Ivar's Journal

[Voss_]

I left the North to escape the ridicule, the glares, the shouts and the curses aimed at my wretched visage. The crags and frozen fjords are behind me, in hopes of something or anything better than the wretched life I had known. It was Knud who lit my path. My brother, my blood, the only one who never turned his back on me then. We sailed south, into the blistering heat of the desert, I followed him, trusted him. For who else would I trust?

And yet, even here... even now... I am still a wretch.

I have gained some measure of power, this is true, through my curse sorceries obey me in ways it does not obey others. But it is a cruel gift. It burns in my veins, clogs my throat with bile.. It changes nothing, I remain hunched and foul. My reflection still mocks me. We live in a cracked dust-choked ruin with others, exiles like us, broken things, forgotten names.

It is no kingdom, no glory as my brother seeks.

This day I fell in battle, wrestled to the ground by the foul-hexes of the blue robed warlocks. I thought it would be the end, paraded as a corpse through Ephia's Well. But Knud, he captured half a dozen Ephians and forced their hand. It spared me the ax. I told the janissary, the onlooker, half in jest, half in truth. That I would die for my kin, and that owuld be a life worth living. I meant it, I thought. But in these quiet moments that follow, I wonder, would that death have meant anything?

Would it change a single thing about who or what I am? The gods do not favor me like they do my brother, only the hag's curse lingers.

There must be more. There has to be.

[Voss_]

The Tower of the Blue-Robed Warlocks, dreaded by all who speak of it, so spread the rumors. Their spellcraft is no idle tale. I saw with my own eyes the horror they command. A void, dark and hungry, that tore through flesh and bone like nothing. Their victim was no weakling either, a spirit-calling shaman of considerable power, reduced to scraps in moments.

Among their number one 'Ketter' humiliated me but mere days ago. Stripped bare of power and dignity before weaklings, left to flail and be trampled. I am no stranger to ridicule, I was born in it, shaped by the mocking and jeers. Still.. It stung deeply to be powerless.


It matters not.

She laid a poor ambush today, her arrogance outweighing her sense. We sprang her trap like seasoned hunters, and she and her allies were swiftly put to the spear. I thought it fitting retribution that she'd learn what it is to be brought low.

But now I hear she wishes to meet with me. To speak. To share a hearth. For what purpose? Some twisted game, no doubt. All witches speak with honeyed tongues, but their words are always laced with poison.

If she truly seeks mead and words, let her find me below, beneath the crumbling roof of the Hanged Heron, should her warlock allegiance permit her to tread into the home of the free and wretched. Knud mocks this notion, tells me to 'court' this witch, but I care little for his jest.

She will pass into memory like the rest. Just another defeated foe, I shall be glad not to see her likeness again.