Iron and Ash - A Mordentish Tale

[Snarling_Badger]

Iron and Ash
- A Mordentish Tale -

http://www.mediafire.com/download/sro42kbdewe3yb4/Evelyn_Portrait.zip

[Snarling_Badger]

[A sheepskin journal, seeming to be often used, describes the life of one "Evelyn Aigrette", as indicated on the first page]

Blackburn's Crossing, Mordent - Late Autumn

When the Valachani horde came, we thought we were done for. Our army of Mordent was spread thin, desperately trying to stem the tide, but the southern border stretches for miles over rough terrain, and they couldn't possibly be everywhere at once.

We knew the war would eventually find us, but we were loathe to leave our lands... they were home to us, and we were tied to them. Despite the urging of Heather House to depart for Mordentshire, or further north, we clung to the belief that somehow, we would survive, despite the dire news that came from the south.   

Our village was not remarkable enough to claim a mark on most maps, but it was home. Open meadows bordered a small tributary of the Arden River, surrounded by scattered copses of vibrant firs and yew, with a smattering of colorful maples about. Flowering bluebells burst into life early each spring, followed by pale red and pink snapdragons in the fall. It was good, fruitful land, and provided us with what we needed to thrive.

The ruthless Valachani ravaged it all, and murdered my husband and son. The flames burned hot all night. I watched my village burn... I stood, helpless, on a hill above.

Mordentish soldiers found me, covered in soot and ash. Blood, my family's blood, dried on my hands. They took me to the Crossing. 

I shall never forgive, nor forget, what happened that night.   

[Snarling_Badger]

Mortigny, Richemulot - Late Winter

All must strive for purpose. If we lose such, we are lost, truly. A lack of purpose can drive one to madness, despair, and worse. I feel myself slipping to such now, after leaving Mordent. The wider world, I have learned, is a lonely place. Barren roads twist and stretch through the Core, small paths leading to smaller vestiges of civilization.

Crossing the Arden and into Richemulot, I traveled past deserted cities and crumbling ruins. This is a cold, desolate place. There is life, yes, but it's a strange existence, hanging on to brief glimpes of some former glory. Cities within cities of old... that is the Richemulot way. They are a prudent people, with little taste for opulence. I can appreciate this, but I do not think I could live here. They trade rumors like gold, and have a taste for gossip and secrets. A contradiction, in a way, I think. I spent two weeks in Mortigny, staying in a decent inn house, the Fawn's Rest. They have a fine venison stew, and an oat-like stout that they brew which reminds me of home.

What was their country like, before some great calamity seemed to have struck them? Did the balance hang on the edge of a blade, like we faced in Mordent during the Valachani invasion? If the Company of the Fox did not come, if the Valachani did not allow themselves to be pressed betwix our army of Mordent and the Dementlieuse... Could it have been worse? Did fate hinge on a single instant? Could things have been worse? Is there worse than what I have endured?

I think on these things often... I am alone, yet not.

I may reach the Borcan border in a week's time. A choice ahead, to follow the Musarde, or Luna River... I know not which. 

[Snarling_Badger]

Along the Luna River, Borca - Early Spring

I purchased passage on a river boat from Mortigny, passing over the border and into Borca. My choice of the Musarde or Luna was made for me, as the captain of the ferry refused to follow the Musarde south into Verbrek, stating that rumor had recently come down the river of a massacre of sorts. Evidently, several packs of vicious wolves had converged on a village along the river banks, ravaging all who had dwelt there. More indistinct gossip had spoke of something strange and dreadful; several beastly creatures, reputably wolf-men, that ran with the packs and directed their will. I feel myself angered, saddened, and fearful. Shades of the Valachani, follow my thoughts.

A favorable wind allows for easier travel along the river, and the sails of the river boat are constantly full. Despite this, the journey feels meandering, slow. There is a restlessness to travelling by such vessels, and it is something I have never particularly enjoyed. Still, it has given me time to converse with other passengers, and to appreciate the Borcan countryside from safety of the river.

One of the passengers, a Barovian man, a trader, told me something of his homeland, and how they apparently are dealing with an uprising of sorts near the city of Zeidenburg. He spoke of Invidian mercenaries, and others, moving towards the city. Evidently, Barovia just faced a civil war between their Count, and one of his nieces, from what I understand. Mankind seems always eager to pounce on chaos, confusion, and weakness. I have left one war, and perhaps, will soon go through another.

