Hrossbjorn's Journal.
Page Thirty-Five

"My dreams"

“When I was a kid I used to dream happy dreams. I would dream about beautiful birds flowing in and around the beautiful trees singing their beautiful song and smile as there was not another soul around save for me. They would flutter around me, and whisper secrets to my ears that my conscious mind often forgot, and I would often laugh at the careless nature of my mind. Each day I would train, and train, and train some more in the courtyard with the finest combat instructors my father could summon before I eagerly awaited the soft promises of these dreams that would wisp me away to sleep.

I used to dream beautiful dreams.

Now my dreams are haunted by the memories of what I have seen. From bloodied battlefields to monsters that even the most hardened men cried in fear at their sight. From mothers asking why I let their sons die in a pointless war. From the sickness that stalked the land years ago and the burning pits of bodies that followed in it's wake. From the sight of flesh and bone being melted in the torrent of dragon fire that scorched the battle around me. From the frantic nights that followed with monsters nipping at our heels every step of the way to the constant cries of pain my soldiers would make as another creature stole yet precious another life away to the seemingly endless rain that soaked our bodies to their cores two weeks back to our current accommodations that appear safe; but my weary mind knows better.

I used to dream beautiful dreams, now they are haunted by the memories of what I have seen.

I have to fix what I helped create and I have to make this right by the gods. In the village of Squall's End, there are rumors of a man who knows how to defeat the Mad King. While normally I trust a rumor as much as I trust a beggar to watch my gold, this rumor is different. This rumor has given me something that was lost to me one month ago on the fields of Rumors state that he is a historian, one who has studied the rise of our great goddess and learned of where her famous weapons lay buried. I need to find this man, and learn what he knows.

I used to dream beautiful dreams, now they are haunted by the memories of what I have seen. I have to fix our world and hope the gods take pity on my soul. I know once the truth gets out not even my most loyal soldiers will.”


- - - -
Chapter 1 Part 1: Squalls End


The boisterous sounds of a celebration underway reverberated out of the currently occupied town hall filled the air around the center of the Squall's End. Hrossbjorn army, with his own and the various others that have joined, had received good news. The rear scout, keeping a careful eye on the approaching vanguard of the Mad Kings army, had reported that they finally have gained a one week advantage on the approaching forces. One full, sweet week where they could finally relax and heal. A welcome luxury from their recent experiences.

Over the past few weeks, sleep and food were a precious commodity that very few actually had. With supply caravans abandoned in favor of moving light, Hrossbjorn and his army could carry only as much food as they could pack in the few large packs that they had scavenged. Hunger, sickness and sleep deprivation ran rampant throughout Hrossbjorns army and their faith dropped as a result. It did not help the situation that his army swelled in size in the weeks that have since followed in the wake of the disastrous battle at the Fields of Amarillis.
Hrossbjorn had marched into the battle with five hundred of his own best men. Famous and skilled warriors in their own right, they were more than capable of fighting their way through the most intense of fights, or so Hrossbjorn thought.

Even without the dragon fire, and the demons that followed, Hrossbjorn lost a lot of his men through the fight against the Mad Kings cultist forces. By the time his men had escaped the bloodbath, he had only some thirty soldiers left. Yet it seemed that many others had survived as well. Soldiers, and small remnants of once mighty armies, had joined Hrossbjorn and his forces as they made their march across the land, eager to do whatever they could to save not only themselves from the forces of darkness chasing them, but their families as well.

In particular, Hrossbjorn was particularly happy with having the former Ironborn Free Company joining his ranks. While the Glamhoth people and the Hadhodrim Dwarves have enjoyed many fierce battles fought over control of the snow covered peaks in the north-most reaches of the Central Range mountains, there was a healthy respect between the two cultures. Both respecting the art of war, and the revelry that followed a good fight, and often times the two would share both the fields of battle and the mead and celebrations that followed. It was a strange form of respect seen nowhere else, and Hrossbjorn personally enjoyed it.

That's not to say that Hrossbjorn did not respect the rest of those who had also been absorbed into his fighting force. He had saved a Firen surgeon named Alec, surrounded by shamblers and was almost overwhelmed, who had become their only form of medical assistance. His scouting party was intercepted by the former Lebethron Elven Ranger named Anadial, who warned them of a nearby demon horde that would have utterly destroyed them. She had become one of his finest scouts, much to the dismay of his Glamhoth soldiers. He had also rescued a Black Magic using mage named Vor'Skoa, a man who had been consumed with his desire for information and turned to the forbidden arts. Though he is a part of his army now, Hrossbjorn still tasks his soldiers with keeping an eye on everything and anything Vor'Skoa does. These were just a few of the newcomers to the Glamhoth army; a total of twenty able bodied soldiers added a surge of optimism, if not hope, that there might be a chance to make it to the fabled fortress that might hold the key to their salvation from darkness. There was just one problem, no one knew how to use the power that lay within the walls of the Castle Estel.

The castle was ancient, existing long before Rofella faced the host of the demon realm and used the power found within to vanquish the dark army and ascend to godhood. No one knows who had built it, and what the true extent of its power was, but everyone agreed that it was almost divine in construction. Featuring a bridge that spanned over one mile in length, a feet of architecture still unmatched to this day with a second, half mile bridge on the opposite side, a castle build almost entirely on top of a mountain with completely sheer cliffs in the middle of a mile and a half wide canyon that stretched from the northern reaches of Arvandor all the way to the Shimmering Sea in the south, and with runes inscribed into many different places that were so complex, that most magic authorities argue that they are technically impossible.

