Asha

She was born in Forks in a famine year

And her mam with child once said

“This babe best be born a hunter fierce

Or the town’ll starve stone dead”

Well the wee lass Asha could barely walk

When she proved her mam spoke true

She could split a shaft at a hundred paces

Before the age of two

Well she grew up tall, and with shoulders broad

On the banks of the Bowstring blue

Stole all the boy’s hearts as she walked by

And she stole all the girls’ hearts too

Well, lord Cullan’s old ranger Dunstan died

At the claws of a vicious bear

To replace her, he’d heard a girl from Forks

Was the best shot anywhere

Now one day, Lord Cathal a tourney held

Twas the grandest the land had seen

All the warriors and lords from across Anuire

Filled the Gorge's vales of green

On the first day, a contest of bows they had

Competition was fierce and spry

Representing the Wilders in all their pride

There stood Asha with bow held high

Twas a valiant battle upon the field

Tween our lass and a Brechtur maid

But with eagle's eye and steady hand

Asha brought home the accolade

She's the pride of the archers of Wilder's Gorge

For her arrows, they all fly true

And she steals all the boys' hearts as she walks by

And she steals all the girls' hearts too

A Terrible Promise

Session 9 Art Recap

The First Ghosts

"We must operate in silence, in shadow, in secret. We must have a way of communicating with each other that is ours alone. If we must leave each other a message, carve these symbols somewhere, just above a man's line of sight."
__________________________________________________________


"I learned from our ill-fated foray into the northeastern woods that fear is as potent a weapon as any other. I need you to craft me a... uniform, I suppose, for my agents and I. Ideally we should never be seen, but if we are, I wish to strike terror into our foes' hearts."
"It shall be as you say, Lady Reynhild," Arturo replied.
_____________________________________________________________________________

A very rigorous training schedule is written on a parchment and pinned to a post in the yard at Fort Caedmon. It reads:

--Climb the broken tower. You may use a grappling hook. Run to the end of the courtyard and back. Climb the broken tower again.
--Go to the pile of logs the masons are using. Jump over one. Then, pile another on top of it. Jump over both. Keep adding logs to the pile and jumping over them. Count the number of logs when you are finally unable to jump over them fully. I'll buy a flagon of mead for whoever has the highest number.
--Practice hiding. The human eye seeks out the human form, so the most effective way to hide is by disguising the human form. Crouch, curl into a very small ball, use your shroud to cover your knees and arms, hide your face. You will be invisible in underbrush. Practice dropping into a crouch from standing, over and over again, as fast as you can. 
--Go to the large oak at the west end of the courtyard. Jump, grab the lowest branch. Pull yourself up. Hiding up a tree is extremely effective. Do this until you can no longer.
--I have scattered the yard by the oak with gravel. Practice walking silently across it, on the sides of your feet as I showed you. Whoever can walk the most silently and leave the least trace... I shall also buy you a flagon.
--Target practice as usual, but in pairs. I've constructed cylindrical straw butts that roll quite quickly. One partner rolls the straw butt, the other shoots.
--Finally, I've had Medwyn scribe copies of the most relevant passages from Caedmon's treatise. Please commit them to memory. 

A sentence is scrawled beneath in different handwriting:

I'm getting too old for this nonsense, Reynhild. 

SESSION 14 RECAP

Melehan returns from his journey to the Aelvinnwode, exhausted. He states he has been successful and that the threat of Rhuobhe has been contained for another generation, at least. As he is discussing matters in the council chamber with Cathal, Reynhild, and Mara, Sir Varyan, who has temporarily stayed on while figuring out how to deal with the loss of his mount and his armour, enters the hall. A strangely tense moment transpires as visible animosity passes between the two. Mara senses Melehan casting a spell. Mara and Reynhild quickly separate the two to avoid any incident.

Reynhild asks Varyan what happened between them; Varyan, showing great trust toward Reynhild, discloses a secret-- that he is gifted with the power to sense an individual's potential. He hints that he is concerned with Melehan's potential; Reynhild asks to learn more, but he states that he does not wish to use his gift in a manner that might unduly alter the course of fate. He also states that he sees the potential in her plans-- that the organization she is trying to build could become a great force for good, in time.

Meanwhile, Mara attempts to gain Melehan's perspective on the altercation. Melehan states that men such as Varyan--paladins-- are often unwelcome, holier-than-thou meddlers. Mara both bravely suggests he not ensorcel guests of the house, and asks him what role he envisions himself in in the House going forward. He deflects, and offers to show Mara something. He takes her to the catacombs beneath the Keep, dissolves walls by merely touching them, and transports both of them to the astral plane, where she is granted a wondrous vision-- the thread of her existence as merely a small part of something much greater, in the grand, dazzling, and infinite vastness of the cosmos. The vision affects her profoundly, and she returns to the mortal plane a changed person. Afterward, she officially accepts his mentorship, but first he requires her to destroy several magical items in her possession, including the staff of power from her old master Khorien, and the enchanted bracer from the Fulcairns, stating she will no longer need such crutches.

Mara and Varyan talk briefly about her ongoing struggle to discover her role in the House and the world as a wizard. She promises to use her magic to aid the house first and the people of the realm second.

