Journal of Jerrod Felch

[Blue41]

[A small, non-descript tome kept on Jerrod's person.]

I am not a politician. I am not a philosopher. I do not have a degree in any particular field. I do not have an especial knowledge of bureaucracy and its various redundancies, intricacies or otherwise. I have not lived in Ephia's Well for very long, and certainly could not claim to have spent any significant alone time with the people who have-- people who can be pointed to as 'movers and shakers' for their influence and power.

I am a man of faith. And I can trust the feeling, on that faith, that things are very wrong here. To speak more plainly, Kula forgive me, this system is fucked eight ways foolish.

'Earn your place'. Nothing wrong with the concept-- I quite admire it in a vacuum. If you wish to be respected, to sit at the head of the table, it stands to reason that you should prove your capabilities. But that should never be applied to basic human rights-- to speak and be heard. Food. Shelter. Safety. The system of the Voiceless would make cattle out of men, but even cattle can rest assured knowing that their death gives life to others. The Wyld giving way to the Civilized and back again.

The Voiceless are not so fortunate-- in particular, those who are forced to live beneath the city. Upon seeing them, once again, I know I can trust in that little voice in the back of my head.

'Here'. Here is where I'm needed. But how best to help these people? That's another matter, and faith and good intentions can take me only so far. It'll take some time, some thought and a lot more scribbling in this book before I work that out. But time I've got, ink I can scrounge up and thoughts? Got plenty of those.

JF

[Blue41]

"Humor me Kulamet.. If given a vast sum of 30.000 dinari.. What would you do with it?"

My answer was simple enough. Build homes, above ground, for the people of the Creep to settle into. Walls, guards, livestock, independence without being under the Well's yoke. As if it could be achieved so simply-- but with all the barriers in front of us, why throw cynicism into the mix too? It's not an impossible dream. Just very, very hard and very bloody. But seeing what Chraub's done, what Richo's done...who's to say living independently outside of the Well is impossible?

The one sticking point, though, is water. Everything else can be bought or traded for, but without the right bargaining position, water is the one thing the Well has that's going to be hard for people to give up. Convincing them to step out of their rut, to risk for the sake of their evolution, will be the hardest thing I ever have to do. But it's also necessary.

Hard to believe how quickly I've gone from the refugee 'free of biases' to this. Al-Hamdan might be disappointed to see it.

JF

[Blue41]

Everyone tells me I shouldn't care. Everyone. I should leave, go, get out, get the rest of them out and leave this place. That the Well is a poison and that the only cure is to disabuse yourself of the notion that you can make a difference. But Zaire didn't raise me to quit things before I started, and I said as much myself aloud, didn't I?

"People always look for a reason to stop before they get started."

But sitting in that room full of so-called League of White supporters. Watching their faces as they heard about a man buying his way into a position with power-- power over men's lives in this joke of a courts system, all too willing to grind up the lives of the poor, unfortunate and unwell in its gears...this man, appointed by someone who claims to be a champion of the poor. This man who valued property over people. Presented with the choice to expel him, more chose to abstain rather than vote one way or the other.

The hypocrisy. The dissonance. Made my fucking head spin.

...

It would've been one thing to be out-voted. I don't care if people agree with me or not, as long as they care enough to pick a side. Calistar claims that the League of White stands alone in taking the opportunity to expel people from their ranks. The other Leagues aren't quite so...principled. Or in his words, dictatorial. It's hard to believe that after that. Who would want to represent these people

'Look well to the indolence of your peers. The refusal to commit.'

I could stand to look at my own reflection. Kula would likely agree. Some people are better followers than leaders, which is half the point of setting an example. Am I setting the best example I could be, for the people below? For my God?

Always room for improvement.

JF

[Blue41]

A common mistake people make I make is believing their knee-jerk response is their gut feeling. It all gets pretty murky when you believe your intuition and your instinct is the same thing, but there is a simple enough way to tell between them. The solution is time. First impressions color a man, but intuition lingers on. I was prepared to hate Guivarch even as I pitied him-- someone who purportedly came up from nothing to stand for the common folk, and lost his vision somewhere along the way. Undone by compromise after compromise. People are more complex than that, and rarely summed up so simply.

I knew that. I suppose I had Kula whispering in my ear when I didn't burn his letter and go about my day. We ought to leave judgement to the Gods and focus more on understanding each other. But by the Wheel, it's so easy to judge. What a trap.

I can't claim to understand him yet. I do think I understand the motivations he's laid out, and though I wouldn't wish to make the same choices as he to reach his goals...I also don't have to. I don't have to work with the likes of Cassella and Al-Hamdan to oppose the League of Purple. I don't even need their Voice to raise my voice, and that's something I'll get the chance to prove soon enough.

