This work is in response to a question posed to me by Sieghart Vergild. A question posed very casually whilst a doctor was cutting into my kneecap to try and make it look like a kneecap again. This is such a time one often talks to the Fox Knight. He told me he had been considering leaving behind a written record, so that his life could speak to people after he had passed.
When I inquired if he wished to have me transcribe something for him he grew very hesitant. “What good would a story of an old fuck up in the woods do anyone?” he countered.
I had an answer for him, but I prefer to have a truer answer for you. Perhaps it does not sound like much, but Sieghart inadvertently asked a very worthy question. And so I went around to anyone whose lives have been affected, even briefly, by the Fox Knight who dwells around New Haven in a circling vigilance. What follows range from simple thoughts, to entire stories. All true and honest reactions to answer my question;
“What do you think the world should know about Sieghart Vergild?”
Those of few words, often have many words spoken about them.
"After fighting side by side with Siegart I've had the question revisit my mind, 'What is it to be a knight?' I have seen my fair share of false men and women hiding behind a title in my lifetime. The Fox-Knight is not one of those people. Even without the proper title, he holds himself to the standard. That is a man I want beside me fighting the good fight."
-Commander Artorious Maldir, The Grey Legion
"He is quiet. He listens and observes. I like him."
-Syl'vana Ilya'hid 'SilverRose' of the Var’del en’Fayne
"I trust Sieghart simply because we have mutual friends... and mutual enemies. And he's good to hide behind"
“I've only met Sieghart recently. I don't know his history, what he did before we were forced to come to the ass end of hell. But that doesn't matter. I don't know his hopes, dreams, or fears. Again, doesn't matter. All I know is that he is a man of action. A man that stands for order and true justice, not that bullshit piece those Greencloak bastards attempt to shove down our throats. When those mewling bandits put on their heraldry and came for the town, Sieghart saw them for who they were and left rather than take a part in their shame. He met up with me and Beldenath on the road away from town. He's a friend to General Bel, I trust him. He's a man of honor and discipline that will speak up against cowardice, I respect him. He stands against tyranny and against those that would pervert the truth, so I'll fight with him. That's all I know. It's all I damned well need to in any case.”
There is very little I remember of my time as an avatar of fire. For the most part my mind was trapped in an inferno of untamed rage, with only slight flashes of clarity breaking through flames. One such moment still stands out to me this day. There was a warrior, a lean man, devoid of hair, carrying a blade in each hand, and on his chest... he bore a small fox head as his symbol. The man fought with incredible grace and ferocity, his swords gleaming and hissing as they danced through the air. It was the gleam of the shorter blade, held in the man's right hand.
That was the last thing I saw as the flames began to rise once more in my mind.
An excerpt from "New Home" copied prior to transit to Le'ath
By Ahsre Porphyus
I write from a place of observation, but not distantly so. White elves of Le'ath, you may find it strange, but I have hearty warmth in me when thinking of the souls of New Haven. Right now it is more of tortured warmth, for friends can turn into foes or disappear from sight quickly here. That's one of the hardest things to get used to when dealing with those with shorter life spans - everything happens quickly, and with purpose. Imagine befriending someone in an evening and trusting them with an important task the next day. Believe me, I understand. But it happens here.
Humans are prone to bluster, there's no denying it. They must beat their breastplate and yell, "Come at me!" They defy their odds at every pass. Yet some move quietly through the world, needing no one to recognize their deeds.
The Fox is one of those.
He is taciturn, efficient, silent. Until he turns his eyes to something he disagrees with. There is a scowl that speaks volumes, a focused statement of intent, and then the ranger vanishes. Whether he has sense or not, whether he is right or not, others cannot argue that he does not Believe in his decisions. That resolve is impressive and I've truthfully found it to be intimidating at times. I was raised to be an arbiter, and so I am. I stand by my morals, but I keep the peace. The Fox has the strength to walk his own path, to disagree even if it means alienating others. That is the nature of a ranger, I suppose.
I have not interacted with him much, but I remember earning a nod of respect at one time. I believe he told me simply, "Good job," and walked away. Coming from someone who says little more than exactly what they mean, it stuck with me. If The Fox encouraged that behavior, maybe I should continue it. Maybe I deserve to believe in myself a bit more, naive unseasoned fighter that I am. Even someone like me can make the right decisions sometimes; hopefully exactly when it matters.
We could all stand to have the strength of a fox, waiting quietly, thinking carefully, and then saying exactly what we believe. Especially in a place like this, where everyone has the unfortunate right to make their own mistakes. Do not fall into the trap. If there is only folly, do not blindly accept that of others; make your own. You could still be wrong, but you'll have at least have exhausted a different option.
"Sieghart will definitely be a missed figure among the town, he's a brave warrior with a headstrong mentality and a skilled swordsman and Ranger at that.
From personal experiences, there was one time he helped Theron and I out in a scrap when we were outnumbered by some bandits, if he just didn't happen to be in the area at the time... well... Elders know what would have happened to us.
He always looks perpetually angry with a gaze to pierce the soul, scared me when I first showed up at that, but still was approachable if you needed something. He's the one who told me I've earned my place as a Ranger after a few missions Conducted against the exiled and have continued service ever since.
I'm not very skilled with a blade... at least when it's a duel, I know I'm not very good at it, so he gave me a few pointers to sword fighting as well, and how to use my environment better I'm still nowhere near the level I would like to be at but I digress.
