Written By Tristan
April 16, 2017, 9:32 p.m.(4/14/1006 AR)
Twice in the span of a day I've found myself completely doused with Bringer blood. It's foul stuff, that.
I'm no stranger to blood. It happens when you care for animals. A pasture accident, a bad step, a poorly-positioned foal--and the result can be more blood than you ever dreamt of, sticky scarlet, and all you can do is try to hold life together or gently let it go, all in the battle against death and suffering and chaos, the fight we fight every day even when there aren't Bringers at our gates.
Bringer blood is different. There's no life to it. It's dark and goo-y and sluggish, and it reeks of death. I scrubbed until I could scrub no more, until I scrubbed off at least a layer of skin are more. I don't think I've ever been so clean in my life. And still it haunts me: the reek of Bringer blood; the girl screaming for her near-brother who was no longer human; broken bits and bodies in a swordshop; bodies tossed around like dolls at the docks, in the Lower Borroughs, at the Seawatch Gate; the warriors who went to defend their people disappearing into nothing and leaving those who loved them behind, all the animals--cats, dogs, horses, goats, hedgehogs, what have you--rummaging in ruins because their caretakers are gone, not comprehending how they have lost their world, dying slowly or slaughtered for food.
Children crying in the night as they perish from plague, murdered because a big bad reaver was _afraid_ of them and what they could represent.
This used to be a simpler world. I used to be a simpler man.
But that's nothing else to do. When the world is dark and hope recedes, all you can do is live, to go forward step by step. And when monsters are at your gate, the only thing you can do is fight.
I was just a horseman.
But that's it. I fight.
I'm no stranger to blood. It happens when you care for animals. A pasture accident, a bad step, a poorly-positioned foal--and the result can be more blood than you ever dreamt of, sticky scarlet, and all you can do is try to hold life together or gently let it go, all in the battle against death and suffering and chaos, the fight we fight every day even when there aren't Bringers at our gates.
Bringer blood is different. There's no life to it. It's dark and goo-y and sluggish, and it reeks of death. I scrubbed until I could scrub no more, until I scrubbed off at least a layer of skin are more. I don't think I've ever been so clean in my life. And still it haunts me: the reek of Bringer blood; the girl screaming for her near-brother who was no longer human; broken bits and bodies in a swordshop; bodies tossed around like dolls at the docks, in the Lower Borroughs, at the Seawatch Gate; the warriors who went to defend their people disappearing into nothing and leaving those who loved them behind, all the animals--cats, dogs, horses, goats, hedgehogs, what have you--rummaging in ruins because their caretakers are gone, not comprehending how they have lost their world, dying slowly or slaughtered for food.
Children crying in the night as they perish from plague, murdered because a big bad reaver was _afraid_ of them and what they could represent.
This used to be a simpler world. I used to be a simpler man.
But that's nothing else to do. When the world is dark and hope recedes, all you can do is live, to go forward step by step. And when monsters are at your gate, the only thing you can do is fight.
I was just a horseman.
But that's it. I fight.
Written By Tristan
April 13, 2017, 12:53 p.m.(4/8/1006 AR)
I could say a lot of nice things about Princess Donella too. She's someone I'm proud to call a friend, and I don't say that of many people.
But to say so would be to miss the point.
The point is this: the admiral of the Thrax fleet, under the Thrax banner, with Thrax forces, and thus apparently to all appearances acting in the Thrax did horrific things. People--real people, not some faraway characters in a book--died in agony, for the sake of a whisper of disloyalty. And that's what people are angry about. It's not because he's Thrax. It's for what he did, and what he apparently did in house's name.
If a Grayson prince did the same thing, I'd expect the reaction to be the same. Because it's the _right_ reaction.
There's a very simple question the people of Compact need answered: Did Prince Abbas act for Thrax in this? Because when a royal's using their house's forces, that's certainly what it looks like. Did he have Thrax's orders or approval? Or did he go rogue and use Thrax forces to satisfy his bloodlust?
We need these answers. If Thrax wants to distance themselves from Abbas' actions, they need to say so.
The silence on this is deafening. We need an answer. Until then, we cannot condemn Abbas without condemning Thrax, because he was acting in their name. I don't know why it takes a simple horseman to tell a high lord how great houses get things done, even one who's hoping hard we've forgotten how much effort he put into dividing the Compact himself. (I haven't. Memory like a horse, me.)
