755 CC, March 29th

To the Blessed Daughter, Bishop Jean de Jeamauex,

I regret to inform you that my predecessor, Father Marcuese has passed away from natural causes last night. I am now the representative of Fallen Crest Abbey, Westshire. My name is Peter Montoya, the foremost priest left at the abbey. Despite my lacking years, I must request your aid.

Several of my more senior brothers have seen the way the winds blow and chosen other paths for their lives, throwing in to other abbeys, other monasteries, or returning to secular life entirely. If any one had done so, I would not mind. However, these events have conspired to catapult me from a junior position, to Abbey Master. What is worse, I have been forced to be host to a noble spawn who seems to be intentionally trying to provoke a war. Were he acting as he is now but in the Princeps’ court, I am sure someone would have challenged him to a duel to the death.

We of Fallen Crest Monastery of course have pledged our lives to Helios above, and cannot throw them away in the name of honor.

There are other options available to us though. Enclosed with this letter is Father Marcuese’s signet ring, duly fractured upon his death. I would have liked nothing more than to have accompanied the ring, in due pilgrimage and honor. I have hardly been part of the church for long enough to expect anything less. Circumstances conspire against such an act of faith however.

I must request the ring be presented along with a sample of my blood (enclosed too) for annointment and reforging at once. I am Abbey Master in name only, and lack the rank to deal with the prince of Vassermark in a way that would respect our holy order. I must plead with you that you explain the circumstances to the emissary and receive his blessing for me.

Until then, I will do what I can to preserve the abbey.

Sincerely,

Abbey Master Peter Montoya

755 CC March 29th

On nights like this I envy those of the vulgar faiths. They would be able to believe that such suffering as I have endured is a test of their faith. Their gods yet live, they have will and intrigue and guile and capricious punishments. I know that sailors in Vassermark hold as gospel that surviving a bad storm is proof that they will have good seas in the future.

I find no such solace for myself. My god is dead. An ancestral idol who left behind teachings and virtue, not trials and tribulations. There is no explanation for why I am blighted by this noble brat than the horrid nature of mankind.

It’s war he wants. This is a provocation. Were he merely an idiot, I could have sent his retinue away, or taken him on some local journey. Perhaps I could have entreated him with drink and song. He has resisted all of these ideas because he is not stupid. He is malicious. He wants to bankrupt the abbey and force me to crawl on my knees before the lord, begging for compensation.

By the light above, I do not know what to do. If I rebuke him, I may well be held as the cause of war, of thousands of innocent deaths. I cannot have that on my soul. To do nothing will be the destruction of the abbey, that which has taken me in and given meaning to the pursuits of my life. It has opened my mind to all that is good in the world, aside from leaving me bereft of wife. It is an ancient establishment that should, like an elder tree with befitting roots, bend to the great winds and weather any storm without moving its foundation.

The abbey could do that under Father Marcuese. I pray that I have the strength within me to do so as well. Further, I pray that if I do not have the strength, Sapphira will intercede to stop her so-called faithful. Helios may be gone, but his sisters have no desire to desecrate his temples. Perhaps I can find some blasphemy charge to level against the prince.

I think we have some of the old tomes of the sea goddess within the library. Tomorrow, I will search for them and try to find some charge to level against him that he would have to answer for. My Vassish is not as good as it could be, but perhaps the rigorous study will do me good. Something to think about aside from the destruction of my home while I wait for external aid.

What a miracle it would be if someone else, beside Princeps Helvetius or Bishop Jeanne, were to arrive and liberate me from this curse!

No, I will not make such vain hopes. I will not merely curse the darkness, I will light a candle even if I have to cast the wax myself. And then I will curse the darkness.

755 CC, Apr 1st

More unwanted visitors have arrived at the abbey, and as of yet no word of aid from either of my lifelines. This new arrival is at least not a bother like the prince’s men are. He is a northman, but tanned like a Giordanan. He says that he came here following the trail of an escaped troll. Wounded and dangerous he says, and I well believe him. I have never seen a live troll myself, but many a night I could hear their distant bugling across the sea and I have seen many of their skulls brought down as trophies. If what he says is true, I cannot say.

Sitting here and writing this, the sun has already set, revealing the twinkling stars of heaven. It is a beauty that I find polluted now. Whereas a normal reverie might have me questioning the beauty of the sun, gifted to us by Helios and revealing all the wonders of the material world to us, compared to the lavender jewel box of night. Now the sky is blighted by fires and the abbey rings with the sounds of drunk men. I find myself wishing more than ever to be able to sleep, and less capable of it than ever.

I do not hear a troll’s bugling however. Perhaps a lone beast does not cry out if it has no kin to sing with. I do not know and perhaps I should not question a northman’s knowledge.

As it turned out, however, troll or not, I do not care if he tells the truth. He has an honest nature to him, or at least a forthright one. Knowing now what he can do with words, perhaps I shouldn’t say that he is honest. Like a young girl can twist her father with her tongue, this Leomund fellow can stoke ire and snuff it out as easily, entirely at his own whims. These Vassish men are easy to rouse, it is true, but the feat is no less impressive for it.