Reynhild's contact Leandra informs her that the elder Duene has died. The Fulcairns correspond with several contacts, penning letters to Geoffrey Khorien, Gaelen Isilvaere, Tashairah, and Vulpina Duene; Reynhild in particular writes a somewhat apologetic letter to Vulpina, extending her sympathies and attempting to determine if the late Duene's illness was similar to her late husband Corrac's. Cathal, having received word that expansion of Avan's empire is starting to meet resistance from the realms outside his influence, also sends an inquiring letter to Harald Khorien, offering the Fulcairns' aid should it be needed.

Reynhild summons her rangers to the old fort-- recently renamed Fort Caedmon--and discusses the foundation of an elite organization which defends Taeghas from the shadows, using the skills of both Wilder rangers and Stormpoint thieves. She expresses a desire for it to be open to recruitment from all over Taeghas, from both nobles and commoners, to uphold the laws of the just and rightful ruler of Taeghas, and to strike silently and unseen at its foes. She refers to them as Ghosts, partly in honour of the Ghost in the Pines, Caedmon Fulcairn. Of the assembled rangers, Orian declines to join, wishing to maintain his regular duties, but Adair, Asha and Telfyrdd join, and remain at Fort Caedmon to train.

More discussions are held about the upkeep of the barony. Varyan is dispatched to take care of a griffon terrorizing farmers, Finn and a hundred soldiers are sent south to deal with marauding bandits, and the Fulcairns decide to head east, to survey the abandoned copper mine, scout a potential trade route eastward to Avanil, and investigate a cache of magic items Melehan left behind in a village called Vilmier, no longer on any maps.

The Fulcairns, along with Orian and Dolan, head eastward. The mine appears intact and relatively safe to be reopened. They discover ogre tracks while heading into the mountains eastward and find the remnants of an old road heading toward Avanil. They eventually find Vilmier; it is long abandoned and appears to have been partly obliterated by an explosion. A group of forty-odd men, however, is looting the ruined manor. Reynhild investigates and can only tell that they are likely from Avanil and seem to be mercenaries. Unwilling to take on such a large group, they wait until the mercenaries leave, gambling that the magical items will have been sufficiently warded. However, as they go to the ruined manor the following morning, they discover that the mercenaries had some sort of device that disabled the magical wards; the manor has been completely looted. Mara is displeased but silent; Cathal and Reynhild are leery of risking their lives again for Melehan's ends.

They return to Fulcairn Keep empty-handed. Melehan states they did the right thing, but worries that some unseen foe is moving against them, given that the location of his cache was discovered. He also tells Cathal that he has done more in his year of heading the House than his father ever did.

Varyan returns, having slain the griffin; its head is mounted to be hung in the great hall. Varyan presents Reynhild with a gift of flowers and griffin feathers; the two leave for a ride through the countryside.

20 Questions With Cathal Fulcairn

1) How does your character deal with conflict? 

I prefer to confront conflicts head on, and to deal with them as soon as possible. Dragging out conflict resolution only exacerbates the issues you are trying to solve.

2) What does your character think is the best way to deal with an enemy?

Make every attempt you can to turn them into a friend. If that fails, then await or create an opportunity to strike them down, and do so swiftly and decisively; through strength of arms or statecraft.

3) How does your character feel about being the center of attention?

One should not endeavour to do anything for the praise it elicits. Accept laurels humbly and with whatever pomp is required, for oftentimes celebrating the deeds of one person is as much a salve for the celebrants as it is for the celebrated. When it is over, forget it and get back to work.

4) Who is the person or people your character trusts most?

Reynhild, Fulgrim

5) What characteristics does your character despise in others?

Dishonesty, cruelty, greed, selfishness, decadence

6) What characteristics does your character admire in others?

Tenacity, honesty, perspicacity, decisiveness, kindness

7) How would your character's parents describe them?

Cullen would have described the Cathal he knew as headstrong, curious and brave, but also unfocused, unambitious and mischievous.

Catriona would have much more to say of Cathal. That he loves people and that he loves the world and all there is to be seen or smelled or held or heard within it. She would say he sees the world for what it could be rather than what it is. She would say he is sensitive, caring, and burdened with more empathy than a lord's son should be. He is courageous, pure of heart and intent, and speaks with admirable earnestness and honesty. She would speak of her fear that the world may some day break his heart, and that to see it happen would devastate her. 

8) Does your character have any prejudices?

I harbour a deep distaste for the elves of the wild hunt and believe they are fit only to be slain or imprisoned. Orogs are worse. I have heard of a court of reason in the forests of Tuarhievel, and though I do not trust the folk of the forest, I would very much like to meet an elf who can see me as a person rather than meat to be butchered.

Wizards are untrustworthy, as a general thing. Even my sister Mara, whom I dearly love, still vexes me on occasion.

9) What is your character's decision-making process?

I first weigh all options that are available to solve the problem at hand. I match each of them against a set of criteria:

- my personal ethics

- who I think will benefit most from the proposed solution

- my advisers' opinions of the best course of action

- how each solution may affect perception of myself and my house among my people, friends, peers, and betters

- how I anticipate a solution may impact the future of Wilder's Gorge in the short and long term

- what I will have to concede in order to affect the solution

- how I, Wilder's Gorge, its people, or my loved ones may gain from the solution

I then attempt to juxtapose all of these things and choose the solution that adds up to hitting the most positive marks from among them.

10) What is your character's relationship with their parents?

