Past and future Marchers
Responses to some Keeper prompts. Quite enjoying these as a way to finish off the character. I mean, the Druj finished him off, but you get the idea :P.
[The Funeral]
‘Drin rounded the tent as Keeper waited for Muster. “The League needs you to hold a funeral for Danek”, he said. A look of confusion crossed Keeper’s face for a second, but that was washed away as he realised, who else but me? Cardinal of Prosperity, and not a Priest of Prosperity even in the League, hah! Not to mention, I knew Danek. He were the one who convinced me to stand for the big hat, and I’m the last of the old Assembly, really. Aye, fair enough. He’d need his book though, and he’d need to muster. Pete pointed out to ‘Drin it wasn’t like Danek was going to get any more alive in ten minutes, and went off to get the book. Ynez’s book, the pretty blue one with all her words and oaths in. His book now, with his oath. Then regretted the glibness of that whole “more alive” thing.
The Muster dragged, and Keeper realised you can’t hold off some works. Do your duty to friends and faith, or listen to whining yeomen drag a serious muster down to a bar brawl? Easy call, the Way needs me more than these squabbling idiots do. Keeper could feel the Hallowing doing its work, assuring him that he was needed. He made his excuses, asked James to speak a few matters for him. It weren’t far to the Foxes tent, nor hard to spot it. Nora on her knees, Marius standing about with a pair of serious-looking Barossas. Odd to see ‘Drigo not looking about ready to punch a bugger’s head off, really.
Pete took Ynez’s book out his satchel. Opened it, closed his eyes, took a breath. How did Leaguers even see to the dead? He’d need a plan, aye. Words, stories, make up a speech while the guests said their things. That’d do it. Respectful and proper, for all there were no apple trees involved. Ynez had a lovely hand when she tried, and the words of the Oath were clear and elegant in her blue ink. This weren’t a time to whisper, nor to recite. “NO PEACE!”, Keeper shouted, loud as a command to the bill block. “NO PEACE WHILE THE EMPIRE STANDS THREATENED!”. Looking across the assembled, he shouted that oath, reminding them that Prosperity was as much about the blades of Zemress and the stout club of Walder as it was about the Little Mother’s generosity.
“NO PEACE! In this life or the next, until our work is done! Now, tell me of Danek. Tell me what he meant to you.”. There were speeches, recollections, fond memories of a friend or comrade. From them, Keeper got the seeds of an idea, planted them in his mind, let them grow. Aye, that’d do. Nora curled around a tent pole, her head bowed and hiding her tears, so he took her hand. Small, pale, unworn from farm work. Shaking a bit. He held on to her through the funeral. A sweet girl, Nora, and a good physick. Anvil had a way of pile-driving you and despite the weeping and all, she kept coming back. Courage should be shared. It’s not about the brave face and dramatic charge, it’s about doing what you need to when it’s hard. You weep, you wail, you beat your chest and then you make damned sure his death meant something.
Pete waited for the last Leaguer to be silent, then spoke again, trusting he could wing this about right. “The Synod recognises Exemplars, those who have been so Virtuous as to be an example to the whole world. But we can all be an example of Virtue, we can all inspire others to do better. That is what the Way is for, that is what we must aspire to be. Danek gave the folk of the slums a chance, and he helped get me where I stand today. He were an inspiration. Would that we could all do so well”. Pete looked down again. Stared at the shell of a man who’d trusted Marcher Pete to take the job of a woman he’d idolised. “Anyone else got a thing to say? No? Right. Let’s take this man home to the League then”.
[Taking on the Mantle]
Pete stood in shock, chatting to the four Varushkans in blue and white. “Sorry about me not making the meetin’, but one of the Assembly has just come back from the dead. Or, ‘least something that looks like her has. I got people on it, but...”. He raises his fingers to his temples, sighing. The Varushkans tell him he needs to delegate, offer to help him. Keeper opens his book, her book, and reads down the list of plans he’s made in a darker blue than Ynez ever used. He passes out jobs to the eager recruits, them as don’t realise how much pain the Assembly’s gone through of late. Yes, he tells them, he’s delegating, but things are happening faster than he can recruit aid. Oh, you want to help? Excellent. This, this, and this. And come back by Sunday if you haven’t used your Judgements, and I’ll have some for you.