Most of my interactions with him was more observant, seeing how that's my role I do a lot of watching, see a lot of people do a lot of different things, he's a man who is more than capable of surviving on his own and yet chooses to assist the town despite how many times I've heard him talking about how stupid a decision they may have made was.
All in all, I know I'll miss him, I know the town will miss him as well, I wish him nothing but the best in his endeavors and hope to one day regroup with him again
When I arrived in New Haven, I was looking for my husband Zujoji. I was very scared to approach people about it because during our past experiences back home, the mere mention of either of our names to the wrong person has gotten us both almost killed, a lot. So, when I finally got the nerve to talk to someone who seemed trustworthy, they introduced me to Sieghart.
He then reassured me that he would find him for me. He offered to take me to a place he thought we may find him, he brought one of the silly bards along with us, who was absolutely no help. He was so drunk and came close to falling several times. I wasn't very much help either... I was very loud.. I kept screaming "ZUJOJI!!!" But he was still very calm and reassured me over and over that we would find him, he also had to keep telling the bard to stop drinking (he didn't). After about 30 minutes of looking, we had to return to camp. Sieghart became concerned and wanted to see if Zu had possibly returned to town while we were out. He then brought me to House Bellena where I was given warm clothes and shelter while I waited.
Suddenly there was a commotion outside and I could make out Sieghart and another man, I would soon come to know as Aiden, carrying a very tall, injured elf. To my surprise it was Zujoji. I was so grateful. I'll never be able to repay that kindness he showed me.
The night had a heat to it, a lingering dampness in the air. Roland Corsair had approached me with disturbing word. He had uncovered certain plots within the Elendari and his involvement had been discovered. He feared his life was at stake and thus asked for me to be his shadow. The hours ticked by and no sign of any threat to Master Corsair had been detected. I sat and watched Master Corsair as he peddled his wares, when suddenly Sieghart burst in through the tavern door. I had seen this man take on multiple foes at once and merely smile, so when he stumbled in, bloodied and beaten, I immediately threw off any concern to Corsair and ran to Siegharts side.
His arm wasn't working properly, his face was bloodied and as he collapsed from exhaustion he pressed a letter into my hand:
“Matrim, see this? Look familiar? Hawk is bleeding for me. If you don't want him to die come alone. Anyone else comes and he dies. We have our own bleeding to do.” It was signed by Captain Beledain, the commander of the pikes. A man whom I thought had perished.
Sieghart, broken and bleeding offered to take me to where he was ambushed. The courage this man displayed, having escaped death and now wishing to dance with her again. I looked at him and emotions flooded me. Holding The letter, anger and rage flowed but as I looked upon Sieghart, a calm fury washed over me. This man would risk his life for me, clearly I was staring at what it meant to be brave and to have honor.
As he led me deeper into the woods , he humbly told me that he was down an arm, but he would do his best to help me. Looking at him, even in his state he oozed calm confidence, this fox apparently had many tricks up his sleeve still. I looked at him, knowing what I know if him, I said “you with 1 arm is deadlier than most with 5” and suddenly ahead, a town appeared with no less than 20 guards. He looked at me and asked how I wanted to do this. When I said quietly he smiled and slipped into the darkness. As I sat there learning the guards patterns so I could sneak past, i saw Sieghart, 1 arm, remove 2 guards from play and the only sound was the wind. As I crept into the town more guards approached and as I drew my sword, Sieghart pounced from the trees and thus our press into town began.
I cannot accurately recall the final tally, but I believe the score was myself 8, Sieghart 12. Once we reached the main house, we looked through the window and saw Hawk caged like an animal and Sylvana tied by his side, both beaten. We burst in through the door and there stood Beledian with 3 of his companions. Sieghart ran in to dispatch the companions while I saw to Beledian. Once we cleared the house we successfully rescued James and Syl’vana. Of all the events that night, only 1 thing I am absolutely certain of, without Sieghart, I would have lost my brother.
I have not seen bravery like that before in my life. If there is one thing I will always remember about Sieghart, it is that when the odds stack up and you find they are not in your favor, Sieghart will always lend his courage to tip the scales
“Sieghart? Oh, yes, the young human with the scruffy face that is rumored to have had relations with a bear. I don’t care much for him but you’re obviously digging for stories. I only met the boy once outside of the tavern, and he dared to glare at me, so I stood there and glared right back. We must have stood there for a full minute; I find it so entertaining how prideful the humans are. Lucky he’s one of Syl'vana’s humans that she likes. Any friend of my daughter’s is one worth keeping watch on, he is a bit rough around the edges. For the Eldest's sake, relations with a bear! Don't tell Syl that I mentioned watching her friends... Oh, Eldest, I shouldn't be drinking this early in the day.”
-Aurora Illyah’hid
“He came from ze woodz one night to comfort me. I thought I vas alone, but he sat there, while I wept and listen to me, giving comforting advice vhen I had no one else. He iz a ze good friend.”
-Aleena Cloudlilly
"He's pretty quiet, but I think he fights well. I didn't even introduce myself to him, but I'm sure he's a good guy."
Grass laid splayed upon the ground, bent stems still dozing in the dirt as the sun began blearing its vision among the thick tree branches of oak and pine. It would be easy to mistake this for the bed of a deer, but Axson could tell it was the nighttime nest for a man. The dimensions were that of a man, molded after the shape of his unshed armor. And there, the impressions of a sword kept close by side making fine lines among the growth, the phantom of a hand clutched over its hilt the entirety of the night also visible in minute detail. There was a messiness about the whole of the thing; the sleeper had been restless.