From the haven of the boat's deck, the Borcan wilderness slips past. Since Richemulot, the countryside has shifted, growing darker, rougher. The soil seems rich, but reminds me of ash after a fire. Some of the Borcans on board informed me that in the past, rifts have opened in the earth, spewing smoke and flame briefly. I've never heard of such things before, but they do not seam to speak in jest. The Borcan people, from what little I have seen thus far, seem weary, restrained... sullen. What settlements I can see from the river do not look to be thriving, merely... managing. Parties of mounted, armed men are seen at times, going from house to house. Each time, I can glimpse a stout carriage with them, small windowed slits covered by iron bars. Tax collectors. The Borcan passengers tell me there is nothing that is not taxed here... some times things are taxed twice, they say wryly. The river boat captain looks grimly on as he directs the craft. Occasionally, his eyes view small tributaries of the river with trepidation, and I can not help but think that he fears to run into a customs boat, or some such thing. The name of Ivana Boritsi, the Black Widow of Borca, is whispered often by the passengers and crew of the ferry alike. They do not seem to hold the ruler of Borca in gracious esteem.

I feel for these people. Despite the Valachani incursions, Mordent... truly seems a happy place, compared to this land.

The ferry captain intends to pass by Levkarest, as none of his passengers or cargo is destined for it. I did not have a particular wish to disembark there, regardless. Some of the other passengers assure me that I will be able to glimpse the spires of the Grand Cathedral from the river. My thoughts are drawn back to the memory of my uncle, and what he faced at the Ezrites judgement. I will not much regret passing the city, I believe.

The ferry's final destination is Krezk, a city not far into the Barovian border.

I miss my family.

[Snarling_Badger]

Krezk, Barovia - Mid Spring

My departure from the ferry boat at Krezk went without much excitement. The boat captain had his crew unload the various items of cargo, and the last of the passengers, myself included, disembarked without any great ceremony, despite our long distance of travel together. The Barovian merchant whom told me of the troubles near Zeidenburg had offered to let me travel with him to Vallaki, one of Barovia's principle cities several miles further eastwards along the Old Svalich Road. In truth, I felt that perhaps the man wished for more than a travelling companion for the roads; I had noticed his glances to me on the ferry when I believe he thought I wasn't looking. Despite this, I believe the merchant to be of good heart, and one familiar with these lands is a logical choice for a guide deeper into them.

I supped together with the merchant, Oleksiy, at an inn known as the Befuddled Mink. Though more named like a rowdy pub, the inn proved to be rather welcoming and warm, situated in the more prosperous section of the settlement. I had not eaten quite so well in some time, and Oleksiy was easy company. We dined on something called Tobă, to start, which was delicious, followed by what the Barovians call Sângerete, a type of black blood pudding. It was somewhat reminiscent of the fare we enjoyed in Mordent, and the main course, the Saramură de carp, is something I will remember for some time. We finished with cups of Zmeurată, a sort of raspberry liqueur and a salty sheep's cheese, Brânză de burduf.

Oleksiy was a most gracious host, and I thanked him profoundly for the meal. It had been my understanding after word from some of the other travelers on the ferry that most Barovians were not particularly wealthy; indeed, a meal such as this might represent three months of hard labor. However, after Oleksiy had retired to his own quarters upstairs, and I was mostly alone in the common room with my own thoughts, I happened to overhear muttered words from other patrons at the inn. Oleksiy, it was apparently suspected, might be member of a company known as the Red Vardo Traders. It seemed that they were one of the most influential groups in Krezk, and had coin to spare at nearly any whim, though the manner at which they acquired such was spoken of in less then gracious terms.  While it had not been obvious during our meal, it was after; the other patrons had looked upon me with a mixture of envy, jealously, and guarded distaste. I had excused myself quietly from the common room for my own chambers.

Wealth is such a driving factor for many folk. It can cause outright theft and robbery, assault... it can show status, it can even at times show thanks for appreciation. There is a necessity to it yes, but when there is an excess... I am afraid not many can resist its lures.

Come morning, we shall begin our journey to Vallaki. Oleksiy has a mule and a cart awaiting in the inn's stables, several locked chests and crates stowed for transport. From what I had seen in Borca from the Luna, I know that such a sight would attract much attention there... I can only hope Barovia might prove otherwise, but from the looks that the locals gave the cart when we arrived from the docks.... I can not help but feel anxious.

I will make sure to see to the care of my sword and bow this night, and that my brother's breastplate fits as well as I can manage to make it. Tomorrow might prove a trial, if my instinct is right.