So, Thrax. _Speak_. Tell us what happened with Prince Abbas, because until you do, all most of us will hear is the screams of the dying and the suffering; the whimpers of those dying of disease, the crackle of flames consuming people's homes and shelters, the cries of a child for his dead mother. Those are not nightmares that are easy to banish.
There are monsters at our gates. That's no reason to ally with monsters--or become them ourselves.
If I ever believe that, I'd say we deserve to be wiped out of existence.
I'm halfway there as is.
But to say so would be to miss the point.
The point is this: the admiral of the Thrax fleet, under the Thrax banner, with Thrax forces, and thus apparently to all appearances acting in the Thrax did horrific things. People--real people, not some faraway characters in a book--died in agony, for the sake of a whisper of disloyalty. And that's what people are angry about. It's not because he's Thrax. It's for what he did, and what he apparently did in house's name.
If a Grayson prince did the same thing, I'd expect the reaction to be the same. Because it's the _right_ reaction.
There's a very simple question the people of Compact need answered: Did Prince Abbas act for Thrax in this? Because when a royal's using their house's forces, that's certainly what it looks like. Did he have Thrax's orders or approval? Or did he go rogue and use Thrax forces to satisfy his bloodlust?
We need these answers. If Thrax wants to distance themselves from Abbas' actions, they need to say so.
The silence on this is deafening. We need an answer. Until then, we cannot condemn Abbas without condemning Thrax, because he was acting in their name. I don't know why it takes a simple horseman to tell a high lord how great houses get things done, even one who's hoping hard we've forgotten how much effort he put into dividing the Compact himself. (I haven't. Memory like a horse, me.)
So, Thrax. _Speak_. Tell us what happened with Prince Abbas, because until you do, all most of us will hear is the screams of the dying and the suffering; the whimpers of those dying of disease, the crackle of flames consuming people's homes and shelters, the cries of a child for his dead mother. Those are not nightmares that are easy to banish.
There are monsters at our gates. That's no reason to ally with monsters--or become them ourselves.
If I ever believe that, I'd say we deserve to be wiped out of existence.
I'm halfway there as is.
Written By Tristan
March 30, 2017, 10:59 p.m.(3/8/1006 AR)
Last night a Bringer tried to kill my dog.
Now, let me make this very clear: besieging my city and threatening lives and existence is quite bad enough.
Trying to hurt my dog is another level entirely.
I'll rip their damn throats out.
Now, let me make this very clear: besieging my city and threatening lives and existence is quite bad enough.
Trying to hurt my dog is another level entirely.
I'll rip their damn throats out.
Written By Tristan
March 19, 2017, 11:32 p.m.(2/15/1006 AR)
It's quiet today.
The city's still, as if the entire world is holding its breath.
There are empty stalls in my stables, for all that most of my charges are for the use of the royal household. Some of them went with various forces. I had the stable lads clean those stalls and bed them deep. I don't know if they're coming back, but if they do, battle-scarred and leg-weary, they'll have a soft bed.
In a different time, I might have been out there too. Never been much of a fighter, my apparent skills at knocking people off horses aside, but with a good horse and a good sword, I'd have gone for the adventure.
But now my duty is here. With my horses, and with my friend, the king, who is in no state to face the world. And here I am. My sword's only steel, nothing fancy, but it's good steel and will serve if the worst happens and the walls are breached. I'll serve.
When did I get so bloody responsible?
The city's still, as if the entire world is holding its breath.
There are empty stalls in my stables, for all that most of my charges are for the use of the royal household. Some of them went with various forces. I had the stable lads clean those stalls and bed them deep. I don't know if they're coming back, but if they do, battle-scarred and leg-weary, they'll have a soft bed.
In a different time, I might have been out there too. Never been much of a fighter, my apparent skills at knocking people off horses aside, but with a good horse and a good sword, I'd have gone for the adventure.
But now my duty is here. With my horses, and with my friend, the king, who is in no state to face the world. And here I am. My sword's only steel, nothing fancy, but it's good steel and will serve if the worst happens and the walls are breached. I'll serve.
When did I get so bloody responsible?
Written By Tristan
March 5, 2017, 7:12 p.m.(1/14/1006 AR)
ALARIC IS AWAKE.
It wasn't that long ago I thought just getting him back would solve all our problems.
Too much has happened since. Lost one too many people. Learnt a little too much about the nature of this world. All those dark little misgivings I always had and usually ignored got louder and louder.