Indeed, he came asking sanctuary and when we professed we had none less to give, he proclaimed that he would simply earn his keep then. None of us brothers of faith thought much of this, but anyone claiming to chop firewood and pump water was, at this dire time, welcome. To both of those tasks I can only say that he did enough to not burden us further, but I would not say he did so much that he earned his keep.

Not until the evening supper began and I saw a twinkling smirk on his face. He had taken a seat far from the prince as befit his status at the abbey, and yet he was close enough that they could hear one another. I do not quite recall what the prince had been boasting about, but it made Leomund laugh. It was a bold, forceful boast of a laugh that silenced the entire dining hall and he didn’t even seem to mind that all turned to look at him.

The prince pressed him on why he laughed so, and he tried to wave it off. He claimed, “I am still learning your Vassish tongue. I must have misheard and let myself drink too much.” Then he winked at the prince.

Already deep in his cups, the young lord swaggered over, hand on the pommel of his sword and asked, “What did you think you heard, northman?”

“Please, I am pilgrim. I cut the wood here. Is that not allowed to be pilgrim?” Leomund asked as he rose to face the prince, quickly revealing he was a head taller than the young lord. The broken nature of his words confused me at the time, because I had overheard him speaking with Brother Anthony while they cooked and I would have described him as poetic in his descriptions of foreign food.

Of course, the prince responded, “Tell me what you heard, pilgrim.” I hate men who spit when they talk, and he did so intentionally.

Leomund brushed his chest off and leaned down. “I thought I heard you boasting. But that could not be. You are but child. Princes are supposed to be educated on such things.”

The prince floundered, attempting several ways to respond to the accusation that did not sound petulant and childish. His tongue failed him as Leomund sneered down at him. I do wonder if perhaps he could have turned the jab back eloquently if he had actually read some of the books he forced me to fetch out of storage. His retort was, “I am a master swordsman and I should have you thrown out of here! Know your place, northman.”

I see no need to reiterate the way men boast, the way they perform their monkey dance like circus animals. The rituals of quasi-consensual combat are hardly a fit study for a pious mind. Suffice to say, the prince did not take the fight himself. It was something lowly and therefore delegated. I believe it was the very soldier who set fire to the hog three days past who took it upon himself to put the northman in his place. I wonder if perhaps he had lost some degree of status for the way the hog died–uneaten.

The northman laughed and clapped his hands together, yelling at the Vassish to clear the tables away. He barely paid attention to his opponent and busied himself with riling up the onlookers. A most effective way of irritating one’s opponent I suppose. The Vassish man had to bark at him to strip down, earning some jeers from his comrades. The sight of the [Berserker] stigmata upon the northman’s broad chest changed the tone of the room like water to a fire.

The Vassish man also had a [Berserker] stigmata, but of a different sort. I’m not clear on the difference in their abilities, but Leomund cackled at the sight of it. He even apologized to me for the mess he was about to make. Perhaps I should study stigmata further. I might find more use for my own.

“Pankration? Boxing? Wrestling? Eastern grappling? Which will it be?” Leomund demanded as he tucked his pants into his boots and cinched them tight. I believe this was a sign that he had no hidden weapons. Perhaps it was so the Vassish soldier couldn’t grab him by the cloth as easily.

“To submission,” the soldier said, and waved Leomund over.

I have never seen a more satisfied, or more demonic, grin on a man in my life. I hope that is never pointed in my direction. The northman rose and cracked his knuckles. “Tell me, do you know what a grendel is?”

The Vassish responded with a jab. Maybe it was a hook. I’ve heard these terms bandied about and seen so many drunks mime the actions that I still do not know what means what. The fight was no proper fight either. I have seen children do more to threaten an adult than what this flailing Vassish achieved. Leomund moved like a ghost, like his body was no more than vapor. Swerving and darting, he bobbed his head around every flying fist as though he were playing a game to see how close he could let the Vassish get.

When the man resorted to grappling, he tried to grab Leomund around the neck. Perhaps it was the hair. It was so fast I cannot be sure. Before he had so much as closed his hand on Leomund, the northman did something to him. There was a twisting at the wrist, a wrinkling of the flesh that quickly turned red. Only later did I realize the man’s hand had been twisted the wrong way around.

To my shock, the absolute destruction of his dominant arm didn’t even phase the man. There was no shout of pain. No wailing of agony. I have, now and then in the kitchens primarily, seen men injured and stare at the wound without reaction. I have seen fingers lost and jaws broken and that absurd delay between action and consequence but it was just that; a delay. No pain ever came to this Vassish soldier. In fact, I saw him fight with the shattered hand flopping on the end of his arm. He couldn’t punch or grab, but he threw elbows like a man possessed.

I think his stigmata removed his sense of pain. I suppose I can see how that would help a man win a fight in the battlefield and earn him the title of berserker, but whatever enhanced Leomund was entirely different.

Leomund ended the fight by smashing the man’s nose and making a fountain of blood cover the floor. The Vassish fell and Leomund sneered at the prince. “By your leave. He said submission, but he is your man, is he not?” the northman asked, putting his boot on the soldier’s short ribs.

I think I will be able to sleep well tonight. Despite the disgust Leomund created in me, the Vassish are quiet. I eagerly await the comforts of my bed.

I do wonder what a grendel is, however.