June 20, 2005
The Gods Themselves - Twilight
It began without warning.
I recall clearly how we were, when first we saw Yarsin die. My father, standing and examining the newest contribution to our wine cellar by a wealthy client. My mother, serving (as always), the purpling remnants of a half-dozen bruises still evident on her face. My sisters running around the table, laughing, chasing Mariv. I believe... they were teasing him about a girl. Even then, Mariv, were you so wicked?
It began without warning - a sudden burst of light from the mountain, as if a star had fallen. Silent, painful to behold; we all stopped, watching, not understanding what had occurred. As the sun set, we only knew that we could no longer see the lights of our beloved Yarsin in the dusk - no fires burning, no lanterns lit.
We sat there, in the waning light, not knowing that the growing darkness would never ease.
It was at dawn, of course, that we truly realized - or rather, it was when the sun did not rise, and even the moon and stars could not be seen. Almost a day's ride from Yarsin-on-the-mount, we heard no news, and could not comprehend what occurred.
Still, the city was dark, though we could see the peak of the mountain itself was... changed. It struck fear in us, finally, a blind, confused fear. Panic, at this unknown, at this sudden shifting of the world, even amidst our luxury, in the safety of our home.
Our 'safety'.
Father was convinced that we should wait, that one of our clients would send a messenger from the city. I ignored him, as I always do when he is being irrational, and worked with Mother to determine what foods could be set aside. She and I, at least, knew to see a crisis in the making.
It was then that they came - a few scattered families, their expressions numb, seeming as if they scarcely knew where they were. They carried nothing with them, not even gold, and of course Father refused to aid them. With our guardsmen, he drove them away. I believe, even, that he might have seriously injured one of the children... As he beat them, she twisted, and I could hear even from the doorway the snap of her back as she fell. She did not rise; her father ran back to bear her away - the look in his eyes, numb no longer, chilled me even then. A look of utter hatred, a desire for vengeance, Morhiag's own face reflected there.
Then, another few families. And another. They waited on the fringes of our property, just beyond the lamplight. Huddling there, amassing, plotting against us. Father, of course, saw no danger - until they came, more than a dozen men armed with an assortment of crude weaponry. They fell upon our guardsmen, their improvised weapons making the men's deaths that much more cruel - skewered by pitchforks, sliced by kitchen knives, crushed by mallets. They held the severed heads aloft, the banners of this monstrous company.
And then, they came for us. We could not hold them - they struck down Father, they held Mariv and I back... We could do nothing. They looked first to our possessions, to our provisions, and when they had taken all that they could carry they returned for our women. We had to watch, as they ridiculed them, as they abused them, as they raped them.
I recall seeing my Mother's eyes grow dull, lifeless, resigned to her fate. I think as the sixth man mounted her, she was already dead, though it did not stop them. Perhaps she was only dead in her heart, this final injustice too great, her mind finally escaping in the only way it could.
I recall seeing my youngest sister, Bavjela, weeping, lying limp as they tore the clothes from her. A dress, that I had made with my own hands - I can see it clearly, remember every detail. Rent asunder as if it were worthless, while their filthy hands groped at her.
And then they took them, all of them, and disappeared into the false night. My father wept... And what he lamented first, when words finally came to him, was that the guards had failed him. That his honour was was tarnished, permanently, and his household in ruin.
With those words, he was no longer my father, all bonds between us broken. It was the first time I struck him, and all I saw before me was a foolish old man, his heart so filled with greed that it could not even ache for the loss of his wife, of his daughters. And with that one gesture, I became our leader, as I always should have been. We recovered what supplies we could from the ruins of our home, and left to face the Darkness, lambs who had lost their way and found themselves in the very den of the wolves.
Darkness entered the sky, that day, choking the light from it, casting us into shadow. It entered my life, stealing away my truefamily save for Mariv. It entered my soul, a dagger of ice plunged deep inside me, carving from me all that made life good. And it entered my heart, and made it stone, dully reflecting the blackness above.
Posted by Bjar at 09:49 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 17, 2005
The Treatment of Lacerations
It so happened that I was called upon to treat two wounds of very different natures (and yet, in some ways, not so different, as we will see below) in just as many days. I will proceed to describe the methods used to treat the individuals, and my thoughts on what could be improved upon or included when next I must attend to such things.