It was unusual to find sign from anything other than beasts and Exiled races in the wastes abutting the New Haven outskirts. The citizens of that fledgling outpost oft eschewed the savage wilderness, for the forest was dangerous. But Axson thought New Haven to be filled with dangers far less attractive, even more so the bilious bandit besot bar-town of Blackwater. He would take his chances among the wild places and the races that lived there. But what, he wondered, of this man. At the least Axson himself returned to the safety of defended borders where other refugees found some respite from the evils of the darkness that harassed the land among all phases of the moon. Who was this man, and why was he here after dusk absent even the blast marks of a fire to call friend in the morn?
Axson’s nose found what his eyes failed to see just beyond vantage of the bedding some yards away. There was a tree the man had pissed against, sharp smell of urine just finishing its last wisps in the air. Fresh-turned dirt from where he’d probably buried his morning shit along with the flora he’d cleaned up with showed nearby also. From the faintness of the odors and the dimming brown of the soil, Axson thought it had been a while since the man had been here. He had risen before Axson had awoken.
Miles of barely perceptible boot prints passed beneath the woodsman’s gaze as he looked about him from left to right, unwilling to surrender caution completely to curiosity. At length the boots came to stand beside a tree stump, sets of steps giving testament to the man’s maneuvering around it as if there had been reason for his attention to be arrested. A few paces away, the reason became obvious: breadcrumbs powdered the dirt, their soft beads being attacked by ants being attacked by birds. The stump had been a food cache. The sparrows took flight as Axson passed near them and sent up a disgruntled call which the other birds echoed. If the man were near at all, he probably would know Axson was close by, but it was unlikely that the man was still around here.
Crumbs, shards of doubled over grass, intervals of neigh-invisible left toe and a right toe prints led Axson until he came to a stream in a glade. Knee prints shone where a thirst had been slaked and a look around proved evidence the man had stayed here for a time. Shavings shone to the observant blacksmith. The fine dust of a whetstone from where a weapon had been honed was an easy trimming to find with his trained eye, and it misted the ground about a well-lit rock that the man had sunned on in the dawning light. Water sang its song over instruments of stone and the sun looked like tapers burning brightly in a circle, a celebration of life and all vitality, the birds – finally calm – dancing in the trees with the other primal forces of existence that ebbed about. Axson could understand why the man would have stopped here, and thought to himself it seemed likely more restful to him than the grass bed.
All of a sudden, Axson noted the aroma of fresh fruit in the air, felt the tackiness of juice-sheathed fingers placed against the boulder where the man must have sat, and he began searching about him. He pounced upon an unfinished apple core, its inner flesh barely browned from the open air, and a pair of bootprints that had been hastily impressed in the ground in some mud between the stream and the rocky soil. Something had caught the man’s attention! And recently! A fair trail had been gently etched by a bent body and quieted stride into the overgrown weeds atop the opposite bank. Axson launched over the stream with a muffled leap and followed.
The trail cut through mature plants, black and white seeds plastering sleeves, thorns of burdening vines clinging and thrashing against Axson’s garments and pouches as he clung to the path. The only good thing about it was that the way was clear to his eye as he went. When the vegetation became less cloying, the man had taken to staying near its edge it seemed, probably keeping the option open of descending among it for camouflage as he tracked what—
A softness not native to the ground lay underfoot. And Axson stopped.
A hand and the body it was attached to rest secreted among the underbellies of ferns and flowers. Its throat had been slit and its face did not appear to have even known it had happened, so alive it looked even as death had suffused its color with blue-white blush. From his attire, and especially the ill-slanted tattoo of the Surgoth Gang which Axson recognized on the outstretched arm, he knew the man to be a bandit. Looking him over, no skill he knew would save the man’s life. He would serve the world best now as an adequate meal for the forest. He already knew it was not the man he had been looking for, but all the same he checked the boots to make sure the prints did not match.
Moving forward now with increased step, Axson saw the tree trunk not far away where bloodspray had glutted from the dead highwayman’s neck. From here, footsteps became more definite as the intent of the man himself found better definition, and Axson discovered himself bounding forward alongside the ghost, step-for-step. His heartbeat picked up, he gripped his ax, a hand slid the seax he wore out a finger’s breadth for ease of drawing. There may be need of them!
The sounds of wailing and moaning hit his ears, eliciting greater speed and, at once, Axson entered a clearing of sparse trees, his weapons drawn on instinct, the will to fight alive if not the desire to run men through. His heart lodged in his throat as he saw two people, a stooped woman grieving over a prone man, among a litter of dead bodies. It was the woman who wailed, the man who groaned, and neither was the person he had been tracking. The woman, the only one conscious among the throng, saw him from a distance.
“He… he came out of nowhere!” she cried. “A man had promised to get us to New Haven, but,” she trailed off for a moment, her eyes brimming with tears as she looked down on her husband who was hurt. Axson warily moved forward eyeing would be corpses to be assured they did not lie in wait. They did not. They lie dead, honest as corpses if never a truth ever lit their tongue in their lives. The damage done them had been precise and the swath of battle was almost still audible so intentional and perceptive the path of slaughter had been. He knelt down to look at the man. The woman continued.
“The man had lied,” she said, “he had only been bringing us here to where these men waited on him… to overpower us and take all we have left…” Axson steadied her husband, balancing his humours and opening one of his pouches to search out some yellow braid to grind up and apply with a coating on the wounds he had suffered.
