Written By Harlex
Sept. 24, 2018, 3:52 p.m.(8/28/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Berenice
No.
But for some reason I didn't get to my coffee this morning.
It puts a man in a state of disquieted reflection.
But for some reason I didn't get to my coffee this morning.
It puts a man in a state of disquieted reflection.
Written By Harlex
Sept. 24, 2018, 3:11 p.m.(8/28/1009 AR)
My stepfather, Arturus Valtyr, would have celebrated his 55th birthday today.
He worked as hard as any man out in that field. He prayed, he shucked, he toiled, he read books on the subject of agriculture, and consulted with shamans in secret--to proud of his Faith.
He did just about everything a person could do and still, the crops did not grow or when they did; the ear rot grew with them.
Till, finally, one day his heart gave out while we were in the tall stalks. His face got twisted and ugly and he fell on his back, curled like a dead bug. I watched him go, staring and thinking to myself; just die already, stubborn old man. Then he was gone.
He tried. He did his best. And that's all I can really say about him.
He worked as hard as any man out in that field. He prayed, he shucked, he toiled, he read books on the subject of agriculture, and consulted with shamans in secret--to proud of his Faith.
He did just about everything a person could do and still, the crops did not grow or when they did; the ear rot grew with them.
Till, finally, one day his heart gave out while we were in the tall stalks. His face got twisted and ugly and he fell on his back, curled like a dead bug. I watched him go, staring and thinking to myself; just die already, stubborn old man. Then he was gone.
He tried. He did his best. And that's all I can really say about him.
Written By Harlex
Sept. 20, 2018, 11:18 a.m.(8/20/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Isidora
A skilled physician, healed me up. I appreciate someone use to tending to soldiers.
They aren't afraid to boss you around.
They aren't afraid to boss you around.
Written By Harlex
Sept. 18, 2018, 10:45 a.m.(8/16/1009 AR)
My mother, Loretta, once caught me and the Casever girl down by the lake. I was sixteen and only trouble and when she chased her off with her hollering I knew it wasn't her she was cross with. My mother didn't like me lying.
"Did you say you loved her?"
"Yes."
"Did you mean it?"
"Right then I did." I think I smirked.
And it was here that she cracked my head with a switch. I only grumbled. The sickness had made her weak. She use to hit harder. I wish I had noticed those early signs.
"Lex." She said. "Someday you are going to say that to someone and I hope it hurts because you mean it. I hope she takes a knife and slices out your heart and shows you it and the blood is deep and black all over in her pretty palm. Then she eats it raw. And all the while you love her for it."
"What's that even mean? Why the Abyss would I?"
"You dumb boy." She paused then, I won't forget that rare smile. "You'll see."
"Did you say you loved her?"
"Yes."
"Did you mean it?"
"Right then I did." I think I smirked.
And it was here that she cracked my head with a switch. I only grumbled. The sickness had made her weak. She use to hit harder. I wish I had noticed those early signs.
"Lex." She said. "Someday you are going to say that to someone and I hope it hurts because you mean it. I hope she takes a knife and slices out your heart and shows you it and the blood is deep and black all over in her pretty palm. Then she eats it raw. And all the while you love her for it."
"What's that even mean? Why the Abyss would I?"
"You dumb boy." She paused then, I won't forget that rare smile. "You'll see."
Written By Harlex
Sept. 15, 2018, 1:06 p.m.(8/10/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Zoey
A well written thought.
It is a hard lesson, but if you must learn it--never forget it.
It is a hard lesson, but if you must learn it--never forget it.
Written By Harlex
Sept. 11, 2018, 11:07 a.m.(7/27/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Lisebet
I would aim to echo some of Bliss's comments. That it is--the business of heroism--setting yourself up for disappointment, so long as they live. That a hero-after-the-fact is an easier sell than one walking amongst us.
You see, I have just found in my time, that when you set someone up like that, you mark them. You make it so that when they come to the gates and find they cannot trespass, when they see their luck won't hold and it is wiser to retreat, that they will not. As though the hands of multitudes push at their backs. Push them into those black flames. Chanting their name.
That is a hard thing to do to a good soul. You lay that guilt on them and it's a kind of corruption in itself. But people are just like that; tradition-lovers, storytellers, singers and scribes. They want to honor sacrifice and noble deeds.
I don't know.
I only know the way I've seen it. But that is how I've seen it time and time again. That when I have seen stone statues lying in their coffins, they have all had feet of clay.
You see, I have just found in my time, that when you set someone up like that, you mark them. You make it so that when they come to the gates and find they cannot trespass, when they see their luck won't hold and it is wiser to retreat, that they will not. As though the hands of multitudes push at their backs. Push them into those black flames. Chanting their name.