Both are now dead. I was not close with my father. Before my departure for Rjurik, I was not granted much attention from him, and was generally left in the care of my mother or the company of my half brother Brinden. Father offered little in the way of praise or discipline to me, and was terse when I left for Rjurik. I have recently discovered that I bear some anger over father's lack of attention and esteem.

My mother, on the other hand, doted on me. I loved her dearly, and vice versa. Any time not taken with learning or training, I spent with or near my mother, and to a lesser extent my half brother Brinden. My leaving for Rjurik hit her hard, I've been told. Guilt grips me whenever I think that my absence may have contributed to the illness that killed her.

11) Name the greatest tragedy of your character's life.
The deaths of my mother, my brothers, and my father.

12) Name the greatest triumph of your character's life.

Gaining my arm ring from Freila Yngvi; The Tournament of Wilder's Gorge; finally gaining Reynhild's trust

13) What characteristics does your character think make a good ruler?

A ruler must be selfless and fully commited to their duty to the people. It is a ruler's responsibility not only to protect their subjects, but to improve their lives. A ruler must put others before themselves.

14) How patriotic is your character, and to whom/where?
I love Wilder's Gorge, and as an extension, the realm of Taeghas. I will defend both unto my dying breath. The people of Hogunmark also hold a special place in my heart, and I would do my utmost to offer them aid.

15) Briefly describe your character's personal ideology.

I pledge my whole being to the welfare of the people in my care.

16) What is the one thing your character can never be without?

Reynhild.

17) How does your character deal with betrayal?

Swift, unrelenting justice.

18) How does your character deal with failure?
Analyze where I went wrong and attempt to gauge how I could otherwise have changed the outcome. Practice whatever skills will be necessary to ensure I never fail in the same way again.

19) What constitutes a good life for your character?

Happy subjects, secure borders, healthy land and the love of my family.

20) Who does your character want/aspire to be?

Corrac

20 Questions with Tashairah al-Muhtadim

1) How does your character deal with conflict?

A smile, a song, and a basket of figs from the orchard in my father's eastern estate. You simply must try these figs, they're sweeter than your first kiss, and much less awkward on the tongue.

2) What does your character think is the best way to deal with an enemy?

First, I always endeavour to understand them. Much enmity is simply the result of misunderstanding. How many wars have begun because some drunk emissary forgot a few words of the Anuirean language and said "I enjoyed your mother last night" when he meant to say "I enjoyed the desserts last night"?

Failing that, I endeavour to sit next to them at the feast, so I may keep an eye on them.

Failing that, I have two blades. I keep them very sharp.

3) How does your character feel about being the center of attention?

The center of a stage is my home. I try always to be worthy of it.

4) Who is the person or people your character trusts most?

Why, Baba, of course! Excuse me-- most refer to my father as Blessed Nadim al-Muhtadim, the Emir of Kfeira. But I still call him Baba.

5) What characteristics does your character despise in others?

I cannot abide a cold, uncivil, vicious, or ungenerous spirit, or those who do not consider others in their actions.

6) What characteristics does your character admire in others?

I adore heroism. And a sense of humour. And I have a weakness for a pretty face.

7) How would your character's parents describe them?

Baba once called me "the brightest jewel in the diadem of his many children". He did it in earshot of my eldest brother, though. I think he might have had too much wine.

8) Does your character have any prejudices?

I am... sometimes uncomfortable around rough people, and those of low birth. I try very hard to be courteous, though.

9) What is your character's decision-making process?

I abstain from wine or lovemaking, I fast for seven days, and pray to Avani for guidance. Just kidding! I... hmm, honestly, I do what I believe is right and just, but sometimes I follow whatever whim strikes me. Keeps life interesting.

10) What is your character's relationship with their parents?

Oh, Mama and Baba spoil me and dote on me endlessly. They weren't even angry when I took up the life of a minstrel-- hardly befitting the daughter of an emir, but they do so love my songs. They are the wisest and best of rulers. My elder siblings, not so much-- I know they think me a frivolous fool, and resent that I follow my heart while they are yoked to duty. But I serve the House in my own way.

11) Name the greatest tragedy of your character's life.

When I was younger, my betrothed was killed in battle. I was so heartbroken, I thought I would never love again. It seemed a dangerous proposition to me, to love only one. So I find solace in scattering that love among those I meet, like a fistful of rose petals.

12) Name the greatest triumph of your character's life.

I am very proud that I am counted among the foremost poets of the Basarji.

13) What characteristics does your character think make a good ruler?

The worst thing for the people is war. The best rulers are those able to avoid it, through diplomacy or guile or statecraft, or if it must be waged, to end it quickly.

14) How patriotic is your character, and to whom/where?

How can my heart be yoked to Khinas, when so much beauty and wonder lies everywhere waiting to be discovered?

15) Briefly describe your character's personal ideology.

Let me do so in verse:

By my troth, there can be

No greater goal, nor aim

Than to propagate beauty

Instead of pain.

16) What is the one thing your character can never be without?

I cannot bring my khaveer everywhere; it's my finest instrument, but it's large and unwieldy. I bring my ashtavi with me at all times instead. Also, wine.

17) How does your character deal with betrayal?

Trust is sacred; breaking it is unconscionable. Remember when I mentioned I keep two blades very sharp?

18) How does your character deal with failure?

