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Writer: Piknim
Date Wed Oct 21 19:33:46 2026
Subject Day of the Dead: A Bargain Struck (1/3)
She opened the Topknotch Scouts pack and drew out the Numen Reliqua of
Balance, and the square went quiet in a new way.
It looked like nothing much. An ossified husk, bereft of its sanctity,
trembling faintly in her palm. The last threads of divinity clung to it
like frost to a window-pane. Sigils crawled across its surface and slid
away from any eye that tried to follow them.
But the dead knew it. Every kender in the square leaned toward it the way
plants lean toward light. Then a few of them leaned back. The baker took a
step away. Somewhere in the crowd a child whimpered, because something
inside the Reliqua was singing without a sound: a choir of silent mouths, a
litany of pain, and the cold scent of a god come undone.
"Yes," said Piknim. "That's what you hear."
"Chaos filled this font with the souls of priests. Good ones, bad ones,
didn't matter. All suffered terribly until they went mad. Then they were
fed to a ritual. The ritual used this relic to take a piece out of the Red
Moon. The piece fell on Arkania, and Raije, the Lord of War, got hurt.
He's still hurt." She turned the Numen Reliqua of Balance in her fingers.
"Now it's nearly empty and an empty thing like this can't mend anything,
much less a god."
"Why us?" Asked the melon man.
"Because you're exactly the right kind. Souls of Balance. Ruined by Chaos.
Made to suffer terribly. I'm not an agent of Chaos. I don't need anyone to
suffer in there. I only need it to be full again."
She looked around at them.
"I'm not offering a cage. I'm offering an open road. Come with me! Be
part of a grand adventure! Go where no kender has gone before! Nobody
should sit in a ruin waiting forever for nothing."
Silence. Then a small, interested voice from the front.
"Is it haunted?"
Daffodil Springstep bounced on her heels at the prospect.
"Very," said Piknim.
"Say no more!"
Daffodil stepped forward impetuously, grinning from ear to ear, and offered
the phantom crowd a farewell salute with two fingers. Then she took one
great bounding leap across the cobblestone square and was gone, pinched out
like a candle. The Reliqua gave a small pulse in Piknim's hand, the first
in a very long time.
The children went next, in a giggling knot. Then the candy shop woman,
still clutching her jar. The melon man shrugged and went ahead with a
smile, and the baker after him, dusting flour from his arms as though he
might be late. A parade of kender spirits ventured forth into oblivion, one
after another, the Reliqua of Balance pulsing brighter and brighter.
Skinner had not moved an inch. He stood at the back, hoopak planted, hat
tilted.
"And the ones who'd rather wait?" He asked.
Piknim did not look away. "Then that is your choice," she said. "Everyone
has a choice to make in this endeavor."
Skinner looked at her for a long moment. He had been a Topknotch
Scoutmaster for forty years, and he knew what a child's face looked like
when it told a lie perfectly straight.
"Very well," he said.
He tipped his hat, and he held his ground.
Writer: Piknim
Date Wed Oct 21 19:36:35 2026
Subject Day of the Dead: A Bargain Struck (2/3)
The willing had gone, and the square was half-empty, the way a room is
when most of the guests have left. The Reliqua of Balance sat warmer and
heavier in Piknim's palm, humming a single faint note.
Those who remained stood in a loose ring. Another dozen or two, perhaps.
A thin kender in a cobbler's apron stepped forward. "I'd go," he said, a
distant look in his eyes. Every word seemed a struggle, as though he were
scraping the bottom of his pockets to find them. "Only my Brindle went out
on Wanderlust. He said he'd be back by supper." He stopped, as if
counting. "I can't miss supper."
A woman with ink-stained fingers shook her head, speaking with some effort.
"My sister went to see the ocean. Someone ought to be here when she gets
back."
An old man at the edge said nothing. He only looked at the road into the
Great Forest.
Piknim knew the words All too well. She had said them herself, an hour ago,
on a porch, to a patch of daisies and no one at all.
*They're out on Wanderlust and just haven't come home yet*
"They'll wait," said Skinner. He had come up quietly beside the ring,
hoopak planted. The words came one at a time, like something lifted from a
great depth. "Let them."
She said nothing. She had decided before she rang the bell, which was the
worst of it. Everything since had only been the walking.
Her hand lifted the Reliqua. The hum rose half a step. It thrummed with
power now. The power to do whatever she wanted. The power to take more.
It was the same small, quick candle-pinch as Daffodil, with no scream and no
struggle. But Daffodil had gone grinning. The cobbler looked at her as he
went. The ink-fingered woman looked at her, and the old man, still watching
the road, was gone before he found out whether anyone was coming.
Skinner went last.
He did not argue, and he did not curse her. He only looked at her, the way
the had looked at a young Piknim Cracklespark once, pinning an Exemplary
Citizenship badge to her scout uniform and telling her she'd earned it.
"Ready," he said. The word cost him. It came up from somewhere very deep.
"Ready for anything."
He winked.
Then he was gone.
Piknim stood alone by the dry fountain, holding what she had come for, and
it did not feel like anything at all.
Writer: Piknim
Date Wed Oct 21 19:38:44 2026
Subject Day of the Dead: A Bargain Struck (3/3)
The hum in the Reliqua settled into something steady and sated. It was
the sound of a hungry thing getting what it wanted.
Piknim did not look at it. She looked at the path into the forest.
Someone was coming down it from the direction of the cottage. The figure
was small, even for a kender, and walked with a particular gait that
Piknim's feet remembered before her mind did. Her topknot, once dark, had
gone the; a ghostly gray. In one hand she carried a daisy, the stem bruised
and green, the way you carry something you picked on the way.
The daisies in the yard had swayed with no wind. Piknim had thought nothing
of it.
The spirit stopped an arm's length away. She did not look at the Reliqua,
or the empty square. She looked at Piknim, as if the whole day had been
arranged so that she could.
"There you are," she said, in a handful of words, measured out as though
there were only so many left at the bottom of a pouch. "Piknim."
Not Darkfinder. Not Witch-Queen.
She held out the daisy. Piknim's hand took it without being told to. The
fingers that brushed hers were cold and weighed nothing at all.