Patient 1
Name - Sehki, surname unknown, birthplace unknown.
Age - Mid-teens (by observation only).
Height - Approximately 4 ells (by observation only).
Weight - Approximately 12 stone (by observation only).
Health - Observed to be optimal. Good physical condition, no other serious injuries.
Injuries - All occurring on right hand; first large laceration (palm, middle finger to wrist), second large laceration (back of hand, middle finger to wrist), four medium lacerations (3 palm, 1 back of hand), seven small lacerations (2 palm, 1 side of thumb, 4 back of hand). Injuries initially assumed to be caused by explosion of clay vial; inspection proves this inconsistent with shard tearing and with remnants of vial, patient assertion of energy backlash (kha) supports diagnosis of magical injuries. Additionally, injuries curiously parallel in most cases.
Treatment - Elevation of hand, cleaning of blood/clay dust/sweat/rainwater/unknown mixture (using potable water from blessed fountain). Minor usage of magic to alleviate pain (Aubren's contribution), though boy took it well. Linen thread used to close wounds (edges of cuts straight, surprisingly so), should be removed by healers as healing progresses.
Conclusion and Notes - Full recovery expected; experience in working in unpleasant conditions (rainstorm, busy street). Require more careful and knowledgeable assistant. Stitching fine enough to minimize scars.
Patient 2
Name - Gabriel, surname unknown, birthplace unknown.
Age - fully adult, approximately mid-twenties (observation only).
Height - Approximately 3.5 ells (by observation only).
Weight - Approximately 7 stone (by observation only).
Health - Observed to be poor; weakness of limbs, persistent faintness, pallor (prior to blood loss), unsteadiness.
Injuries - Sword wound to left shoulder, approximately 2 palms' depth. Left collarbone shattered. Injury of unknown form due to kha backlash (spell observed to fail, injury hypothesized). Secondary, minor injuries to head during collapse to floor, as well as exertion and minor injuries caused by fighting.
Treatment - Application of absorbent material and pressure, bleeding slowed. Usage of awl to remove bone fragments from wound. Minor usage of magic to relieve pain (Skye). Edges of wound ragged and uneven, difficult to stitch, used linen thread. Treatment abandoned when patient was lost; assumed direct cause of this failed healing spell (Venice), though only fatal due to above factors.
Conclusion and Notes - Patient likely would have succumbed to injuries even without magical interference; loss of blood was quite extreme, coupled with weakness observed in patient prior to main injuries. Specialized tool needed for retrieving small objects from wounds. Research methods of minimizing/preventing/reversing blood loss.
Posted by Bjar at 10:09 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
14th Day of the End of Autumn, 10th Year of Roberht II
I look back over my last entry, and I see incoherent rambling, the product of a mind unused to viewing the greater world and scornful of it for that lack. There was nothing of real importance in my writing, nothing to reveal the events that have transpired, the people I have met - an entry written from the heart, not from the mind, and I will endeavour not to repeat such a thing. It furthers nothing to write of what one feels and not of what one does or sees; it is impractical to do so, and irrational to consider things in such a light.
My father (Morhiag be praised) wounded his hand. Ever the blind fool, he cursed at me for an hour before letting me bandage it, cursed another hour before letting me go into the city, and then cursed for the remainder of the night when I returned without the precious poultice he imagined he required. As if he, master tailor but never else more, could dictate to me how to treat a wound. No matter. I know what I must prepare, and what I must do... I am hesitant to test my skills in such a way, for such a purpose, but I shall do so. It will be better in the end, I think. Tomorrow, a friend of mine among the Yarsans, a 'physician', will arrive to examine the injury and, ultimately, recommend precisely what I have. That'll teach the old bastard to argue with me.
Since my father injured himself, however, other things hold my attention. I have met numerous people on my trips into the city, first among these a man named Aubren - an individual eternally bearing the burdens of past mistakes, other people's failures, of the world entire, it seems. He is compassionate, true. He seems to possess a good soul. He is not, however, without fault - as I learnt upon meeting his 'nemesis', Gabriel.