But he's still my friend. And I'm still going to be happy, damnt.
It wasn't that long ago I thought just getting him back would solve all our problems.
Too much has happened since. Lost one too many people. Learnt a little too much about the nature of this world. All those dark little misgivings I always had and usually ignored got louder and louder.
But he's still my friend. And I'm still going to be happy, damnt.
Written By Tristan
March 2, 2017, 3:30 p.m.(1/8/1006 AR)
Of course the Palace Stables have cats. Stables in general tend to be rife with vermin if you don't take measures. All that grain, calling a sirensong to every mouse and rat within a mile. And there was an unfortunate incident with a bottle of rat poison I don't care to repeat.
So we've had a whole herd? pack? flock? of cats keeping the King's stables diligently vermin-free. I feed them, of course. Better to keep them in the stables and in fine condition for battling ratkind. I certainly don't scritch their bellies and name them all.
But now Dandelion and Buttercup (shut up), two of my best ratters, disappeared. It happens with feral cats. Sometimes they wander and find a better patch (hence the logical reason for regular meals). Sometimes something happens to them. All sorts of hazards out there for a wandering cat...poison, sickness, fast-moving carts, the Lord Commander's pets policy...
Maybe someone scooped them up and took them up. They're friendly, for barn cats.
But they're sisters, and they used to help look after each other's kittens. And they each left behind a large litter, too young to fend for themselves.
The old stablemaster back at Bastion used to drown orphaned kittens. Said it was the kindest thing to do for them, with no one to look after them and teach them how to be a cat.
Instead, I currently have an entire basket full of kittens.
So we've had a whole herd? pack? flock? of cats keeping the King's stables diligently vermin-free. I feed them, of course. Better to keep them in the stables and in fine condition for battling ratkind. I certainly don't scritch their bellies and name them all.
But now Dandelion and Buttercup (shut up), two of my best ratters, disappeared. It happens with feral cats. Sometimes they wander and find a better patch (hence the logical reason for regular meals). Sometimes something happens to them. All sorts of hazards out there for a wandering cat...poison, sickness, fast-moving carts, the Lord Commander's pets policy...
Maybe someone scooped them up and took them up. They're friendly, for barn cats.
But they're sisters, and they used to help look after each other's kittens. And they each left behind a large litter, too young to fend for themselves.
The old stablemaster back at Bastion used to drown orphaned kittens. Said it was the kindest thing to do for them, with no one to look after them and teach them how to be a cat.
Instead, I currently have an entire basket full of kittens.
Written By Tristan
Feb. 26, 2017, 11:43 p.m.(1/1/1006 AR)
So I took my battered leathers, and my little stallion that I was given because he was the result of a mare of the finest Grayson charger blood having an illicit night with a light-frame Lycene stallion and no one wanted him but me, and I went to the joust and I won. I stayed in my saddle when the nobles and knights fell.
And I feel like an imposter.
I'm just the stablemaster. I wasn't meant for centre stage.
And I feel like an imposter.
I'm just the stablemaster. I wasn't meant for centre stage.
Written By Tristan
Feb. 19, 2017, 11:05 p.m.(12/15/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Lark
Although, in the past, I used to catalogue her as another spoilt princess, of late she and I have come to an understanding.
Also, this is very important.
She is no longer a princess. She is now a High Lord.
Makes all the difference.
Also, this is very important.
She is no longer a princess. She is now a High Lord.
Makes all the difference.
Written By Tristan
Feb. 19, 2017, 11:02 p.m.(12/15/1005 AR)
There are days when I want to go live in the woods, a million miles from anyone, with some horses, dogs, and cats, safely away from all manner of human idiocy.
That said, some bizarre quirk of my character keeps me here, being responsible and doing what I can to serve while Alaric sleeps.
Besides, it's a very bad time for living in the woods. There be Bringers.
That said, some bizarre quirk of my character keeps me here, being responsible and doing what I can to serve while Alaric sleeps.
Besides, it's a very bad time for living in the woods. There be Bringers.
Written By Tristan
Jan. 29, 2017, 7:22 p.m.(10/17/1005 AR)
I will continue to maintain that a Regent Council is a damnably inefficient way to run a realm, especially when we are essentially at war with the horrors outside the walls.
However, I know some of the Council members--in fact, may even fairly claim a couple of them as friends--and must admit they've worked tirelessly and given greatly of themselves in a truly thankless task.