Add to that, the fact he hates Varushka. Hates the maddening, hungry land of ghosts and monsters that killed five of his friends and family. So these kind, helpful people are clearly blind, masochistic, not to be trusted. On the other hand, they’re all he’s got. And they’re Imperial. And they can see he needs help, understand what Prosperity means, what hard work means!
His head spins, and he wonders where Tilly is. She’s gone from a nervous kid to his right-hand Landskeeper and dammit, he needs an aide. So he sets his Assembly to work, thanks them for the help, and walks off to find a way to kill a dead comrade for good. He’s no Abbot or wise old Friar, just a Landskeeper in the right place. And by Walder’s club, he’ll move them all like maypole dancers if that’s what it takes to get this Assembly back together. He did it for the Keepers after Britta fell. He can do it for the Prosperous now.
[Prosperity Pants]
“Go on, open the present, you’ll feel better”. It was a tissue-wrapped package, light, probably clothing. Maybe a banner? He couldn’t cope right now, there was literally a dead woman walking out there, one of his. What sort of present would help? Couldn’t hurt to open it though, maybe it was useful. He took the wrapping off, revealing new pants. New, heavily embroidered pants with a big apple tree on the front. Got wood, heh? He grinned, and for a moment escaped the stress, seeing a little act of generosity and genuine amusement, along with blatant flirting. Just the sort of thing Keeper himself would do, that was. He’d wear ‘em for Sunday, maybe see Eleri after the Assembly...
[Cora]
Coals glow gently in the firepit, their soft red light not so much illuminating as pushing back the shadows a little. I stir them with a stick, staring into the fire so’s I don’t need to look at Cora’s face. I know I should be ashamed of this, but it doesn’t really register. Odd, that I’m avoiding my feelings more out of rote than anything else. Dammit Watcher, why’d we have to go through with this anointin’? Were I normal, I’d be weeping. Were I normal, I’d tell her of my love, my fury, my pride in her for living so well she’ll be chasing Alan through the Labyrinth. But I ain’t normal. Because if I were normal, I’d be weeping, or screaming, or starting a fight, and the Assembly of Prosperity would be burning to the ground around me.
The words don’t come, I’m too tired for it. Tired, calm, all my emotions stuck in a little box in the back of me head. Cora’s been destroying herself on the slow since Karsk, since Alan died, and then some twisted little traitors decided to finish the job with a fast poison. I can’t feel the anger, but I know I should. I just plan how I’d find them, and come up blank. Divinations? Nah. Investigation? Not my job? Ruining the lives of the usual suspects and knifing them right back in a dark tent? I’ve the power to do that now. Condemnation, excommunication, inquisition, people Loyal to me. Could be worth a shot, if I gots nothing left to lose there.
She took over for Alan died, when i didn’t know where my Loyalties lay. When to put the Marches first, or Empire, or Stoke. It’s the curse of busy people such as us, that we never get enough time to be ourselves, share our time. I might be a physick, and a damn good battle healer at that, but it’s not like I ever spent much time around her in the Hospital. Always someone else about with a knife, needle and thread you see. And now I’ll never get that chance. Loyalty comes easy when times are good, but to stay loyal to your Nation when it’s plagued with morons? Violent idiots who lost their souls behind their own warpaint, can’t separate the person and the mask any more. Fools who mistake expediency for Courage, and ignore their own wounded. The sort of wastrels who fritter away precious weirwood on tit-jiggling contests of “who’s got the biggest herb beds”. No wonder she liked Alan, the boy always did quietly despair of us in Stoke, not living up to his sombre expectations.
She passes me a book, it’s Alan’s book. I won’t cry, can’t cry, just accept it with shocked thanks. I didn’t know she had that. I still can’t find the right thing, I’m just so tired. Feet, legs and mind run ragged trying to pick up after Ynez’s death, and now this. I should be out, should have taken up Eleri’s offer to collapse in her tent. But no, I serve. And with what little I can do for Cora, the least of that is to hear her farewells. Goodbye, Cora. See Alan in your big dance again, you’ve earned that. As for me, I’ll go on. One less person keeping me straight though, and that scares me. Or it would if I could feel fear right now. But I don’t. So I watch Bronn help you away, and I my mind turns over and over with clear, rational ideas I hope to never use.