Guess that means I won't be leaving just yet. There's some joke to be made about a Kulamet putting down roots.

JF

[Blue41]

Always ask questions, Zaire would say. Don't stop with the world around you, question yourself as well-- truth transforms, and we are ever works in progress.

Since arriving in Ephia's Well, I haven't stopped asking questions. I've been fortunate enough to come to know people who will press upon me as much as I do on them. Brian. Chraub. Amelie. Feels a bit like being boiled alive in that interrogation of the self. Removing impurities, refining, growing clearer and more distinct in the process. Mack keeps me grounded, a reminder of who I'm supposed to keep in mind with everything that I do. Chraub challenges me, which is only fitting considering his Spoke. And Amelie gives me hope to know that I'm not alone--that there is at least one other of the Wyld who's got their eyes on the big picture. Gives me the freedom to focus on the finer details.

Cassella. Al-Hamdan. Niridhe. Al-Samar. Saenus. Guivarch.

Liars, deceivers, all. Whether they have fooled themselves or those who have voted for them, their actions have caused no small amount of suffering to the lowest and most unfortunate of the Well. They need to be held accountable, and I take this task upon myself, O Kula.

One hand gives. One hand takes.

JF

[Blue41]

Cassella behaved predictably. A small man with smaller desires who exposed himself when pressed to act. I would have enjoyed the satisfaction of blackening his eye, but there's bigger names on my list, and much to prepare for. A sermon for kindling, Guivarch's dinar to light a match and then...point in the right direction and pray. Defiant Kula, fierce Kula,

As this may be the last time I speak on the surface in this particular context, at this particular venue, it's of paramount importance that I get the message across cleanly. If the words do not resonate with them, then the actions certainly will. It will be the first true test of my rhetoric.

...


Let them see you. Let them feel you. Let them come to know you as She does.

JF

[Blue41]

Long after we left the smoke-filled charnel tunnels of Kulkund behind, the words etched into the stone stayed on my mind: Sing the song they wish to silence.

It is likely that I will never hear the song, simply due to my race, though I am told that there are those among the tablet I could speak with. That detail isn't important, though. What matters is that some things go beyond race and class and birth and speak to our truest selves-- on a primordial level.

Resist. Defy. A shriek to the heavens, rising from root to the air to the ears of your foes. If that cry is to be your last, let it haunt your foes to their final days.

It was just what I needed to see in that moment, though I didn't know it. Could there be anything more distinctly of the Wyld than those words? 'Sing the song they wish to silence.' Faced with death from every angle, the destruction of their kin and kith, the loss of their homeland, these dwarves fought to the end. More; they spat in the faces of their enemy even as they were pressed in, outmatched, slain one by one. And their example stirs so many more of their children and cousins and sons and daughters to continue the fight to reclaim Kulkund, no matter the odds.

Selfishly, I wonder if I could ever say or do anything that provokes such inspiration. Death would be worth such a trade, even though Zaire would likely scold me to see it, even written down here. Life is precious, yes. But a sacrifice, the right sacrifice, can change the course of history. The trick is in recognizing it.

JF

[Blue41]

My initial thought was to make for the cave where the sanctified altar to Kula stood, but upon reaching the cave mouth, I saw that the stones were untouched by the reddish haze that had coated everything else. The wind carrying bloody ash seemed to grow still near the threshold, and it was obvious that crossing over would ruin the protection She had placed there. I couldn't knowingly spoil that, and luckily, didn't need to.

The worm tunnels were spared the crimson haze that coated everything else, and once I found a defensible warren, I barricaded the entrance, stripped down and had a look at myself. It wasn't pretty. While I had avoided getting any blood or ash in my mouth or eyes, my limbs, forearms, the nape of my neck, ankles...not so lucky. The ash-blood mix had coagulated into a kind of burning 'second-skin' that seemed to almost cling to my flesh, resisting my attempts to scrape or pull it off. The color was a filmy reddish-brown against my own skin.

'This is an affliction that must be purged with fire.' Amelie hadn't elaborated on how painful the process would be, but it was enough to help me keep from panicking. A hearthfire was struck, and after taking the time to heat a few daggers, I set about flensing the blood-rot. It was a slow, methodical, exceedingly painful process, as I had to be careful not to break skin with the blade, but the reaction was immediate. Gratifying even. Maybe it was my imagination, but I swear I could hear a faint shriek as the rot was parted from my skin and deposited into the fire with a brisk shake of the blade. Removing the ash from my arms and legs was straightforward. The nape of my neck...well, I'll have to get someone to take a look later. Think I got it all. I'm sure the pain would be sign enough if I didn't.

