Captain Nazares and his man, Lieutenant Dvorak. Leaders of squads would be appointed based on the operation.
It was informal. But then, we were an informal bunch. Far more interested in the work than the structure.
Colonel Harlex Valtyr. It sounds so strange.
But thank you for your faith in me. I'll wear it proudly. I will continue to not let you down.
Written By Harlex
Nov. 6, 2018, 12:34 p.m.(12/11/1009 AR)
At first they hated me for the drills. We ran them for sixteen hours straight.
So soon after such a battle--their bodies were right, but their souls were weary.
They needed the normalcy. I forced them through it.
We rented out an old, abandoned house in the Lowers.
I taught them ways to use siege tactics in urban environments. Scouts cover the windows. Heavy infantry man the front doors. Light infantry moves in the back, sweeping each room. Give them only one direction to flee or end up on the end of a spear. Archers stop anyone who makes it past the unit inside.
Ran another where the heavy infantry breached the front door. Harrying those inside to the back. Right into an ambush. Only had one fight break out among the soldiers.
By the end they were moving through that house like a breeze.
Normalcy.
You never forget the bad ones. They go on about sacrifice and 'knowing what they signed up for' and the fallacy that a death for a good cause is a good death. There's something to be proud of, in what we did, but I don't fault anyone for not feeling that pride.
I fought my very best that day and I came home unharmed. I can't help the feeling of guilt in that--this nagging sensation that maybe I could have fought a little harder, that my blood could've been split for the single sparing of a life: someone's son or daughter, husband or wife--father or mother.
I'm certain Private Jaidyn's parents would rather have their girl back, instead of wondering for the rest of their days what exactly she died to defend.
When I was helping carry the dead back to camp I saw the look in their eyes, all the questions. In the corpses I saw broken promises. Faces I had seen before and some I would never know.
We'll account for them, we'll remember them, and when the graves are made we'll march on. But it never gets easier and I gather that, when it does--when they become just soldiers in an army--maybe the Enemy is a little closer to home than we care to admit.
So soon after such a battle--their bodies were right, but their souls were weary.
They needed the normalcy. I forced them through it.
We rented out an old, abandoned house in the Lowers.
I taught them ways to use siege tactics in urban environments. Scouts cover the windows. Heavy infantry man the front doors. Light infantry moves in the back, sweeping each room. Give them only one direction to flee or end up on the end of a spear. Archers stop anyone who makes it past the unit inside.
Ran another where the heavy infantry breached the front door. Harrying those inside to the back. Right into an ambush. Only had one fight break out among the soldiers.
By the end they were moving through that house like a breeze.
Normalcy.
You never forget the bad ones. They go on about sacrifice and 'knowing what they signed up for' and the fallacy that a death for a good cause is a good death. There's something to be proud of, in what we did, but I don't fault anyone for not feeling that pride.
I fought my very best that day and I came home unharmed. I can't help the feeling of guilt in that--this nagging sensation that maybe I could have fought a little harder, that my blood could've been split for the single sparing of a life: someone's son or daughter, husband or wife--father or mother.
I'm certain Private Jaidyn's parents would rather have their girl back, instead of wondering for the rest of their days what exactly she died to defend.
When I was helping carry the dead back to camp I saw the look in their eyes, all the questions. In the corpses I saw broken promises. Faces I had seen before and some I would never know.
We'll account for them, we'll remember them, and when the graves are made we'll march on. But it never gets easier and I gather that, when it does--when they become just soldiers in an army--maybe the Enemy is a little closer to home than we care to admit.
Written By Harlex
Nov. 1, 2018, 11:18 a.m.(12/1/1009 AR)
I was asked once why we rode to defend the Lodge. There is a complex answer, reasons beyond my knowing, but I'm a sellsword first and foremost--I go to fight, because I am being paid to go and fight.
Yet in my few trips there and back, in preparation, I would stop on the stone bridge which arched over the river and I would catch myself listening to the trees and I would see the stone edifice crawling with ivy--with life.
I would, between securing supply caravans and so forth, go to the orchards.
Or the springs.
I would stand at a safe distance and look to the flower fields.
I looked at it all as though it were far more than I deserved to behold. A beauty unmarred. Whole. Holy.
And I thought about something said to me, many years ago, by a very old, very strange man who rode in the Crows.
He said this:
"In the end, Harlex Valtyr, only beauty will save this world."
