Strange Glories
Week 167 – Bosc, Plague Doctor
It works better than I had ever hoped.
The crystals themselves are not truly necessary for my purposes, I have found. There are other aspects of the comet's influence – vectors for the diseases that have crept out of the Farmstead. The grey rot that saps the muscles as it hardens the body, the sky taint that attacks the mind with feverish dreams and thins the blood to let other illnesses in.
It's taken longer than I expected to get the mixtures correct, lengthened by my caution in shielding myself from the materials I must work with, but I have it now. An ashen distillation, a clear and sparkling blue in color, with crystals constantly precipitating and re-dissolving. I sometimes sit and watch it, striving for understanding that seems just slightly out of reach.
That's maudlin, though. In practical terms, it empowers my acids and my blighting concoctions, and holding it – perhaps the vapors – provides a marvelous speeding of the limbs. I find myself reacting more quickly than I had thought possible. Perhaps it's simply the thrill of discovery?
I should celebrate. Perhaps Dismas has contracted another disease for me to cure.
Bosc, Dr. Md., physician.
Week 168 – Gwenllian, Hellion
I am reading the Vestals' old books and copying things, and I am learning more. There are stories about old wars and grudges and sacrifices that are much more interesting than I had expected.
Von Kalmbach scoffs at some of the things Ecouland has me copy and tells me to write poetry instead.
I want to get better. My heart sings like a lioness when I fight, and I want to write how it makes me feel. I want to put it down here where it will not disappear.
I translated the name of my spear and had the Blacksmith carve it into her metal. In this language it is "Joyful Leaper." It sounds strange that way but I like it.
Soon I will write here a poem about Gwenllian and Von Kalmbach and how we slaughtered every beast that rose against us, and I will sing it to him and watch his face turn red and laugh at him.
Week 169 – Ecouland, Vestal
I am a candle in the hand of the gods. They breathe, and I flicker.
It has been over two years since I delved into the deeps beneath the manor. I still wake up shuddering and sweating, thinking of the things I saw and heard. The gongs that drove Rache mad.
Somneri and Rache were both dead, I am certain, and now they are both alive. I do not understand. The gods laugh at us, and the Light hides itself.
Somneri refuses to talk about it, but I've heard her talking to herself as she writes. She still believes, but there is a deep and hysterical well of heresy in her heart now.
Heresy. . . Somneri, Medley the Travesian. I have grave doubts about Dacre, with her chained book and her instinctive blasphemies.
I wish Raoullin was alive. His faith was like a tower, a castle whose gates break the enemy's charge.
The gods and angels are not the Light. The Fire and Flame are aspects of its glory. The gods. . . there are demons and fallen angels. We have always known there are malignant things hiding in the dark. Perhaps these are other gods.
Perhaps Somneri's mutterings are right, and we are surrounded by an infinity of strange gods, and the Light is only one of them.
Be that as it may. The Light is my guide and protector. It has wrapped me in warmth and given me strength to prevail, and I will serve it and sing its praises all of my days.
Ave Lux, Ave sancti Luminis, Ave Lumen quod purificat.
Ecouland, srv. Lux.
Week 170 – Bardiche, Hellion
I talked with Baldwin. He told me that he'd met the Miller's wife, and that she was just as broken-down, cursed and crumbling as the Miller himself.
I had always thought that's how it would be, but it's rough to hear it for sure. Poor woman. Imagine that, the victim of poor crops, her land stolen by the old Lord, and now her humanity shattered by something evil from the stars.
Maybe evil isn't the word. I don't know if it's malicious. But it's certainly not healthy for humans.
I talked Corbière into writing a journal. I want to interview him about some of his old campaigns. I think he served in at least one of the crusades, I know he was talking about Eastern serpent cults.
I have served in many lands, but never as far East as him, and there are strange things out there under foreign suns.
"Foreign Suns." That would be a good name for the book. Maybe "Foreign Suns: A Warrior Remembers His Campaigns."
That's an exciting thought!
Bardiche
Week 171 – Rache, Harlequin Jester
I saw a reflection of myself in a crystal today, or possibly yesterday, and I'm almost certain that underneath the greasepaint there was only a skull.
Is that so different, though? I look at my face in a mirror. There's a layer of paint, a layer of skin, a bit of fat or muscle, and there's the bone. It's not too deep under. You could almost touch it. Reach out and smear away the paint and skin and meat and there it is, white and gleaming.
I smashed the crystal with my foot and felt stronger. I don't understand it all.
Bosc told me to give detailed reports on all the strange things that happened in the Farmstead, but I'm keeping it locked away right here in my book.
I told Thorel, though. I couldn't help myself. And we talked.
I'm going to go with him next time he goes to help the workers keeping crystals out of the environs. He helps me feel a little more sane. He was right, writing helps.
Fortier told me that the Courtyard murk helps her feel better about her monster. I thought the Farmstead was going to be that for me. But it's not.