Then her mother reached up and straightened her topknot, which had listed to
one side. It had always listed to one side. Mothers do that, and the dead
apparently do too.
There was more she might have said, but spirits pay dearly for every word
spoken into the mortal plane and there was nothing left. She smiled
instead, the smile of someone who has stood at a window a very long time and
has finally watched the road fill. Then she came apart into motes of light
that drifted into the sky going violet over Balifore, and were gone.
Her wait was over. It had been for Piknim All along.
Writer: Piknim
Date Wed Oct 21 19:43:49 2026
Subject Day of the Dead: A Price Paid (1/2)
Piknim stood in the ruins of her homeland with a daisy in one hand and a
much replenished Numen Reliqua of Balance in the other.
The Reliqua hummed against her palm, sated and content. Every kender who
had answered the bell was inside it now, both the willing and the ones who
had only wanted to wait.
She could set them free. One word, and the square would fill again. They
would be as they had been an hour ago, drifting and patient, watching a road
no one walked.
She said nothing.
*You are afraid you will never measure up* said Telthian's vestige, in the
dark where she had left it since the Rite of Domination. *Too soft and
emotional to do what it takes*
The voice of Agapitos came from the opposite direction, gold and unhurried.
*It is rarely any one single choice that gets us to where we are. There are
ever more choices before us that can change the path we walk, should the
sights we see prove not to our liking*
She did not like the sight. Her mother's light drifting into the sky beyond
her reach. In the distance behind it, the Aurora blazed and churned.
*Those who can be saved will ever have a home to come back to*
*Innocence* Devion once hissed, in a chamber full of watching gods, *is the
worst crime of all*
She had wanted a seat at the big table, and she had gotten it. Nobody who
claimed such a seat got to be innocent anymore. Nobody who sat upon a
throne could afford to put sympathy before duty.
She had told Geirhart Sol'Canta, then an Abbott of Austinian, exactly what
she would do. If the Pilgrimage opened the Aurora again, she would use the
Reliqua to close it once more, returning Balance to the land rather than
mending Raije. Geirhart had denied the notion flatly. He had been wounded
that she would even assume as much, and for a time she had wondered whether
she was the one who had misjudged the matter. She had not. The Aurora
opened, and he was named Monsignor for the Pilgrimage's success. Success at
what, if not that?
In her mind, the fault lay with him. But that did not change which hand
bore the Reliqua, here and now.
Verminasia's gates had been bleached white by the Aurora. A scourge of
light had crept through the city's stones like roots, and every man, woman,
and child within the walls were her responsibility. The dead of Balifore
were not.
She told herself the rest, because it was true enough to say. Chaos had
brought ruin to Balifore. Chaos had inflicted the long boredom that had
worn the lost spirits thin, wandering alone in the rubble season after
season with nobody new to meet and nothing new to find. They had been
tormented before she ever rang the bell. She hadn't made the wound. She
had only found a use for it.
She knew exactly what kind of story that was. It was also correct.
The daisy was soft in her fingers. It was a small, ordinary thing that had
come back every spring, and her mother had picked it on the way.
Piknim opened her hand.
The daisy fell. It lay in the dust and rubble of the square, white and gold
and already starting to wilt.
She did not look at it. Her thumb tightened on the Reliqua, and the hum
became audible, warm and glad, and the last echo came, quiet and without
malice, as if it had always known.
*..to do what it takes*
Writer: Piknim
Date Wed Oct 21 19:54:06 2026
Subject Day of the Dead: A Price Paid (2/2)
Teven Wifflenut the Kendarme had never climbed anything so completely
worth it.
The footlocker sat where the Queen said it would, tucked behind the
waterfall at the top, green with moss and stuffed with treasure. A bent
spoon. A feather. Three buttons that didn't match. A dead beetle in a
matchbox, very carefully labeled. Everything in it was junk, and every
piece had been loved by somebody who thought it worth burying.
Names were written in chalk on the rock wall under the overhang, faded
nearly to nothing. Teven read them with his lips moving.
FLIP.
DASH.
CAL.
ODD SOCK.
WINK.
And one near the bottom, in crooked capitals with a very large pointed hat
drawn above it.
PIKNIM.
He grinned so widely his face hurt.
In the corner, rolling loose as if it had been waiting, lay a blue marble.
Under it, pinned to a card gone soft with age, was a merit badge, bright and
a little faded. Exemplary Citizenship, accompanied by the Topknotch Scout
motto.
READY FOR ANYTHING.
Teven unpinned it and fixed it to his vest, right over the heart, where it
sat perfectly. He was fairly sure he'd earned it.
He ran most of the way back, arms swept behind him, head thrust forward,
boots slapping the rock, creek, and road like a ninja who knew exactly how
it looked and wasn't about to stop. The marble clicked against everything
else in his pocket.
He came into the square at full speed and nearly skidded into the silence.
It wasn't quiet like a place with nobody in it. It was quiet like the
moment after a bell tolled. The bell hung in its frame by the dry fountain,
perfectly still, and the Queen stood in the middle of the square with a
small bone-colored thing in one hand and her back very straight.
Something white lay in the dust by her boot. A flower, he thought. Someone
had dropped it.
Teven came up beside her, ready to tell her All about the waterfall, and
looked at her face.
He didn't have a word for it. It wasn't sad. He knew sad. It was the face
of someone carrying a heavy burden as far as she could who still had a long
way to go.
For possibly the first time in his life, Teven decided not to ask.
"Found it!" He said instead, and held out the marble. "Blue! Exactly like
you said. There was a spoon too, possibly magical, but I left the spoon."
Piknim took the marble and turned it once in the light. Her eyes lifted to
his vest and stopped on the badge, and something crossed her face too
quickly for him to name.
She slipped the marble into her pocket the way you put away something you
mean to keep.
"Splendidly done, Kendarme."
He stood a little taller. She tucked the bone-colored thing into the old
scout pack at her hip. She did not look at the flower.
"Come along, my pretty. There's a great deal of work left to be done."
He followed her out of the square and glanced back once at the white flower
in the dust, which looked small, and a little bruised, and extremely alone.
Then he hurried to catch up.