We were given this land. We war and bleed across it and we turn up fields and burn and salt the earth where our enemies fall. We give alms, we pound shiny stones to coin and we would choke our brothers for a handful of it. We give a thousand reasons to chop down the tree, another thousand for the slaying and skinning of the deer.
We can be consumptive, destructive, and irritable creatures by our nature.
I count myself among the worst. The dark things. Those aspects of ourselves.
But all that has happened has put in me a notion--that if I can help hold the gates then maybe, just maybe, I bring that old man's words a little closer to reality. Maybe I give beauty a chance to do what it needs to do.
And that's about as much a reason a swordsman needs to fight as any.
A chance to make all that violence mean something. I don't know, these thoughts felt worth recording.
Yet in my few trips there and back, in preparation, I would stop on the stone bridge which arched over the river and I would catch myself listening to the trees and I would see the stone edifice crawling with ivy--with life.
I would, between securing supply caravans and so forth, go to the orchards.
Or the springs.
I would stand at a safe distance and look to the flower fields.
I looked at it all as though it were far more than I deserved to behold. A beauty unmarred. Whole. Holy.
And I thought about something said to me, many years ago, by a very old, very strange man who rode in the Crows.
He said this:
"In the end, Harlex Valtyr, only beauty will save this world."
We were given this land. We war and bleed across it and we turn up fields and burn and salt the earth where our enemies fall. We give alms, we pound shiny stones to coin and we would choke our brothers for a handful of it. We give a thousand reasons to chop down the tree, another thousand for the slaying and skinning of the deer.
We can be consumptive, destructive, and irritable creatures by our nature.
I count myself among the worst. The dark things. Those aspects of ourselves.
But all that has happened has put in me a notion--that if I can help hold the gates then maybe, just maybe, I bring that old man's words a little closer to reality. Maybe I give beauty a chance to do what it needs to do.
And that's about as much a reason a swordsman needs to fight as any.
A chance to make all that violence mean something. I don't know, these thoughts felt worth recording.
Written By Harlex
Oct. 30, 2018, 12:44 p.m.(11/25/1009 AR)
I have many more tragic stories to tell. But I would hope to put a little bit of something more light hearted into the world. I heard this one from a drunk sailor, many years ago:
"What happened to the pirate ship that sank in the sea full of sharks?
It came back with a skeleton crew."
No one even punched him for telling that one, which is a miracle in itself.
"What happened to the pirate ship that sank in the sea full of sharks?
It came back with a skeleton crew."
No one even punched him for telling that one, which is a miracle in itself.
Written By Harlex
Oct. 27, 2018, 9:58 p.m.(11/20/1009 AR)
I once heard the story of a young man named William whose father died from falling out of his saddle and whose mother raised him to be good and honest and to mean no others harm.
But he grew wild with wonderlust, as some young do.
So one day he shined his leather boots and he combed his dark hair and he put on his fine steel sword which he had saved for since he was twelve years old.
And his mother, helpless to his need for the wider world, begged him not to go. Above all to not take that sword. That he may be mistaken for a mercenary or some sort of fighter or troublemaker.
William wouldn't hear of it, he said he was a man. He laughed and kissed her forehead. He said he can draw a sword quick and he can thrust straight. But he would never use it without good cause. He said, you raised me right. And he rode out to town on his own. His mother surely wept.
All the way he sang. He smiled. He went into the tavern, he ordered a drink. He felt courage after his first drink. His hand, which had been shaking, calmed. He felt a sudden boldness and assurance that, at last, freedom was his and he had become a man.
Then a vagrant swordsman, blown into town, made it a point to laugh at him. Greenhorn, he called him. He asked if he named his sword. Trying to be genial, William gave a boyish grin.
"Bravery." The young man said.
But the swordsman only laughed. It was unkind. Deep into his drink, the vagrant said. "Ought to call it Untested." And his grin was bitter. "Or Bloodless."
Filled with rage, William went for his sword. Bravery. But the swordsman wasn't just some drunk. A hardcase killer long in the tooth. He pulled his blade fast and before William could even grip proper--he was dead. Heartblood pouring from his chest wound.
The crowd gathered. They saw his eyes, cloudy blue, fade unto Death. And all he could say in his last words was, "Sorry, ma." And he died.
So it went. So it always goes.
The story of that little grave just outside that little town is worth remembering. He's worth remembering.
But he grew wild with wonderlust, as some young do.