It is unacceptable for the daughter of an emir to fail.

19) What constitutes a good life for your character?

A song in my throat, a bottle of wine, a new place to discover, an alluring body in my bed.

20) Who does your character want/aspire to be?

One who spreads joy, wonder and laughter in her wake, like a swan trailing ripples in the palace pond.

Wherever The Path May Lead

Her hands were stained. Black and red, red and black, spatters, smears. Black from the ink. Her hands clutched a quill still, poring over ledgers, accounts, documents, letters from plaintiffs, correspondences from suppliers, other noble houses. The black was the easy part. To her surprise, she'd discovered she was good at running the house. Merrec brought her the problems and she simply needed to shuffle the numbers around, make the columns in the ledger equal zero, affix the Fulcairn seal, as she was the only Fulcairn capable of bearing it at the moment. As though her thoughts had summoned him, he appeared in the doorway, hair silver, face gaunt.

"Ah, there you are," she said. "I've figured out a solution to the problem of the farriers. We owe them three weeks' back pay, and the tax collector from the west was beset by bandits, so we're operating in arrears... but there is a small household surplus. I've reallocated it and it should be enough to cover what we owe the farriers, but there'll be no imported wine or cloth, nor honey, nor sugar in the Keep, until the tax collectors' next rounds. It will be fine, we'll survive. As to the matter of the trade tariffs from Duene, I've written a missive I'd like you to look over--"

"Lady," Merrec cut her off, then more gently, "Reynhild. Stop. You've been awake for days. You need to sleep."

"No I don't," she returned flatly. "You cannot run this house yourself. I am the only Fulcairn who is capable of doing so at present. Come here, take this letter. I need you to make sure the terms are consistent with the treaty Father signed--"

Merrec crossed the tiny room in one stride-- they'd relocated her to the servants' quarters, as all the healers urged her to give Corrac the room to himself, lest his illness infect her as well-- and took the letter from her shaking hand, but not to read it, merely to relieve her of it.

"Lady Reynhild." His voice was uncharacteristically strident. "If you continue at this pace, you will be no more capable of running the House than Lord Corrac or Baron Cullan. Stop. You need rest. I will send Elena to draw you a bath and bring you supper." And with that, he forcibly took the bundles of parchment from her desk, gathered them to himself, and left. She could not stop him for some reason. He was an old man, and she should have been able to pluck them out of his pocket before he could blink an eye, but she was tired, so tired... and her hands were stained. Red and black, black and red.

The black was the easy part. Numbers, figures, resources, correspondences. That was the easy part of running a barony. The hard part was talking to people, comforting a family who'd lost their guardsman son in a skirmish against bandits, picking up a peasant boy and cavorting with him on one's shoulders... thank the gods Corrac was so good at that...

The easy part was the black, the hard part was the red. Blood, Corrac's blood, from mopping his mouth as he coughed so hard he doubled over. At first it had been just a trickle, a pink spatter on her handkerchief, but lately it had been gobs, handfuls, red and dark tissue, bits that smelled rotten. Red stained her hands, red and black.

It was time to check in on him, she'd been away long enough.

She left the tiny servants' quarters and climbed the stairs to their chamber. Those stairs, that climb, had brought her joy every day for three years. There was no happier place for her than at the top of those stairs.

She did not gasp or wail at the sight of him anymore, as all the visitors and well-wishers did. She checked the linens--mercifully dry today; of late he had lacked the strength to pull himself out of bed even to use the pot-- and fetched the crock from the fireplace, where she'd left it to keep it warm. He couldn't eat solid food any longer, so she made a broth of sorts, honey and healing herbs and rich melted goose fat. He could keep it down, usually. She sat on the side of the bed and held it in her lap, and gently cupped his cheek. His eyes opened and he smiled at her. Once, in an alleyway at Stormpoint, she'd found a tapestry that a noble had thrown out; it was breathtakingly finely wrought, but sun had bleached it, and the wind and rain and filth and ravaged it... but she could still tell that it was finely made, and beautiful.

That was Corrac, now.

"Time for supper, my love." She smiled. She would not let him see grief, or pain, or fear, or weakness.

"Are you... certain all you have... is that... gods-awful slurry? ...I've... a mind to... eat the entire haunch... off a boar..." Each word was strained, barely audible; each breath rasped and laboured. She gently spooned the warm mixture between his lips. He tried so hard to swallow it, but half of it ran out between his slack lips, soaked into the pillow. But she gently and patiently fed him the entire crock.

"My star. Reyn. Tell me."

"Yes, love?"

"Everyone... who comes in here... of late. Father, Merrec. Finn. Dolan. They all... speak... in bright, forced voices... of when I get better. Of how I'll... pull through. They... lie. They know it. I... know it. But... not you... Why?"

She took a deep breath, forced her voice to steady.

"We made a promise. To walk through life together. I am here. I am with you. Wherever the path may lead."

A tear gleamed in his eye. "When... Mother was dying... they did the same... to her. She said it made her... twice as lonely... that no one would... walk the journey with her. But only you... walk it with me... I love you, Reyn..."

"I love you too."

Something caught her eye. A black smear, on his hand, like the ones on hers. Had he been writing letters? Surely not. She needed to bathe him again...