Writer: Arcadian
Date Thu Oct 22 02:39:40 2026
Subject PART 3 one of two A test of faith
( Of anger, doubt and the difficult labour of remaining true to one's
convictions )
There came a time during our wandering when I began to fear not merely for
the future of our people, but for the condition of my own heart. Until
then, I had believed that my devotion to Austinian would provide a
dependable compass through whatever troubles might arise. I had studied the
value of reason, reflected upon the obligations of goodness and considered
the importance of harmony between those whose differences might otherwise
lead them into conflict. Yet the longer our hardship continued, the more
difficult these principles became to uphold.
It is easy to praise patience when one is comfortable. It is easy to speak
of forgiveness when no fresh insult has been offered. It is easy to commend
compassion when the suffering of others does not threaten one's own
security.
But what of the man who has watched his home destroyed? What of the
traveller who has been threatened, humiliated and told that his very
presence is unwelcome? What of the parent who must explain to a child why
the place they once called home no longer exists?
Can such people reasonably be expected to greet every new injury with
serenity?
I struggled with these questions and I will not pretend that I emerged from
the struggle without bitterness.
There were moments when I wished that those responsible for our suffering
might experience the same helplessness they had inflicted upon us. There
were moments when I imagined confronting them and demanding that they
explain the reasoning behind their cruelty. I wanted them to look upon the
ashes and understand the magnitude of what they had done.
More than once, I found myself composing speeches in my mind, each more
eloquent and condemning than the last. I imagined words that would strip
away every excuse and leave my adversaries standing before the truth of
their own actions.
Yet whenever I considered these imagined victories, I was forced to ask
myself an uncomfortable question.
Did I wish to persuade them or did I merely wish to wound them with words?
The distinction mattered.
Eloquence can be a tool of understanding, but it can also become a weapon of
pride. A man may speak of justice while secretly longing for humiliation.
He may claim to defend goodness while taking pleasure in another's
suffering. The language of virtue does not guarantee the presence of virtue
itself.
I could not control the motives of those who had harmed us, but I could
examine my own.
This, I came to understand, was among the more demanding obligations of my
faith. Austinian's teachings did not grant me permission to regard myself
as righteous merely because I had suffered an injustice. My suffering
explained my anger, but it did not automatically justify every action that
anger might inspire.
Writer: Arcadian
Date Thu Oct 22 02:46:13 2026
Subject PART 3 two of two A test of faith
( Continued ..)
Nor did my faith require me to pretend that wrongdoing was acceptable.
I had to learn the difference between refusing vengeance and surrendering
justice. I had to accept that compassion for another soul did not oblige me
to trust that soul without reason. I had to recognise that the pursuit of
harmony could require firm boundaries, honest criticism and the courage to
oppose conduct that threatened the well-being of others.
Harmony, after all, is not the same as silence.
A community cannot achieve lasting peace by asking the injured to conceal
their wounds for the convenience of those who caused them. Nor can
understanding flourish where truth is deliberately ignored.
If I were to remain faithful to Austinian, I would have to speak honestly
about what had happened to us. I would have to acknowledge our losses
without exaggeration, describe our grievances without surrendering to hatred
and seek a future in which our people could live without fear of being
driven from their homes.
That future seemed distant.
There were those who continued to threaten us, speaking as though our
displacement were inevitable. Their words were intended to discourage us,
to convince us that resistance was pointless and that any attempt to rebuild
would merely invite further suffering.
I cannot claim to have been entirely unmoved by these threats. There were
nights when I wondered whether the wisest course might be to abandon our
ambitions, scatter ourselves across distant lands and attempt to disappear
into the greater multitude of Algoron.
Such a choice might have spared us some immediate dangers. It might also
have deprived us of the opportunity to preserve our traditions together.
I found myself asking what it meant to persevere. Was endurance simply the
stubborn refusal to yield, regardless of consequence? Or was it the ability
to adapt without surrendering one's essential principles?
I came to believe that perseverance required both courage and judgment.
There are occasions when one must stand firm and occasions when one must
change course. Neither decision is virtuous merely because it is difficult.
What matters is whether it serves a purpose worthy of the sacrifice
demanded.
I spoke of these thoughts with those among our people who would hear me. We
discussed the dangers of despair, the importance of maintaining our dignity
and the necessity of distinguishing those who genuinely wished us harm from
those who might simply know little of our customs.
I urged our people not to judge every stranger by the actions of our
enemies. We could not demand that others recognise our humanity while
refusing to recognise theirs.
But I also reminded them that kindness must not become an excuse for
carelessness. We were entitled to protect ourselves, to seek security and
to demand that our homes be respected. There was no contradiction between a
generous heart and a prudent mind.
Slowly, my anger began to change.
Writer: Arcadian
Date Fri Oct 23 03:40:30 2026
Subject PART 4 one of two The philosopher and the past.
( Of the burden of remembrance and the responsibility of the living )
There is a danger in studying the suffering of others, one may become so
absorbed in the tragedy that one begins to believe understanding it is the
same as having endured it.
I have tried to guard against this error.
I was not present when the wagons were destroyed, and I shall never claim
otherwise. The grief belongs to those who experienced it, and no amount of
reading, listening, or reflection can make their experiences my own. I may
learn from their suffering, but I cannot borrow it to give my words greater
weight.
Yet I have come to believe that distance from a tragedy does not absolve a
person of every responsibility toward its consequences.
If a bridge collapses before a traveller reaches it, must he refuse to help
rebuild it because he never witnessed its fall? If a library is destroyed
before a scholar is born, should he regard the loss of its knowledge as a
matter of no concern? Surely not. We inherit a world shaped by the actions
of those who came before us and we must decide what to preserve, what to
repair and what to leave behind.
The wagons presented me with precisely such a question.
I began to consider what it would mean to restore them without pretending
that the intervening years had never happened. Nearly fifteen years had
passed. The world had changed the people had grown older and those who had
once travelled beside the wagons had found different ways to live. Some
might welcome their return, while others might have reservations born of
experience.
A restoration that ignored these realities would be little more than a
performance.
I did not wish to construct a monument to an idealised past. I wanted to
help create something that living people could use, cherish and pass onward.
That distinction altered my approach.
My task, as I understood it, was to help open a conversation.