 

[Snarling_Badger]

[dozens of pages have been torn out of the journal, easily what must amount to nearly a year of writing. In their place, are several detailed sketches on parchment, tucked between the pages. Each is has a title written beneath it]

The Oath

The Astral Blade

Untitled Sketch

The Gift

Iron Sons' Oak

Interloper

Sacrifice

Comfort

The Beast

The Coven's Lair

The Citadel

The Refuge

Templar Armour

[Snarling_Badger]

The Broken Bell, Vallaki, Barovia - Late Summer

When I set out from Blackburn's Crossing, I had little idea what I was searching for, or even where I was going. Days and weeks started to blur, and writing, was my solace, my crutch, my attempt to keep some measure of sanity and calm. I have heard it said that when one is locked away in a prison or jail, alone and forgotten for countless months and years, the written word can be sweet beyond compare, a kiss of life, a breath unchained. In the written word, one can experience a myriad of lifetimes, a steed harnessed to ones inner mind, avenues of endless contemplation and reflection. In the darkness of the void, the written word is a brilliant beacon of light.

What then, is the measure of the written word when life seems shining, golden and blissful? I have found that its value changes, slackens.

I had felt myself so truly happy within the embrace, the care, the confidence, the tutelage... The love of Cyrus Gallant. Written word can only go so far to describe. I falter at such, uncertain of myself in that regard. Sometimes, I think, the stroke of art with brush or pencil, of the world and the life we lived, can come closer to grasping the veracity of these moments. Perhaps these drawings of those times can establish a better record of what I destroyed in anguish and rage.

My long hunt for those that murdered Cyrus eventually revealed his killers. A coven most foul... both vampires, and lycans. Hardly has a dark alliance such as this been known throughout the Core. Very few, know the truth of the matter, the master that commands such machinations. This is  not the time for Heroes. That... era, is past. I believe it to have been gone, centuries ago, now.

I find myself wondering of what might have been if I had followed the sage advice of Inquisitor Veritas sooner. But I have chosen this path. The past can not be altered, nor is it something to be thought of with whimsy or regret. There is order to the events of my life. There is purpose. Nothing occurs without reason. The Grand Scheme is always present. The Lady in the Mists guides us.

I have been accepted into the Templar Order of the Fourth Sect of Ezra. The vigilant shall sunder the corrupt, and cleanse these mortal realms. My soul is in her service, my blade ready to destroy the Legion. I will see the faithful protected, and I will prepare for the final battle, the Time of Unparalleled Darkness.

My entire life has been preparation for these coming trials. Blessed be Ezra, our Eternal Guardian.

Tomorrow, I shall be-- [the writing here is suddenly ended, the final letters scrawled across the page, as if the pen was suddenly torn away with abruptness]

[Snarling_Badger]

Rectory of the Fifth Light, Vallaki,  Barovia - Late Summer
 
The perfidiousness of the Legion knows no bounds. Nearly two dozen slain. An Icon of Danzig, stolen from the Refuge. Sentire Mugur Costinus and Toret Roman Tobeichik, dead. They fought defending the innocent, as truly valiant champions of Ezra.

The cowards came when they were assured that myself, the Inquisitors Veritas and Martel, and Toret MacGillivray were absent from the Refuge. I was only streets away, at the Broken Bell when panicked word came to my ears. In full sprint and in full Templar armor, I entered the Church, weapon drawn, but I was too late. They were gone. All I could do was try to make some order out of the slaughter.

As always, Outlanders had flocked to the scene. It was trial enough to gain some notion of how the attacked occurred, but by Ezra's grace, one of the Barovian workers had survived and escaped. Through his words, I was able to confirm that it was indeed the Falkovnian and the Lycan, accompanied by a Mage, whom I carry some suspicions to of the identity.

Initiate Bahr was the only member of the congregation that arrived after I did to assist on the scene. Together, with the help of Lance Corporal Stolojan and her men, did we gather and assess the dead. I performed rites for their souls, but they died fighting the Legion to the end. They  fulfilled their role in the Grand Scheme.

After many hard hours, we secured the Refuge, as well as the Rectory. I only found two other Templars alive there. These losses... They will be hard to overcome, but we shall. Ezra is eternal. Our fight and duty against the Legion shall not end.

I have sent word to Toret Svari Ionelus. We must have support from the other Bastions in these coming days. The Time of Unparalleled Darkness is quickly approaching.

I will fight back against the Legion, these dastardly thieves and murderers, with every fiber of my being. Matthias Piltz, Markov, Ryul, and the rest of your ilk. You will be purged from existence. This is my vow.

[Snarling_Badger]

Former Site of the Iron Son's Camp, Barovia - Late Spring

I came again to the old oak this night... At its base, before the long ago burnt roots, was a small sprout.

Ezra, let his soul find its way through the Mists.

