An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight 28
- Location
- Chicago
- Pronouns
- She/They
An excerpt from the journal of Soizic d'Karak, a Questing Knight-
Dear diary, today I have the day free of my duties, and ere dusk grows near I shall endeavor to commit unto you all that has happened these last weeks. I sit at a table near the foot of Karag Lhune, the King's Stair behind me and the occasional gyrocopter beating through the air above.
To my right is a pond, though I shan't call it large or small- and t'is no lake by any means. It comforts my soul nonetheless, and the babble of the small fall of water from the recently completed aqueduct comforts the ear worn keen by the dust and rock of Death's Pass.
Recently completed- dear diary I feel the urge to strike out the words and look guiltily about me for any dwarves with grey in their braids, chin or head! In truth even I can see the roughness and speed with which it was made functional, for though the foundations have long been laid and the soaring arches and buttresses well-cured, the Two-Day War intervened before the water-course was more than half-complete. Returning to tools after was, to hear the rumors tell it, perhaps the least happy a dwarf has ever been to work with stone. To see the West Gate hanging open from where they labored was irksome enough to cause more than a few grumbles, but to know they were *needed* reconstructing defenses and unable to leave until the water reached the catchment pond? Such speed I have never seen before! In the four days between leaving and returning from Karag Ulric the whole of the remainder was done and not a dwarf stood atop it.
The naturalistic, almost romantic style suits it in my opinion- stone carved only where it presses against stone, water flowing over rough grain and small outcroppings, down a thousand tiny waterfalls rather than a smoothly sloped gutter. It feels more human, and for the number of times I hear umgi mutter under beards at it the dwarves think so too.
To my left is a small flagstone plaza with scattered tables and others dining under the sky, then the wall and back entrance to The Green Shoots (a clever bit of a pun a retired field warden had to explain to me- the obvious green shoots of a new field in spring, but also a warning to the enemies of the halflings when shoots is read as a verb).
Below me I know shot and powder flows north to Karagril when the waxing and waning of the orcish assaults heeds foreign rhythms.
What else I know but cannot see is the feverish efforts of the miners and scouts to appraise the tunnels below us, even now months on from the end of the real fighting. Such is the focus of Thane Dreng, who esteems me now highly enough that I am included in the meetings of the Thanes; it seems also the undumgi are now considered solid enough to be counted along the throngs in his planning.
The Western Gate and it's bastions are half-built, the work a stark contrast to the aqueduct's competition; even now I would not wish to challenge the entrance without a half-dozen cannon behind me. The focus of the masons and the rangers remain there, and on gaps that lie between the southern mountains- and here the grumbling holds an odd note, for as much as the works of their ancestors had been preserved by the egos of those occupiers who dreamt of holding the whole Karak, the truth is that they were designed in an age before gunpowder.
Fields of fire, enfilade and defilade- much have I learned working alongside Oswald these last few years. A good man, but proud of his contrivances in a way that I cannot quite understand. Perhaps had I been a knight nearer the seacoast such would not seem so strange...
Regardless, the work of laying out cannon port and powder magazines occupies those dawi not in the tunnels or the west gate. Much of the rest of the industry in the Karak goes short-staffed, though this I know from Francesco: he speaks much in the confidence of Oswald and myself, of how sore tested he finds himself. His instincts for records and bills from his prior life has kept him from drowning thus far, but dear diary I worry for him- what was ten thousand men has become near twenty thousands of people.
Have I not mentioned the growth? Dear diary, I skim back quickly and see only passing reference to my duties, and find my pen remiss.
It was the Two-Day War that changed everything.
Before, easy as it was to forget from close, we were living on the very ramparts of civilization, staring out over the cliff at entire mountains of foes close enough that a good shout might reach them. It was a place for warlike folk, with the few like Sarah unusual for lacking sword-callouses.
After? I am told that news of our victory washed over the border princedoms and lands beyond a like a spring flood, washing hundreds and thousands away from the lives they knew to settle in our basin. T'was within a bare week that the first serious caravan of settlers arrived, and though it was merely that slapdash rabble of humans who had been living in or near Barak Var taking advantage of the news that the dwarf hold with an entire human mountain had proven it could survive a full waaagh.