I spoke with those who remembered the old ways and those who had known them
only through stories. I asked what they hoped to recover and what they
believed should change. Some wished to see the wagons restored as closely
as possible to the designs they remembered. Others were more interested in
the community they might encourage than in the precise appearance of the
structures themselves.
Both perspectives possessed merit.
Tradition, I reasoned, was not a chain binding the living to every decision
made by the dead. Nor was it an empty word that permitted us to discard
whatever demanded effort. It was a relationship between generations,
sustained through remembrance, practice and thoughtful adaptation.
A tradition survived because people continued to find meaning in it.
Writer: Arcadian
Date Fri Oct 23 03:42:20 2026
Subject PART 4 two of two The philosopher and the past.
( Continued ..)
As my interest deepened, I returned often to my studies of Austinian. I
reflected upon the relationship between truth and responsibility. If we
wished to rebuild, we first had to acknowledge the history honestly. We
could not pretend that the wagons had disappeared through mere neglect, nor
could we allow their destruction to become an excuse for endless resentment.
We had to remember without becoming prisoners of memory.
I began to understand that my role would not be to lead people backward
toward a world that no longer existed. It would be to help them carry the
valuable parts of that world into the present.
I was young and perhaps my enthusiasm exceeded my wisdom. I knew little of
the practical difficulties that awaited anyone who attempted to establish a
community project of this kind. Yet I possessed a willingness to learn and
I believed that this was a reasonable beginning.
If the elders could teach me the craft, then I would listen. If the
community could teach me what the wagons meant to them, then I would learn.
If my own assumptions proved mistaken, then I would have to correct them.
A philosopher who refuses to revise his conclusions is merely a stubborn man
with a vocabulary.
I had no desire to become one.
Thus, my ambition gradually took a clearer form. I would seek a place where
the wagons might be rebuilt, gather those willing to help and work toward
restoring a tradition that had survived in memory even when its physical
homes had disappeared.
I would not promise an easy road.
I would promise only that the work would be undertaken with respect for the
past and consideration for the people who must live in the future.
And so I began looking for a place where our efforts might take root.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Fri Oct 23 16:17:28 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Obey pt. 1
Talven remained where he was for several seconds after Sarn gave the order,
then descended from the quarterdeck. Branik stepped aside as he passed.
Neither man spoke.
Talven crossed toward the mainmast and stopped beside a sailor coiling line
there. They exchanged a few quiet words. The sailor looked toward Sarn, then
toward the forward hatch.
He shook his head. Talven moved on.
The sailor overseeing Tiber and Sten had called them back toward the
companionway with the other prisoners. Even the guard watched Talven now,
though work continued around them. Canvas shifted overhead. A prisoner
hauled at a line beside two sailors. Somewhere forward, a crate struck the
deck with a hollow thud.
Talven spoke to another man near the rail. This one listened without
interrupting. When Talven finished, the sailor stared at him.
"Alive?"
Talven nodded once.
The man looked toward the forward hatch. "All of them?"
"The sick ones."
For a moment, the sailor said nothing. Then he stepped away from the rail.
Talven found three more. One asked no questions. Another did, too quietly
for Tiber to hear. Talven answered him, and the man rubbed a hand across his
mouth before joining the others. The third listened for a moment before
following.
Four sailors gathered near the forward hatch. Branik had not moved.
Sarn stood above them at the quarterdeck. "Start with the ones who need help walking."
Talven looked up at Sarn, then turned to the waiting sailors. One by one,
they descended into the hold until the deck had swallowed them all. For
several minutes, nothing happened.
The sailor guarding the prisoners ordered them back to work. Tiber lifted a
sack from the stack beside the companionway and carried it aft. When he
returned for another, there was still no sign of the men who had gone below.
Then Talven emerged.
A sailor followed him with one arm around the waist of a prisoner Tiber had
seen below. The man's head hung forward. His feet found the steps one at a
time, though most of his weight rested against the sailor supporting him.
Another prisoner came behind them. A sailor held him beneath one arm while
he climbed. Two more followed under their own power, one of them hunched
with hands firmly pressed against his abdomen. The fifth had to be lifted
through the hatch by the men below.
They were brought aft. No one explained why.
The first man raised his head when they passed the mainmast. He looked
toward the prisoners working there, then toward the quarterdeck. His eyes
settled on the rail.
He stopped.
The sailor supporting him nearly stumbled before catching his weight. "Come on."
The prisoner did not move. Another sailor took his free arm and, between
them, they carried him the remaining distance.
Tiber had stopped beside the stack with another sack across his shoulder.
The sailor overseeing him pointed toward the companionway.
"Put it down and get another."
Tiber lowered the sack, his attention fixed on the prisoners being led
toward the ship's side.
One sailor took the sick man beneath the arms while the other caught his legs.
The prisoner understood then. "Wait..."
They lifted him.
"No, wait!"
The words broke into a cough before he could finish them. One of the sailors
hesitated, his grip loosening for an instant. The other tightened his hold,
and together they heaved the man over the side.
For an instant, the sailor who had hesitated remained bent over the rail,
staring down at the water. Talven stood a few paces behind him. He watched
the empty space where the prisoner had disappeared, then turned toward the
four who remained.
His lips tightened, and his hand closed briefly around the hilt at his side
before falling away.
"...Next."
The sailor straightened and turned toward the second prisoner, who had
already begun trying to pull away.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Fri Oct 23 16:19:23 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Obey pt. 2
The second prisoner pulled against the sailor holding him, but the man had
already caught a fistful of his shirt. Another seized his other arm.
"Keep still."
"Please. I can walk. I can work!"
He planted his feet as they brought him toward the rail. One sailor caught
him beneath the arms while the other bent for his legs. The prisoner kicked,
catching the second man against the shoulder. The sailor swore and dropped
his hold.
Talven stepped forward. "Get his legs."
The sailor seized an ankle. His companion shifted his grip, and together
they lifted the struggling prisoner above the rail. His hands caught the
wood for an instant before one sailor struck them loose.
He disappeared over the side.
The third prisoner backed away. He was one of the two who had walked from
the hold without assistance, though he had stopped several times to catch
his breath.
"No. No, I'm not sick like them!"
A sailor took his arm.
"I've been getting better! Ask Harl!"
The sailor pulled him forward. The prisoner twisted toward Talven, his voice
rising.