The skin beneath the blood-rot was raised and inflamed, scored with burns-- both self-inflicted as well as acidic, which I had the irradiated orcs to thank for. Washing them with sanctified water eased the pain, but not entirely. No nausea, thankfully, but my dreams made up the difference: nightmares so intense and prolonged that restful sleep seemed like an impossibility. I set to wandering, then, in the hopes of tiring myself out so thoroughly that dreams would be unlikely. And to writing the steps taken in this whole process here.

Dream One: I am walking along an alley way when I'm seized by a coughing fit. Intense, prolonged-- I should be struggling to breathe but my eyes are open. I spit and hack up a bloody clot, which shifts and stirs and comes to life in my palm, a lone tendril reaching up, questing towards the sun.

Dream Two: Nusrum. Richo of Warad is ripped in two by a bloody shadow stinking of copper and salt, that descends in a hurricane. The pooling blood does not flow so much as sprint from the corpse left behind, swallowing everything in front of it. It surges up and I see no more.

Dream Three: Roderick's 'world of green' (why does that stay with me? Speak with Richo later) is slowly consumed as the sky turns red and a bloody wind sweeps over the land. Death falls on every man and beast, and it does not come quickly; a slow suffocation as blood coats eyes, lips, nose, throat. Bloody cocoons blanket the earth, which beat in time with a heart that echoes just behind me, above me, beyond me. The heartbeat quickens, and the cocoons begins to crack...

Dream...

Drinking might help. And mizzar. Maybe both.

JF

[Blue41]

A little community forming in the Creep of late, which feels strange to say. I had spent more time away since Brian and Chraub disappeared, and more time down in the tunnels or on the roads. Life in the Ash Desert can numb the pain of a sudden loss, but I guess it was still something of a shock. Haven't been back to the Rampart yet, but I should make the time. Make a memorial. I'd probably need to bash in a couple of orc skulls to make it one that would please Chraub or the Axe, but some things are worth the extra effort.

Asked Sy'laa about Amelie's prediction-- in a roundabout way, of course. Wouldn't do to mention the Sisters or the Rose in general in the Creep, no matter the individual in question. She couldn't get too specific, but she did mention seeing a 'darkness, a growing shadow on the horizon of my future that she could not see past.' Whether there is a road through or not remains to be seen, which more or less fits with what I know. No point in worrying about. No point in thinking about it. There's plenty of distractions and actual important shit to focus on.

Transcribe the sermon.
Speak with the Sagebrush about that pesky little law.
Sit down with Setem-Ro and figure out what he and Lucia are actually after.
Ignore impending death.
Simple.

JF

[Blue41]

That's the thing about a community-- you can't choose your neighbors.

You see your share of toughs, thugs and would-be gangsters in the Creep if you spend enough time there. When you don't have much, there's a cold logic to taking what you want in the safety of numbers, and keep taking until that overconfidence leads you towards self-destruction. For that reason, most of these groups don't last for very long. Paradoxical as it is, loners tend to last the longest underground. Knowing how to avoid notice is a talent in itself.

But this new group didn't waste any time with that. Strange masks. Steel cases. And lots of dinar to throw around for anyone who was willing to listen. And I had to admit their offer was pretty appealing. Plenty of the newer faces in the Creep were angry and had nowhere and nothing to do with that feeling-- towards the Janissaries, towards the Red Band, towards Ephia's Well. They had lost family or friends in the streets after being drawn in by the promise of shelter, water and the chance to start over. The only mercy, if it can be called that, was that most of them didn't have chits to hear what the people above them said about them.

They never said where they were from, but their accent was one I'd heard before. They didn't speak much of their employer besides the fact that they had one, who was after chaos, confusion and terror in the Well.

For now, all I can do is watch and wait-- and be ready to pick up the pieces if their plan turns out badly for us. I don't have the heart to try and sway folks away from seeking revenge. Hell- I ought to be in the mix with them. After last night's League of White meeting, where we considered invisible masterminds of potential conspiracies and avoided the actual problems in the room...I'm sick and tired of the theoretical. There's no substitute for doing something.

JF

[Blue41]

More hands came than I expected to see, in dribs and drabs, to scour the sands. Shoving the horsemeat-- a beast of burden now carried in death, rather than carrying others-- into the cart. Snatching cloaks off the dead, and doing their best to ignore the haunted faces beneath it. The caravan grew as we trudged into the Tablet, through the Almshouse and into the Creep.