[Sympathy for the Poisoner]
Alone at night, but for a poisoner who’d stabbed her own husband. And yet, Keeper felt relaxed. She were good company, all told. They both had wonderful, stupid families who’d fall apart or die horribly if they weren’t being supplied by the halfway organised one. They were both physicks run ragged by duty. They both saw madness at the edges of their minds, and held it back with Virtue and determination.
And as they walked, and chatted, and consoled each other he made a confession. He didn’t fear Igraine over having plans to kill everyone, not any more. He’d got anointed last Summit, and seen Cora dying while all his emotions were well, sort of... gone. He’d planned murder then. Death after death, even a massacre against the people he thought might be behind Cora’s murder, or Tristram’s curse, or anything. A way to go out fighting if politics failed and wake the Empire up with one last shock. Like Isaella. Like Realm’s Reach.
Not that he wanted to act on it, mind, but he needed to know he could. Needed to know that if there was no other choice, then he knew how. True Wisdom could be frightening, but it meant that at last, he understood Igraine. Understood just how much she cared.
Some more fic for the character I've settled on as a return to the marches either next year or over winter. I'll probably do something for my .3 filler PC as well. Let me know if you want background links to Martin Orchard, naga gravedigger, Order of Afal member and Winter Ritualist.
[Put a question to the Wasteland]
Few Marchers ever hate their crops like I do. It is a rare yeoman indeed who wishes he could plant fewer seeds, or see a lesser harvest. We’re a nation that takes pride in our dominion over the soil, who placed great stones to show that Pride before we’d even heard of Lann over Bravash. I dig my shovel into the pile next to me and gently tip another load into the hole, soft earth raining down over rough linen. There’s no words to be said for the body in that shroud, not here, not now. Their time will come when the nights draw longer, when the strains of the Wassail start to sing in our hearts once more.
I ponder while I turn the earth and fill the grave. What did this woman die for, out in Reikos? Those who did come back from Anvil were not the clearest on that point. On why we marched through that Gate to the far corners of this Empire, why we did the hardest of jobs. On how long it would be before they’d be throwing Henry at the front lines too, for want of troops. Few enough left now to hold the village, sadly. Even with the new army mustering, the Feni are getting cheeky enough that it’s hard to feel secure without a couple of swords under the pillows. The painted inbreds are cutting deals with sorcerers, Eternals, all kinds of fell things.
I’ve left a gap in the soil, and I carefully unwrap the roots of a small tree, peeling away the scratchy hessian around the base. The tree fits its hole well enough, and a few more scoops of soil pack it in nicely. Just one thing left to do. I know that this body was a magician, she had a wand and mana. Unfortunately, the Druj made such a mess of her, it wasn’t clear which one she was. One of Seth’s unit, and when he never came back, she’d gone off with the rest of them saying they’d show the damn Druj a thing. I guess that didn’t go the way she wanted. Still, I can at least unshade the Lantern on this particular mystery.
I clutch the pair of mana crystals in my hand, and begin raising the power. I let Diras and Yoorn float into my awareness, one from the flame of Night, one from the maw of Winter. The cool spring breeze changes to an uncomfortably hot, dry wind, bringing the scents of parched sands and dusty crypts. I unstopper my cider flask and pour a little out onto the grave, feeding Winter’s endless hunger. With that gesture, I split Naeve into Irremais, gain wisdom from the Wasteland. In the desert of my mind, a fresh, whole corpse lies in the sand, covered only a little with pale dust. She’s short, heavy-built, her long brown hair pulled into a tail and braided. Something brushes past my ear, and the wind hisses “Fay Trooper” in my ear, hot sand stinging my scales.
It is not real, I remind myself. I am here, in the orchard, on good Marcher land. There is no true ending here, just another part of the cycle of the Way. Winter lies, the Labyrinth does not. I have seen all I need, I think. I know her name. The mana crumbles in my fingers, power gone to the desert and the crystals just brittle salts once more. I take out a thick pencil and mark the name on a sharpened plank, then drive it down with a mallet. A true headstone can come later, but this can keep her memory for now. On a whim, I draw Aesh on the plank. The Staff, a suitable mark for a fellow magician. My work is done for the day, and that flask’s still got plenty left. I stroll over to one of the larger trees, and find a little shade. Sitting back against the trunk, I sip my cider and wonder where Kathryn’s gone off hunting sorcerers this time. It’s past time we compared notes on Winter.