"He'll tell you! Ask him!"
Talven said nothing. The man tried to wrench free, but the sailor drove a
shoulder into his chest and forced him against the rail. Another caught his
legs. He was still shouting for Harl when they threw him over.
Tiber stood beside the sacks, watching. The sailor overseeing him directed
two prisoners carrying a crate forward. Neither looked toward the rail as
they passed.
The fourth sick man offered little resistance. He stood nearly doubled over,
both hands pressed against his stomach. When the sailors approached, he
raised one hand to keep them away but made no effort to run. They lifted him
over.
The last prisoner could not stand without help. He remained on the deck
where they had lowered him, breathing through his mouth. One sailor took his
shoulders, another his ankles. They carried him to the rail. Neither had to
struggle.
For a while, the sailors remained where they were. One rubbed the shoulder
where he'd been kicked. Another leaned against the rail, looking toward the
water.
Talven glanced toward the forward hatch.
"Bring up five more..."
Two sailors went below. The others waited, then followed.
The sailor overseeing Tiber and Sten called them toward a stack of crates
beside the companionway.
"These need moving. Take them forward."
Tiber joined Sten beside the nearest crate.
By the time they carried it past the mainmast, another group was coming
through the hatch. Three walked between the sailors. Two needed help
climbing the steps.
Sten slowed beside him, watching the prisoners led aft.
"They're doing it, then."
Tiber looked toward the prisoners, then back at the crate between them. His
eyes lowered for a moment, but no words followed. He adjusted his grip and
kept walking.
Behind them, a man began shouting. The words carried across the deck until a
sailor ordered him quiet. A scuffle followed near the rail, then a cry that
ended abruptly.
Tiber looked back.
One prisoner stood with his hands raised while two sailors approached. The
others from his group were already gone.
Sten stopped beside the next crate. For a moment neither of them moved. The
sailor overseeing them looked their way. Tiber bent to lift his end.
When they passed the mainmast again, the rail was empty. Talven was speaking
to a sailor who kept shaking his head. Tiber could not hear them. After a
moment, the sailor turned toward the forward hatch with the others.
Another five were brought up.
This time, Talven did not wait for All of them to reach the deck before
directing the first toward the rail.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Fri Oct 23 16:21:13 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Obey pt. 3
Of the five prisoners, three walked without assistance. One leaned against a
sailor, while the fifth had to be supported beneath both arms. Tiber and
Sten were moving the last of the crates as the men were brought aft.
The first prisoner began struggling when the sailors seized him beside the
rail. He pulled free of one man and stumbled backward into another, nearly
knocking him down. A second prisoner turned and ran toward the mainmast. He
had gone only a few steps when a sailor caught him from behind, sending them
both sprawling across the deck.
The remaining three were held back by the sailors guarding them. One tried
to pull away, but a sailor caught his arm and forced him to remain where he
stood.
Talven shouted for help. Two sailors came from their work nearby, and
between them, they forced the prisoners back toward the ship's side. One of
the sailors had blood running from his nose. Another favored his left leg as
he returned to his feet.
The first prisoner was thrown overboard still fighting. The second had to be
dragged the remaining distance.
The third was an older man with a beard gone mostly gray. He had stood
quietly while the others struggled, his eyes moving between the sailors and
the prisoners who remained.
When they came for him, he stepped forward.
"I've done everything you asked."
The sailor stopped in front of him.
"I haven't caused any trouble."
No one answered. The older man looked toward Talven, then back at the sailor.
"Please. I can still work..."
The sailor reached for his arm. The prisoner caught hold of his sleeve, not
pulling or striking, but holding on as though he might persuade the man to
listen.
"I'll do whatever you need!"
The sailor stood still. For a moment, neither moved.
"Get him to the rail." Talven commanded.
The sailor took the prisoner's arm. Another moved behind him, and together
they brought him toward the rail.
Only then did the older man begin to resist. He twisted away, catching hold
of the rail with one hand as they tried to lift him. His fingers held until
a sailor struck his wrist. He stumbled backward onto the deck, pulling one
of the men down with him.
He scrambled away on his hands and knees, but another sailor stepped into
his path. The prisoner stopped and looked up at him.
"Please..."
The sailor who had hesitated came forward. He bent and caught the older man
beneath the arms while the others took his legs.
They lifted him over.
Tiber had stopped with one end of a crate in his hands. Sten held the other.
Neither spoke until the sailor overseeing them ordered them to keep moving.
They carried the crate forward.
When Tiber looked back, the sailor who had helped lift the older man was
standing beside the rail, staring blankly at the horizon.
Talven called him back to help with the remaining prisoners.
The last two were taken overboard. One was too weak to resist. The other
fought hard enough that a sailor had to be helped to his feet afterward.
Talven spoke to the men gathered near him. Tiber could not hear what was
said, but the sailors returned to the forward hatch.
When it opened again, three prisoners emerged instead of five. Two walked
without assistance. The third leaned against a sailor as he climbed the
steps.
They were brought aft, though the sailors stopped two of them short of the
rail while the first was led forward.
The man looked from one sailor to another. "What's happening?"
Neither answered.
He began struggling when they seized him. His cries carried across the deck,
and the two prisoners waiting behind him turned toward the sound.
One tried to pull away. The other stood motionless, staring as the sailors
lifted the first man over.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Fri Oct 23 16:24:00 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Obey pt. 4
By the time they came for the second prisoner, he was begging to be taken
back below.
The sailors had difficulty with him. He dropped his weight against the men
holding him, forcing them to drag him the last few steps. The third prisoner
watched, his mouth moving soundlessly. When they turned toward him, he
backed away until a sailor caught his arm.
The afternoon wore on. Those who could still fight often did, but the
sailors no longer had five men to contend with at once. Even so, more than
one returned from the rail with blood on his clothing.
Tiber was sent to help move barrels near the companionway. Once, a sailor
called to him twice before he heard. The man pointed toward a barrel that
needed shifting, and Tiber went to it without answering.
He had seen men killed before. He had seen them beg, and he had seen men die
without a word. But these prisoners had no weapons, no ground to defend, and
nowhere to retreat. They were brought up from the hold and taken to the rail
while the rest of the ship continued its work.
