Week 146 – Corbière, Man-at-Arms

Corbière's Journal

Being a soldier, I admit, has its bad points.

It's all I've ever known, but there is precious little aside from hard work, boredom, and terror. The soldier's little comforts – looted liquor, stolen food, purchased love. I sometimes feel as if there's a banked fire in my heart, and every day it gets a little colder.

My legs hurt. My arms are tired. I have lost an eye and the little finger of my left hand, and cracked innumerable bones.

Bardiche said I should write a journal, so I am. I may be old, but I have an old man's vanity and I am susceptible to the charms of the young.

If I had a choice, I would like to be more like Rocque. She's hard and fast and dangerous, but there's something unspeakably sweet about that granny. She sewed my clothes up after that brigand gave me a slice. She gave me candy, if you can believe it.

I wonder if she is a grandmother? I should ask her. I have three children, but I don't know if any of them are parents. Been gone too long.

But I'm no less happy here than elsewhere.

Corbière

Week 147a – Bardiche, Hellion

We know what happened to the Miller. In a manner of speaking.

I'm not sure I'll ever really understand. But he was there, burly and broken and sad, his body crumbling in front of my eyes. He looked so terribly alone.

But we've all got our problems, and he attacked us, so there was nothing for it.

That Dacre seemed a bit overzealous, I must say. Those Light-craving wenches tend to get odd, though. Especially in this place.

The Farmstead is a maze now. There are strange lights everywhere, and creatures like I've never seen, not even here.

I want to go back and see it again. Might as well kill monsters somewhere interesting. And if the Miller's wife is still alive I'd like to get her out.

Bardiche

Week 147b – Dacre, Vestal

Dacre's Daybook

Strange, strange! I ventured into the Farmstead with some stalwart, if ignorant, companions, and everything is strange.

The light shifts and batters my eyes, the constant growth, the twisting walkways through mirrored landscapes and uprooted wilderness. I walked through an ancient gallery torn from some elder castle and put my mace through the skulls of walking dead men; I walked through a blighted wood and breathed the scent of corruption tinged with a maddening color.

Scent of a color? I do not know how else to describe it. There is something in that heath that is not from this world, and I can hear it creeping through my skin calling me back.

I will study the scroll later. This is more immediate.

Dacre, srv. Tenebris.

Week 148a – Rache, Harlequin Jester

Sweet homecoming! I feel as if I've plunged myself into a luscious feather bed after sleeping on stones for months.

It's that exact same feeling, that silky sensation on my skin, the comfort and safety. I can't even describe it. Nothing has ever soothed my nerves like this since I went down in the dark with the clangorous gongs.

That color! It's like a cooling draught being poured through my eyes into my heart.

I wish I understood, but maybe it's better that I don't. All I know is that at last there is balance in my heart, two terrible centers of power exactly in tension, and I can sleep.

Week 148b – Elers, Jester

I'm still here, and apparently her Ladyship still likes my playing and my singing and jokes, because she's still paying me.

And there's the Courtyard.

I know I spoke unkindly of Dr. Bosc earlier, but really she's a fine sort, if you like being cut to ribbons and drained of your blood and then put back together. But hell, she can cure the Curse, so. . .

It's a thrill of sorts now. Going to the Courtyard, dodging monsters, hunting for treasures and things they need at the Sanitarium for their little cures and experiments. Wondering who'll be the next to get the red disease. Wondering if it'll be me.

It lends spice to life, I have to admit.

Jacob Elers