The sun was bright but not hot. Autumn still hadn’t decided to turn towards winter, even if there were few leaves on trees and the air was colder every passing day. Alouette raised up a tanned hand, blocking the sunlight from her vision as best she could while squinting her eyes to look up into the sky. It felt like there was a bird following them. She had never seen a bird of prey fly for so long and so leisurely. Whenever she got too suspicious of it always disappeared. It was back, coasting through the air currents.
“I wonder how bad it was,” Ulrika said, bumping into Alouette as the wagon wheel went over another large rock. There seemed to be many rocks on this road. The village must have partook little in trade, instead relying on each person to do their job to prepare for winter. The stretch of barren land reminded Alouette that there had been a lot more trees here not long ago. The soil was dark, replanting efforts already taking place. “Your scarf is warm.” The older squire said, briefly snuggling her cold pale cheek into the red knit.
“It’s what I brought to help.” Alouette leaned over, loosening the sack that she kept securely in between her boots so it wouldn’t slip and slide all over the wagon. She pulled out a knitted scarf, shorter and wider than the average scarf but with a button on one end to make keeping the shorter scarf around one’s neck easier. There was a series of runes engraved around the cheap wooden button. “Rune activates when the button loops through because of the wool fibers are laced with larimar. It should at least last through the worst of the winter season.”
“Scarves are already warm, though.” Ulrika said, inspecting the scarf.
“It’s going to be a cold winter. It also does more. It traps heat and helps create more of it.” Alouette shrugged, taking back the scarf and putting it back in her pack. She tightened the opening back up. Her fingers were stained in hues of reds and orange, the colors of the few scarves she had a chance to make on short notice. She had planned on selling them but when Syr Noa asked her to go to Crusoe to help with the aid efforts, the scarves seemed like the only good thing to bring. Maybe she should have tried knitting as many socks as she possibly could?
“You just don’t like the cold.” A corner of Ulrika’s lips lifted in a lopsided grin, strawberry blonde hair catching the wind in just the perfect way so it flew back from her face instead of getting stuck in her pink lips or snotty nose.
“I like the cold plenty when I’m kept warm with a scarf.” Alouette crossed her arms over her chest. Ulrika continued cuddling up against her, nuzzling more into the scarf than Alouette herself.
“You really are warm. Super warm. You’ll be just fine if I do this, won’t you?” Ulrika pressed her icy fingers into Alouette’s cheek. The young squire squeaked and jumped up as much as one could while sitting, hands meekly shoving the belly-laughing Ulrika away from her. It would be a lie to say that Alouette was not grinning giddy and giggling alongside her friend. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
“Hush.” Syr Cymbeline, usually found in the library instead of the front of a wagon, turned around to give the two squires a look. “We’re nearly there. Crusoe is still in shock and mourning. You all need to be respectful. Thank you.” The knight turned her head back around, going back to her book. Alouette figured it was due to Syr Cymbeline’s reading that had caused them to hit so any bumps on the road. With the scolding hanging in the air between them, Alouette cleared her throat and tried to get comfortable as the wagon rattled along, trying to keep her lips in a tight line.
Shallow snow supplanted his every step. He trudged desperately towards Syr Etivya's body but his destination remained without reach. He clawed at the frost before him, desperate to clear a path. His fingers were raw with cold and yet he felt the pain so keenly. Blissful freedom at last, his legs more powerful with each stride. Oh, that forsaken distance had finally begun to close. Hope renewed, the squire stumbled forward towards salvation. His hands found determined purchase. They began to go to work.
Blood boiled on his fingertips as the runes he wrote seared his very mind.
A brow arched from beneath the shade of a wide brimmed hat. Spear rested on her shoulder, silver head caught the sun's light along its edge. The rune's carved within the leaf shaped blade, drank in the the Day Star's glow.
A hand pulled the white scarf loose from about her neck, and she offered it to the younger man. "Here," she said coolly. "I'm no stranger to the cold," she smiled.