“But then came the red man!” she said. “Red and awful and…” she stammered, “and brave, brave enough to save us.”
“And where did he go?” Axson asked by way of taking her mind off the bone-handled knife he now used to apply the salve on her spouse’s damaged limbs.
“He left us,” she said quietly. “He said we were fools to follow such as these and damn us if we couldn’t find the way to that damned New Haven on our own.”
Axson pondered the report as he gathered long branches and used a blanket belonging to the couple to make a stretcher for bearing the injured spouse upon. The dead men left blankets aplenty, but Axson chose not to take any chances on lingering sickness or on vengeful wraiths. He asked the woman her name, her husband’s name, their business, consoled her, steered clear of talk about the Old World, brought her spirits back to a place of composure as best he could, but his thoughts were never far from the red man.
“Alright, Marta” he said to the woman once he had finished redistributing their meager belongings for carrying and making sure Sertrum, her husband, was settled comfortably as possible on the stretcher. “I’ll do my best to get you to New Haven. Please stay close though, and be ready to take the stretcher from me if we have to part ways because there could be more such as these lurking about.” He looked at all the bodies they would be leaving behind them. “This is not a safe place to be alone.”
Setting out for a well-marked path, Axson had the sensation of being watched from the woods, not by a malignant eye, but by an observing one. Caustic though he had been with the woman, the man’s wounds had not been mortal, and Axson wondered if perhaps their savior still stood out in the treeline, watching, making sure that they really found senses to get back to the best route to damned New Haven, as he had put it. It struck the woodsman as reasonable that he himself might have been noticed as he pursued and the remark made intended to feign abandonment and flush him out in case he were a missed henchmen eavesdropping from a secreted thicket about the denser walls of forest. That or the man might have just been an ass.
Movement caught Axson’s eye for a moment and he looked towards it to gauge the source, but it was not a man. He saw the flanks of a fox rounding an outcropping of greenery and nothing more. Orienting himself, he hoped that maybe the furrows left behind by the stretcher might be a beacon for the man to find his way back to the road, too, if perhaps he himself was out there looking for something to follow.
“I am seeing New Haven fighting New Haven. I am seeing many are dying, all are shouting. I am seeing one hairless New Haven fighting many. He is killing, he is having as many knives as hands. He is always cutting New Haven, he is never dying. I am seeing he is being as the wolf against the flock.”
____________________________________
“I am hearing fear. New Haven is being lost in the woods. I am seeing the man who is living like a wolf. I am saying we are hunting, he is not waiting he is only running. We are hunting, he is running like the boar I am running like the deer. We are hunting, and running. His armor is killing him, he is now leaving his armor. The dirt is flying, our breath is coming hard, the sun is warming our skin, man is leaving us and the beast is becoming us. We are not being New Haven, we are being the hunter, we are being the pack. I am knowing this man is a hunter, I am now having a pack.”
A story about Seighart...? Ha! I have one, a funny one, though maybe it wasn't funny at the time. It ended up being a tad humorous to me at least. The very first time I met Seighart “properly” was on the field of battle, and not like I'd thought. A spirit made of stone and a bunch of elementals was harassing some local farmers, a good many of us went out to try and help them, and of course things are never simple. At least never simple around here, anyway.
So we get there, and the goddess damned thing says it's a god in and of itself, which of course I find silly to begin with, and then it starts assaulting me and my faith. After a bit, we've all had enough, and it too decides it's done dealing with us, so battle breaks out. I move to place my shield and blade against him so we can lay him low, and the man I'd later learn to be Seighart moves into strike with me.
Alas, the stone abomination decided it'd be quite hilarious if we fought amongst each other, so he enchanted Seig to come swinging at us, and his first choice was me. Ah, and what a frightening moment it was! He came whirling at me like a storm of swords, like the Fury made manifest herself! It took everything I had to keep him from sending me to the Gates for the few moments his wits wasn't with him.
Of course he apologized after the fact, and I wasn't even remotely angry. He was a kindly soul, I could see it, and so we properly introduced ourselves to each other and went about our day. That is, until what we would later learn was another of this deity-claimed elementals came into town and conned a bunch of folk into following him off into some made-up battle. Me and a couple others had our doubts about this “persons” story, so we tagged along behind the group just a bit, to make sure things were not some elaborate ruse. And I'll be damned if our guts weren't right...
We watched as damned near half of town stopped following our visitor and turned to attack us, thinking us all the orcs they were called to go fight. And, if you hadn't guessed it, Master Seighart came flying back towards us, towards me, with all the fury and skill of The Blessed Storm. This time, I fared a bit worse, but Dawn Mother be praised we pulled through it! I believe once things calmed back down and started to return to normal, I merely looked at him and laughed while saying, “Seighart, we mustn't keep meeting like this!”
As much of a warrior he was having to face him, I learned quickly to appreciate his blades and skills being on our side. And I have learned to appreciate him as a person overall. Speaking with him outside Blackwater one morning while accompanying some allies, I learned that my notions were not wrong: He was a good and honorable man, a stout soul whom I dare say would have been a blessing to the ranks of Argulin's army before everything that has happened to our homes.
I count Master Sieghart as one of the mightiest warriors I know, and believe the Dawn Mother herself blessed me with being able to call the him a friend, and though our first meeting was a bit, well, aggressive... I still would say it was worth the fright it gave me!