"Oh gods damn it. I hear Elena coming up the stairs; Merrec sent her to fuss over me. I'll be back in a moment, my darling. I'm but an arm's length away if you need me, all right?"

She stepped out into the hallway, descended the stairs, followed Elena's silhouette as it disappeared into her tiny servants' quarters. "Elena, for the love of the gods, I don't need you to--"

Elena's eyes widened as she saw her, eyes dark-ringed, hair in hopeless tangles, spattered in red and black, and her handmaid's sweet face crumpled, and she began to cry. She set her tray on the now-empty desk, wrapped her arms around her, and cried into her shoulder.

And then something in Reynhild broke.

It might have been the exhaustion, or the cold terrible feeling of powerlessness... the knowledge that she would have given anything, including her own life, without a second's deliberation, in exchange for Corrac's. The bitter certainty that, despite what the poets said, part of her wished she could go back to the time before she knew happiness or love, for the prospect of knowing it and having it taken away was a thousand thousand time worse than the dull grey void of never knowing it. She heard a sound that began as a low moan and crescendoed to a horrible hopeless wail, and realized she was making it.

She wept, and Elena wept, and they clung together and wept, and the beast that dwelled in her ribcage and feasted on her heart sank its insatiable jaws into the red and black meat of her heart, pain, unending, unrelenting, growing by the moment. She wept, deep racking sobs, until she began to dry-heave, doubled over with nothing in her empty stomach to vomit. She wept until she could barely breathe.

"It's alright, Lady. Everything will be alright," Elena whispered, stroking her hair, taking the role of the comforter in the absence of any other comfort.

"No. It won't."

We Are All Free Here

They were both well and truly hammered by the time they stumbled up the stairs to the big bedchamber at the top. Red had tried very hard to avoid drinking much, without being either rude or arousing suspicion, and Corrac had too. "I don't wish to make a poor impression on my new bride, particularly tonight," he'd demurred with a grin, and all around had roared and clapped him on the back... then topped off his flagon with more wine. Indeed, it had been impossible to avoid, as the rowdy and joyous partygoers had pressed cup after cup into her hand, raised toast after toast to them both... and now Red, who almost never drank spirits, was swaying on her feet, a most pleasant fuzzy warmth swamping her senses. The feast was still audibly going on in the great hall, but they'd been excused early, with a predictable round of winks and back-pats.

Corrac held the iron-bound door for her and reached to steady her as she staggered up the last stair and into her-- their-- new bedchamber. Red tried not to show her awe. It was, by a comically large margin, the nicest chamber she'd ever been in. It was huge, big enough to hold the largest bed she'd ever seen, and still have enough room for a bureau, several chests and an armoire, a padded bench and an armchair by the fireplace. All the furniture looked new, carefully crafted from Wilder yew. The bed was piled high with fine linens and topped with wolfskins, and from the fire drifted the sweet smell of seasoned applewood. Strange, conflicting emotions stirred in her heart, stoked by the copious amounts of wine. I don't deserve this. I don't deserve anything this fine. I deserve a muddy roadside and a moldy crust of bread. None of this can ever be mine, not really. But perhaps I can be dry and well fed for a few weeks until they figure me out.

Corrac was sitting on the bed, looking at her wordlessly. Her stew of conflicting emotions gained a new flavour, sweetness and fire in equal parts. There was a look on his face that she would never have expected-- tenderness, shyness... nervousness? This lion of a man, with huge callused hands that could heft a claymore like it was a goose feather, was nervous?

But then, nothing about this situation had gone the way Red had expected. The best she'd hoped for was to get plowed by some middle-aged backcountry landowner in exchange for meals and a dry roof over her head-- really it was a version of her mother's profession, if a client with a slightly longer term. That's all noble marriages are, after all, aren't they? Hell, that's all marriage is, isn't it? 

 But then she'd ridden alone, clad in a dead woman's bloodstained dress, clutching her signet ring, frantically rehearsing her Rjuven accent, through the most beautiful countyside she'd ever seen... and then the day before yesterday, she'd ridden up to the wooden castle on the island in the river, and waiting for her was the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes upon. Waiting with a smile and a gift for her, not jewels or flowers, but a hawk with golden eyes and curved talons like Khinasi daggers.

Oh, Red had seen pretty men, had bedded her share... but they were gap-toothed, flea-bitten dung-rakers, compared to this man who was like a statue of Anduiras come to life.

Her usually deft hands, struggling through the wine-induced fog, fumbled with the ties on the bodice of her gown. Her handmaid-- I get a handmaid now, some poor sweet woman whose sole duty it is to braid my hair and empty my chamberpot... oh, how the nobles live!-- had made it look so easy when she'd done it up, and now the damn things seemed like ensorceled bonds from the bards' tales, meant to confine a demon from wreaking havoc for all eternity... Impatiently, she tore at them and heard an expensive seam rip with a satisfying sound. The linen shift she wore underneath, unlike the gown, contracted when she breathed and permitted sweat to pass through it. She struggled out of the accursed uncomfortable pile of brocade and velvet and kicked it aside, stumbling toward the bed... coming to a dead halt before Corrac.

Oh, gods. This is damned awkward, isn't it. And to think this is just what nobles DO.

"My lady. Reynhild." His eyes were an unreal shade of blue, like the harbour under a cloudless sky at midday. He took her hand, but gently, so gently, and the look on his face was like a barbed hook that sunk into her heart and tugged.