The story is difficult for me to follow entirely, but from what I gather Aubren was once beloved of Gabriel (somewhat unwillingly, and perhaps still so), and she felt scorned when he pursued the love of another, despite no spoken bond between them. Gabriel had been cursed, as well, her voice taken by Melchior as punishment for something - and returned, finally, through her prayers and Aubren's. She has tried to slay Aubren twice, by his account, and he took it upon himself to end the conflict in his own way - when we came upon him, she was in the midst of a spell, and he cut her through the shoulder. Clean cut, fractured collarbone, deep enough for a large amount of bleeding; of great interest to my studies, and I will provide an account of the treatment in my other journal. It was all, however, for naught. I remember little of what transpired afterwards, having been deprived of sleep for some days and finally collapsing afterwards, but I was told a failed healing spell took what life remained in Gabriel. I had no love for her, it is true, but I hope in Annwn she discovers some peace and learns remorse for what crimes she's commited.
Curiously, the entire incident took place within the hospital room of another person I've met; a boy, Sehki, who had foolishly attempted to mix some concoction in the middle of the street, in the rain no less. The entire vial exploded, and somehow inflicted such wounds upon his right hand that he would have bled out a quarter of his life before he even got to the Hospital, though it was only a few steps westward. I mended it, as best as I can, and will recount that ordeal elsewhere as well. The healers of the Hospital acknowledged my skill in suturing, which brought me pleasure - as a note, however, I yet distrust them. If not for the refusal to acknowledge certain basic methods of treatment by many of them, by the very fact that Aubren's "love" (a certain Priestess 'Skye') refused to treat Gabriel due to something so petty as my not cleaning the woman's wound. As if that matters, when someone's life essence is pooling about them on the floor, and none has taken a step to aid her save you. No appreciation whatsoever.
No matter. I shall turn my mind to more positive events.
I have met a woman as well, Tzoli, though her mind is childlike, simple - not as a child's in that she does not understand complexity, but as a child's in that she bears no guile, that her thoughts and actions are invariably linked, that her manner is straightforward. She is from Yarsin as well, and has named me a close friend. I shall have to see, but I imagine she will be of no small use to me in the future, so it will be useful that she has created a bond such as that between us.
Finally, I encountered something more than a woman - I encountered Ylessa's touch itself, in the form of the most beautiful woman I have ever sighted. It was as if a voice in my mind, when I saw 'Venice', told me that she was that which was most important in the day, that she was my entire purpose for being in the city. I have heard warnings against her, but it is of no matter - my heart will allow my mind no time to rally its thoughts, to utilize logic, and so I am foolishly and irreversibly bound to her. She seemed unimpressed with me, bored even, but I shall seek to prove to her my affections.
I have gained an 'appreciation' of the capacity of people to cause harm to one another, to be malicious, to lie and commit no small number of crimes to forestall their inevitable deaths. But, also, I have seen the potential for great kindness, for true friends amidst the darkness of this city. But now is not the time to determine such things, nor could I. Tomorrow, I must pray to Melchior for guidance, as I have always done... Or today, in fact, as the dawn has arrived whilst I wrote this.
Posted by Bjar at 06:33 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 12, 2005
10th Day of the End of Autumn, 10th Year of Roberht II
I feel as if I am going mad.
If not me, or perhaps in addition, it seems the city itself has become nonsensical. Chaotic. Dangerously so. It threatens to overwhelm me.
Each day, Morhiag stalks the winding paths between the makeshift shelters in which so many cower, fearful of her passing. Fearful of her duties, of their own mortality.
Fearful in their hearts; irrational, overwhelming, panicked. The fear of a child for the dark, or a fool for the rain. The Telanthan for the outsider.
Fearful in their minds; cold, logical, justified terror. The prisoner for the axe, the bandit for the guard. The human for the demon.
The commoner for starvation.
The despair weighs down on me heavily, beats at my mind, my soul, without ceasing. A thousand mothers silently weeping, a thousand children silently pleading, pleading, for the simple luxury of a meal. For the smallest scrap, the slightest kind glance, nay, the slightest look of pity to them as they lie choking in the dust.