Each time the forward hatch opened, he looked toward it.
Among one group, he recognized a prisoner who had lain near Corren during
his last visit below. The man was walking, though he needed help climbing
the final steps. Tiber searched the faces behind him, waiting for another to
appear.
The hatch closed.
He remained where he was until Sten called him back to the barrels.
Later, another prisoner began protesting as the sailors led him toward the
mainmast. He insisted he was getting better, that he could work, that he had
been ill only a few days. The sailors continued leading him aft.
The man who had helped lift the older prisoner was among them. He held the
protesting man's arm, but when the prisoner began struggling, his grip
loosened. Another sailor caught hold before the man could pull free.
Talven looked toward him.
The sailor tightened his grip and helped carry the prisoner to the rail.
When it was done, he turned away before his companions.
The next group appeared while Tiber was carrying a coil of line toward the
bow. The same sailor stood near the mainmast, watching them approach. He
rubbed one hand against his trousers, occasionally clenching the cloth in
his fist.
Talven called to him. "Come on."
The sailor gave a small shake of his head. His eyes dropped to the deck.
"I can't do another..."
Talven regarded him for several seconds. Behind them, a prisoner was
pleading with the men holding him. The sailors waited for instruction.
"...Go back to your duties."
The man looked up briefly, then nodded. He walked away without another word.
Talven called over a sailor working near the mainmast. The man secured the
line he had been tending and crossed toward the waiting prisoners. After a
brief exchange, he took the place of the sailor who had left.
The executions continued.
Tiber passed Sten near the mainmast as they were sent to collect another load.
"How many more?" Sten asked.
Tiber shook his head and lowered his eyes. For a moment, he said nothing.
"I don't know."
The sun had begun its descent, though the deck remained bright. Another
group emerged while they stood there. Tiber searched their faces, but Corren
was not among them.
A sailor ordered them back to work.
Tiber bent to lift his end of the crate. As they carried it forward, he
heard another prisoner begin shouting behind them. The voice rose above the
ordinary sounds of the ship, then broke off.
When they returned, the rail was empty.
Talven was already sending the sailors below for another group.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Fri Oct 23 16:25:26 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Obey pt. 5
The light had begun to fade when the sailor overseeing Tiber and Sten called
them away from their work. Other prisoners were being gathered near the
companionway, some carrying tools or lengths of line they had been ordered
to return. Tiber set aside what he was carrying and joined them.
Near the forward hatch, Talven was speaking to two sailors. Another stood
beside the rail, washing blood from his hands with water drawn from a
bucket. The men who had been bringing prisoners up from below had not
finished.
The guard counted the working prisoners before ordering them down into their
hold. Sten followed Tiber through the companionway, one hand against the
wall as they descended.
Branik was waiting below with another sailor. The prisoners were returned to
their places and secured to the iron rings. Branik moved among them,
checking the restraints while his companion helped fasten them.
He worked with his usual care, but there was none of the easy conversation
Tiber had grown accustomed to hearing from him. He had said little since
refusing Sarn's order, and he offered nothing now.
Bread and water were brought through the hold. The prisoners ate where they
were secured, some speaking quietly while others remained silent. Above
them, footsteps crossed the deck. A hatch opened and closed, followed by
voices too distant to make out.
The coughing man near the companionway had lowered the cloth covering his
mouth and nose to eat. When another fit came, he bent forward and covered
his mouth with his sleeve until it passed. He had shown no other obvious
sign of illness since the coughing began.
The sailor assisting Branik stopped beside him. The prisoner lowered his
sleeve and looked up.
"You need something?" the sailor asked.
"No. Just swallowed wrong."
The sailor watched him for another moment, then continued down the hold.
Branik had looked toward them but said nothing.
The coughing man settled back against the timbers and resumed eating.
When the prisoners had finished their rations, the sailors returned to
release them. Branik worked alongside the other crewman, unlocking the
restraints and directing the men toward the companionway. He gave only the
necessary instructions.
On deck, the evening air was cooler. The sun had dropped toward the horizon,
but there was still light enough to work. Sailors moved between the masts,
tending lines and securing what had been left unfinished.
Near the forward hatch, three more prisoners from the sick hold were being
brought up. Two sailors supported a man who could barely manage the steps.
The others followed behind him, watched closely by the men assigned to the
executions.
The working prisoners were divided among their assignments. Some were sent
toward the bow, others aft. Tiber and Sten waited with the men who had not
yet been assigned.
The coughing man moved to join the prisoners being sent aft. Before he could
pass, the sailor who had accompanied Branik stepped into his path and raised
a hand.
"Not you."
The prisoner stopped. "What?"
"Stay here."
"I can work."
The sailor pointed to a place beside the companionway, clear of the
prisoners still coming onto the deck. "Over there."
The others continued toward their assignments. A sailor directed Tiber and
Sten toward the mainmast.
Tiber glanced back as they walked. The coughing man remained beside the
companionway, the sailor standing guard nearby.
Writer: Tiberius
Date Fri Oct 23 16:29:42 2026
Subject The Long Road Home: The Ones Who Obey pt. 6
Tiber was securing a line with Sten near the mainmast when he noticed the
sailor leading the coughing man toward the aft rail.
The prisoner walked beside him without resistance. He had pulled the cloth
back over his mouth and nose, though it had slipped beneath his chin as they
walked. As they passed the hatch, he glanced toward the sailors waiting
nearby.
"Where are we going?" he asked.
The sailor did not answer.
Talven was directing two men toward the rail when they approached. He turned
at the sound of their footsteps.
"What's this?"
"Captain's orders."
Talven looked at the prisoner. "He's not from the sick hold."
"He's been coughing. I reported it to the captain."
"And?"
"Anyone showing signs of illness. No exceptions."
Talven looked back at the prisoner. His gaze lingered on the cloth beneath
the man's chin before moving to the sailors waiting beside the rail.
"He was working with the others."
"...Captain's orders."
For a moment, Talven said nothing. His jaw tightened as he glanced toward
the quarterdeck. Then he turned back and motioned to the waiting sailors.
The prisoner had stopped walking.
"I'm not sick."
Neither man answered.
"I was working. You saw me working!" He turned toward the sailor who had
brought him. "I swallowed wrong, that's all!"