Oh, gods. I am way too drunk right now.

"You don't have to... We don't have to do anything you don't want to. Wholeheartedly. This is Wilder's Gorge. We are all free here. Especially you."

It took a moment for Red's foggy mind to comprehend his meaning, and then she just stared at him, openmouthed in disbelief. What manner of strange faeryland have I fallen into? What strange place is this, where noble lords ask permission before bedding the brood mare they've purchased? Who are these people, the Wilders, who look at their lord as adoringly as if he were a god, even as they get shitfaced with him at the same table?

Corrac recognized her bewilderment, but not its source. "Come. Lay down for a while. It's been a very long few days, and you've been through a great deal. Just rest." Well, that does sound rather nice... this bed looks amazing, and the room is actually spinning somewhat right now... maybe I'll just lie down for a moment... She crawled into the bed next to him. The linens were so soft she thought she might drown in them. The pillows threatened to absorb her head... Gods, I think there are feathers in these, not rags or straw.

But then he rolled onto his side to make sure she was covered and comfortable, and Red realized she really wanted to see what those proud swells of muscle at chest and shoulder looked like without a shirt obscuring them, and as though possessed by some drunk, clumsy demon, she freed herself from the covers and began wrestling him out of the hateful garment. He laughed, delighted and surprised, and the sweet sound made something stir in her she had no name for... and then of course she realized she wanted very badly to see the rest of him too, and began digging in the tangled nest of bedclothes and limbs with equal parts ferocity and ineptitude. And moments later there he was, nude, the firelight caressing the angles and planes of that warrior's body, so gods-damned beautiful her heart raced... as she swayed, still relatively clothed, the room spinning, trying to figure out where the chamber pot was, and the likelihood she'd need it if her dinner chose to make a quick and violent reappearance.

Oh, gods, I hope I don't puke.

"Come here."

And he drew her into his arms, and suddenly she was enveloped in warmth, and a feeling crept over her that she didn't even recognize, because she didn't recall ever having experienced it before... an unprecedented lightness, a calm, as though she could relax her eternal vigilance for just a moment, a feeling as though she were...

Safe.

She was asleep in moments, and barely felt the gentle brush of his lips on her forehead.




 
 

SESSION 8 ART RECAP

The Diary of Reynhild Andersdottir

[written in Rjurikan in a very elegant hand]

I CAN'T BELIEVE Father sold me like a whore for two hundred silvers to be married off to some dogshit-caked mongrel-breeder from the armpit of Taeghas. He married big sister Freydis off to a proper Rjurikan lord from Leivika, and she isn't nearly as pretty as me! And now she's like a queen and has already given him three sons while the nursemaids care for them and she just struts about in her silks and jewels all day. But no, he says, "Reynhild, you're to help us foster stronger ties with the Anuireans." Stronger ties, indeed! Laying on some flea-infested pile of straw while some inbred yokel ineptly plows me day and night! I should have thrown myself in the icy waters of the Sidhebyrn before it was too late!

I'm headed off to this dreadful pit of a barony now; it's barely an ale-stain on the map, right next to the lands of that awful monster, Rhuobhe. What manner of madman would live there by choice?! I was excited at first when I heard Father had picked an Anuirean lord. I've always felt like I belonged someplace other than Rjurik, and the Anuirean merchants always have such pretty things. But if anything, this barony sounds worse than the most godsforsaken backwaters of Rjurik. If I'm to be sold to an Anuirean, the least Father could have done would be to pick a nice civilized place where I can get velvets and that nice Anuirean embroidery and rubies. The Taeghans probably wear stained rags, and the Wilders (I'm told that's what they call themselves) dogshit-stained rags. Wilders. Even their name sounds loathsome.

SESSION 13 RECAP

The Fulcairns return to the keep from their excursion to the Northeast. All are exhausted and, aside from Cathal, fall to rest. Cathal, incensed at what he sees as a personal failure, drowns his thoughts in training and work.

The next day, Reynhild sends word to her Rangers that they shall be reassigned to cover the loss of Brigid, and that she herself intends to leave the keep and take up Lwcan’s post in the Northeast.

Cathal calls a council meeting to brief everyone on what happened in the forest. Melehan is called in to explain who he is and what he can offer the Fulcairns. He reveals that Mara is his descendant, and thus a Fulcairn herself. The meeting adjourns and Reynhild, overcome by long-held insecurities and trying to best serve the people she loves, explains to Cathal that she plans to leave so she can take over Lwcan’s watch. Cathal is saddened by the news but does not try to stop her. He sits alone in the council chamber into the night.

The next day, each of them has an important conversation with Melehan. Cathal speaks with Melehan of his desires, eventually asking the wizard’s help in claiming the seat of Taeghas when Khorien abdicates. Reynhild attempts to gift the mage with a cairnhound, but Melehan gently refuses, and asks her what it is she truly wants from life. She mentions her plans to take over Lwcan’s watch, and Melehan tells her that he thinks she has not seen the last of the mad ranger. Melehan and Mara have a more familial conversation. Melehan removes the marks of power from Mara’s arms and tells her that he must travel back to the woods in the Northeast to raise lasting defenses against Ruobhe Manslayer.