[The Funeral]
‘Drin rounded the tent as Keeper waited for Muster. “The League needs you to hold a funeral for Danek”, he said. A look of confusion crossed Keeper’s face for a second, but that was washed away as he realised, who else but me? Cardinal of Prosperity, and not a Priest of Prosperity even in the League, hah! Not to mention, I knew Danek. He were the one who convinced me to stand for the big hat, and I’m the last of the old Assembly, really. Aye, fair enough. He’d need his book though, and he’d need to muster. Pete pointed out to ‘Drin it wasn’t like Danek was going to get any more alive in ten minutes, and went off to get the book. Ynez’s book, the pretty blue one with all her words and oaths in. His book now, with his oath. Then regretted the glibness of that whole “more alive” thing.
The Muster dragged, and Keeper realised you can’t hold off some works. Do your duty to friends and faith, or listen to whining yeomen drag a serious muster down to a bar brawl? Easy call, the Way needs me more than these squabbling idiots do. Keeper could feel the Hallowing doing its work, assuring him that he was needed. He made his excuses, asked James to speak a few matters for him. It weren’t far to the Foxes tent, nor hard to spot it. Nora on her knees, Marius standing about with a pair of serious-looking Barossas. Odd to see ‘Drigo not looking about ready to punch a bugger’s head off, really.
Pete took Ynez’s book out his satchel. Opened it, closed his eyes, took a breath. How did Leaguers even see to the dead? He’d need a plan, aye. Words, stories, make up a speech while the guests said their things. That’d do it. Respectful and proper, for all there were no apple trees involved. Ynez had a lovely hand when she tried, and the words of the Oath were clear and elegant in her blue ink. This weren’t a time to whisper, nor to recite. “NO PEACE!”, Keeper shouted, loud as a command to the bill block. “NO PEACE WHILE THE EMPIRE STANDS THREATENED!”. Looking across the assembled, he shouted that oath, reminding them that Prosperity was as much about the blades of Zemress and the stout club of Walder as it was about the Little Mother’s generosity.
“NO PEACE! In this life or the next, until our work is done! Now, tell me of Danek. Tell me what he meant to you.”. There were speeches, recollections, fond memories of a friend or comrade. From them, Keeper got the seeds of an idea, planted them in his mind, let them grow. Aye, that’d do. Nora curled around a tent pole, her head bowed and hiding her tears, so he took her hand. Small, pale, unworn from farm work. Shaking a bit. He held on to her through the funeral. A sweet girl, Nora, and a good physick. Anvil had a way of pile-driving you and despite the weeping and all, she kept coming back. Courage should be shared. It’s not about the brave face and dramatic charge, it’s about doing what you need to when it’s hard. You weep, you wail, you beat your chest and then you make damned sure his death meant something.
Pete waited for the last Leaguer to be silent, then spoke again, trusting he could wing this about right. “The Synod recognises Exemplars, those who have been so Virtuous as to be an example to the whole world. But we can all be an example of Virtue, we can all inspire others to do better. That is what the Way is for, that is what we must aspire to be. Danek gave the folk of the slums a chance, and he helped get me where I stand today. He were an inspiration. Would that we could all do so well”. Pete looked down again. Stared at the shell of a man who’d trusted Marcher Pete to take the job of a woman he’d idolised. “Anyone else got a thing to say? No? Right. Let’s take this man home to the League then”.
[Taking on the Mantle]
Pete stood in shock, chatting to the four Varushkans in blue and white. “Sorry about me not making the meetin’, but one of the Assembly has just come back from the dead. Or, ‘least something that looks like her has. I got people on it, but...”. He raises his fingers to his temples, sighing. The Varushkans tell him he needs to delegate, offer to help him. Keeper opens his book, her book, and reads down the list of plans he’s made in a darker blue than Ynez ever used. He passes out jobs to the eager recruits, them as don’t realise how much pain the Assembly’s gone through of late. Yes, he tells them, he’s delegating, but things are happening faster than he can recruit aid. Oh, you want to help? Excellent. This, this, and this. And come back by Sunday if you haven’t used your Judgements, and I’ll have some for you.