The man took a step backward.
"No! Wait! I'm not sick!!"
Two sailors caught him by the arms. He twisted away from the first, driving
his shoulder into the second hard enough to stagger him. He seized a
sailor's shirt before the man struck his wrist and tore free.
Tiber had stopped working. Beside him, Sten held the line without drawing it
tight.
The prisoner planted his feet against the deck.
"Ask the others! I've been working All day!"
One of the sailors struck him across the face. His head snapped sideways,
but he continued struggling, kicking at the boards as they dragged him
toward the rail.
"I'm not sick!!"
A third sailor came to help. Together they forced him against the gunwale.
He caught the upper edge with both hands and held on, his knuckles whitening
as the sailors tried to pry his fingers loose.
For several seconds they could not move him.
One sailor wrenched the prisoner's arm behind his back. Another pulled a
wooden belaying pin from its rack and brought it down across the man's
fingers. The man cried out, his grip breaking as the sailors hauled him
upward.
They lifted him. His legs kicked once above the rail before he disappeared.
Tiber heard the splash.
One sailor leaned against the gunwale, breathing heavily. Another rubbed his
wrist where the prisoner had caught him.
Talven was already turning toward the men waiting near the hatch. He exhaled
slowly, then straightened.
"...Next three."
Sten drew the line through his hands. "Tiber..."
At his name, Tiber looked up. Sten nodded toward their task. Spotting the
sailor overseeing them approaching, he returned his attention to the line.
The next prisoners were brought forward. One could scarcely stand. Another
kept asking where they were being taken, though no one answered him. The
third struggled when the sailors reached for his arms.
Tiber heard their voices as he hauled the line with Sten. He did not turn
until the shouting grew louder. By then, the sailors had the last man
against the rail.
The executions continued.
A little later, another three were brought up. Tiber watched them emerge
from the hatch, searching their faces before returning to the line in his
hands.
He recognized none of them. Sten glanced toward him but said nothing.
Near the forward rail, the sailors were taking hold of the first prisoner.
Writer: Arcadian
Date Sat Oct 24 00:08:25 2026
Subject Part 5 one of two - The spark of a new ambition.
( Of a young skald's resolve and the first steps toward rebuilding )
An idea may remain in a man's mind for years without becoming anything more
than an agreeable possibility. It is comfortable to imagine what might be
achieved, particularly when one has not yet begun to count the difficulties.
I had reached the point where imagination alone was no longer sufficient.
The stories I had heard had given me a reason to care. The conversations
with the elders had taught me what must be respected. My studies had
offered principles by which I might guide my conduct. Yet the wagons
remained absent and every reflection upon their history brought me back to
the same practical question.
What was I prepared to do about it?
It would have been easy to continue writing. I could have composed a moving
account of the old wagons, praised the resilience of their people, and
filled page after page with reflections upon the meaning of home. Such work
might have preserved a portion of the story and I do not dismiss the value
of writing.
But I could not ignore the difference between describing a fire and helping
to build a hearth.
If the wagons were to return, someone would have to begin.
I therefore started speaking openly about my intention. I told those who
would listen that I wished to help restore the Gypsy Wagons, not merely as
structures but as a living part of our shared heritage. I explained that
the undertaking would require patience, practical labour, cooperation and a
willingness to accept that the result might differ from the past.
Some received the idea with enthusiasm. Others responded cautiously.
I understood both reactions.
Those who had heard the old stories might be reluctant to hope for something
that had been absent for so long. They might wonder whether the undertaking
would ever progress beyond words, or whether its organisers understood the
difficulties involved. I could hardly ask them to place their trust in an
ambition that had not yet demonstrated its worth.
I did not demand immediate confidence.
Instead, I began to think about what would be required to make the project
possible. We would need to identify those with the skills to construct and
repair wagons. We would need materials, tools and a means of coordinating
the work. We would need a location where our efforts could continue without
the constant fear that everything we built might have to be abandoned.
Above all, we would need permission.
No amount of determination could substitute for the right to establish
ourselves in a place. I had learned enough from the stories of the past to
understand that a community could not flourish indefinitely while its
security remained uncertain.
I therefore began considering where such an undertaking might be welcomed.
Writer: Arcadian
Date Sat Oct 24 00:10:14 2026
Subject Part 5 two of two - The spark of a new ambition.
( Continued ..)
It was during this period of reflection that Arkane became central to my
thoughts. The city offered the possibility of a new beginning, provided
that its ruler was willing to grant us the necessary space. I could not
presume that permission would be given and I knew that any request would
have to be approached with respect.
I prepared myself to explain the purpose of the wagons the history that had
inspired their restoration, and the intentions of those who hoped to rebuild
them. I wished to make clear that we did not seek to impose ourselves upon
others, nor to demand that the inhabitants of Arkane accept our traditions
as their own.
We sought an opportunity to practise those traditions peacefully.
I believed this distinction mattered.
A request made with humility was not an admission that our heritage lacked
value. It was a recognition that communities must consider one another's
needs if they are to coexist. If we wished to be treated with fairness, we
had to demonstrate our own willingness to act fairly.
As I prepared to pursue this ambition, I found myself reflecting upon the
old traveller's words.
Some wagons had become memories that people were afraid to speak of too
often.
I did not wish those memories to be forgotten. Neither did I wish them to
remain sources of sorrow alone. I wanted the children of the future to
encounter the wagons as something real, places where they might learn,
gather, celebrate and make memories of their own.
The past had given me the reason to begin, but the future would have to give
the work its purpose.
I could not guarantee success. I could not promise that every obstacle
would yield to persistence, or that every person would welcome the
undertaking.
I could, however, make the attempt.
And so I resolved to carry the idea beyond my writings and into the world,
where it would have to withstand the demands of reality.
The wagons had waited nearly fifteen years.
It was time someone began asking how they might return.
Writer: Arcadian
Date Sun Oct 25 07:30:10 2026
Subject PART 6 one of two The gates of Arkane.
( Of Queen Nereza's permission and the opening of a road toward renewal )
When word reached me that Her Majesty, Queen Nereza of Arkane, had permitted
us to rebuild our wagons within the city's limits, I read the message more
than once.