However, I know some of the Council members--in fact, may even fairly claim a couple of them as friends--and must admit they've worked tirelessly and given greatly of themselves in a truly thankless task.
Written By Tristan
Jan. 29, 2017, 7:22 p.m.(10/17/1005 AR)
I will continue to maintain that a Regent Council is a damnably inefficient way to run a realm, especially when we are essentially at war with the horrors outside the walls.
However, I know some of the Council members--in fact, may even fairly claim a couple of them as friends--and must admit they've worked tirelessly and given greatly of themselves in a truly thankless task.
However, I know some of the Council members--in fact, may even fairly claim a couple of them as friends--and must admit they've worked tirelessly and given greatly of themselves in a truly thankless task.
Written By Tristan
Jan. 22, 2017, 11:27 p.m.(9/25/1005 AR)
There are direwolves and leopards and mountain lions stalking this city. Don't ask what I think of people keeping animals that belong in the wild. My language probably wouldn't be fit for this journal. There are exceptions, but--
And yet noblewomen come to the Palace Stables to play with Patches.
Let me tell you about Patches.
He was maybe five weeks when I found him, too young to leave his mother, but I can't help but think his mum and siblings were lost to some horrible fate. He fell into the hands of some lowlifes who were running a betting game behind some tavern Alaric and I stopped at when the king was slumming. The game? A nest of vicious rats vs a five week old puppy. Place your money on who you thought would live.
I thrashed the lowlifes, dispatched the rats humanely, and saved the puppy. Carried him home inside my shirt, a tiny whimpering bundle more blood than fur.
I didn't think he'd make it. He'd lost most of one ear to the rats already, and the rat bites festered, foul and infected. There was no saving the one leg all the rats had latched onto, and a military healer who'd seen worse on the battlefield took it off to save the rest of him.
To my surprise, he lived. It's hard to kill tough little guttersnipes, after all. He clung on--and he flourished. Despite what was done to him, he wags his tail, and greets people with the dog equivalent of a grin.
I tell this story to give two lessons:
One, people are shit.
Two, Patches has always been a good dog.
And yet noblewomen come to the Palace Stables to play with Patches.
Let me tell you about Patches.
He was maybe five weeks when I found him, too young to leave his mother, but I can't help but think his mum and siblings were lost to some horrible fate. He fell into the hands of some lowlifes who were running a betting game behind some tavern Alaric and I stopped at when the king was slumming. The game? A nest of vicious rats vs a five week old puppy. Place your money on who you thought would live.
I thrashed the lowlifes, dispatched the rats humanely, and saved the puppy. Carried him home inside my shirt, a tiny whimpering bundle more blood than fur.
I didn't think he'd make it. He'd lost most of one ear to the rats already, and the rat bites festered, foul and infected. There was no saving the one leg all the rats had latched onto, and a military healer who'd seen worse on the battlefield took it off to save the rest of him.
To my surprise, he lived. It's hard to kill tough little guttersnipes, after all. He clung on--and he flourished. Despite what was done to him, he wags his tail, and greets people with the dog equivalent of a grin.
I tell this story to give two lessons:
One, people are shit.
Two, Patches has always been a good dog.
Written By Tristan
Jan. 22, 2017, 11:14 p.m.(9/25/1005 AR)
I've decided that in my next life, whatever deep life-spanning friendships will be with simple people.
Like stable lads and costermongerers. Not kings. One king, love him like a brother or not, is enough trouble for one reincarnation cycle.
Like stable lads and costermongerers. Not kings. One king, love him like a brother or not, is enough trouble for one reincarnation cycle.
Written By Tristan
Jan. 15, 2017, 10:08 p.m.(9/4/1005 AR)
The Gray Forest is dying.
I know that forest. I know it of old, when I was a grubby stableboy running around Bastion. I knew every animal in the woods and how to--or how not to--approach them. I knew which trees were which, and where to hide when mother was looking for me.
It's dying now. It's trampled under the feet of traitor Iron Guard and corrupted shavs and emotionless Bringers who want to 'purify' the world. That's what they're doing. 'Cleansing.' If I know anything, it's that desires to 'cleanse' things never go well for ordinary people.
So that's it. The Gray Forest is dying. A vast force lurks there. I've seen the evidence. I've seen a Bringer with my own eyes. They're waiting, and if anyone in the city thinks this is all fairy tales, or thinks we have plenty of time to come up with the perfect time, or thinks we're /safe/...
