A Field Burnt Asunder

[[DM] Grinning Death]

A man writes by the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket. Steam curls upwards from his mouth, and he occasionally shivers.

"I'm told the Pendraigs were born from flame. Ironic, then, that we'll likely die from frost.

The Second Bloodmaim wars have almost ended, for good or for ill. Aquor lies in ruins, the city's elite retreating for the most part to the City of Sundren. Gods know whether or not we'll survive, but we've made it this far. Maybe, if we do survive, we can rebuild the town into the thriving place it was before.

Gods above, it was beautiful. I recall going out with my sister and brother this time of year. The stands were open, full to the brim with sweets, music, and the occasional barrel of mulled wine. The Sunites used to hand out small magical masks that moved with your face's expressions. We would play in the snow, always looking to stuff some of the white powder down another sibling's coat.

Now, the stands aren't open. The people huddle inside near their fires, and word comes from the south that the armies of the Banite forces gather to march upon Sundren City. Poor sods. This place isn't the best, but at least it's not in harms way. The Bloodmaim refuse to come near it, and for good reason.

The Thayans.

Normally, rarely seen outside their Enclave. In years past, they did come out to conduct their business, whatever it might have been. And when they did, you steered clear of them if you wished to keep your limbs intact, as they were always accompanied by one of their knights. Powerful, deadly looking warriors. They made me shiver.

Now, I see that they are far from the dangerous ones.

The Thayans summoned hellspawn, opening huge portals that brought the cursed outsiders into our town. Here, where I used to play with my companions in the snow. Gods. They destroyed anything in their path, when the Bloodmaim arrived. Decimated the equally terrifying orcs, tearing limbs. I wasn't present for most of it, but I did see the aftermath. I didn't eat for an entire day after, because of the images flashing before me. But the demonic presence paled in comparison to the destruction they called forth by blowing up the mountain to the north. It's rumored that Mundus himself hired the Thayans to originally sunder the mountain range that blocked this valley. But I had never really believed it. Oh, how the gods enjoy irony.

Now, we huddle. We wait for word of the war. And we pray that winter doesn't sweep away the remnants of the House forces, extinguishing the spark that remains in this cold and dead place.

This, I pray. And I hope."

-Pearson Greenshield of House Pendraig
Marpenoth 15th,
1381, The Year of the Starving

[[DM] Grinning Death]

A man sits near a smokeless fire, hidden under a small tent.

"I've never really pictured the phrase 'fleeing like rats from a sinking ship' as being literal. But, there's a first time for everything, right?

The Thayans are leaving. Not entirely, you understand. But several of their master magi have packed up their things, and sent them on their long journey towards Thay. Of course, the mages themselves don't see fit to take part in the journey. They simply teleport themselves and call it a day. But I watch as the pack-beasts are loaded, and the knights that are less valuable to the magi store their gear for the long trek east.

I can't say I'm entirely thrilled to see them leave. While they were bastards, through and through, they at least had some kind of bloody common sense. Not like these tribesmen that took their place.

Huge, hulking men that prowl the ruined streets of Aquor. Animal furs adorn their armor and weapons, and their visages are hardly any more human themselves. They forbid fire, and the worship of Kossuth. Kossuth, who gave our House his blessing. Who sheltered us from the storm of traveling away from Cormyr. Who has seen fit to bless us with the wealth and trade that seems long since past.

The tribesmen forbid the use and carrying of weapons. They forbid fire, they forbid worship of any besides Auril. They forbid any joy or music. Each decree weighs heavier on us, dragging us low. The matriarch herself was furious when she heard the news of the worship restrictions, and I could almost see lightning crackle around her eyes when she heard about the 'freeze' on flames.

Heh. Excuse my puns, they're the only source of amusement I really get these days.

Felicia continues in her studies. She's of age now, and it's a good thing. I see Lady Pendraig showing signs of visible age, these days. Her hand shakes almost imperceptibly at the dinner table. No one notices but me, maybe Felicia. I have good eyes, being trained as the family woodsman.

Felicia. She defies words. Her crystalline eyes, her pale skin, the way her mouth quirks when...*Some is scratched out*

Ah. Anyway, the Blackwood have left as well, driven by the Aurilites. I can't really blame them, either. No money is left in the town, besides the nobles that didn't go to the City before it defied the gods and rose into the sky. I can't even imagine what that may look like. Like Netheril of old, some of the older warriors say.

But then, we all know how that particular story turned out.

And so, we wait. We huddle inside, hiding the flames stoked carefully. We pray silently, barely moving our lips in prayers to Kossuth and Selune. And every day, the embers of my hope diminish a fraction more."

-Pearson Greenshield of House Pendraig
Uktar 21st,
1381, The Year of the Starving

[[DM] Grinning Death]

A man writes quietly in a throng of people, huddled closely near a flickering flame.

"No parent should ever have to bury their child.

I never really understood Lady Diane. She was oft compared to a mountain of flame, waiting to erupt. You could see the flames of her wrath from a distance when she was angry, and the stillness of her brooding when she was not. 'Tempestuous', my father once described her fondly.

When her son died, the heir to the house, she lost the passion that had made her the talk of the nobility and common folks alike. She withdrew unto herself, never speaking. Most thought it was the burden of having to carry the house once more, of having lost her son.

How little did we realize the depth of her sorrow.

She remained competent. Firm. Commanding. But underneath it all, my father told me once with sorrow in his voice, the woman was lost as a mother could be. Odd, to think of her as a 'mother', rather than the imperiously powerful woman she was. But she had lost her only son, the boy she raised to be the next Pendraig, to illness beyond her power to control. All of her life, she had been in control, and to have it pulled from her grasp must have been the single most terrifying thing she's ever seen.

Perhaps, then, it explains how Felicia was raised. I remember them meeting for the first time after her father's demise. She, the tower of strength. And Felicia, a feather sinking downwards towards the earth. Lady Diane reached out with a jeweled hand, and took Felicia's with a tenderness that shocked me to the core. Her face unreadable, perhaps I was the only one who noticed. Perhaps not.

Now, years later, I see Felicia set a flower on the grave of her grandmother. The remnants of the House Pendraig, little though we may be after the frequent skirmishes with Aurilites and the other tribes of the north who turn over our caravans day by day. And I see the same tenderness in her gesture. And I see the same steel in her eyes.

We go, retreating from this town of wonderful memories and hated presents. From the births celebrated, to the deaths mourned. The fires of Pendraig will never be extinguished, because we possess the embers that will burn this present to ashes in retribution.

And lo, the Aurilites and their allies will wish for the refreshing frost in the inferno of hells that we shall release upon them."

-Pearson Greenshield of House Pendraig
Alturiak 3rd,
1382, The Year of the Black Blazon