In truth these were the folk with whom the Karak was already near familiar- some merchants who regularly made the trip already and decided to base themselves where warehouses and living quarters were cheap, some elder and younger dependents of the undumgi who had refused to move closer least they be eaten by orcs, some adventurous types local to the areas that King Belegar had been searching for pirates, made curious but the new dwarf King. A surprising number of craftsmen from Ulrikadrin, drawn by the growing concentration of industry here and I think a subtle pressure from the more faithful in that town, who still clung to the idea of a settlement of woodcutters, hunters, and knights.
But that was months ago. Five days past I met at Karag Ulrik a caravan more typical of these weeks, though with an unusual passenger- fourteen wagons flying the flag of the EIC, loaded with wool and glass, festooned with travelers hitching rides. Some strapping young men, I will admit, but mostly women in colorful skirts and drab cloaks, some few with children. I spoke to them, as my pikes marched perfect posture in flanking array (to my dismay, suddenly patrols to escort eastbound caravan have become a fought over assignment, and my men have become *scrupulous* with their armor and appearance the night before meeting for the first time) and discovered that for all the many, many villages and towns they hauled from in Tilea or the Princedoms, there was a group of about twenty whose stories of home were quite similar.
"I'as lived by the grace of my mother in law un'er her staircase af'er my 'usband dinna come back. 'Erd bout a big whooping win by 'em dorfs an the invi'ing of us humans in 'cause we helped, yeah, but eh hadn't won proper yet 'cause I asked and there was still orcs inside it. But few years goes by an I'm thinkin' me in-laws be starting a forget I'za part o their family with my 'usband not ere to remind em, and then we get the news that this new king tosses all the gribblies out o'da hold in two days and kills a waaagh comin' to take it back to boot! So now I'm thinkin' a new 'usband 'ere might be just the thing, an a dorf 'old outta legend's bout as far from 'at drafty nook un'er the stairs as a girl like me can right get."
Dear diary forgive my transcription, but Gwen was quite charming and I still to do her justice here in your pages. For despite her rough-spun exterior I discovered that said mother in law was in truth the princess-dowager of one of the lands to the west southwest of Blackfire Pass, and though she had been born a shepherdess her husband had been the prince.
It t'wasn't until the second night (the first spent under stone at the Watchtower) when she joined me as I stood my vigil under the bright moon that I managed to piece together the hints her companions had dropped and confront her about it. She shrugged with an astounding degree of nonchalance and reached into her belt-pouch to produce a circlet of iron, with a double-bitted axehead upon the brow and an empty setting for a jewel within it. She told me that the jewel had been traded for passage for her and the two-dozen women who accompanied her when she slipped away, for there were many who lived frustrated lives in the dusty foothills who dreamed of more, and she had kept her friendships from her shepherdess days.
My Lady of still and silent waters, shelter those under my care, and let your blessing fall with liberal grace upon these new friends. I give you thanks for all you have given me, and I strive to seek your will and see it done.
I must say that amongst the books of romance passed to me by halfling matron's that deal with mine homeland, there are some storylines much repeated. One was my own- a woman disguised as a knight, who falls in love with... Sometimes another knight? Sometimes a woman- and though such urges would have much smoothed my deception I knew that I was faking such to my brother knights. Most often with her liege, for such pining is classic love's whimsy. Another story was that of the shepherdess who caught the eye of the duke, perhaps while he was in disguise, and after a whirlwind seduction was elevated far beyond her station.
Such tricks life plays on us, non?
Perhaps Ranald is to blame.
But for as much as I have lived a warped-mirror's version of a storybook romance, so too has Gwen. For unlike settings such as Carcassonne, elevation to a princess meant quite less in a minor land of harsh terrain. And yet, the jealous mother in law, the callous brothers, the swirl of status between her and the servant's (farmhands and milkmaids, really)... It was all echoed.
Oh! Hark, she comes in sight, walking up the irrigation channels towards where I sit. Sarah, my friend in the EIC, walks with her, for I introduced the two as I gave the new residents the tour of Karag Nar and recorded their choice of rooms. Normally another would do it, but I have taken to watching more closely, for it soothes my fears of losing touch with our glorious City of Sunrise, our Karag Nar, as it grows and changes so swiftly. Francesco has set aside an area as a sort of unmarried women's quarter, where the newcomers might get their feet underneath them- either before moving in with new spouses, or for a place of more security should they support themselves with their own work. I suspect that in some years it will also be a popular location for girls getting out from under their mothers...
But I must set you aside for a time now, dear diary, whilst I sup with new friends. I shall not forget my promise of recording the rest of the news, but for now, dear diary, wish us luck!