"That wiley Fox is always huntin' a fight, the bigger the bastard the happier Sieghart is to deck'em in the jaw. Ye can't find a more loyal friend though. He'd follow ye the abyssal steppes and put a blade in the gut of anythin' that threatens ye. O'course he'd be sure ter tell ye just how ruttin stupid ye are ter be marchin' yer arse there in the first place"
-Bolgrim
"Sieghart is the only living person that has ever seen me cry. Emphasis on living. And I'd venture to say I'm the only living person that has ever seen him cry."
-Kaeldir Italrilde Manye, Stormbringer of the Havenheart Clan
“The Fox and the Wolf have a natural, symbiotic relationship--as the two are very different, but you will not often find one without the other in the same forest. The Wolf scares off the predators of the Fox, and the Fox does not hunt for the same game as the Wolf. The two are inclined to be around each other, so it makes sense that we like being around each other”
This work is in response to a question posed to me by Sieghart Vergild. A question posed very casually whilst a doctor was cutting into my kneecap to try and make it look like a kneecap again. This is such a time one often talks to the Fox Knight. He told me he had been considering leaving behind a written record, so that his life could speak to people after he had passed.
When I inquired if he wished to have me transcribe something for him he grew very hesitant. “What good would a story of an old fuck up in the woods do anyone?” he countered.
I had an answer for him, but I prefer to have a truer answer for you. Perhaps it does not sound like much, but Sieghart inadvertently asked a very worthy question. And so I went around to anyone whose lives have been affected, even briefly, by the Fox Knight who dwells around New Haven in a circling vigilance. What follows range from simple thoughts, to entire stories. All true and honest reactions to answer my question;
“What do you think the world should know about Sieghart Vergild?”
Those of few words, often have many words spoken about them.
-Theron Lachaylan
Even the cleverest
fox still has teeth
"After fighting side by side with Siegart I've had the question revisit my mind, 'What is it to be a knight?' I have seen my fair share of false men and women hiding behind a title in my lifetime. The Fox-Knight is not one of those people. Even without the proper title, he holds himself to the standard. That is a man I want beside me fighting the good fight."
-Commander Artorious Maldir, The Grey Legion
"He is quiet. He listens and observes. I like him."
-Syl'vana Ilya'hid 'SilverRose' of the Var’del en’Fayne
"I trust Sieghart simply because we have mutual friends... and mutual enemies. And he's good to hide behind"
-Maman Kym
“I've only met Sieghart recently. I don't know his history, what he did before we were forced to come to the ass end of hell. But that doesn't matter. I don't know his hopes, dreams, or fears. Again, doesn't matter. All I know is that he is a man of action. A man that stands for order and true justice, not that bullshit piece those Greencloak bastards attempt to shove down our throats. When those mewling bandits put on their heraldry and came for the town, Sieghart saw them for who they were and left rather than take a part in their shame. He met up with me and Beldenath on the road away from town. He's a friend to General Bel, I trust him. He's a man of honor and discipline that will speak up against cowardice, I respect him. He stands against tyranny and against those that would pervert the truth, so I'll fight with him. That's all I know. It's all I damned well need to in any case.”
-Torben Sorrensson
Former Master of Arms on W.L.T.S. Archeron
Captain Northern K'ojin Defense Force
From the notes of General Calix
There is very little I remember of my time as an avatar of fire. For the most part my mind was trapped in an inferno of untamed rage, with only slight flashes of clarity breaking through flames. One such moment still stands out to me this day. There was a warrior, a lean man, devoid of hair, carrying a blade in each hand, and on his chest... he bore a small fox head as his symbol. The man fought with incredible grace and ferocity, his swords gleaming and hissing as they danced through the air. It was the gleam of the shorter blade, held in the man's right hand.
That was the last thing I saw as the flames began to rise once more in my mind.
An excerpt from "New Home" copied prior to transit to Le'ath
By Ahsre Porphyus
I write from a place of observation, but not distantly so. White elves of Le'ath, you may find it strange, but I have hearty warmth in me when thinking of the souls of New Haven. Right now it is more of tortured warmth, for friends can turn into foes or disappear from sight quickly here. That's one of the hardest things to get used to when dealing with those with shorter life spans - everything happens quickly, and with purpose. Imagine befriending someone in an evening and trusting them with an important task the next day. Believe me, I understand. But it happens here.
Humans are prone to bluster, there's no denying it. They must beat their breastplate and yell, "Come at me!" They defy their odds at every pass. Yet some move quietly through the world, needing no one to recognize their deeds.
The Fox is one of those.
He is taciturn, efficient, silent. Until he turns his eyes to something he disagrees with. There is a scowl that speaks volumes, a focused statement of intent, and then the ranger vanishes. Whether he has sense or not, whether he is right or not, others cannot argue that he does not Believe in his decisions. That resolve is impressive and I've truthfully found it to be intimidating at times. I was raised to be an arbiter, and so I am. I stand by my morals, but I keep the peace. The Fox has the strength to walk his own path, to disagree even if it means alienating others. That is the nature of a ranger, I suppose.
I have not interacted with him much, but I remember earning a nod of respect at one time. I believe he told me simply, "Good job," and walked away. Coming from someone who says little more than exactly what they mean, it stuck with me. If The Fox encouraged that behavior, maybe I should continue it. Maybe I deserve to believe in myself a bit more, naive unseasoned fighter that I am. Even someone like me can make the right decisions sometimes; hopefully exactly when it matters.
