Ariel
From the diary of Casimir ab Azadar, Novembris of the Year 359 in the Lord’s Cycle
Oddly enough I feel… home, here, surrounded by the smell of shit and camp fire. The Hillfolk have no idea who I am, though there was initial suspicion about my clothing and my familiarity with their mannerisms. Mostly, I keep to myself and so do they. I have avoided the majority of any questioning in this way.
But… home. An odd feeling, for certain. You grow so accustomed to some things – smells and sights and sounds – that you do not even notice their absence. They linger in your heart, and only when you return to them do you notice a longing that has been there all along. How long has it been since I have sat a fire? Ate seared game? Watched a bout of wrestling?
The Hillfolk rub off on my culture more than I would care to admit, but they have their charms. I sit in the corner writing while Paz tells a group of children about the sticking of the boar on the spit. How he was so great and fat only from eating little children. In the cold autumn air, the sight warms my heart – an organ all too weighted.
I should be out there, finding more mercenaries… What am I doing?
I am scared. There are few moments in my life where I have been truly terrified – I can name them on one hand. The first time I slept with Emily, the first time I killed somebody, when Emily and Hugo fell, when I fought Ariel, and now this.
I lost. There is no other way to explain it, no way I can shrug it off and keep my ‘perfect record’. I lost, against men whose training I oversaw, who now were… oh Lord… corrupt. So completely and irrevocably corrupt. They burned – as clearly as the cooking fire before me burns, their flesh burned as if the flames were living extensions of their bodies. They came at us with a ferocity I never knew, and could not expect. Within minutes the point was broken, our flanks were constricting, and we were pushed from the choke point.
The strategy runs over and over in my head. It was perfect! It was fucking perfect! We should have had them – but they do not feel pain like normal men. They do not fall when normal men should fall. Whichever demon has a hold of them has done their work well – they are hardly human anymore.
Where does that leave me? Obviously hiding, too scared or proud to send word to the Queen and admit my own faults. This is my army, captured in the shackles of madness and magic. I will be damned if I will let Orban or the Lord Consort have a hand in dealing with my mess.
But how do I go about it? Whoever leads them now has improved on what I taught them – or has substituted magic for wit; The larger host’s movements are untraceable. Looking back at their past attacks it is obvious they have no interest in the surrounding lands – Sevoi’s lands have yet to be touched. They alternate between random attacks in Avonna and more centralized outings here. Why do they wait? Where is the main host?
Half of me wants to go to Orban and tell him everything – but the man is so Dav damned self-righteous. It is as if the Saints themselves have smelled of his shit and claimed it fragrant as rose petals. Yet, in every word he speaks a grain of truth. Something to take away. Something to ponder and later, regret, and much later twist around in your head until it hurts and you just want to stab him repeatedly because the guilt is so very much.
I have much to be guilty for, and he brings it all to the forefront. By the Saints, I hate that man, for being the only other noble I can talk to. I can talk to Beronica – she is a good friend – but not noble. No… unfortunately, not nobility. I have not been a good friend in return. Am I ever?
Dav damn it, another reminder of your flaws. Enough writing, this is ridiculous – do something proactive with your life you cunt of a Marquis.