Dear diary, today I have the day free of my duties, and ere dusk grows near I shall endeavor to commit unto you all that has happened these last weeks. I sit at a table near the foot of Karag Lhune, the King's Stair behind me and the occasional gyrocopter beating through the air above.
To my right is a pond, though I shan't call it large or small- and t'is no lake by any means. It comforts my soul nonetheless, and the babble of the small fall of water from the recently completed aqueduct comforts the ear worn keen by the dust and rock of Death's Pass.
Recently completed- dear diary I feel the urge to strike out the words and look guiltily about me for any dwarves with grey in their braids, chin or head! In truth even I can see the roughness and speed with which it was made functional, for though the foundations have long been laid and the soaring arches and buttresses well-cured, the Two-Day War intervened before the water-course was more than half-complete. Returning to tools after was, to hear the rumors tell it, perhaps the least happy a dwarf has ever been to work with stone. To see the West Gate hanging open from where they labored was irksome enough to cause more than a few grumbles, but to know they were *needed* reconstructing defenses and unable to leave until the water reached the catchment pond? Such speed I have never seen before! In the four days between leaving and returning from Karag Ulric the whole of the remainder was done and not a dwarf stood atop it.
The naturalistic, almost romantic style suits it in my opinion- stone carved only where it presses against stone, water flowing over rough grain and small outcroppings, down a thousand tiny waterfalls rather than a smoothly sloped gutter. It feels more human, and for the number of times I hear umgi mutter under beards at it the dwarves think so too.
To my left is a small flagstone plaza with scattered tables and others dining under the sky, then the wall and back entrance to The Green Shoots (a clever bit of a pun a retired field warden had to explain to me- the obvious green shoots of a new field in spring, but also a warning to the enemies of the halflings when shoots is read as a verb).
Below me I know shot and powder flows north to Karagril when the waxing and waning of the orcish assaults heeds foreign rhythms.
What else I know but cannot see is the feverish efforts of the miners and scouts to appraise the tunnels below us, even now months on from the end of the real fighting. Such is the focus of Thane Dreng, who esteems me now highly enough that I am included in the meetings of the Thanes; it seems also the undumgi are now considered solid enough to be counted along the throngs in his planning.
The Western Gate and it's bastions are half-built, the work a stark contrast to the aqueduct's competition; even now I would not wish to challenge the entrance without a half-dozen cannon behind me. The focus of the masons and the rangers remain there, and on gaps that lie between the southern mountains- and here the grumbling holds an odd note, for as much as the works of their ancestors had been preserved by the egos of those occupiers who dreamt of holding the whole Karak, the truth is that they were designed in an age before gunpowder.
Fields of fire, enfilade and defilade- much have I learned working alongside Oswald these last few years. A good man, but proud of his contrivances in a way that I cannot quite understand. Perhaps had I been a knight nearer the seacoast such would not seem so strange...
Regardless, the work of laying out cannon port and powder magazines occupies those dawi not in the tunnels or the west gate. Much of the rest of the industry in the Karak goes short-staffed, though this I know from Francesco: he speaks much in the confidence of Oswald and myself, of how sore tested he finds himself. His instincts for records and bills from his prior life has kept him from drowning thus far, but dear diary I worry for him- what was ten thousand men has become near twenty thousands of people.
Have I not mentioned the growth? Dear diary, I skim back quickly and see only passing reference to my duties, and find my pen remiss.
It was the Two-Day War that changed everything.
Before, easy as it was to forget from close, we were living on the very ramparts of civilization, staring out over the cliff at entire mountains of foes close enough that a good shout might reach them. It was a place for warlike folk, with the few like Sarah unusual for lacking sword-callouses.
After? I am told that news of our victory washed over the border princedoms and lands beyond a like a spring flood, washing hundreds and thousands away from the lives they knew to settle in our basin. T'was within a bare week that the first serious caravan of settlers arrived, and though it was merely that slapdash rabble of humans who had been living in or near Barak Var taking advantage of the news that the dwarf hold with an entire human mountain had proven it could survive a full waaagh.