Reynhild and Mara take a moment to have a personal conversation. Reynhild tells Mara she is considering leaving the keep. Mara implores Reynhild to stay, naming her sister, and stating her importance to the house as a whole. Mara’s heartfelt words assuage much of Reynhild’s insecurity. Reynhild chooses not to go into the Aelvinnwode after all.

In the evening, Reynhild finds Cathal in the council chamber and tells him she may not have to leave after all. Cathal speaks earnestly of his relief, and of his fear that attempting to force her to stay would have driven a wedge between them. He professes his love once again. Reynhild, still insecure about her worthiness of the Fulcairn name, confesses her true nature to Cathal, and gives him the journal of the woman whose life she stole. Cathal reads the marked entry, and embraces Reynhild, accepting her as family no matter her past.

The next day Cathal and Finn arrange for the new recruits to train against Mara, noting that their collective inexperience against battle-mages cost them too dearly in the Northeast. Melehan also requests that Cathal take the moment to train Mara against soldiers, as she will likely face real battles in the future.

Reynhild and Cathal have a brief conversation about the future of their relationship. Cathal wishes to marry her. Reynhild, though she struggles with the idea, asks that Cathal seek out another bride, for the good of the house, and keep her as a consort. Cathal does not welcome the idea, but tells Reynhild he will think on it.

Melehan leaves for the Aelvinnwode, and in a week’s time, folk begin to arrive for the Tournament of Wilder’s Gorge. Vulpina and Nyrion Duene arrive, keeping mostly to themselves. Gaelen Isilvere also deigns to offer his presence, stating that his daughter Corliss has also come, but the headstrong young woman is off on her own somewhere.

The last major guest to arrive is Fulgrim, Thane of the Yngvi and Cathal’s blood brother. Reynhild and Mara see Cathal at his most cheerful since his return from Rjurik. He and Fulgrim embrace, and Cathal excitedly introduces all of his friends. A messenger arrives from Harald Khorien with a message he wishes Cathal to read aloud at some point during the tournament, and a new staff for Mara.

The first day holds the contest for archery, for which the Ranger Asha takes the prize. At the feast that night, Cathal agrees to join the Fulgrim and his Rjurikans in their camp to drink the following night.

The next day sees competition in Pollaxe and Longspear. Dolan takes the prize for Pollaxe after a hard fought bout against one of the Duene’s men at arms. A knight from Brosien wins Longspear. That evening, Cathal and Dolan accompany Fulgrim back to his camp. Cathal drinks excessively and enjoys catching back up with his blood brother. Fulgrim convinces Cathal to enter the melee the following day.

On the third day, the contest for longsword on foot takes the bulk of the day. Fulgrim smashes his way through the competition and faces Corliss Isilvere, Count Gaelen’s daughter, in the final. Despite being a highly skilled fighter, Corliss is no match for Fulgrim, and the Rjurikan thane collects the prize for longsword. Cathal’s advisors look on with chagrin as their still impulsive lord takes the field for melee, now somewhat reluctant but unwilling to upset Fulgrim by backing out. The melee rages, with Lord Fulcairn and the Prince of Yngvi fighting shoulder to shoulder. The two of them get separated, and Cathal finds himself facing down Corliss Isilvere, now armed with a pair of blades and seeming much more adept in their use than the longsword. They fight back and forth across the yard, and Cathal attempts to yield graciously upon receiving a telling blow. Corliss refuses, and screams at him to fight. He obliges, and wins past her defenses to fell her with a stunning stroke to the head. Cathal and Fulgrim easily dispatch the remaining competition, but refuse the prize, instead granting it to a knight from Ghoere who was the last to fall.

That evening, a contest of musicians is held during the night’s feast. Men and women from across Anuire, even a few Rjurikan skalds and a famed Khinasi poet take part. Many fine songs and ballads are heard, but it is Tashairah al-Muhtadim, the Khinasi, who steals the hearts of all. Tashairah weaves among the tourney goers, charming all but one. Reynhild does not trust the poet’s honeyed words.

The joust begins on the fourth day. A surprisingly large number of knights and freeriders have come to try their lances. Among them is Sir Varyan Goeryne, friend to the Fulcairns, who asks Lady Reynhild’s favour before joining the lists. An infamous mystery knight, clad only in red armour and appropriately named The Red Knight, takes the field as well. The joust progresses over the next three days. On the last day, Sir Varyan and The Red Knight stand as the champions and face each other in the final. After a number of passes, the Red Knight’s lance slips and slays Varyan’s beloved horse, Temperance. The Red Knight himself is also unseated. While normally this would result in a forfeit for the Red Knight, and possible barring, Varyan refuses, and wishes for the contest to continue afoot. Sir Varyan and the Red Knight engage in a grueling contest of arms, hacking at each others’ shields for what seems like hours. The Red Knight, in the end, proves the more valiant, if not gallant, and lays Sir Varyan senseless in the mud of the lists. He takes his prize and leaves the Fulcairn lands with haste.

That evening, the nobles present hold a private feast, to be entertained by Tashairah. The Khinasi poet once again woos them all with her evocative lyrics, shining voice, and the haunting beauty of her skill with her curious stringed instrument. Corliss Isilvere joins her father for the feast and strikes as stunning a figure in a gown as she did a fearsome one in armour. The Duenes and Sir Varyan Goeryne also join the feast, along with any knights who deigned to stay after the Jousting was done.