Well, please let me know so I can offer some instruction on how to extract your head from your ass.
I know that forest. I know it of old, when I was a grubby stableboy running around Bastion. I knew every animal in the woods and how to--or how not to--approach them. I knew which trees were which, and where to hide when mother was looking for me.
It's dying now. It's trampled under the feet of traitor Iron Guard and corrupted shavs and emotionless Bringers who want to 'purify' the world. That's what they're doing. 'Cleansing.' If I know anything, it's that desires to 'cleanse' things never go well for ordinary people.
So that's it. The Gray Forest is dying. A vast force lurks there. I've seen the evidence. I've seen a Bringer with my own eyes. They're waiting, and if anyone in the city thinks this is all fairy tales, or thinks we have plenty of time to come up with the perfect time, or thinks we're /safe/...
Well, please let me know so I can offer some instruction on how to extract your head from your ass.
Written By Tristan
Jan. 8, 2017, 11:46 p.m.(8/11/1005 AR)
I spent half the night sitting up with Kestrel, the Lady Dawn's mare.
She stall walked half the night. It had been a long time since her mistress had time to ride her, despite my threats of abduction and forced riding time, but she knew something was wrong.
Horses always do.
She stall walked half the night. It had been a long time since her mistress had time to ride her, despite my threats of abduction and forced riding time, but she knew something was wrong.
Horses always do.
Written By Tristan
Jan. 6, 2017, 3:14 p.m.(8/4/1005 AR)
I am only a horseman with no education in politics...
But abdicating and agreeing willingly to die is certainly a novel way to prove one's self a tyrant.
But abdicating and agreeing willingly to die is certainly a novel way to prove one's self a tyrant.
Written By Tristan
Jan. 6, 2017, 12:50 p.m.(8/4/1005 AR)
This is why I prefer horses to people. Because, with people, given half a chance, will hound the best and brightest to death.
I wasn't there. A bunch of nobles bickering sounds like my worst nightmare. But I heard.
For all of those moaning about not trying to wake the king: if you think the Lady Dawn hasn't done her best to bring Alaric back to us, you don't know a single damned thing about her.
I know, because I've been part of this. I'm only a horseman, the son of a groom, largely unskilled in combat and pretty hopeless when it comes to diplomacy, but the Lady Regent involved me because she knew Alaric was my friend. And, make no mistake, Lady Dawn loves her brother, as i love my friend. I somehow think all of you who never cared about the king's plight until last night ever thought of that. It's just politics to you lot, isn't it? Something else to complain about when you feel everything's vaguely unfair. But King Alaric Grayson is a /person/. He is a brother to a sister. He is a friend to a muddy stableboy from Bastion. And we /care/. We've practically torn our hair out in frustration at what we can't fix. No one else seemed to give a toss until last night.
I've met an elf. I've seen their reply. I've sat at Alaric's bedside and talked to him when he could only stare blankly. And all of the 'why didn't we do MORE?' makes me sick to the core of my stomach.
We are in the hands of the Queen of Endings now. I've stood in the Shrine of Lost and pled to her, and I don't even know if enough of her exists to still listen.
And the realm has driven someone who cared--who honestly genuinely /cared/ about people--to believe the only she could continue to care was to die.
It's times like this that make me wish I could get drunk.
I wasn't there. A bunch of nobles bickering sounds like my worst nightmare. But I heard.
For all of those moaning about not trying to wake the king: if you think the Lady Dawn hasn't done her best to bring Alaric back to us, you don't know a single damned thing about her.
I know, because I've been part of this. I'm only a horseman, the son of a groom, largely unskilled in combat and pretty hopeless when it comes to diplomacy, but the Lady Regent involved me because she knew Alaric was my friend. And, make no mistake, Lady Dawn loves her brother, as i love my friend. I somehow think all of you who never cared about the king's plight until last night ever thought of that. It's just politics to you lot, isn't it? Something else to complain about when you feel everything's vaguely unfair. But King Alaric Grayson is a /person/. He is a brother to a sister. He is a friend to a muddy stableboy from Bastion. And we /care/. We've practically torn our hair out in frustration at what we can't fix. No one else seemed to give a toss until last night.
I've met an elf. I've seen their reply. I've sat at Alaric's bedside and talked to him when he could only stare blankly. And all of the 'why didn't we do MORE?' makes me sick to the core of my stomach.
We are in the hands of the Queen of Endings now. I've stood in the Shrine of Lost and pled to her, and I don't even know if enough of her exists to still listen.