So one day he shined his leather boots and he combed his dark hair and he put on his fine steel sword which he had saved for since he was twelve years old.
And his mother, helpless to his need for the wider world, begged him not to go. Above all to not take that sword. That he may be mistaken for a mercenary or some sort of fighter or troublemaker.
William wouldn't hear of it, he said he was a man. He laughed and kissed her forehead. He said he can draw a sword quick and he can thrust straight. But he would never use it without good cause. He said, you raised me right. And he rode out to town on his own. His mother surely wept.
All the way he sang. He smiled. He went into the tavern, he ordered a drink. He felt courage after his first drink. His hand, which had been shaking, calmed. He felt a sudden boldness and assurance that, at last, freedom was his and he had become a man.
Then a vagrant swordsman, blown into town, made it a point to laugh at him. Greenhorn, he called him. He asked if he named his sword. Trying to be genial, William gave a boyish grin.
"Bravery." The young man said.
But the swordsman only laughed. It was unkind. Deep into his drink, the vagrant said. "Ought to call it Untested." And his grin was bitter. "Or Bloodless."
Filled with rage, William went for his sword. Bravery. But the swordsman wasn't just some drunk. A hardcase killer long in the tooth. He pulled his blade fast and before William could even grip proper--he was dead. Heartblood pouring from his chest wound.
The crowd gathered. They saw his eyes, cloudy blue, fade unto Death. And all he could say in his last words was, "Sorry, ma." And he died.
So it went. So it always goes.
The story of that little grave just outside that little town is worth remembering. He's worth remembering.
Written By Harlex
Oct. 23, 2018, 2:10 p.m.(11/11/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Ida
Though the design was unconventional. Dame Ida did excellent work on my new weapon.
I will always admire rubicund for it's imposing display and sharpness, when in the right hands.
It's already been broken in nicely.
I will always admire rubicund for it's imposing display and sharpness, when in the right hands.
It's already been broken in nicely.
Written By Harlex
Oct. 17, 2018, 8:34 a.m.(10/17/1009 AR)
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.
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.
Written By Harlex
Oct. 11, 2018, 3:20 p.m.(10/6/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Delilah
Sleeping beneath under the night sky has always been a trick of mine for a good night's rest. Among other things.
Though, back in my days on the road, I knew a very strange sellsword who always complained he "couldn't stand the sound of the stars" and had to put wax in his ears every night.
Ended up getting trampled by a horse of all things.
Didn't hear it coming, what with the wax in his ears.
Though, back in my days on the road, I knew a very strange sellsword who always complained he "couldn't stand the sound of the stars" and had to put wax in his ears every night.
Ended up getting trampled by a horse of all things.
Didn't hear it coming, what with the wax in his ears.
Written By Harlex
Oct. 7, 2018, 11:19 a.m.(9/26/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Jyri
It has been a while since I hunted boar and with Guardsman Jyri, we managed to track a formidable one down.
I think the beast thought he could out muscle us. What a shame.
Looking forward to that dinner, friend.
I think the beast thought he could out muscle us. What a shame.
Looking forward to that dinner, friend.
Written By Harlex
Oct. 3, 2018, 11:28 a.m.(9/18/1009 AR)
Once at a tavern I met a Blackwoods soldier. His name was Hawkins. This was maybe two years before I came to Arx. He was a private and he was dealing with, still, the sudden changes for him and his people.
He said that things felt much better now but he still had trouble adjusting.
He said that he was focusing his attention on a young woman.
He said he wanted to tell her that she had hair like a sunny day of rain. I don't know what that means, but I told him he should tell her that, and he said he never felt like such a boy than when she spoke to him.
We drank plenty of beer and a few tilts of whisky. He showed me a knife-trick he knew. And he asked me how I learned to sleep comfortably in a saddle while on a long march. I told him, you never really learn to do it comfortably. Eventually we parted ways.
I don't know if there is yet an accounting of the dead for those two hundred lost, but I hope he isn't among them.
And if he is, than I hope he had a chance to tell that young woman what he thought so that, if nothing else, she mourns him. That's all a soldier can ask for in the end. That someone misses them when they are gone.
He said that things felt much better now but he still had trouble adjusting.
He said that he was focusing his attention on a young woman.
He said he wanted to tell her that she had hair like a sunny day of rain. I don't know what that means, but I told him he should tell her that, and he said he never felt like such a boy than when she spoke to him.
