Foreword,

I have included the following texts as a matter of historical record. As they do not pertain directly to my pupil, they lack the typical interpretations and embellishments that one might expect from my story thus far. They are nothing more than the primary documents themselves, edited down for brevity and translated to the more modern vernacular. I have not gone to the normal lengths of rigor and recreation precisely because they do not pertain to Lucius but some of the actions pertaining to his accomplices.

Notably, there was a great deal of speculation about the events at Fallen Crest Abbey during Lucius’ reign, and as the saying goes, a lie can fly around the world before the truth has finished putting his boots on. The deaths had an allure to the bardic mind, entrancing just about every songwriter in the land except for Aisha. Most muddied the story up with earlier tales, forcing it to match a tune with all the finesse of a sledge hammer. A few claim to have heard the story from Prince Gabriel himself, but he of course did not know the entire story himself.

While the lies of the tap room caused some of the most widespread reputational harm to the one who benefited from the event, this is not to imply that the men of means believed the lies. Indeed, the high court of Skaldheim are responsible for preserving most of the below quoted papers as part of their own spy network. The war with Vassermark had not truly come to a head in the year 755, but the northerners were already preparing and intelligence gathering was one tool they did not neglect. Honing this ability nearly brought Lucius to his knees, but that is a story for the future.

Suffice to say, I have selected the appropriate documents whose authenticity can be confirmed and arranged them here to tell the story of Fallen Crest Abbey, before the subjugation of Westshire.

A brief tale.

755 CC March 27th

We sacrificed a yearling today. It was a pitiful ritual. I don’t think Father Marcuese had it much in him, sick as he was. I feel like I let him down, but there was nothing I could do. He, like every week, wanted to sacrifice the healthiest of the herd but we would be ruined if I brought one of the sows down. We’re likely to have issues as is, so I had no choice but to single out one of the babes. Male, of course. Felt like I had practically taken it off its mother’s teat before dragging it down beneath the chapel. So immature that it didn’t even recognize the stench. It didn’t know to be afraid.

These Vassish bastards are going to ruin us. They’re taking advantage of our hospitality because Father Marcuese is sick. They’re dead set on killing each and every one of the hogs. The wallows are already devoid of their trundling bodies. We’ll be lucky if we can buy some breeders from Christopher’s herd after they leave. If not, the stock will stagnate before we know it.

The yearling’s eyes were like amber. In color, yes, but I mean in the way they shone. There was such life as it nuzzled me for my apple core. I swear that dozens of the men this Prince Gabriel bought have less soul in them than my pig. But, as Father Marcuese sadly told me, “That is why it is a good sacrifice.”

My position as abbey swineherd gives me access to the ritual chamber, a privilege I do not deserve. Most of the brothers don’t have any idea what it looks like beneath the hall. They must imagine it looks like a cellar, that it is directly below the floorboards of the temple. They would never guess that it takes one hundred and twenty-three steps to reach the chamber, that it is enclosed within arches, the walls smoothed with concrete like the shell of an egg. The abbey is to hide this room. It is the tombstone to an angel.

Father Marcuese was sharpening the knife when I arrived. His fingers had lost their color, but still pressed the steel to the stone. He scraped and grinded and stropped until I could have fileted fish with it. Even he looked sad at the sight of the little pig. He got on his knees and daubed it with oil before kissing it on the head as I rolled up my sleeves. The Abbey Master sat down to collect himself, muttering the appropriate prayers as I straddled the pig. If anyone else could have performed the ritual, they should have, but as the bishop it was still his responsibility.

Slitting the pig’s throat was like any other, maybe a bit harder as the skin wanted to stretch more. The knife was sharp and I had an easier time than normal butchering. The moment blood sprayed across the ground, the life in the yearling vanished. It buckled beneath me, to knees and then to ground. It flopped into the pool of its own blood and I watched as those amber eyes dulled to black and a fat, purple tongue lolled from its mouth.