And the realm has driven someone who cared--who honestly genuinely /cared/ about people--to believe the only she could continue to care was to die.
It's times like this that make me wish I could get drunk.
Written By Tristan
Dec. 11, 2016, 11:36 p.m.(5/11/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Dawn
I've always like the Lady Regent. She's a sensible lass, and that seems so ridiculously unusual in a noblewoman. She doesn't have to pay me any heed, and, yet, she does, and in a way that's not the least bit bloody way patronizing.
She's doing well as regent, too. Even if it feels disloyal to Alaric to say. There are--a lot of things that feel a bit disloyal to Alaric these days. Right down to living.
And yet--
Well, I feel tremendously sorry for her, and I'm not sure why.
I probably shouldn't have said that. But it's in my white journal now and I can't take it back.
She's doing well as regent, too. Even if it feels disloyal to Alaric to say. There are--a lot of things that feel a bit disloyal to Alaric these days. Right down to living.
And yet--
Well, I feel tremendously sorry for her, and I'm not sure why.
I probably shouldn't have said that. But it's in my white journal now and I can't take it back.
Written By Tristan
Nov. 27, 2016, 11:56 p.m.(3/25/1005 AR)
I hate people. Most of them are idiots. Horses are far more sensible.
I hate princesses. Oh, by everything that's holy, /princesses/.
I swear, something goes soft in people's heads when they hear the word 'princess' as if it means something more magical than it is. Particularly goes soft in princesses' heads.
Especially ones that prance around Arx in silks, wearing a saintly smile and showering everyone with charity and expecting to be loved in return. Bloody hells. It's ten times as annoying as Songbird's thrice-hourly messages asking what her precious Pinenut's eaten today, and her never riding him.
I've pulled dead foals from live mares and live foals from dead mares. I've watched foals take their first tottering steps and grey-muzzled geldings take their last. I've gently shown colts and fillies their first saddle, and how to take the weight of a rider, and carefully earned trust and moulded the gawky youngsters into impressive warhorses and racers and palfreys. I've been up at the darkest hour of the morning to birth foals and walk colicking horses. I've nursed horses from injury and illness over months, and I've looked into the eyes of a horse I raised from foalhood, who trusted me absolutely--and cut his throat, because his leg was in fragments and the only gift I could give him was a peaceful death and the end of pain. My fingers know, before my mind, how to fasten bridle and saddle, to wrap legs and straighten manes, the bump of a splint and the heat of lameness. I can close my eyes and drop my reins, and guide only with the shift of my seat, knowing the horse will see for me, two beings together in perfect trust.
To say nothing of the darkness that befell my friends--my last friends. Blankness and death.
Why would I need anything from some girl who knows nothing of life?
(Note: Lady Regent, if you're reading this, I don't include you as a princess. You never really were, and you're entirely too sensible.)
I hate princesses. Oh, by everything that's holy, /princesses/.
I swear, something goes soft in people's heads when they hear the word 'princess' as if it means something more magical than it is. Particularly goes soft in princesses' heads.
Especially ones that prance around Arx in silks, wearing a saintly smile and showering everyone with charity and expecting to be loved in return. Bloody hells. It's ten times as annoying as Songbird's thrice-hourly messages asking what her precious Pinenut's eaten today, and her never riding him.
I've pulled dead foals from live mares and live foals from dead mares. I've watched foals take their first tottering steps and grey-muzzled geldings take their last. I've gently shown colts and fillies their first saddle, and how to take the weight of a rider, and carefully earned trust and moulded the gawky youngsters into impressive warhorses and racers and palfreys. I've been up at the darkest hour of the morning to birth foals and walk colicking horses. I've nursed horses from injury and illness over months, and I've looked into the eyes of a horse I raised from foalhood, who trusted me absolutely--and cut his throat, because his leg was in fragments and the only gift I could give him was a peaceful death and the end of pain. My fingers know, before my mind, how to fasten bridle and saddle, to wrap legs and straighten manes, the bump of a splint and the heat of lameness. I can close my eyes and drop my reins, and guide only with the shift of my seat, knowing the horse will see for me, two beings together in perfect trust.
To say nothing of the darkness that befell my friends--my last friends. Blankness and death.
Why would I need anything from some girl who knows nothing of life?
(Note: Lady Regent, if you're reading this, I don't include you as a princess. You never really were, and you're entirely too sensible.)
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.