We drank plenty of beer and a few tilts of whisky. He showed me a knife-trick he knew. And he asked me how I learned to sleep comfortably in a saddle while on a long march. I told him, you never really learn to do it comfortably. Eventually we parted ways.
I don't know if there is yet an accounting of the dead for those two hundred lost, but I hope he isn't among them.
And if he is, than I hope he had a chance to tell that young woman what he thought so that, if nothing else, she mourns him. That's all a soldier can ask for in the end. That someone misses them when they are gone.
Written By Harlex
Oct. 2, 2018, 12:29 p.m.(9/16/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Berenice
She earned them, I would say.
You have to appreciate such a troublemaker, princess.
You have to appreciate such a troublemaker, princess.
Written By Harlex
Oct. 2, 2018, 10:14 a.m.(9/15/1009 AR)
About three-four years ago I had come to the pastoral lands not far from Acorn Hill. This is where I first heard the story and saw it's conclusion.
See, on the Rothic Farm a ewe foaled a lamb with a somewhat unique wool pattern that for all intents and purpose resembled a flowering petunia--so thus she was called. Now, Petunia and her mother went to summer pasture further north and then returned to the Rothic place and since Petunia was a good-sized ewe and had a distinctive pattern, old Rothic got the notion to keep her as a marker. She stood out.
When you are running flocks as large as a couple hundred on rough range, you have to have what they call on the farmstead 'markers'. This is so the herdsman can get a rough count. You have one for each hundred sometimes in larger flocks, every fifty in small.
Rothic made sure that Petunia, being such a stunning creature, was bred. She had a lamb, although not one as distinct. Petunia, from what I am told, hated her lamb. The usual treatment for this is to keep them together until they bond. Eventually she accepted the baby and both went up north a little ways for the summer and everything was fine.
Well, the second year Rothic bred Petunia again and she had a lamb and she loved it and so went north /again/. Along toward the end of Summer, Rothic was up checking on his herders when one of them told him that Petunia was gone a couple of nights that week, but was back now. Rothic was an old hand at this and he knew a rogue sheep; how they could lead others astray. So he ordered one of his hands to butcher her next chance he got and the lamb, too, and that he could have the meat for his efforts. Now, I have more sympathy for animals than I do people, so at this juncture I was a little raw on this Rothic fellow.
The way it was told was that the herder, perhaps more to my inclination than Rothic, went to butcher Petunia and her lamb and the old girl cut out and caused a bunch of sheep to tag along with her and Rothic, furious, told him that next he sees her to put an arrow between her eyes. Perhaps for dramatic flare, its told that Rothic purchased a Oathland steel crossbow special for the execution. It doesn't matter much for what happened next.
See. A few nights later, Garthen (another sheep-raiser some miles from Rothic), sent a messenger to Rothic saying that he had a sheep with his brand on it and she was clearly a marker by the unusual pattern of her wool. It is said, by those in attendance, that Rothic whispered only one word when he read that missive, "Petunia."
He sent a message back with simple instructions. "You do me a great kindness by executing that sheep and her lamb and that you may keep wool and meat both." Garthen wrote back that he did not like the idea and that she had brought, as well, a whole brigade of Rothic's outlaw strays with her and he better ride out anyway. So Rothic, with his crossbow, cut for the Garthen pasture to deal with the matter himself.
But by the bright morning Garthen came out of his cottage with a brew of coffee and said that the renegade had gone and that she had taken some of /Garthen's/ sheep now. She must have 'had the foresight of a prophet' for she had gotten away before he could wrangle her and the others.
Now, this did not become an isolated incident. It happened three more times. Each time a fellow would send a message to Rothic and Rothic would ride out like a vengeful spirit and come upon nothing but the sob story of another herder who lost Petunia and her band of outlaws. They had become to call her, in that small region, The Bandit Queen.
This is where I came in and the story was told to me while I sat on the porch with the family kind enough to harbor such a disreputable swordsman. I think I laughed a good deal which was a rare occasion back then. But one morning we sat out there and I watched the wife of the husbandman sweep the coming autumn from the doorway, that a guard captain rode by with a guard and asked if I was able to help them with an issue. It seems that a prodigal was causing a fuss at one of the pastures. I don't know how they heard that I was some shav expert but I went anyway, trouble always knew how to tug at my hand. We rode up and found the fellow seated on the ground, weeping, with a spear laid across his lap.