That is a hard thing to do to a good soul. You lay that guilt on them and it's a kind of corruption in itself. But people are just like that; tradition-lovers, storytellers, singers and scribes. They want to honor sacrifice and noble deeds.
I don't know.
I only know the way I've seen it. But that is how I've seen it time and time again. That when I have seen stone statues lying in their coffins, they have all had feet of clay.
Written By Harlex
Sept. 8, 2018, 3:50 p.m.(7/22/1009 AR)
The subject of weapons came up in the drilling field. Qualities of steel and so forth. I tried to tell them that a good swordsman is better than a good sword.
They (the recruits) wouldn't hear it and asked me about mine.
So I told them about Grim.
When I arrived in Arx, I carried a longsword given to me by Captain Nazares when I joined the Dead Crows. He said it belonged to a 'mean-spirited corpse' and I never asked what that meant, but it doesn't take a Scholar to figure it out.
It was a standard longsword, thirty six inch blade the rest in the hilt. Only weighed about three, four pounds. Rusted to all damnation. It's previous owner had the cross-guard lined with these spikes that made it look like a straightened vine of thorns. Nasty instrument.
I loved it. I used nothing else.
After I came to the city, for a long time, it just sat near the fireplace. I'd eyeball it every evening, over a drink, and all the memories that were hidden in that blood-rust across the edge and in the pommel, in the secret dents and glaring scars.
Till one day I got sick of looking at it and I took it to Felix and had him detach the hilt, forge a new one, and fix up that tired blade. Even made a silver plating for the new pommel and new guard. Came out remarkable.
I then took the rusted hilt to the Shrine of Gloria. It seemed like the thing to do. And I gave it a bath in those flames, offering up all it's good deeds and asking forgiveness for the bad. Maybe I heard something, maybe I didn't.
Either way, since then I have had some luck with it, but it's still nothing special. It's limitations are clear, even in my hand. Just steel, as common as a blade of grass.
But there's no denying that it's deep as a well in it's memories.
And perhaps I will make some more with it, in time.
They (the recruits) wouldn't hear it and asked me about mine.
So I told them about Grim.
When I arrived in Arx, I carried a longsword given to me by Captain Nazares when I joined the Dead Crows. He said it belonged to a 'mean-spirited corpse' and I never asked what that meant, but it doesn't take a Scholar to figure it out.
It was a standard longsword, thirty six inch blade the rest in the hilt. Only weighed about three, four pounds. Rusted to all damnation. It's previous owner had the cross-guard lined with these spikes that made it look like a straightened vine of thorns. Nasty instrument.
I loved it. I used nothing else.
After I came to the city, for a long time, it just sat near the fireplace. I'd eyeball it every evening, over a drink, and all the memories that were hidden in that blood-rust across the edge and in the pommel, in the secret dents and glaring scars.
Till one day I got sick of looking at it and I took it to Felix and had him detach the hilt, forge a new one, and fix up that tired blade. Even made a silver plating for the new pommel and new guard. Came out remarkable.
I then took the rusted hilt to the Shrine of Gloria. It seemed like the thing to do. And I gave it a bath in those flames, offering up all it's good deeds and asking forgiveness for the bad. Maybe I heard something, maybe I didn't.
Either way, since then I have had some luck with it, but it's still nothing special. It's limitations are clear, even in my hand. Just steel, as common as a blade of grass.
But there's no denying that it's deep as a well in it's memories.
And perhaps I will make some more with it, in time.
Written By Harlex
Aug. 30, 2018, 7:24 p.m.(6/28/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Nico
Well done, Private.
There's no end to the training of a soldier but every milestone is worth the pain.
And every loss is a lesson learned.
Keep at it, the both of you.
There's no end to the training of a soldier but every milestone is worth the pain.
And every loss is a lesson learned.
Keep at it, the both of you.
Written By Harlex
Aug. 24, 2018, 12:16 a.m.(6/14/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Monique
It seems to me that fighting brings out the honest qualities in us. Win, lose, or draw.
That kind of experience eases things between folks. She proved a good sportswoman with the turn of the cards and after, we had us a fine chat.
That kind of experience eases things between folks. She proved a good sportswoman with the turn of the cards and after, we had us a fine chat.
Written By Harlex
Aug. 22, 2018, 12:36 a.m.(6/10/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Jacali
Two drops before bed and some water did the trick. The night was quiet.
Much obliged.
Much obliged.
Written By Harlex
Aug. 20, 2018, 8:22 a.m.(6/6/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Barric
You didn't waste my time in the ring. And your words will linger with me for the rest of my own days. I wish only that I could measure my skills against yours one more time. That is selfish, I suppose.
I hope, however, that you found what you were looking for there at the end. What did it look like, I wonder.
Either way, soldier--Let it turn. See you.