It had been near a year since the incident, and the young man had made himself scarce. She couldn't blame him for it. No one could.
She only hoped he would find something in this, beyond the despair that had found him before.
"Relief missions can be tricksome," she said to the group of squires around her. "A measure of balance, required," she said with a hint of her easy joy. A thing like a flower, appropriate for the occasion. Somber, yet with a hint of sweetness.
"There are no answers to provide," she spoke. "Though many might seek them," she bowed her head, and the blue width of her steeple hate shielded her face. "We are to be as pools of the loch," there was an odd smile to the witch's lips. "Reflections, so that they might find the answers in themselves,"
Alouette had begun to unwrap her own scarf, but her fingers proved to be far clumsier than Syr Josai’s. It was for the best, she didn’t want to lose her scarf. She wasn’t a stranger to the cold either but that didn’t mean she wanted to get to know it more than she had to. She looked back up to the sky and saw only the unblemished blue. The bird was gone. She wondered where it could have gone, there weren’t many trees. She hoped Syr Cymbeline hadn’t ran over a vole instead of a rock.
Ulrika had nodded her head reverently to the words uttered by the only Knight in the wagon, but Alouette took time to reflect on them. She felt rather awkward when it came to death and grief. She was no stranger to it, witnessing it and seeing the morose after effects. Yet words always seemed to get clogged in her throat, at least any of the right words. Lou had only been able to hug to even give a fraction of the sympathy she felt.
She couldn’t really hug the residents of Crusoe, could she? She pulled her scarf further up her face, even less unsure of how to be a reflection to those who had suffered. Alouette hadn’t suffered nearly enough. Not like them.
[art cred] The idleness soon came to the end, a wagon pulling into the small village of Crusoe. The uneven road that led through the village was black with dirt and soot, mud and mule droppings that had little reason to be cleaned. The few wooden buildings were large, meant to hold grandparents and parents and children and grandchildren. The thatched roofs were in desperate need of mending, mold and rot clinging to them. The wood used was pocketed with holes or had haphazardly nailed a thin sheet of bark over them, cracked and dry on the outside but filled with mildew on the inside. In her village it was up to the men to fix the homes properly but all she saw were young boys with dirty hands and bare feet.
Syr Cymbeline stopped at what must be the center of town, scaring off clucking chickens and a skinny dog out of the way. One building, the largest of all the homes, was destroyed. A mixture of stone and wood, it even had a steeple and a roof that used ceramic tiles instead of things that were gathered. The stone was scorched black and most of the wood was crumbling into ash.
The village women were wrapped in worn shawls or thin cloaks that were unable to be tied neatly around them. None of them wore a dress of color, even the simple ones made from the skins of onions or potatoes. Dirt and dust clung to them, making every bit of cloth appear a different shade of gray. The village women all tightly braided their hair, which Lou realized was quite long if they were able to thin further twist it into a one large bun.
“Well, I don’t see Syr Noa,” Syr Cymbeline said with a nervous titter. She put away her book, getting off the seat and found a wooden post to tie up the two mounts. “We might as well start. Hello,” the Knight turned to the woman holding a babe against her chest. She had tried wrapping some of her shawl around the too quiet child. “We’re from Astenvale Monastery, we’ve come to help.”
Alouette had jumped off the wagon after Ulrika, going to the sides and reaching over to grab labeled parcels and bags, beginning to set up as they had been instructed to do. The children had come to them as well. Still, there were no men. Syr Cymbeline was explaining about where to go for what and asking if there were any injured inside the homes.
There was a shriek. Alouette looked up into the sky. The bird was back, circling above them. Its blue-gray wings were spread wide. She couldn’t place what it was, having a beak that belonged to an eagle or falcon but wings that reminded her of an albatross. Stranger yet was the black feathers on it’s head, which would be unusual for a—
“And Alouette has a very special scarf.” Syr Cymbeline clapped a hand on Lou’s shoulder, beaming down at the children gathered before looking to the women. “Take me to those in bed.” She looked back at Syr Josai. “If you see Syr Noa could you send a squire to tell me? She had said there was something we needed to know but couldn’t say until we were here.”