Gods above, I don't know what I would have thought if I hadn't heard the story; but nearby hitched to a spike in the ground was none other than the Bandit Queen herself. The Guard Captain knew, his guard knew, and because I heard it just the other night; I knew too. This prodigal had caught her and he wept because he knew what had to be done. And by his Spirits, he was loathed to be a legend-killer.
None of them wanted to be the local who killed the Bandit Queen. Everyone loves a good outlaw. But I was a mercenary, just passing through, and they looked to me then and offered me a thousand silver to do the deed. I have done wickeder deeds for much less. I felt pensive about it but I drew my sword. The Guard I remember she said, "Are you really going to do that?"
And I responded in my most resolute voice, "It has got to be done--she is costing these folks coin and time that they don't have." And I put on my most reluctant performance which, I think for not being much of a an actor or liar, was pretty damn fine. They asked about the lamb then and I said, as coldly, "It'll have to go too."
They stood there, not a breath between them, as I approached the Bandit Queen...
Then.
It didn't take long for the prodigal and I to safely tie Petunia and her lamb together and the fellow took them like dogs on a leash. He said something that I couldn't understand and the Guard Captain translated, "He won't take any money. But I told him I would bring him up some food stuffs and a bottle of whisky for his trouble." I said, "You had better keep that Bandit Queen locked up tight, or every herdsman in the Oathlands is going to be after you. Especially Rothic."
The prodigal must have understood me. He grinned a little. He pulled at the leash and headed toward the woods where he kept his small, modest hut. We mounted up and the Guard appeared skeptical of all this and asked if she would not get loose again and this would all begin once more. I remember watching them vanish into the treeline. Unhurried, bleating lost among the hearty oaks.
"Maybe her wandering days are over." I said. "Kind like us, we only get caught when we wish it."
I came here to write some tragically notion about impending battle. But I have been at this for thirteen years and what is true then will always be true; either my luck will hold or not. Instead, I would commit to record this particular story.
I think it is a fine one.
See, on the Rothic Farm a ewe foaled a lamb with a somewhat unique wool pattern that for all intents and purpose resembled a flowering petunia--so thus she was called. Now, Petunia and her mother went to summer pasture further north and then returned to the Rothic place and since Petunia was a good-sized ewe and had a distinctive pattern, old Rothic got the notion to keep her as a marker. She stood out.
When you are running flocks as large as a couple hundred on rough range, you have to have what they call on the farmstead 'markers'. This is so the herdsman can get a rough count. You have one for each hundred sometimes in larger flocks, every fifty in small.
Rothic made sure that Petunia, being such a stunning creature, was bred. She had a lamb, although not one as distinct. Petunia, from what I am told, hated her lamb. The usual treatment for this is to keep them together until they bond. Eventually she accepted the baby and both went up north a little ways for the summer and everything was fine.
Well, the second year Rothic bred Petunia again and she had a lamb and she loved it and so went north /again/. Along toward the end of Summer, Rothic was up checking on his herders when one of them told him that Petunia was gone a couple of nights that week, but was back now. Rothic was an old hand at this and he knew a rogue sheep; how they could lead others astray. So he ordered one of his hands to butcher her next chance he got and the lamb, too, and that he could have the meat for his efforts. Now, I have more sympathy for animals than I do people, so at this juncture I was a little raw on this Rothic fellow.
The way it was told was that the herder, perhaps more to my inclination than Rothic, went to butcher Petunia and her lamb and the old girl cut out and caused a bunch of sheep to tag along with her and Rothic, furious, told him that next he sees her to put an arrow between her eyes. Perhaps for dramatic flare, its told that Rothic purchased a Oathland steel crossbow special for the execution. It doesn't matter much for what happened next.
See. A few nights later, Garthen (another sheep-raiser some miles from Rothic), sent a messenger to Rothic saying that he had a sheep with his brand on it and she was clearly a marker by the unusual pattern of her wool. It is said, by those in attendance, that Rothic whispered only one word when he read that missive, "Petunia."
He sent a message back with simple instructions. "You do me a great kindness by executing that sheep and her lamb and that you may keep wool and meat both." Garthen wrote back that he did not like the idea and that she had brought, as well, a whole brigade of Rothic's outlaw strays with her and he better ride out anyway. So Rothic, with his crossbow, cut for the Garthen pasture to deal with the matter himself.