Anyone claiming to be able to decipher the runes have been laughed out of most magic schools, including the man Hrossbjorn was looking for. His name was Raymond, and he was as brilliant as he was crazy. A child prodigy in magic, by the time he had turned the young age of fifteen he had already mastered the most intense and powerful magic that the mage guilds could offer him. Unsatisfied, and smart enough to ignore the allure of dark magic, Raymond set out to try and solve all the mysteries left behind by the ancient ones and their complex and powerful runes. And solve them he did. One by one, the mysterious of the various ruins and the relics they contained within became unlocked and the understanding of magic, and it's possible uses, expanded as a result. He then set his eyes on the most notorious and difficult challenge of them all, the Castle Estel. Unfortunately, he never got the chance to set foot within the confines of the great castles walls. The Priestesses of Rofella had a chapter at the Castle, whom often viewed outside efforts to solve their own mysteries with no regard, and they are a strict group. Rarely will mages gain access to the castle grounds and even fewer make it to the rune walls and none have ventured into the sacred chambers located underneath the temple. Raymond attempted to gain access on five separate occasions, with a rejection a constant theme among them. Raymond is not the type of person who backs down from a challenge lightly, and over the past five years he had thrown himself into whatever literature he could find regarding the Castle Estel.

Rumor has it, he has made a breakthrough that could forever change the war in favor of the living. That is what brought Hrossbjorn to this once prominent center of culture for the Firen people early this morning. The village was well protected by a circular, wooden wall that featured guard houses every one hundred meters or so that also acted as archery platforms as well as having two gate houses, one on the northern edge and a second one in the south. The houses themselves were large for a village this size, often offering two floors on each house with luxurious accommodations found within. Unfortunately, when they arrived at the village some ten hours prior, they discovered that no one was home. Search as they did, they uncovered no clues as to where Raymond might have gone nor what happened to the rest of the villagers yet. They did find food, and mead, however; a lot of food and mead.

This was suspicious. Even as hunger pained their bellies, the soldiers knew that this was not natural. They sensed that something had happened, and happened recently enough, to the villagers. The guard post were quickly manned with archers and the gates shut and sealed as a percussion. Inside the village, however, Hrossbjorn ordered his men to build fires and place cooking splits over-top of them in preparations for a feast. While normally in their current situation, food would be rationed and saved for consumption on their long march ahead. Tonight, however, was to be a night of rememberance. Hrossbjorn ordered half of the food they found to be used as tonight was a night of food and drink with music to honor the fallen warriors of all races who had fallen.

- - - -
Chapter 1 Part 2: Celebrations


There were sounds of cheers, beer mugs clanking and idle chatter filled the air in and around the former town hall as Hrossbjorn and his forces celebrated the dead. The cooks were busy cooking what little meat they could find in the village and as such, contrary to normal traditions, the feast would feature a heavy focus on the vegetables and potatoes; thankfully the Glamhoth people know how to cook potatoes very well. Potato stew, mashed potatoes, thinly sliced potatoes cooked in oil, baked potatoes with a healthy topping of some butter that was found in the villages storehouse, and various other methods of cooking. After a half an hour of eating, where everyone filled their bellies to the brim in record time, Hrossbjorn stood up with his mug of mead. Instantly, the Glamhoth warriors quieted down and focused on their leader.

“My friends.” Hrossbjorn spoke in the Glamhoth language. “Month past has been hard on us all.” He continued in the common tongue, his accent thick and heavy. “many lost someone special, maybe a friend, a lover, or a son and a daughter.” Pausing as he allowed a small smile to fall over his face. “Let us share our stories of happier times, let us remember the people they used to be and let us honor them in death.” The soldiers cheered as Hrossbjorn sat down, and almost immediately his most dedicated soldier Ardur stood up.

He shared a story about his brother, Theron, who had perished at the hands of a demon a week after the battle. The story was about the time Ardur and Theron had both fallen in love with the same woman, and how they devised a series of challenges to determine who should take her hand in marriage. From climbing the tallest mountain in the Glamhoth nation to hunting the most ferocious of bears, to swimming across the icy ocean to an island off the coast. The trials lasted two months, and Theron had been the victor. Winning two of the three challenges, he was filled with glee at his future with this woman. Only the woman was never informed of their challenges, and had since married another warrior in their village a few weeks prior. Ardur said they were never closer before, and each gained a healthy respect for each other.

As he finished his story, and he was sitting back down, all the Glamhoth soldiers slammed their mugs onto the table and shouted in a near perfect unison “remember” in the Glamhoth language. Another soldier would stand up and share his story, and as he sat back down he too was treated to a “remember” shout. After about thirty minutes, and ten soldiers shared their stories, Gyrid realized that the other soldiers, those adopted in the month since the battle, had not shared their stories yet. Gyrid acted as a spiritual guide in these dark of times for the Glamhoth warriors, often asking her to pray with them each morning after they awoke . As such, she knew that not sharing a story about a loved ones life after they had passed was cruel to the spirits of the dead. She waited for the current soldier, as he was sharing his story, to finish up before she too stood up and spoke.

“My friends.” Gyrid spoke in the common tounge. “Your stories are well received by the departed.” Her accent was hardly noticeable compared to Hrossbjorns. “But we all lost someone close to us. These stories help honor those lost to that accursed army, and serve as a conduit to help those spirits move on and be with Rofella until the ends of times, feasting with her in her great hall and serving her in her war in the heavens.” She first turned her head and spoke to the leader of the Ironborn Free Company and asked “Who did you lose?” Then she turned her head to each and everyone that had joined their army and asked the same question. Eventually she had asked each and every soldier who they had lost, and sat back down.

“We all lost someone close to us, honor their legacy and share their stories.”