In truth these were the folk with whom the Karak was already near familiar- some merchants who regularly made the trip already and decided to base themselves where warehouses and living quarters were cheap, some elder and younger dependents of the undumgi who had refused to move closer least they be eaten by orcs, some adventurous types local to the areas that King Belegar had been searching for pirates, made curious but the new dwarf King. A surprising number of craftsmen from Ulrikadrin, drawn by the growing concentration of industry here and I think a subtle pressure from the more faithful in that town, who still clung to the idea of a settlement of woodcutters, hunters, and knights.
But that was months ago. Five days past I met at Karag Ulrik a caravan more typical of these weeks, though with an unusual passenger- fourteen wagons flying the flag of the EIC, loaded with wool and glass, festooned with travelers hitching rides. Some strapping young men, I will admit, but mostly women in colorful skirts and drab cloaks, some few with children. I spoke to them, as my pikes marched perfect posture in flanking array (to my dismay, suddenly patrols to escort eastbound caravan have become a fought over assignment, and my men have become *scrupulous* with their armor and appearance the night before meeting for the first time) and discovered that for all the many, many villages and towns they hauled from in Tilea or the Princedoms, there was a group of about twenty whose stories of home were quite similar.
"I'as lived by the grace of my mother in law un'er her staircase af'er my 'usband dinna come back. 'Erd bout a big whooping win by 'em dorfs an the invi'ing of us humans in 'cause we helped, yeah, but eh hadn't won proper yet 'cause I asked and there was still orcs inside it. But few years goes by an I'm thinkin' me in-laws be starting a forget I'za part o their family with my 'usband not ere to remind em, and then we get the news that this new king tosses all the gribblies out o'da hold in two days and kills a waaagh comin' to take it back to boot! So now I'm thinkin' a new 'usband 'ere might be just the thing, an a dorf 'old outta legend's bout as far from 'at drafty nook un'er the stairs as a girl like me can right get."
Dear diary forgive my transcription, but Gwen was quite charming and I still to do her justice here in your pages. For despite her rough-spun exterior I discovered that said mother in law was in truth the princess-dowager of one of the lands to the west southwest of Blackfire Pass, and though she had been born a shepherdess her husband had been the prince.
It t'wasn't until the second night (the first spent under stone at the Watchtower) when she joined me as I stood my vigil under the bright moon that I managed to piece together the hints her companions had dropped and confront her about it. She shrugged with an astounding degree of nonchalance and reached into her belt-pouch to produce a circlet of iron, with a double-bitted axehead upon the brow and an empty setting for a jewel within it. She told me that the jewel had been traded for passage for her and the two-dozen women who accompanied her when she slipped away, for there were many who lived frustrated lives in the dusty foothills who dreamed of more, and she had kept her friendships from her shepherdess days.
My Lady of still and silent waters, shelter those under my care, and let your blessing fall with liberal grace upon these new friends. I give you thanks for all you have given me, and I strive to seek your will and see it done.
I must say that amongst the books of romance passed to me by halfling matron's that deal with mine homeland, there are some storylines much repeated. One was my own- a woman disguised as a knight, who falls in love with... Sometimes another knight? Sometimes a woman- and though such urges would have much smoothed my deception I knew that I was faking such to my brother knights. Most often with her liege, for such pining is classic love's whimsy. Another story was that of the shepherdess who caught the eye of the duke, perhaps while he was in disguise, and after a whirlwind seduction was elevated far beyond her station.
Such tricks life plays on us, non?
Perhaps Ranald is to blame.
But for as much as I have lived a warped-mirror's version of a storybook romance, so too has Gwen. For unlike settings such as Carcassonne, elevation to a princess meant quite less in a minor land of harsh terrain. And yet, the jealous mother in law, the callous brothers, the swirl of status between her and the servant's (farmhands and milkmaids, really)... It was all echoed.
Oh! Hark, she comes in sight, walking up the irrigation channels towards where I sit. Sarah, my friend in the EIC, walks with her, for I introduced the two as I gave the new residents the tour of Karag Nar and recorded their choice of rooms. Normally another would do it, but I have taken to watching more closely, for it soothes my fears of losing touch with our glorious City of Sunrise, our Karag Nar, as it grows and changes so swiftly. Francesco has set aside an area as a sort of unmarried women's quarter, where the newcomers might get their feet underneath them- either before moving in with new spouses, or for a place of more security should they support themselves with their own work. I suspect that in some years it will also be a popular location for girls getting out from under their mothers...
But I must set you aside for a time now, dear diary, whilst I sup with new friends. I shall not forget my promise of recording the rest of the news, but for now, dear diary, wish us luck!
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