"I-thank you," the squire said sheepishly as he took the offered scarf. He held the garment in his hands for a few moments before finally wrapping it around his neck. Cold sweat was replaced with welcome warmth. Keston still felt slightly embarrassed Syr Josai having to lend him a scarf but was glad he did. He listened to her words, once again letting doubt creep in. His last attempt to provide assistance had not gone well. Yet he'd been encouraged to go on this mission regardless.
The spear witch's final words were especially poignant. Keston feared what would look back at him should he gaze to deeply. He knew it was something he needed to do. Knowing was one thing, doing it was entirely another.
He spent the rest of the journey in silence until they finally arrived at Crusoe. The village was hard done, reminiscent of those Keston had seen after a battle back before his days in the Order. He sensed a permeating uneasiness but said nothing of it. Instead he helped with unloading the wagon along with the other squires.
Eventually he found himself idle, unsure of what to do next, and of so much more.
Syr Josai nod to Cymbeline. "Of course," she answered with a cool calmness to her voice.
She was not stranger to working with such sites. Villages and settlements that struggled on amidst a world that seemed to want nothing more than to tear it apart.
It mattered little that it was far and out of the way of the lords and their keeps. Someone needed to provide the blood to be spilled. How else were the lines on the maps to shift, if not for the ink that pumped through stout hearts.
There she went again. Letting her mind fall in to the pool of emotions that swirled all about. Like streams run across earth, run across stone, and root. The feelings trickled to her. Filled her up.
That was why having Cymbeline here helped so much. That the Dawnling could provide a more visible structure to their efforts. A welcoming face with whom to speak with. It allowed Josai to simply be. To feel the pain. The anguish. All the worries and doubts that mixed with the simple want for joy.
She smiled to the children which she slowly approached, a small and lucid thing. Not quite warm. But inviting all the same. Like a tranquil pool of water, just at the edge of one's reach.
They looked up at her with big eyes. Their dirt stained expressions, thin, with a tiredness beneath their eyes that made them look so much older than they likely were. She noted how some of them looked to her spear. Its bright head and silver wings laden with runic strings of finely etched script.
She scrunched up her face, and wiggled her nose.
Some of the kids laughed at that.
She bobbed her head and gave a blink of her eyes. And poof. A little cat, made of loch light, stood before the children.
A couple gasped. One laughed and clapped their grubby little hands. The illusory cat feigned to lick its paw, and groom itself. One child tried to pet it. Felt a placid cold across their fingers. Gasped and pulled their hand back.
The little blue cat ran away. And some of the children chased after it.
Josai laughed some. Turned her attention back to the older child that still remained. A smaller kid there in his arms. A flat line across his lips, and a hollow look in his eye.
"Is that it then?" he asked. "You are just here to do cheap tricks?"
The Spear Witch still wore her smile, still met his gaze. "I am here to help,"
The boy grimaced. Brows knit together as his spine stiffened. "Whole lotta help a fake cat is going to do,"
The witch cast her eyes after the illusory creature, still far ahead from the children who had chased it. "How would you have me help?"
He clicked his teeth. Growled. Kicked the dirt up into a cloud. "You should have been here before! Before they took Illun!" He shout.
Josai looked back to the boy. The girl in his arms began to cry. He ran away.
SyrJosai’s magic was far less stinky than Ulrika’s magic, and much better contained. The blue cat looked so much like a cat, despite being blue and of the arcane, the way it ran was natural and filled with all the power of a perfect predator packed into a petite body. The kids smiled once again, reminding the young squire how strange it was to watch children walk about without a smile on their face.
While Alouette had found the cat made of loch to be a sweet gesture in helping the children, it seemed not every child was quick to forget the truth of the situation at hand: Crusoe had been hit hard. Offering scarfs felt like a silly idea when it was clear that so much needed to be done— and yet everywhere that Lou turned, she felt as if she couldn’t possibly know where to begin.