Cathal attempts to win over Vulpina Duene, but sours the opportunity by quietly speaking out about her brother. The Duenes retire, as do Sir Varyan and Tashairah. Tashairah accompanies Sir Varyan to his chamber, and offers him succor for his wounds, both of body and mind. He refuses her advances, but agrees that she may stay with him as he sleeps. Cathal, Mara, and Reynhild remain with Gaelen and Corliss Isilvere in the feast hall until all eventually fall to their beds.

Tell Me About Your Brother

They lay on the crest of a hill in the spring sunshine. The new leaves rustled in the breeze amidst a riot of birdsong; everywhere the forest of the Gorge burst with new life. A woven basket containing wine, honeyed hazelnuts, a wheel of cheese, and freshly baked meat pies sat in the grass next to them, wholly ignored. For nothing existed for them save each other; new love lit them both as vividly as spring blazing pink and scarlet on the boughs of the apple orchards. Everyone in the castle had remarked on it. "Lord Corrac, you're positively effervescent this morning!" Merrec had commented when they'd breakfasted the other day. Baron Cullan had said to her, a little wistfully, "You two remind me of myself and Catriona when we first wed. As parents, all we can do is try and make a good match for both our families, and hope we've chosen someone kind and wise and of an age, and hopefully reasonably pleasant to look at... but still, 'tis a rare and wondrous thing, when a solid and sensible match turns into the kind of love that sets one's heart on fire..."

And so they lay, his arm around her and her head pillowed in the nook between his arm and chest, for a blissful eternity, silent, listening to the warbles of birds and the sound of the wind in the leaves.

"Tell me about your brother."

"Brinden? Oh, my star, don't trouble yourself, please forgive him for being a little rude yesterday. It's just that he's always been a little... insecure, given his parentage, and the one thing he could do to always compel praise from my father is hunt; he's a good hunter. So I think he's just a little sore that my new bride can easily best him on the archery range. He's a good man, I know he'll realize his error and apologize--"

"No, not Brinden. The other one, the one in Rjurik. Cathal."

Corrac smiled. "Gods. I haven't seen him in nine years. I'm not sure there's much I can tell you; he was a child when I last saw him, and he's a man now."

"Well, tell me what you remember, then."

"I love him. That's mostly what I remember. It's impossible not to. He's... irrepressible, unstoppable. Impulsive. Cathal is too impatient to listen when you tell him that the fire is hot, he'd rather stick his finger in it to find out for himself. He has a hard time keeping his tongue in check. But not in a cruel way, more that he's too earnest for his own good. But above all, he's... good. There's a goodness that just shines from him. He has an ironclad idea of what's wrong and what's right, and no one can convince him otherwise." Sadness touched his handsome features. "The saddest day of my life was when my mother passed away. The second saddest was when Cathal left for Rjurik."

"Why do the Fulcairns have the treaty with the Yngvi? To what end?"

"I'm not certain, but both agree that 'tis a good thing, that both have benefited by it. Some say that Wilders are almost more like Rjurik than Anuireans. My father always said that we need it more than ever now, after the War of Succession... that we've fallen so low in the eyes of Taeghans that we need allies from elsewhere. This, I believe, is also why our marriage was arranged, and I am ever grateful to the gods it was..."

"Nay." She grinned. "That's not why. My clan sent me here to nag you to death, so I may assume control of the barony and make way for a Rjurik invasion!"

"If all the Rjurik are as pretty as you, I think the Anuireans would lay down their arms and welcome it. Come to think of it, that's a brilliant military strategy!"

They laughed, and after a time she said "Will Cathal will come back to Wilder's Gorge?"

"I hope so. Gods, I hope so. I want him to be an uncle, give our children rides on his shoulders, and--" Her thoughts must have darkened her face momentarily, because he immediately halted. "I-- I'm sorry, my star, I didn't mean to--"

"No worries, my love. 'Tis merely a reminder that we need to redouble our efforts." She smiled. "Tell me more about Cathal. Does he look like you?"

"Aye. Mother always said we would be mistaken for twins, if we were of an age."

"Then if he does come back, I'll have to be ever vigilant to make sure it's the right one of you in my bed, no?"

They laughed again, and fell silent, and watched whimsical puffs of cloud traverse the bright blue sky.

"Teach me some Rjuven," Corrac said.

"Hah, why? Doesn't it make more sense for you to be teaching me Anuirean?"

"Don't be silly! You speak Anuirean as though it were your first language! Come on, teach me some! Then if Cathal returns, we can speak Rjuven together, the three of us. Oh, it would be so wonderful to be together, the three of us..."

A shadow touched her then, a flicker of fear, foreboding, for a second. She did her best to push it away. She pointed upward at the blue sky and said "Himinn."

"Himinn."

"Sky. Well done." She pointed at the trees. "Träd."

"Träd."


"Trees. Excellent!" She motioned to the horses, who were hobbled and munching on the grasses. "Hestur."

"Hestur."

After a moment, she took his hand, met his gaze. Felt the beat of his heart, of both their hearts. Thought of the future, of the past, of everything she'd left behind, everything she dared to hope for now. Felt the great and terrible and improbable beauty of the turn her life had taken. Felt its fragility, and the spectre haunting her, whispering that it could all be taken away at any second.

"Förälskelse."

"Förälskelse?"

"Love."