We could all stand to have the strength of a fox, waiting quietly, thinking carefully, and then saying exactly what we believe. Especially in a place like this, where everyone has the unfortunate right to make their own mistakes. Do not fall into the trap. If there is only folly, do not blindly accept that of others; make your own. You could still be wrong, but you'll have at least have exhausted a different option.
To Tame the Forest
By Robin Stalinsky
"Sieghart will definitely be a missed figure among the town, he's a brave warrior with a headstrong mentality and a skilled swordsman and Ranger at that.
From personal experiences, there was one time he helped Theron and I out in a scrap when we were outnumbered by some bandits, if he just didn't happen to be in the area at the time... well... Elders know what would have happened to us.
He always looks perpetually angry with a gaze to pierce the soul, scared me when I first showed up at that, but still was approachable if you needed something. He's the one who told me I've earned my place as a Ranger after a few missions Conducted against the exiled and have continued service ever since.
I'm not very skilled with a blade... at least when it's a duel, I know I'm not very good at it, so he gave me a few pointers to sword fighting as well, and how to use my environment better I'm still nowhere near the level I would like to be at but I digress.
Most of my interactions with him was more observant, seeing how that's my role I do a lot of watching, see a lot of people do a lot of different things, he's a man who is more than capable of surviving on his own and yet chooses to assist the town despite how many times I've heard him talking about how stupid a decision they may have made was.
All in all, I know I'll miss him, I know the town will miss him as well, I wish him nothing but the best in his endeavors and hope to one day regroup with him again
An Act of Kindness
By Thoror Jibealar
When I arrived in New Haven, I was looking for my husband Zujoji. I was very scared to approach people about it because during our past experiences back home, the mere mention of either of our names to the wrong person has gotten us both almost killed, a lot. So, when I finally got the nerve to talk to someone who seemed trustworthy, they introduced me to Sieghart.
He then reassured me that he would find him for me. He offered to take me to a place he thought we may find him, he brought one of the silly bards along with us, who was absolutely no help. He was so drunk and came close to falling several times. I wasn't very much help either... I was very loud.. I kept screaming "ZUJOJI!!!" But he was still very calm and reassured me over and over that we would find him, he also had to keep telling the bard to stop drinking (he didn't). After about 30 minutes of looking, we had to return to camp. Sieghart became concerned and wanted to see if Zu had possibly returned to town while we were out. He then brought me to House Bellena where I was given warm clothes and shelter while I waited.
Suddenly there was a commotion outside and I could make out Sieghart and another man, I would soon come to know as Aiden, carrying a very tall, injured elf. To my surprise it was Zujoji. I was so grateful. I'll never be able to repay that kindness he showed me.
The story of Sieghart and Matrim
Recounted by Matrim Weylan
The night had a heat to it, a lingering dampness in the air. Roland Corsair had approached me with disturbing word. He had uncovered certain plots within the Elendari and his involvement had been discovered. He feared his life was at stake and thus asked for me to be his shadow. The hours ticked by and no sign of any threat to Master Corsair had been detected. I sat and watched Master Corsair as he peddled his wares, when suddenly Sieghart burst in through the tavern door. I had seen this man take on multiple foes at once and merely smile, so when he stumbled in, bloodied and beaten, I immediately threw off any concern to Corsair and ran to Siegharts side.
His arm wasn't working properly, his face was bloodied and as he collapsed from exhaustion he pressed a letter into my hand:
“Matrim, see this? Look familiar? Hawk is bleeding for me. If you don't want him to die come alone. Anyone else comes and he dies. We have our own bleeding to do.” It was signed by Captain Beledain, the commander of the pikes. A man whom I thought had perished.
Sieghart, broken and bleeding offered to take me to where he was ambushed. The courage this man displayed, having escaped death and now wishing to dance with her again. I looked at him and emotions flooded me. Holding The letter, anger and rage flowed but as I looked upon Sieghart, a calm fury washed over me. This man would risk his life for me, clearly I was staring at what it meant to be brave and to have honor.
As he led me deeper into the woods , he humbly told me that he was down an arm, but he would do his best to help me. Looking at him, even in his state he oozed calm confidence, this fox apparently had many tricks up his sleeve still. I looked at him, knowing what I know if him, I said “you with 1 arm is deadlier than most with 5” and suddenly ahead, a town appeared with no less than 20 guards. He looked at me and asked how I wanted to do this. When I said quietly he smiled and slipped into the darkness. As I sat there learning the guards patterns so I could sneak past, i saw Sieghart, 1 arm, remove 2 guards from play and the only sound was the wind. As I crept into the town more guards approached and as I drew my sword, Sieghart pounced from the trees and thus our press into town began.
I cannot accurately recall the final tally, but I believe the score was myself 8, Sieghart 12. Once we reached the main house, we looked through the window and saw Hawk caged like an animal and Sylvana tied by his side, both beaten. We burst in through the door and there stood Beledian with 3 of his companions. Sieghart ran in to dispatch the companions while I saw to Beledian. Once we cleared the house we successfully rescued James and Syl’vana. Of all the events that night, only 1 thing I am absolutely certain of, without Sieghart, I would have lost my brother.
