The Accident

His feet moved quickly across the cobblestones. At first it was just a brisk walk, but soon it became a jog, then a run, then a full on sprint. Though the few people who were up so late at night gave him odd looks, he didn't care, didn't spare them a moment of his time or thought. He was consumed with his own inner turmoil, his own thoughts and worries.

Even the worries of recent days had faded from his mind; he cared little. He was focused on the here and now consumed, by his need to reach the hospital. And so he dodged through the traffic, bumping into people on occasion and barely slowing to say an apology until at last he saw his destination in the distance. Picking up his pace, he rushed to it, barely stopping himself from crashing through the wooden door.

Once inside his gaze swept the room until he found a nurse. Stalking over he asked hurriedly as he tugged off his coif, "Where is he? Vimes ap Petraz?"

The woman behind the desk gave him a quizzical look before glancing down at her papers. Each moment of waiting felt like an hour and the more he waited the more Kel thought to just head into the hospital searching himself for surely he could find his father before this woman co... "Oh the mine collapse. He's in intensive care. We've sent for a Sangoma..."

Kelindel didn't hear the rest of what she had to say, he was already pushing through the door heading back into the main hospital. He had seen all too much of the plate of late, though this time was already far worse than any other time. But it did have the benefit of allowing him some haste. A haste and urgency that became even more so as he pondered just what his fathers location meant.

When he pushed into the ward, he was struck at the number of people there, familiar faces from the mines. People he had seen quite often while searching for cure ingredients. People his uncle employed. People who were now bleeding and broken, some of whom would never be able to work again, some of whom likely would not live through the night.

It was the shock of red hair, matted with hastily cleaned blood and sticking out from a already dirty bandage that drew him to his father. The stocky man who made his life behind the forge, going so far as to keep working and teaching into his seventies looked so pale there like that, so frail.

Kelindel could feel his heart sinking as he saw his fathers state. Beyond just how frail he looked, the bandages and blood on his head, there was more. Bandages that twined about his chest, a leg that looked ruined crushed somehow. And the pain, the evident pain that was in his father's features, made all the more pronounced by his ragged breathing.

Rushing over to the bed, Kel pulled a stool up and took his father's hand in his. "Father... oh light, Father... I'm here now..."

The older man on the bed barely stirred, his eyes just peeking open to look at his son.

The Lion sat....and waited.

4th End of Spring, 1087

It has been a while since I actually put quill to parchment like this. At least for a personal reason. I've done enough of it for report after report after report. Endless seas of reports, but little in the way of resolution it seems.

We have a number of Cloaks, but I can't help but become frustrated by them. The number I can trust to actually respond, do their job with their full heart is low. It's as if they just don't have the stomach for it all. And if they don't, then I wish they would say so and work to get out of this as soon as possible.

For it isn't just those who joined up to join the Cloaks, but Watchmen from before, Rangers from before. How am I supposed to keep people safe when I keep having to wait weeks for reports, when Watchmen don't seem to want to do their job. I've had to go and gather reports that others had been set to do a few times now. I've had to step in and correct issues others have overlooked. And I become the bad guy for having to do it.

If I have to be hard, I will be hard. We have a job and a duty to do. It's not as if I don't understand where they are coming from. They want a life outside of their duty. So do I. Yet the two aren't mutually exclusive. Some do pursue the outside life to the exclusion of their job. And with them, it gets the most frustrating.

At least through all of the frustration and anger there have been a few bright spots. Aya has been a dream with the Two Lions. I don't think i could have it going so well without her. I also would be much thinner if she didn't make sure I ate. Really she is a pleasure to have around. And Denny has come back which is also like a gift. My worries over having quality metal for my forging is reduced. She's even taking over that job that Marcus was not able to get going when he got sick. She's really cranking out the plates. If Cienwyn gets the leathers soon, I may have a full set of armor, sooner and cheaper than expected.

So I suppose there is some good along with the... frustrating. Frustrating is really what it is, not bad. I just pray that there is a new ruler soon and this Martial Law ends. It's not much less work, but having just a bit less will mean a whole lot.