I hope, however, that you found what you were looking for there at the end. What did it look like, I wonder.
Either way, soldier--Let it turn. See you.
Written By Harlex
Aug. 16, 2018, 9:31 p.m.(5/28/1009 AR)
Most of my stories end with dead men.
There is one though from several years ago when the Crows were far to the northwest of the map. I told this story once to Lottie and she liked it enough that I guess it was time to commit it to record. Maybe someone wiser than me will learn a thing from the telling. Who can say.
I have been thinking about it lately, nonetheless.
We had made camp to await orders from our employers. It was two days and already we were getting restless. When soldiers get restless, they get stupid. There were three of us who this happened to; myself, young fellow named Pyewacket, and Burke. And we volunteered to go hunting. We were low on meat and soldiers can't survive on alcohol alone.
It was a harsh and brutal land. Winters were long and the snow was coming down in torrents that could knock you clear from your saddle. We stayed close to a small grouping of trees, a copse I think they're called, hardly a forest, hoping to catch some stag or foolish goat wandered from its farm.
Burke saw him first, prowling low to the ridge of a snowy hill. Burke was our sharpest scout after Ayleen. He always said--when we told this story--that he saw the thing's eyes first. They were icy blue against the full grey coat. None of us had ever seen a wolf so big, or broad, and we weren’t certain it wasn’t some lost long-hair warhorse.
When I was a boy, a she-wolf bit me near the edge of the Gray. Since then I’ve been cautious around the beasts. So I was hesitant to provoke it. Pyewacket kept saying wolves don’t hunt alone; that a pack must be nearby.
But Burke didn’t listen to either of us. Dumb and hungry as he was and, well, maybe a little drunk.
He slung an arrow and fired it right at the thing. It went wide, lost in the powder of the hill. The wolf stopped-still in its tracks and looked right at us.
And we froze.
Sometimes a thing comes over a man and he is helpless against it; the whole world opens up to stare right at him in that moment. Nothing can prepare you for such a feeling. Facing your own insignificance.
After a minute it started coming down the hill at no special hurry, padding through the snow drift like it walked on air. Burke got enough madness to fire another arrow. This one missed as well. The closer the wolf came, the more frantic our archer got, arrow after arrow fired until his quiver was empty.
Before that moment I thought he could never miss. I had seen Burke hit the flame off a candle from an acre away.
It was at the edge of the trees when he found his voice.
'Kill it, Gallows.’ He said to me. 'Kill it!'
I went for my sword then, like a seizure, found that I couldn’t draw it; I don’t know, maybe my nerves were shot too. The wolf just sat there a while and then turned and walked away back toward the hill, as if it’d been daring us to kill it. And we were not up to snuff.
But we had all lost our courage and wouldn't pursue. Pyewacket even pissed himself. Dumb kid. We had to return before he was frozen in his trousers.
So, empty-handed, we went back to camp. That was that.
I don't know, but the whole thing was strange.
Don't know if I'll ever forget it.
There is one though from several years ago when the Crows were far to the northwest of the map. I told this story once to Lottie and she liked it enough that I guess it was time to commit it to record. Maybe someone wiser than me will learn a thing from the telling. Who can say.
I have been thinking about it lately, nonetheless.
We had made camp to await orders from our employers. It was two days and already we were getting restless. When soldiers get restless, they get stupid. There were three of us who this happened to; myself, young fellow named Pyewacket, and Burke. And we volunteered to go hunting. We were low on meat and soldiers can't survive on alcohol alone.
It was a harsh and brutal land. Winters were long and the snow was coming down in torrents that could knock you clear from your saddle. We stayed close to a small grouping of trees, a copse I think they're called, hardly a forest, hoping to catch some stag or foolish goat wandered from its farm.
Burke saw him first, prowling low to the ridge of a snowy hill. Burke was our sharpest scout after Ayleen. He always said--when we told this story--that he saw the thing's eyes first. They were icy blue against the full grey coat. None of us had ever seen a wolf so big, or broad, and we weren’t certain it wasn’t some lost long-hair warhorse.
When I was a boy, a she-wolf bit me near the edge of the Gray. Since then I’ve been cautious around the beasts. So I was hesitant to provoke it. Pyewacket kept saying wolves don’t hunt alone; that a pack must be nearby.
But Burke didn’t listen to either of us. Dumb and hungry as he was and, well, maybe a little drunk.
He slung an arrow and fired it right at the thing. It went wide, lost in the powder of the hill. The wolf stopped-still in its tracks and looked right at us.
And we froze.
Sometimes a thing comes over a man and he is helpless against it; the whole world opens up to stare right at him in that moment. Nothing can prepare you for such a feeling. Facing your own insignificance.