For months, I had considered the possibility of rebuilding as an ambition
that might never advance beyond its earliest stages. I had imagined the
labour, gathered recollections and thought carefully about the
responsibilities involved. Yet All of it depended upon a condition that lay
beyond my authority, we needed a place where the work could begin.
Now, at last, that possibility had become real.
I cannot claim that I experienced the moment as one who had personally
recovered a home lost fifteen years earlier. That loss was not mine. I had
never possessed the wagon that had been destroyed, nor had I wandered the
roads in the aftermath of its destruction.
My joy was different.
I felt the excitement of a man who had spent a long time listening to a
story and had finally discovered that its ending need not be fixed. Queen
Nereza had granted us an opportunity to make something possible that had
long existed only in memory and aspiration.
I offered a prayer of gratitude to Austinian, then began considering what
this permission demanded of us.
It would have been tempting to celebrate the decision as though every
difficulty had already been resolved. But permission to rebuild was not the
same as rebuilding itself. The work remained ahead and the responsibility
for carrying it forward rested with those of us who had undertaken the task.
We would need to gather our people, establish practical plans, acquire
materials and organise the labour. We would need to respect the city's
boundaries and the interests of its inhabitants. We would have to
demonstrate that the opportunity granted to us would be treated as a trust
rather than an entitlement.
I considered these obligations entirely appropriate.
A city that welcomed us into its limits was offering more than a patch of
ground. It was allowing us to become part of its living landscape. Our
wagons would stand among the homes and streets of others, and our conduct
would inevitably influence how our neighbours came to understand us.
I wished for that understanding to grow through experience rather than
argument.
Let our neighbours see us working diligently. Let them encounter us in
ordinary moments, sharing greetings, conducting our affairs and treating
others with consideration. Let our presence become familiar enough that our
wagons might one day be regarded not as a curiosity or a reminder of distant
trouble, but as another expression of the varied lives that made Algoron
what it was.
I knew such acceptance could not be demanded. It would have to develop over
time.
Nor did I imagine that every disagreement would disappear. Communities
contain people with different customs, priorities, and expectations. We
would make mistakes and others might misunderstand our intentions. There
would be occasions when patience and explanation would be necessary.
Writer: Arcadian
Date Sun Oct 25 07:31:35 2026
Subject PART 6 two of two The gates of Arkane.
( Continued ..)
But the opportunity to meet those challenges in a place where we were
permitted to rebuild was itself a meaningful beginning.
I thought of the elders whose memories had guided my preparations. I
imagined telling them that their stories had not fallen upon indifferent
ears. The wagons they remembered might once again become part of the
present, not through a denial of what had happened, but because people had
chosen to act upon what remained.
I thought too, of the generations who had grown up without seeing the wagons
in their former splendour. For them, the project would not be a return to a
personal memory. It would be an introduction to a heritage they had known
chiefly through the accounts of others.
Perhaps they would look upon the wagons and feel the same curiosity that had
first drawn me toward their history. Perhaps they would learn the skills
required to maintain them, or discover a love for the songs and stories
associated with the old roads.
Perhaps they would make the tradition their own.
That was what I wanted most.
I did not wish to construct a monument to the past and demand that the
future admire it from a distance. I wanted a living tradition, one that
could change and grow without forgetting where it had come from.
Queen Nereza's permission gave us the space to begin that work.
For that, I was grateful.
I resolved that my gratitude would not be expressed solely through words. I
would help organise the rebuilding, listen to those with greater experience
and contribute whatever labour I could offer. I would encourage cooperation
and remind our people that the trust placed in us should be met with
responsibility.
The road ahead remained uncertain, but uncertainty no longer seemed an
argument against beginning.
We had been given an opportunity.
Now we had to prove ourselves worthy of making use of it.
And somewhere within the limits of Arkane the first outlines of the wagons'
return began to take shape.
Writer: Arcadian
Date Mon Oct 26 03:13:52 2026
Subject Part 6 one of three - The gathering of hands
( Of shared labour, renewed purpose and the making of a community )
Permission had been granted and with it came a question far more difficult
than any I had encountered in my studies.
Who would help us build?
An idea can inspire a gathering, but inspiration alone cannot raise a wagon
from the earth. Timber must be measured, wheels must be fashioned, tools
must be acquired and countless small tasks must be completed before the
whole can take shape. The elders could share their knowledge, but their
memories would not assemble the structures themselves. Those who wished to
see the wagons restored would have to become participants in their
restoration.
I began by speaking with those who had expressed an interest in the project.
I asked what they could contribute, what they wished to learn and what they
hoped the return of the wagons might mean for our people.
Their answers reminded me that no two individuals carried precisely the same
vision.
Some remembered the old wagons with affection and wished to see their
familiar designs restored. Others had never known them except through
stories and were more interested in creating something that would serve the
needs of the present. Some possessed practical skills, while others offered
little more than their willingness to work.
I came to regard All these contributions as valuable.
A community cannot be built solely by those who possess the greatest
expertise. It also requires people who are willing to carry materials,
prepare meals, clean the worksite, listen to instructions and undertake the
ordinary tasks without which more ambitious work becomes impossible.
I had spent years studying the relationship between individual virtue and
collective well-being. Now I had the opportunity to observe that
relationship in practice.
When one person offered their skill, another offered their time. When a
task proved too difficult for one pair of hands, others gathered to assist.
Knowledge was shared, mistakes were corrected and plans were adjusted when
our first attempts failed to produce the desired result.
There were frustrations, of course. We disagreed about methods, priorities
and the use of our limited resources. At times, enthusiasm exceeded our
capacity and we discovered that a promising idea required more labour than
we had anticipated.
I learned to welcome these difficulties as opportunities for improvement.
Reason demanded that we examine what had gone wrong rather than search
immediately for someone to blame. Goodness required that we treat those who
made mistakes with fairness. Harmony called upon us to resolve
disagreements without allowing them to become lasting divisions.
These principles were easier to praise than to practise, but the work gave
us a reason to practise them.
I also discovered that rebuilding the wagons was teaching us something about
the very community we hoped to restore. We were not merely recovering a
tradition through physical construction. We were developing new
relationships, establishing shared responsibilities and learning to
cooperate toward a purpose that none of us could accomplish alone.
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