[a sketch of a young oak sprout is drawn on the page]

[Snarling_Badger]

Rectory of the Fifth Light, Barovia - Summer

By the grace of Ezra, the blade and stake have been put to the servants of the Legion. Markov and Ryul join Piltz, Francesca, and Ivan. If the account detailed in Ivan's journal is accurate, along with the notes I found in mountain lair of the Darkonese agents, the mummy, Hakim, was slain as well on one of these previous nights. Unaccounted for are a second vampire, the female, Raine, and some foul minion that I witnessed in their lair as well, that appeared to be a ghoul of some sort. My instinct tells me that both have withdrawn to the shadows in cowardice, and likely will not continue any of the work that the agents had set forth to do these many months ago. The Legion still fights amongst itself. They will continue to be hunted, however. No Templar of the Church would stand for otherwise.

I think to their last moments... When I drove the stake down, twisting it for deep purchase... witnessed that beastly head being snapped back, by the lycan wolf's own hands... my blade, the Akirian bronze cutting into Piltz's armour, into that twisted flesh... the shocked faces in the Outskirts of Vallaki, when I refused to parlay... the silver longsword severing the neck of the lycan rat, the prayers on my lips, the blood on my face...  We have the Armour they so desired. It will be obliterated.

I look upon the greataxe that claimed so many lives... the soulless helmet. The shattered remains of a warbow. Is there glory in these moments, these victories over the Legion?

Not for I. They are in Her name. They are the victories of faith over the Legion, over Darkness. The continuing path of the Grand Scheme. A Templar is a guardian of the faith, a protector of the flock and the clergy. We defend the Church from the ravages of the Night, the terror of the Legion. We do not fear. We do not falter. Our duty is our life, our purpose is to serve, to inspire, and defend.

Be without fear in the face of your enemies

Be brave and upright, that Ezra may love thee

Follow the truth, always, even if it leads to your death

Safeguard the faithful

That is your oath

Ezra your sword

And shield

And truth

Eternally

Amen

Thus is my duty, thus is my oath. Thus is my soul.

The Time of Unparalleled Darkness is approaching. The signs can not be ignored. I will continue to train, continue to prepare, continue to be vigilant. There will be distractions. There will be subterfuge and cunning to resist. Ezra's light will be our beacon, and will dispel the illusions about the faithful. I will be Her sword. I will be Her warrior.

There is much to be done, in these coming days. The Praesidius has assigned a new Toret to Raduta Chapel. While I believe that the Fourth Revelation would be the best custodians of the old keep, I will respect the Praesidius's decision, and give my full support to Stănoiu. They need aid. The Toret may have come with a detachment of templars, but the presence of the Legion is great there. It must be sanctified. My sword and shield are ready. My equipment in order and maintained. My studies are constant, and my prayers daily. I have sheared my hair short to better face the Legion in battle. Vanity has no purpose.

There is only Ezra.

[Snarling_Badger]

Chapter House of Ste. Mere des Larmes, Dementlieu

The Stained Glass window in the Cathedral of Port-a-Lucine has always held my interest. Though rain and clouded weather often keep Port-a-Lucine in a shroud of grey, some rare mornings shed a light so warm and rosy that the diffusion of it through the glass absolutely makes a small section of the western wing of the Cathedral awash with the most breathtaking colors... it is a sight that inspires me greatly.

This very day had such a morning, and despite the grievous sin that was committed... it brought comfort to my soul, as does he.

I will serve a penance for what I have done, no matter the difficulty, no matter the cost... However, I must remember, that we are but mortals, as frightening as it is. Ezra, divine as She is, was once mortal. Mistakes will be made, sin will occur. It is what we do after, that matters most. It is how we recover, how we make ourselves stronger, and grow from the occurrence.

The Legion of Night does tempt us, constantly. We must never allow it to take full hold of our soul. But the closer that we come in contact with it, perhaps the better we can protect and prepare ourselves for the future.

I will remember my vow... both that of a Templar Commander, and that to the Inquisitor, and to Ezra. I will resist temptation, but I will not flee from temptation.

Our strength, both mine and his, are one, and will be together in the grace of Ezra, I am sure.

Cry no more, for I will cry for you

[Snarling_Badger]

Former Site of the Iron Son's Camp, Barovia

Ezra has punished me for my sins. I can think of nothing else to explain it. Gone. Taken by a sin of his own, just as he was taken by mine. What I would do.... what I could do...

Can I even think of it this way? Even had we not committed this... the past could not have changed. Was this fate? Was this the path that the Grand Scheme set out, unchanging? Was it doomed to start?

How far would I go...

I hold the sword he gave me... the Astral Blade. It's cold in my hand. Everything, is cold.