There is a child I have watched each day since we arrived here. Each day he would sit, begging, barely gaining enough to survive. Yet he did, day after day, year after year. The thing that caught my attention, that made me wonder at his life, at this city, was that the boy was happy.
Happy.
Amidst the darkness, the demons, the squalor, the starvation, the violence. What world is this, that children think it worthy to rejoice at a life of tragedy, of casual pain and sorrow without end? To be contented at having to live on the fringes of society, barely clinging to a life of poverty? I pledge, by the gods, to change these things, change this world - not back to what it was, but to what it should be.
The child sleeps now, eternally. In Annwn, will his miseries cease? Will he even understand that he has been freed from misery? I think so. I think of his body, still and cold, slumped before the meagre scraps he'd obtained for his pitiful meal. I think of it, and all I feel is...
Happy.
Posted by Bjar at 11:07 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 09, 2005
The Art of Suturing
The steadiness, the critical eye, the deft fingers, all of the skills and abilities necessary for tailoring are necessary for properly mending a wound. It is the practice of many so-called healers to rely on magic alone to knit closed torn flesh, or to apply the flame in order to stem bleeding. Or, by a particularly foolish group, to merely bandage the wound and apply the leech to ward off infection of the blood.
These methods are all evidence of a failure to remember what should be the basic rule of all medicine - the body can, and will, care for itself. A small cut will cease to bleed, even if no care is taken to mend it. Skin will close together, from only the urging of the heart and what I will call the 'innate magic' of the body.
On the matter of deep wounds, some care must still be given, however. Flesh must be held together, as if one were mending a garment - one must ensure the edges are clean, the stitches close and even. Think of a wound in the patient's arm or leg as being identical to mending a tear in a waterskin; it is critical that the mending be tight enough that no water leaks out (or in), and that it will not break again easily.
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June 08, 2005
23rd Day of the Start of Autumn, 10th Year of Roberht II
I came across an old book today, the leather cracked and worn and the pages yellowed... I took it in trade for several plain garments we made for an old Yarsan physician and inventor, a man of great wealth before the Darkness, now reduced to abject poverty. I dealt evenly with him, taking the book and a few more similar to it, as well as several scrolls and a curious little model of a human hand. The last is an intricate little thing indeed, all carefully carved wood and leather cord, and it actually clenches into a fist if you pull the strings... ingenious, simply ingenious.
From these treasures, I've decided to pursue my interest in the workings of the human body even further. If it comes to nothing else, it will at least allow my own, private trade to improve, as I will understand better what effect various things might have on life. I will keep a record of my observations, my discoveries, my theories, in a small journal that I also 'liberated' from the collection of that man.
I have had another nightmare of the same intensity as before, though I could not remember the details upon waking. Only vague images of blood, and violence, and an anger I cannot even begin to describe. I only hope, by the gods, that this not become a pattern, or I will scarcely sleep at all.
Posted by Bjar at 11:08 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
16th Day of the Start of Autumn, 10th Year of Roberht II
A body was found today, just a short walk from our home. The man's head was smashed in with a brick, an act so violent that it was initially difficult to identify just who he was. It turned out that he was known to us; a worker in herbs and dyes, ignorant and troublesome. I shed no tears for his death. His body was sprinkled with dyes of all different colours and shades, making him appear quite comical even with the gore... It amused me to no end.
I have found that the bitter flavour of the extract I've been using is easily reduced by simple mead - the sweetness is strong enough for the entire drink to remain pleasant to the taste. Having discovered this, I think I may be able to increase my 'business' even further, as mead is quite the popular drink among the refugees.
Mariv disappeared for the entire day, and I managed to deflect all of Father's questions about him, claiming I had sent him to the Southern Outpost for supplies. Father, in his foolishness, of course didn't remember that neither I or Mariv have ever been to the Southern Outpost, nor do we even know the way, nor would we ever wish to go alone. Mariv returned, finally, late in the night - his clothing in disarray, the reek of ale on his breath. He seemed in good spirits, though it looked to me as if he'd been brawling and hadn't escaped without injury. I admonished him, and he remained silent, only handing me a small pouch of gold and, quite surprisingly, a larger pouch of bitter almonds. I had not known my interest in the latter was known to him, and I was pleased by the gift. Mariv may be stronger than I, physically, but I know that he considers me to be wiser, stronger mentally. And we respect each other, something I don't think Father has ever understood... Or will ever understand.