I have not seen bravery like that before in my life. If there is one thing I will always remember about Sieghart, it is that when the odds stack up and you find they are not in your favor, Sieghart will always lend his courage to tip the scales
“Sieghart? Oh, yes, the young human with the scruffy face that is rumored to have had relations with a bear. I don’t care much for him but you’re obviously digging for stories. I only met the boy once outside of the tavern, and he dared to glare at me, so I stood there and glared right back. We must have stood there for a full minute; I find it so entertaining how prideful the humans are. Lucky he’s one of Syl'vana’s humans that she likes. Any friend of my daughter’s is one worth keeping watch on, he is a bit rough around the edges. For the Eldest's sake, relations with a bear! Don't tell Syl that I mentioned watching her friends... Oh, Eldest, I shouldn't be drinking this early in the day.”
-Aurora Illyah’hid
“He came from ze woodz one night to comfort me. I thought I vas alone, but he sat there, while I wept and listen to me, giving comforting advice vhen I had no one else. He iz a ze good friend.”
-Aleena Cloudlilly
"He's pretty quiet, but I think he fights well. I didn't even introduce myself to him, but I'm sure he's a good guy."
-Armina
Signs to Follow
By Axson
Grass laid splayed upon the ground, bent stems still dozing in the dirt as the sun began blearing its vision among the thick tree branches of oak and pine. It would be easy to mistake this for the bed of a deer, but Axson could tell it was the nighttime nest for a man. The dimensions were that of a man, molded after the shape of his unshed armor. And there, the impressions of a sword kept close by side making fine lines among the growth, the phantom of a hand clutched over its hilt the entirety of the night also visible in minute detail. There was a messiness about the whole of the thing; the sleeper had been restless.
It was unusual to find sign from anything other than beasts and Exiled races in the wastes abutting the New Haven outskirts. The citizens of that fledgling outpost oft eschewed the savage wilderness, for the forest was dangerous. But Axson thought New Haven to be filled with dangers far less attractive, even more so the bilious bandit besot bar-town of Blackwater. He would take his chances among the wild places and the races that lived there. But what, he wondered, of this man. At the least Axson himself returned to the safety of defended borders where other refugees found some respite from the evils of the darkness that harassed the land among all phases of the moon. Who was this man, and why was he here after dusk absent even the blast marks of a fire to call friend in the morn?
Axson’s nose found what his eyes failed to see just beyond vantage of the bedding some yards away. There was a tree the man had pissed against, sharp smell of urine just finishing its last wisps in the air. Fresh-turned dirt from where he’d probably buried his morning shit along with the flora he’d cleaned up with showed nearby also. From the faintness of the odors and the dimming brown of the soil, Axson thought it had been a while since the man had been here. He had risen before Axson had awoken.
Miles of barely perceptible boot prints passed beneath the woodsman’s gaze as he looked about him from left to right, unwilling to surrender caution completely to curiosity. At length the boots came to stand beside a tree stump, sets of steps giving testament to the man’s maneuvering around it as if there had been reason for his attention to be arrested. A few paces away, the reason became obvious: breadcrumbs powdered the dirt, their soft beads being attacked by ants being attacked by birds. The stump had been a food cache. The sparrows took flight as Axson passed near them and sent up a disgruntled call which the other birds echoed. If the man were near at all, he probably would know Axson was close by, but it was unlikely that the man was still around here.
Crumbs, shards of doubled over grass, intervals of neigh-invisible left toe and a right toe prints led Axson until he came to a stream in a glade. Knee prints shone where a thirst had been slaked and a look around proved evidence the man had stayed here for a time. Shavings shone to the observant blacksmith. The fine dust of a whetstone from where a weapon had been honed was an easy trimming to find with his trained eye, and it misted the ground about a well-lit rock that the man had sunned on in the dawning light. Water sang its song over instruments of stone and the sun looked like tapers burning brightly in a circle, a celebration of life and all vitality, the birds – finally calm – dancing in the trees with the other primal forces of existence that ebbed about. Axson could understand why the man would have stopped here, and thought to himself it seemed likely more restful to him than the grass bed.
All of a sudden, Axson noted the aroma of fresh fruit in the air, felt the tackiness of juice-sheathed fingers placed against the boulder where the man must have sat, and he began searching about him. He pounced upon an unfinished apple core, its inner flesh barely browned from the open air, and a pair of bootprints that had been hastily impressed in the ground in some mud between the stream and the rocky soil. Something had caught the man’s attention! And recently! A fair trail had been gently etched by a bent body and quieted stride into the overgrown weeds atop the opposite bank. Axson launched over the stream with a muffled leap and followed.
The trail cut through mature plants, black and white seeds plastering sleeves, thorns of burdening vines clinging and thrashing against Axson’s garments and pouches as he clung to the path. The only good thing about it was that the way was clear to his eye as he went. When the vegetation became less cloying, the man had taken to staying near its edge it seemed, probably keeping the option open of descending among it for camouflage as he tracked what—
A softness not native to the ground lay underfoot. And Axson stopped.
A hand and the body it was attached to rest secreted among the underbellies of ferns and flowers. Its throat had been slit and its face did not appear to have even known it had happened, so alive it looked even as death had suffused its color with blue-white blush. From his attire, and especially the ill-slanted tattoo of the Surgoth Gang which Axson recognized on the outstretched arm, he knew the man to be a bandit. Looking him over, no skill he knew would save the man’s life. He would serve the world best now as an adequate meal for the forest. He already knew it was not the man he had been looking for, but all the same he checked the boots to make sure the prints did not match.
Moving forward now with increased step, Axson saw the tree trunk not far away where bloodspray had glutted from the dead highwayman’s neck. From here, footsteps became more definite as the intent of the man himself found better definition, and Axson discovered himself bounding forward alongside the ghost, step-for-step. His heartbeat picked up, he gripped his ax, a hand slid the seax he wore out a finger’s breadth for ease of drawing. There may be need of them!