“Keston,” Ulrika said, giving him a small nudge with her shoulder, “I’ll keep track of the list, but you can pass this all out.” Ulrika was smiling, as friendly as the tall girl could be, but secretly she had taken the easier job for herself. Keston would have to hand multiple items to the residents of Crusoe: rice that the mothers would toast and brown before adding triple the amount of water needed to make it stretch for as long as possible, dried dropwort, root vegetables, and the smallest hunk of dark, dried meat. Flavorless and overly salty if added all together as a stew, Alouette thought that adding the wild violets that Crusoe was known for would add a nice bite to it.
She almost forgot that she hadn’t seen any violets on the ride to the town. Everything good and beautiful had been burnt.
Alouette bent over, picking up a scarf and wrapping it around the next of a woman not much older than her. Dark brown under her eyes, yellow scleras that had yet to heal from all the smoke, and thin, cracked lips— Alouette fastened it the scarf tight around her thin neck. The squire’s knuckle pressed against the pallid, papery neck as if the woman had the life sucked out from her.
The woman went to Keston, telling her name to Ulrika, pointing at her home. Alouette focused on the next person. Another woman, young but old at once.
A shrill screech echoed in the sky above them. Alouette ignored it, pulling out another hearth scarf to wrap around the neck, making sure it activated and to hopefully give the survivor some relief. Another screech, and while the Knights of Anathaeum may have continued to deliver aid, the peoples of Crusoe began to look nervous, anxious.
“You think it’s like before?”
“Sounds like it.”
“No, we’re just imagining things. It hasn’t even been a month.”
“Do we trust them? Look what they did!”
“There’s nothing else to take.”
The whispers only grew and became louder. Ulrika nudged Keston once again, but this time with an elbow to his side. She gestured for him to look up. Alouette saw this and looked up as well.
“What a weird bird.” As soon as the words left Ulrika’s lips, a white hot flash that sizzled and crackled struck the wagon.
Josai watched the boy make away. Lips pursed and eyes sullen, her brow tensed beneath demure shadow.
Would that they could have been here. To see what horrors bore down upon this place.
No monsters. No thing born from curses, or wild beasts turned mad with hate. But men. Lord's men, or brigand mercenaries, it mattered little. Their steel cut all the same. Their fire burned just as hot.
A cry from on high drew the witch's eye. Up to see the shaded wings. Her nose flared, her brow twist as white sparked from on high.
Down, the prong bolt, down and onto their wagon. The cart, so loaded with supplies, leapt up with bounce from the shock as snakes of lightning sprawled out from the point of crash.
Spear's end, weighted by silver cap, traced whirls and patterns across the earth. Spirals, flows, currents like those the pushed clouds and pulled at the rain, drew in the bolt's heat. Its power. Kept it from spreading out.
The winged head of Josai's spear crackled and sparked, as runes along the haft burned white. Her hands held tight, as she shift the weapon, aimed its point toward the sky and shot it back with a shout.
Relief in hand, the knight distributed goods as was needed. Children rushed to Keston's side as he flinched unconsciously. The hurt in their eyes nearly broke him. What fault could they have transpired? He wore a smile instead, the first in near a year as he handed out the remaining necessities.
The fog of fear finally found another home, or so was brief belief.
Another sharp nudge in the ribs. Keston looked to the sky and found it crashing down upon him.
He coughed up Crusoe's mud, learning it was the same as any other. Panic was abound as the knight attempted to get to his feet. Keston grabbed the nearest two people he could find and dragged them off the street. He looked down as a hard grip found his shoulder. Wooden splinters trickled the side of the child's leg. It was a miracle he wasn't screaming in pain. Crusoe was a hard place, not all too different from Keston's hometown.
Benevolent mana channeled into his palms even as his hands shook.
'Carve the runes' He faltered. 'Carve the runes' the words echoed again. 'Carve the run-'
No. This time he would not, he didn't need to. Not this time.
Keston instead set about applying first aid as he best could. A fell wind was upon the air but his duty remained unchanged.
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