March 28, 2017 at 1:17 pm #1076
The journal is a very thick, handmade tome of papyrus bound in a very dark hide, held closed by twine and a crocodile tooth.
The first page is written in rough but legible handwriting. The author was perhaps using his leg or some uneven surface to balance the journal on.
Carosicus of Aquilonia, the province of Gunderland. Strong spear arm, skilled with a pike, exceptional with a blade, seldom backs away, strong will. Words my former master told her guests with pride.
Survived crucifixion nearly a month ago. Unsure of exact date. Found an oasis. Ruins everywhere. Food and water plenty for those that work for it.
Found a map on the body of another exile. Headed north up river. Settled beside the river.
City to the north. Amarnaset. Looked empty at first. Found the lord and lady of it. Two Kushites. Bartered for 1 iron spear. Strong and sturdy. Met a Hyrkanian as well. Interesting fellow. He mentioned the city needing guards. Plenty of other folk there too. Even another Aquilonian.
About a week ago I found it. It had to be the hill from the dream. The ruins to the west. The mountains to the north. The lone tree among the sands.
Tribe to the south by the statue of the hand. Wear the furs of hyenas. Barbaric. One called me “pup”.
Started construction of wall about a half-week ago. Working hard day and night. South wall slower than others. Avoiding tribe in the daylight. Waiting for sun to set before working on south wall. Fires from ancient towers provide enough light.
Need to find out what keeps their braziers alight.
Will begin construction of citadel once wall is secure.
Users who have liked this topic:April 26, 2017 at 7:26 pm #1104
I write again. Feels good to have a table to finally sit at, even if I was never much of a scholar.
Weeks have passed since I finished my fortress. Yet, here I am, sitting mostly alone, consuming whatever prey comes by my walls. I haven’t ventured out in so long. But I’ve meditated, honed my skills with a blade and tried to regain what strength I have lost. I don’t feel any stronger. But, the familiarity is coming back.
Thought about my mother and father. I wonder if they still remember me. I wanted to visit them when I had joined The Sundered Shields. They weren’t home when we visited the Gunderland. I wonder if they know the truth of why I was cast out of the legion.
Mother taught me piety and mercy. To worship not just Mitra, but Bori as well. Through Bori, I find strength. Through Mitra, I find protection. The citizens of Tarantia and the priesthood of Mitra weren’t too fond of such ways. They believed that there was Mitra, and only Mitra.
Father taught me manliness and strength. How to turn ore from the ground into sleek and hard metal, then forge it into a mighty sword or a strong spear.
“Stay your spear or sword of the flesh of the innocent. Let not their blood even touch its steel. But to the wicked who threaten them…strike them down not with rage and fury in your heart, but with duty and honor.”
I’ve neglected such wisdom for too long. The fight pits of Stygia were no place for duty and honor, and it was seldom that a true warrior came to face me rather than a frothing madman or opportunistic thug. Doubt these lands will be any different.
I’ve already taken slaves for my forge. I wanted to avoid it, but it must be done. If these other exiles huddle around their fires and think only of themselves, they must be broken and enslaved for their own betterment. We never took slaves in the Gunderland. I can only hope that mother and father would understand why I did what I had to.
The first slave I took called himself “Stink”. An apt name. He’s rather lanky, young sounding, though I cannot tell his true age. Fingers look burned and broken a hundred times over. Claimed to be the apprentice of a great blacksmith. When asked to prove this, he said he could not due to being an invalid. He seems to have some knowledge of smithing, as he was able to walk me through the steps of forging a simple iron broadsword.
“Stink” seems quite resourceful, even if he isn’t much used at the forge. Seemed like he has been my only company for these past weeks. From the what he has told me, it sounds like he arrived at least two weeks before I did. Even on the wheel, he seemed grateful for the gruel I gave him, praising me for the mercy I showed him. Quite the obsequious one. Think I’ll assign him as taskmaster of the wheel. A little one on one time with a potential thrall might break them a little faster.
He told me of the tribe that lays to the south of my stronghold. The Dogs of the Desert, Stink called them. Said they dress in hyena furs and worship some “god of hounds and dogs”. The Dogs are the least of my worries, though. It’s what lies to the west, on the edge of that forsaken city what worries me.
I saw the undead walking along crumbled roads, their bodies flecked with red sands. I think I know now why I was drawn to this place. To hold back those creatures. But this can’t be the only passage out of the city.
Something is in the wind though. I’ve a sinking feeling of dread in my gut. The same feeling I felt the day before the Picts stormed the colony and pushed my cohort and I into the Thunder River. Will talk with Stink about it when I get the chance. Dark days are coming, and I need someone as a right hand man. Even if it is a degenerate like Stink.
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