Posted by Bjar at 10:51 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
15th Day of the Start of Autumn, 10th Year of Roberht II
It has been many days since my last entry, as things have been busy. Ignoring my father's stubborn insistence on maintaining 'tradition' and to not embrace the new style of dress seen in Telantha, I have designed and begun producing a number of new skirts. They've been exceedingly popular with the young women among the refugees from Yarsin (and no less popular with the young men!). Father's pathetic grumbling ceased after he saw the gold my work had brought - it went immediately towards the 'necessity' of his mead, of course, but still. I proved to him that I was not so foolish as he thinks, though he will never admit it.
I had a dream last night, and it seemed so real that I awoke shouting, my father and brother standing above me trying desperately to silence me before our 'neighbours' arrived to do so more permanently. I dreamt of my mother, and my sisters, sitting in our garden. We had just finished eating, and we were speaking of the rumours that Viroth would soon march on our beloved Yarsin. One by one, their eyes turned dark, and they turned to me, pointing accusing fingers. They screamed at me, inarticulate and furious, and I knew it was because I had failed them... Because I had let them be attacked, let them be taken, because I had been too weak. It was a... troubling dream. I will meditate on it, and seek some understanding from Melchior as to its purpose.
I discovered Mariv hiding a bottle of wine in his room - when I questioned him about it, he said he had 'found' it, an obvious lie. I couldn't think of any reason to rebuke him, even if he had stolen it, so I merely cautioned him on 'finding' things that other people might sorely miss. I hope he does not get himself into any great trouble... He is the only true kin that I have, now.
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8th Day of the End of Summer, 10th Year of Roberht II
My father has pushed me too far, as I knew he would. Fine, the old man can cling to his traditions, his stubborn pride will only lead him to ruin.
After discovering that I had taken a trip into the city without his approval, he was furious. When I told him I had gone to the Dragon's Head, his anger only increased. I silently bore his anger and his blows, but in my mind I cursed him. He is my father in name and in blood, perhaps - but in my heart? No longer.
Mariv told me there was a fire today, in one of the hovels - a sorry arrangement of kindling that seemed to beg the flame. It spread to a few more homes easily, built as they were in a sort of refugee warren. A few died... A tailor that we know, his two children, an old woman. Most unfortunate.
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June 04, 2005
4th Day of the End of Summer - 10th Year of Roberht II
Finally, I have decided to follow the urgings of my eldest sister Zaria (Gods guard her soul) and begin a journal of my thoughts. Although I could find nothing more than this butcher's book of sales, I have torn out what pages were completely filled, and I can easily write over or around the various numbers and... stains... that dot the others. It is better than no book at all, I suppose. Some day, I'll purchase a proper book, with clean pages. Leatherbound. A more worthy vessel for me to pour my thoughts into.
In my studies, I have come across something of particular interest. Although I noted years ago the various uses of both sweet and bitter almonds, I have managed now to make an extract of both - clear, not entirely unpleasant or strong in taste, and far more potent. This could be of great use in the future; my current clients, at the least, would certainly find a liquid more appropriate to their endeavours than the paste with which I previously provided them. Perhaps it will add to our meagre income, and allow us to move from this stinking leather-and-stick hovel, into a proper shop. Somewhere my brother will no longer cringe to enter, somewhere I can return to without having to be reminded of our misfortunes.
Father remains as stubborn as ever; just today, we bickered over the style of dress prevalent among so many refugee women, due to the lack of cloth. I think it is intriguing, the interplay of fashion and necessity, and that it would be good to seize immediately upon this opportunity and develop new patterns - his only point in response was to accuse me of still being a hormone-driven boy. This time, I bit my tongue, and gave him no response to provoke him further, only going into the city proper in order to vent my fury. Some day, he will push me too far, though... And then where will he be? I am the core of the Azirni business. Without me, he is nothing.
Posted by Bjar at 11:48 AM | Comments (0)