'You have a way of making friends,' Imizael said, and at the time, it was difficult to tell if there was admiration or scorn in her tone. But it's hard to deny, thinking back on all of them there in the Creep. Khalid. Meadow. Garwen. Richo. Bajica. Hardly frequent visitors, but all had come to roll up their sleeves and get their hands dirty-- slicing up horsemeat, seasoning them, setting up our makeshift smoker. Bloody work to sustain those in need, so soon after the bloodier work outside the Rose Gate. Everyone else had fled to pat themselves on their back for 'defending the refugees', carrying their stolen tribute back into the Well. Tribute that had claimed a few more lives in the process. Property over people. Dinari over the dead. Except for these five.

Took a page out of the Ashfolk's book, once it was done, and tried to offer them charity. Only Richo accepted anything, and I knew that most of the dinar given would be offered in turn to shrines of the Wanderer, scattered throughout the desert. They're good people. But Ephia's Well doesn't need good people so much as it needs people who act. Reminds me of how Lucia introduced herself-- 'I'm a do-er.'

Good people take time and energy out of their own day to feed the poor using whatever they can scavenge together. They're willing to muddy their boots and step into the shadow and the gutters to leave the world better than they found it. The people who act do what they can to remove the people in power who created that shadow, that gutter, that environment that requires good people in the first place. To tear down the tyrants, to scatter their dynasties and leave the names awash in ash.

Four months left or thereabouts. Better to make the most of it.

JF

[Blue41]

Where do I even fucking begin

[Blue41]

Dreams are clear. He's no longer in them. Which is

REALLY REALLY REALLY FUNNY

because now instead of Molotch's ogres or ghouls or specters in my head, I see Freddie talking to me through a broken jaw in a voice that isn't his own and Imizael moving through the dark, unstoppable and implacable and utterly, totally assured of her own righteousness and Lucia disintegrating one scrap of flesh at a time while that Baharu bastard laughs and laughs. And I'd like to laugh, too. I'd like to laugh until I cry over what Zaire would make all of this. If she knew, if she could have guessed that I'd reach this path in the road.

I dream of the tree in the desert, the beating heart of Bel-Ishun, only now the heart is Eugene's, or Imizael's, or my own, and it slows to a stop and the fields are sowed with salt by my own bloodied hands. And all I can think of is my own words, in my own voice-- the only way out is through. But there are thorns underfoot, and they no longer bend painlessly at my touch. She is gone, and She will never hear me again.

The only way out is through. We fear nothing. Words and words and words.

[Blue41]

The mornings are hard, but each day is a little bit better than before. I find distractions-- through board work, through the conversations with those from the Well above, with embroiling myself in the petty arguments of the bellows that are bound only to end with bloody hands and bloody acts. In these distractions, the hollow space where She once existed does not echo quite so loudly as it once did. Maggie suggested filling that space with things: dinar and delicacies and delights, all bound to expire so quickly as to require a never-ending hoard of them. It's an attractive idea...but it's not me, even this new me who flinches at the mention of Kula and pretend that everything is fine, even though that couldn't be further from the truth.

One hand gives, one hand takes. Transformation, to recall Sirhandi's word, each of us changing from one form to the next. The flavor of that word is entirely different to taste now than it was then. Lucia was a slavering ghoul wrestling with her hunger. Imizael and Freddie were still alive. And I was so resolute, so sure in my belief that there must be a way to help her, and that I was ready to pay the cost, ignorant of exactly what it would cost me.

If our positions were reversed, I do believe Lucia would have done the same for me. In a strange, terrible way, this experience has cemented the bonds of our group in a way that may not have been possible otherwise.  We belong to each other, and there is strength in that. Hope in that. Weeds in the garden, but even weeds are beloved by Her

This will get easier. Though the question remains if it should get easier. Maybe it's supposed to hurt, like an old wound that never quite heals right. For now, the only balm seems to be focusing outward, not inward. One day at a time.

[Blue41]

"My bones, be the bridge that you finally cross to get over yourself."

Magdalena died laughing, as was her wont. Honest to a fault, to herself and everyone else. A capable warrior who saw everything that mattered in her world perish with the Ringfall, and decided that was all the proof she needed to know that there was no point in honoring anything anymore. Duty, destiny, principles, morality...all so much Ash in the winds. Whether she was right or wrong, I had an inkling early on that I didn't have any chance to persuade her otherwise. But Kula or no, I still can't resist a losing fight.

Challenging her was a losing fight. One I would have lost, were it not for Lucia's intervention. And afterwards...she was the saddest I've ever seen her. Breaking. I understand the impulse, at this point. What was it all for, when every ally we've welcomed into our doors has ended up dead because of us?