Honour and Madness

Just as the Stormfather teaches, the truth was found when foe met foe. Pretense faded away and what was revealed was truth, pure and far from simple. As he sat there, watching the suns set over the wall of his gardens, he still couldn't grasp the entirety of all that had happened.

"I won't be anyone's excuse."

Yet that is what was going to happen if he did it. That is all that that was about. Stubborn fool-headedness. He had had every reason, every right to continue, but he would not make the decision this case. One has to take responsibility for their choices and couldn't foist them off on others. That is what had started this whole mess and he wasn't going to let it end without a lesson being learned. The ending, such that it was, was the lesson.

It wasn't the Spearbreaker's way, not like that. Even if the other had called him a Coward, it just shows that the followers of the Lord of Battle were fewer than they might seem. Glancing down at his blade where it sits in the grass he shook his head. It didn't really bother him that he had been called that, more confused him. To him, it is more Cowardly to have your mind and heart set on something and make another do it, to not make the choice.

Bloodthirsty, that's what the ghost had said, that is what most people think of Balorites, but he was far from it, most were far from it. Never shying away when it is right, but having the knowledge, the honor to know when it isn't. They were nuances that many didn't get. Obviously -He- didn't understand. Maybe this second chance would... help him see the light. Perhaps it would cut through the madness and the cloudiness of his mind. But what route that other man would take, he didn't know. Only the Stormfather knew.

And so the Lion perched upon his rock, and watched the suns set.

Preparations

It wasn't the set that was on order, that was being heated in some smiths forge, to perhaps, should the Spearbreaker favor him, be paid for by his own hand when it was finished. It wasn't the trappings of his job, they hung on a mannequin in the armory. Along with the sword that came from his commander. The sword that someday he would have to reforge.

Breaking to reforge something new, better. It was a principal he had learned long ago. The basics that any smith learned. Sometimes there were imperfections that just needed to be worked out. Yet, he also knew the other fact, sometimes you just couldn't do that. No matter how hard you tried, the steel wouldn't have the strength, the iron wouldn't hold it's shape. It would grow brittle and cracked and then collapse into a thousand shards. Then, there was nothing to do but clean up the mess.

That's what this was for. Something suitable for the occasion. He had seen the other wearing something similar before. Light and quick is what he needed. Yet how could he be light and quick when the days press in upon him. How could he be fast when he couldn't remember the last full nights sleep he had had. Yet, duty, responsibility, fate waits for no man.

As his blades leave their sheaths and the sharpening stone runs along the edges, his gaze lifted to the setting sun, the way the light reflected on the pond. It wasn't that he was worried, but no man could face a trial without reflecting, and that he did. On things come and gone, friends gone and returned. things said, opportunities missed. Connections that perhaps would be restored again, if only time was found.

Distractions, they were all distractions, yet better to face them now, that when it came time to be one with the sword, nothing else would trouble his mind. He had never expected for things to come this far, to this place. Yet what must be done, must be done. You didn't take joy in it, how could you? Yet in doing this... what was it that was said?

"In battle, all pretense falls away"

Whatever else happens, perhaps this day pretense really will be lost, and though it last for a moment, perhaps truth shall be found.

"Stormfather protect me, from now until forever. May the Lion's roar not be silenced."

The Hunt

He was so angry, he had a hard time focusing. The red that washed over his vision like that of the blood that pounded in his ears as he waded through the fields, swords in hand. The moon was high, providing a dim illumination that he used to guide his way. It was more instinct that took him where he needed to go though. A flash of movement to the side, an oddly shaped shadow at the tree just ahead. It was all he needed before his feet carried him forward in a rush.

Swords made of a red metal, stained with black ichor dove into yet another writhing form, the demon's dying scream echoing into the night. He got no satisfaction from this death, nor from any of the others. His boot came up, planting its self on a head that look vaguely like a foxes, though distorted with engorged teeth, before he kicks out, freeing his blades yet again.

This wasn't enough, the fight wasn't challenging enough to distract him. He needed the distraction. Too much had happened for him to deal with logically. He didn't want to think about the smug, insolent smiles or the baseless, idiotic accusations. It grated at his already frayed nerves.