Add to that, the fact he hates Varushka. Hates the maddening, hungry land of ghosts and monsters that killed five of his friends and family. So these kind, helpful people are clearly blind, masochistic, not to be trusted. On the other hand, they’re all he’s got. And they’re Imperial. And they can see he needs help, understand what Prosperity means, what hard work means!
His head spins, and he wonders where Tilly is. She’s gone from a nervous kid to his right-hand Landskeeper and dammit, he needs an aide. So he sets his Assembly to work, thanks them for the help, and walks off to find a way to kill a dead comrade for good. He’s no Abbot or wise old Friar, just a Landskeeper in the right place. And by Walder’s club, he’ll move them all like maypole dancers if that’s what it takes to get this Assembly back together. He did it for the Keepers after Britta fell. He can do it for the Prosperous now.
[Prosperity Pants]
“Go on, open the present, you’ll feel better”. It was a tissue-wrapped package, light, probably clothing. Maybe a banner? He couldn’t cope right now, there was literally a dead woman walking out there, one of his. What sort of present would help? Couldn’t hurt to open it though, maybe it was useful. He took the wrapping off, revealing new pants. New, heavily embroidered pants with a big apple tree on the front. Got wood, heh? He grinned, and for a moment escaped the stress, seeing a little act of generosity and genuine amusement, along with blatant flirting. Just the sort of thing Keeper himself would do, that was. He’d wear ‘em for Sunday, maybe see Eleri after the Assembly...
[Cora]
Coals glow gently in the firepit, their soft red light not so much illuminating as pushing back the shadows a little. I stir them with a stick, staring into the fire so’s I don’t need to look at Cora’s face. I know I should be ashamed of this, but it doesn’t really register. Odd, that I’m avoiding my feelings more out of rote than anything else. Dammit Watcher, why’d we have to go through with this anointin’? Were I normal, I’d be weeping. Were I normal, I’d tell her of my love, my fury, my pride in her for living so well she’ll be chasing Alan through the Labyrinth. But I ain’t normal. Because if I were normal, I’d be weeping, or screaming, or starting a fight, and the Assembly of Prosperity would be burning to the ground around me.
The words don’t come, I’m too tired for it. Tired, calm, all my emotions stuck in a little box in the back of me head. Cora’s been destroying herself on the slow since Karsk, since Alan died, and then some twisted little traitors decided to finish the job with a fast poison. I can’t feel the anger, but I know I should. I just plan how I’d find them, and come up blank. Divinations? Nah. Investigation? Not my job? Ruining the lives of the usual suspects and knifing them right back in a dark tent? I’ve the power to do that now. Condemnation, excommunication, inquisition, people Loyal to me. Could be worth a shot, if I gots nothing left to lose there.
She took over for Alan died, when i didn’t know where my Loyalties lay. When to put the Marches first, or Empire, or Stoke. It’s the curse of busy people such as us, that we never get enough time to be ourselves, share our time. I might be a physick, and a damn good battle healer at that, but it’s not like I ever spent much time around her in the Hospital. Always someone else about with a knife, needle and thread you see. And now I’ll never get that chance. Loyalty comes easy when times are good, but to stay loyal to your Nation when it’s plagued with morons? Violent idiots who lost their souls behind their own warpaint, can’t separate the person and the mask any more. Fools who mistake expediency for Courage, and ignore their own wounded. The sort of wastrels who fritter away precious weirwood on tit-jiggling contests of “who’s got the biggest herb beds”. No wonder she liked Alan, the boy always did quietly despair of us in Stoke, not living up to his sombre expectations.
She passes me a book, it’s Alan’s book. I won’t cry, can’t cry, just accept it with shocked thanks. I didn’t know she had that. I still can’t find the right thing, I’m just so tired. Feet, legs and mind run ragged trying to pick up after Ynez’s death, and now this. I should be out, should have taken up Eleri’s offer to collapse in her tent. But no, I serve. And with what little I can do for Cora, the least of that is to hear her farewells. Goodbye, Cora. See Alan in your big dance again, you’ve earned that. As for me, I’ll go on. One less person keeping me straight though, and that scares me. Or it would if I could feel fear right now. But I don’t. So I watch Bronn help you away, and I my mind turns over and over with clear, rational ideas I hope to never use.