But by the bright morning Garthen came out of his cottage with a brew of coffee and said that the renegade had gone and that she had taken some of /Garthen's/ sheep now. She must have 'had the foresight of a prophet' for she had gotten away before he could wrangle her and the others.
Now, this did not become an isolated incident. It happened three more times. Each time a fellow would send a message to Rothic and Rothic would ride out like a vengeful spirit and come upon nothing but the sob story of another herder who lost Petunia and her band of outlaws. They had become to call her, in that small region, The Bandit Queen.
This is where I came in and the story was told to me while I sat on the porch with the family kind enough to harbor such a disreputable swordsman. I think I laughed a good deal which was a rare occasion back then. But one morning we sat out there and I watched the wife of the husbandman sweep the coming autumn from the doorway, that a guard captain rode by with a guard and asked if I was able to help them with an issue. It seems that a prodigal was causing a fuss at one of the pastures. I don't know how they heard that I was some shav expert but I went anyway, trouble always knew how to tug at my hand. We rode up and found the fellow seated on the ground, weeping, with a spear laid across his lap.
Gods above, I don't know what I would have thought if I hadn't heard the story; but nearby hitched to a spike in the ground was none other than the Bandit Queen herself. The Guard Captain knew, his guard knew, and because I heard it just the other night; I knew too. This prodigal had caught her and he wept because he knew what had to be done. And by his Spirits, he was loathed to be a legend-killer.
None of them wanted to be the local who killed the Bandit Queen. Everyone loves a good outlaw. But I was a mercenary, just passing through, and they looked to me then and offered me a thousand silver to do the deed. I have done wickeder deeds for much less. I felt pensive about it but I drew my sword. The Guard I remember she said, "Are you really going to do that?"
And I responded in my most resolute voice, "It has got to be done--she is costing these folks coin and time that they don't have." And I put on my most reluctant performance which, I think for not being much of a an actor or liar, was pretty damn fine. They asked about the lamb then and I said, as coldly, "It'll have to go too."
They stood there, not a breath between them, as I approached the Bandit Queen...
Then.
It didn't take long for the prodigal and I to safely tie Petunia and her lamb together and the fellow took them like dogs on a leash. He said something that I couldn't understand and the Guard Captain translated, "He won't take any money. But I told him I would bring him up some food stuffs and a bottle of whisky for his trouble." I said, "You had better keep that Bandit Queen locked up tight, or every herdsman in the Oathlands is going to be after you. Especially Rothic."
The prodigal must have understood me. He grinned a little. He pulled at the leash and headed toward the woods where he kept his small, modest hut. We mounted up and the Guard appeared skeptical of all this and asked if she would not get loose again and this would all begin once more. I remember watching them vanish into the treeline. Unhurried, bleating lost among the hearty oaks.
"Maybe her wandering days are over." I said. "Kind like us, we only get caught when we wish it."
I came here to write some tragically notion about impending battle. But I have been at this for thirteen years and what is true then will always be true; either my luck will hold or not. Instead, I would commit to record this particular story.
I think it is a fine one.
Written By Harlex
Sept. 28, 2018, 11:25 a.m.(9/8/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Berenice
Why, princess. What's wrong with mud?
Written By Harlex
Sept. 28, 2018, 10:36 a.m.(9/8/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Edain
I have not had a good catfish meal in a long while.
This has put me in the mind to do some fishing.
This has put me in the mind to do some fishing.
Written By Harlex
Sept. 25, 2018, 6:17 p.m.(9/2/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Mydas
I am not a knight. Nor a Godsworn. But I am a soldier and I have killed plenty in my time.
Plenty more to come by the course of things.
What I have learned from Tehom is that if violence and war make a beast of you than you had best not lock that beast up too often or it will tear you apart from the inside.
There is a passion for violence in me that I long tried to hide and only by acknowledging that darkness am I able to choke it some for control and turn it against a foe.
Instead of myself. It takes effort to not let it consume me. Still, it remains a better option than trying to deny it.
Plenty more to come by the course of things.
What I have learned from Tehom is that if violence and war make a beast of you than you had best not lock that beast up too often or it will tear you apart from the inside.
There is a passion for violence in me that I long tried to hide and only by acknowledging that darkness am I able to choke it some for control and turn it against a foe.
Instead of myself. It takes effort to not let it consume me. Still, it remains a better option than trying to deny it.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.