A growl from behind was his only warning as a large beast, larger than himself, something that had once been a wolf lept out at him. Instinct and training is all that saved him as he dived forward and ducked around a tree, avoiding snapping jaws that would crush the life from him. Now here was a challenge, or at least it was since he had left his armor behind, not wishing to tarnish it as he vented his rage and sought communion with the Spearbreaker.

Still, without the weight of metal on his body, he was quicker, and his blades sharp. When the demon came charging in again, this time he was ready, rolling just out of the way of the jaws and claws that sought him, cutting it closer than he had intended. However, the feint allowed him to score his own hit, a back handed slash against the beasts right flank. Not enough to put it down, but it was a start.

This, this was simple. None of those silly games, no betrayals, no having to look into heart broken eyes and say that no, he wouldn't be home for dinner tonight. That he died doing his duty. No children, just him, his sword and his opponent.

The demon came charging back in and this time and he tried the same feint, this time attempting to mirror it and go around the left side. Yet the wolfhound jerked around, his claws slicing open the hunter's thigh. Staggering he desperately thrust out with his two blades, scoring another, shallower hit on the demon.

"Fuck," he muttered to himself as he backed away from the circling demon with a limp in his steps. He was distracted, had been hunting too long and wasn't focused on the fight. His focus was wavering as the stress of everything began to weigh down upon him. It was getting to him. But how would he go? Retreating, on the defensive, letting himself be bled? That is what the wolfhound wanted. It knew he was injured and only a matter of time.

Smiling grimly he adjusted the grip on his blades and dropped down into a small ravine, little more than a glorified ditch, but it suited his purpose. Taking shelter under the exposed roots of a nearby tree he pressed back, blades at the ready and waited.

The demon, following the trail of blood and his scent soon came. It sniffed at the air, seeking out the hunter before jumping down to follow the trail. As soon as the large bulk was visible he dashed out, pressing the attack. In battle, in conflict you find your true self. You learn who you are and you grow or fall because of it. And he refused to fall.

It was over in just a matter of seconds. A bite, dug into his shoulder was his reward, but the wolfhound let out it's last ragged breath and stilled, the twin swords piercing its chest having done the deed. Despite how much he wanted to drop to his knees and rest, he didn't. He couldn't fall now, he wouldn't.

Middle of Dakrfall, 1086

It's spring now, though the rains still cling. The start of new growth, a winding down of the darkness and a rebirth of life and joy and happiness. Things are always better in spring, and seem even more so now with the cure in hand. I've cured four other people now, healed them of their wounds. The first two were overjoyed, happy that they had found peace and were free of the burden of this plague.

The others... instead were despondent and barely battered an eye about it. One person was too busy moping about a criminal, a criminal to even bother. Didn't even eat the cure until I told them to hand it back if they didn't want to be free of the illness. Are people in this city, really this uncaring? People are dying and we are curing all we can as quickly as we can, we are just starting and unlike the alchemists we aren't charging. And all that is gotten from that is mumbled thank you's and sighs. I'm doing this because it's right, not for glory or prestige, but seeing the sheer lack of caring, the fact that no matter what you do it won't please or make people happy sickens me.

And to make it worse, people are holding back ingredients, profiteering, slaying and skinning the fish for their own use and preventing us from getting the scales we need. How are we supposed to help people when they don't seem to want our help or actually interfere? And then when they do that and make our jobs harder they make a show about saying how we drag our feet to try and make themselves look good.

This was never a job for thanks. I didn't join the Watch for parades or flowers or titles or people hurrying to fall over themselves thanking me. I did it to protect -my- home. What I want is some understanding of what we are doing and maybe once in a while appreciation for what we do.

Relief

My deep breaths, don't send me into fits of coughing anymore. My head is clearer. I am still weakish... tired. I am going to have to spend time getting better and gathering my strength. Yet it is as if the clouds are lifted. The cure... in such a simple, innocent form. Thank the gods.

She did it, I knew she could. But now... what do I do? Enough to cure... perhaps five... hardly much right now. yet it's a start. We have to find more of the ingredients we need... we will. It'll just take a bit of time. But what do I do with the rest? Some will need to go to my men... I will need them stronger, but I won't just give it all to them, some needs to go to the people. But how do I choose?

The only thing I am sure on... is that the criminals... the most violent of them... will be the last to receive what we can make.