The rest of the ritual went quickly. There just wasn’t much to it. The pig was so small when we piled all the organs and fat upon the altar, glistening eggs of waning life, Father Marcuese looked down on them and shook his head. I was still trying to peel the hide off of the meat when he turned to me and said, “We’ll have to burn the meat too.” So simple and yet it meant we would have almost nothing to eat that night. We normally burned the head. The blue flames that emerged from the brain were not new to me, but when the eyes burst and ran black down its cheeks, it boiled over against the immature ribs. The smoke that plumed up to the ceiling was like tar. the fume of the philter smeared across the concrete worse than the foulest concoctions of the water goddess. The smell stuck in my nose, clinging to the little hairs until I couldn’t breathe. The taste assaulted my mouth as I had to pant the sulfurous haze.

And for all that, but a single crack fused together upon the crest. One little crack stitched back together upon the crown of our angel. With the relic in such decay, it is no surprise that Father Marcuese has grown so ill, and these Vassish bastards would impoverish even further. They would eat us bare and pick our pockets if they thought they could get away with it and where would that leave us? If the princeps does nothing, the abbey will be destroyed.

I hate that I am powerless. I hate that Father Marcuese just smiles and nods when I bring these things up to him. I hate these foreigners and lastly I hate that hatred is a cold companion for the night.

755 CC March 28th

Father Marcuese has passed away. I am in grief but the old crook punished me one more time, from beyond the grave no less. He has nominated me as the next Abbey Master.

The madness!

What does he possibly think I can do? What do I think I can do? It’s madness, but I will have to think of something to do. This abbey is my home.

755 CC, March 29th

To the esteemed Princeps Helvetius, Lord of Westshire.

I write with a sorrowful hand to inform you as is your due of the passing of Bishop Marcuese, Abbey Master of Fallen Crest Abbey. Following an injury in the planting of the fields, the elderly father took to bed rest upon apothecarial orders, from which he never rose. Pneumonia claimed the dear keeper of the faith at the wizened age of sixty-seven. By the time this letter reaches you, I expect he will have already been interred in the abbey mausoleum alongside his predecessors, and in time beside myself.

My name is Peter Montoya, formerly a swine herd from the shores of Westshire. I had the pleasure of seeing you at the martial tournament of 747, and witnessing your skill with the spear. I was but a boy at the time. Afterward, I found my calling in the faith. As I grew into manhood, I grew my mind with the writings of the angels. Of course, the honest labor of the land was not easily shirked for such pursuits.

In fact, it was your feasting requirement of the abbeys that led to my employment as a brother underneath Father Marcuese. The needs of traveling diplomacy stipulated certain materials always be on hand, among them a herd of swine which I was eminently qualified to tend to during my studies. It is this herd which I must now speak of, with much regret.

Presently, the Fallen Crest Abbey will not be able to host any of your diplomats, or even yourself, to the expected level. It is understood that such a royal procession will need as many as fifty heads of pig to facilitate the meeting as well as further travel. There is no doubt about this, and we were much prepared to do so.

Unfortunately, travelers from neighboring Vassermark have depleted our supplies. The head of these diplomatic pilgrims was none other than Prince Gabriel, second in line to the Vassish throne. He came in earnest pursuit of our library, and brought with him three hundred men as his personal guard. I must concede that Vassermark is a mighty kingdom indeed, and a great ally of ours against northern aggression. Indeed, the Princeps own sister, may her soul rest in peace, was the queen of Vassermark; thus making Prince Gabriel your eminence’s nephew.

Naturally, we agreed we had an obligation to feed these foreigners during the prince’s stay. I have prepared below an accounting of his consumption during his first week’s stay.

117 heads of hog.

32 barrels of ale

44 bottles of wine

215 candles

17 gallons of cooking oil(1)

39 wheels of hard cheese

200 baskets of flour

Additionally, they consumed an amount of apples from the orchard that cannot be estimated, but we no longer believe we can expect a harvest until the end of fall. We will therefore be unable to provide any amount of cider to any holiday events this year.

We will soon be unable to adequately host the prince of our great ally, even as he continues to spend his days betting upon sparring matches and his nights re-reading the few texts we have on the sexual rituals of Titania. I fear that if the current affairs continue, it will soon reflect poorly on Westshire’s abilities. I am humbly requesting relief from your eminence, in what way you see fit to deal with your nephew.

Your civil servant, and son of the sun, Abbey Master Peter Montoya