[Sympathy for the Poisoner]
Alone at night, but for a poisoner who’d stabbed her own husband. And yet, Keeper felt relaxed. She were good company, all told. They both had wonderful, stupid families who’d fall apart or die horribly if they weren’t being supplied by the halfway organised one. They were both physicks run ragged by duty. They both saw madness at the edges of their minds, and held it back with Virtue and determination.
And as they walked, and chatted, and consoled each other he made a confession. He didn’t fear Igraine over having plans to kill everyone, not any more. He’d got anointed last Summit, and seen Cora dying while all his emotions were well, sort of... gone. He’d planned murder then. Death after death, even a massacre against the people he thought might be behind Cora’s murder, or Tristram’s curse, or anything. A way to go out fighting if politics failed and wake the Empire up with one last shock. Like Isaella. Like Realm’s Reach.
Not that he wanted to act on it, mind, but he needed to know he could. Needed to know that if there was no other choice, then he knew how. True Wisdom could be frightening, but it meant that at last, he understood Igraine. Understood just how much she cared.
Some more fic for the character I've settled on as a return to the marches either next year or over winter. I'll probably do something for my .3 filler PC as well. Let me know if you want background links to Martin Orchard, naga gravedigger, Order of Afal member and Winter Ritualist.
[Put a question to the Wasteland]
Few Marchers ever hate their crops like I do. It is a rare yeoman indeed who wishes he could plant fewer seeds, or see a lesser harvest. We’re a nation that takes pride in our dominion over the soil, who placed great stones to show that Pride before we’d even heard of Lann over Bravash. I dig my shovel into the pile next to me and gently tip another load into the hole, soft earth raining down over rough linen. There’s no words to be said for the body in that shroud, not here, not now. Their time will come when the nights draw longer, when the strains of the Wassail start to sing in our hearts once more.
I ponder while I turn the earth and fill the grave. What did this woman die for, out in Reikos? Those who did come back from Anvil were not the clearest on that point. On why we marched through that Gate to the far corners of this Empire, why we did the hardest of jobs. On how long it would be before they’d be throwing Henry at the front lines too, for want of troops. Few enough left now to hold the village, sadly. Even with the new army mustering, the Feni are getting cheeky enough that it’s hard to feel secure without a couple of swords under the pillows. The painted inbreds are cutting deals with sorcerers, Eternals, all kinds of fell things.
I’ve left a gap in the soil, and I carefully unwrap the roots of a small tree, peeling away the scratchy hessian around the base. The tree fits its hole well enough, and a few more scoops of soil pack it in nicely. Just one thing left to do. I know that this body was a magician, she had a wand and mana. Unfortunately, the Druj made such a mess of her, it wasn’t clear which one she was. One of Seth’s unit, and when he never came back, she’d gone off with the rest of them saying they’d show the damn Druj a thing. I guess that didn’t go the way she wanted. Still, I can at least unshade the Lantern on this particular mystery.
I clutch the pair of mana crystals in my hand, and begin raising the power. I let Diras and Yoorn float into my awareness, one from the flame of Night, one from the maw of Winter. The cool spring breeze changes to an uncomfortably hot, dry wind, bringing the scents of parched sands and dusty crypts. I unstopper my cider flask and pour a little out onto the grave, feeding Winter’s endless hunger. With that gesture, I split Naeve into Irremais, gain wisdom from the Wasteland. In the desert of my mind, a fresh, whole corpse lies in the sand, covered only a little with pale dust. She’s short, heavy-built, her long brown hair pulled into a tail and braided. Something brushes past my ear, and the wind hisses “Fay Trooper” in my ear, hot sand stinging my scales.
It is not real, I remind myself. I am here, in the orchard, on good Marcher land. There is no true ending here, just another part of the cycle of the Way. Winter lies, the Labyrinth does not. I have seen all I need, I think. I know her name. The mana crumbles in my fingers, power gone to the desert and the crystals just brittle salts once more. I take out a thick pencil and mark the name on a sharpened plank, then drive it down with a mallet. A true headstone can come later, but this can keep her memory for now. On a whim, I draw Aesh on the plank. The Staff, a suitable mark for a fellow magician. My work is done for the day, and that flask’s still got plenty left. I stroll over to one of the larger trees, and find a little shade. Sitting back against the trunk, I sip my cider and wonder where Kathryn’s gone off hunting sorcerers this time. It’s past time we compared notes on Winter.