After a minute it started coming down the hill at no special hurry, padding through the snow drift like it walked on air. Burke got enough madness to fire another arrow. This one missed as well. The closer the wolf came, the more frantic our archer got, arrow after arrow fired until his quiver was empty.
Before that moment I thought he could never miss. I had seen Burke hit the flame off a candle from an acre away.
It was at the edge of the trees when he found his voice.
'Kill it, Gallows.’ He said to me. 'Kill it!'
I went for my sword then, like a seizure, found that I couldn’t draw it; I don’t know, maybe my nerves were shot too. The wolf just sat there a while and then turned and walked away back toward the hill, as if it’d been daring us to kill it. And we were not up to snuff.
But we had all lost our courage and wouldn't pursue. Pyewacket even pissed himself. Dumb kid. We had to return before he was frozen in his trousers.
So, empty-handed, we went back to camp. That was that.
I don't know, but the whole thing was strange.
Don't know if I'll ever forget it.
Written By Harlex
Aug. 14, 2018, 10:41 a.m.(5/23/1009 AR)
Scars are no special thing.
Once in a fishing village near High Hill, when I was a year into my career, a boatswain shot me in the back with a crossbow over a local girl. When I turned to deal with him, his friend who had been waiting nearby stabbed me just below the heart with a fillet knife.
They fled and I leaned against the bar with blood running everywhere. The others looked away. After a while I sat on the floor and blacked out.
When I awoke a fisherman named Greene had taken me to his bungalow to heal. The local girl had visited one time in my recovery and said she'd be waiting when I was on my feet.
The next day in the cold of the morning I left.
Still have the scars from the crossbow bolt and the knife. But, honestly, I cannot recall the name of the girl or her face.
The point is, I guess, is there is no point. It is just a thing that happened. And those scars are proof of nothing.
My only regret, now that I consider it, is that I did not find that man and kill him before I rode on. Damn.
Once in a fishing village near High Hill, when I was a year into my career, a boatswain shot me in the back with a crossbow over a local girl. When I turned to deal with him, his friend who had been waiting nearby stabbed me just below the heart with a fillet knife.
They fled and I leaned against the bar with blood running everywhere. The others looked away. After a while I sat on the floor and blacked out.
When I awoke a fisherman named Greene had taken me to his bungalow to heal. The local girl had visited one time in my recovery and said she'd be waiting when I was on my feet.
The next day in the cold of the morning I left.
Still have the scars from the crossbow bolt and the knife. But, honestly, I cannot recall the name of the girl or her face.
The point is, I guess, is there is no point. It is just a thing that happened. And those scars are proof of nothing.
My only regret, now that I consider it, is that I did not find that man and kill him before I rode on. Damn.
Written By Harlex
Aug. 5, 2018, 1:45 p.m.(4/28/1009 AR)
I am compelled to write despite myself. This will be brief. When I came to Arx it was Winter and a cold followed me from the west. I had nothing. In this Spring breeze much has changed.
The Dead Crows are nearly all gone.
Word reaches me that Lieutenant Dvorak is dead. Hanged from the neck for desertion. Never saw him quit before. Though I consider something he once said to me, both of us seated at the campfire. Stars behind the smoke, some falling, cast to dust and nothingness.
"There is sanctity in blood and in the spilling of it," Dvorak spoke strangely at times and there was rumor that he had once been in a Scholar, disgraced. We Crows were all of us disgraced in some way. I do not like that kind of highfalutin talk but he had me at a disadvantage--for I was very drunk on whisky.
"There is sanctity in games, too. War above them all. For the price you must pay, again and again, is blood. I will always, gladly, pay that price." His voice became melancholic and desperate, I felt sorry for him and I could not see his face well behind the shadows when he said, "For I have no doubt in the value of my life, which is what you learn when you fight and you kill; the value of your life. Is it worth anything at all?"
I guess the philosopher found that he could not pay it this time.
The Dead Crows are nearly all gone.
Word reaches me that Lieutenant Dvorak is dead. Hanged from the neck for desertion. Never saw him quit before. Though I consider something he once said to me, both of us seated at the campfire. Stars behind the smoke, some falling, cast to dust and nothingness.
"There is sanctity in blood and in the spilling of it," Dvorak spoke strangely at times and there was rumor that he had once been in a Scholar, disgraced. We Crows were all of us disgraced in some way. I do not like that kind of highfalutin talk but he had me at a disadvantage--for I was very drunk on whisky.
"There is sanctity in games, too. War above them all. For the price you must pay, again and again, is blood. I will always, gladly, pay that price." His voice became melancholic and desperate, I felt sorry for him and I could not see his face well behind the shadows when he said, "For I have no doubt in the value of my life, which is what you learn when you fight and you kill; the value of your life. Is it worth anything at all?"
I guess the philosopher found that he could not pay it this time.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.