The sounds of wailing and moaning hit his ears, eliciting greater speed and, at once, Axson entered a clearing of sparse trees, his weapons drawn on instinct, the will to fight alive if not the desire to run men through. His heart lodged in his throat as he saw two people, a stooped woman grieving over a prone man, among a litter of dead bodies. It was the woman who wailed, the man who groaned, and neither was the person he had been tracking. The woman, the only one conscious among the throng, saw him from a distance.
“He… he came out of nowhere!” she cried. “A man had promised to get us to New Haven, but,” she trailed off for a moment, her eyes brimming with tears as she looked down on her husband who was hurt. Axson warily moved forward eyeing would be corpses to be assured they did not lie in wait. They did not. They lie dead, honest as corpses if never a truth ever lit their tongue in their lives. The damage done them had been precise and the swath of battle was almost still audible so intentional and perceptive the path of slaughter had been. He knelt down to look at the man. The woman continued.
“The man had lied,” she said, “he had only been bringing us here to where these men waited on him… to overpower us and take all we have left…” Axson steadied her husband, balancing his humours and opening one of his pouches to search out some yellow braid to grind up and apply with a coating on the wounds he had suffered.
“But then came the red man!” she said. “Red and awful and…” she stammered, “and brave, brave enough to save us.”
“And where did he go?” Axson asked by way of taking her mind off the bone-handled knife he now used to apply the salve on her spouse’s damaged limbs.
“He left us,” she said quietly. “He said we were fools to follow such as these and damn us if we couldn’t find the way to that damned New Haven on our own.”
Axson pondered the report as he gathered long branches and used a blanket belonging to the couple to make a stretcher for bearing the injured spouse upon. The dead men left blankets aplenty, but Axson chose not to take any chances on lingering sickness or on vengeful wraiths. He asked the woman her name, her husband’s name, their business, consoled her, steered clear of talk about the Old World, brought her spirits back to a place of composure as best he could, but his thoughts were never far from the red man.
“Alright, Marta” he said to the woman once he had finished redistributing their meager belongings for carrying and making sure Sertrum, her husband, was settled comfortably as possible on the stretcher. “I’ll do my best to get you to New Haven. Please stay close though, and be ready to take the stretcher from me if we have to part ways because there could be more such as these lurking about.” He looked at all the bodies they would be leaving behind them. “This is not a safe place to be alone.”
Setting out for a well-marked path, Axson had the sensation of being watched from the woods, not by a malignant eye, but by an observing one. Caustic though he had been with the woman, the man’s wounds had not been mortal, and Axson wondered if perhaps their savior still stood out in the treeline, watching, making sure that they really found senses to get back to the best route to damned New Haven, as he had put it. It struck the woodsman as reasonable that he himself might have been noticed as he pursued and the remark made intended to feign abandonment and flush him out in case he were a missed henchmen eavesdropping from a secreted thicket about the denser walls of forest. That or the man might have just been an ass.
Movement caught Axson’s eye for a moment and he looked towards it to gauge the source, but it was not a man. He saw the flanks of a fox rounding an outcropping of greenery and nothing more. Orienting himself, he hoped that maybe the furrows left behind by the stretcher might be a beacon for the man to find his way back to the road, too, if perhaps he himself was out there looking for something to follow.
Two Thoughts from Gird
“I am seeing New Haven fighting New Haven. I am seeing many are dying, all are shouting. I am seeing one hairless New Haven fighting many. He is killing, he is having as many knives as hands. He is always cutting New Haven, he is never dying. I am seeing he is being as the wolf against the flock.”
____________________________________
“I am hearing fear. New Haven is being lost in the woods. I am seeing the man who is living like a wolf. I am saying we are hunting, he is not waiting he is only running. We are hunting, he is running like the boar I am running like the deer. We are hunting, and running. His armor is killing him, he is now leaving his armor. The dirt is flying, our breath is coming hard, the sun is warming our skin, man is leaving us and the beast is becoming us. We are not being New Haven, we are being the hunter, we are being the pack. I am knowing this man is a hunter, I am now having a pack.”
A Recalling by Aiden
A story about Seighart...? Ha! I have one, a funny one, though maybe it wasn't funny at the time. It ended up being a tad humorous to me at least. The very first time I met Seighart “properly” was on the field of battle, and not like I'd thought. A spirit made of stone and a bunch of elementals was harassing some local farmers, a good many of us went out to try and help them, and of course things are never simple. At least never simple around here, anyway.
So we get there, and the goddess damned thing says it's a god in and of itself, which of course I find silly to begin with, and then it starts assaulting me and my faith. After a bit, we've all had enough, and it too decides it's done dealing with us, so battle breaks out. I move to place my shield and blade against him so we can lay him low, and the man I'd later learn to be Seighart moves into strike with me.
Alas, the stone abomination decided it'd be quite hilarious if we fought amongst each other, so he enchanted Seig to come swinging at us, and his first choice was me. Ah, and what a frightening moment it was! He came whirling at me like a storm of swords, like the Fury made manifest herself! It took everything I had to keep him from sending me to the Gates for the few moments his wits wasn't with him.
Of course he apologized after the fact, and I wasn't even remotely angry. He was a kindly soul, I could see it, and so we properly introduced ourselves to each other and went about our day. That is, until what we would later learn was another of this deity-claimed elementals came into town and conned a bunch of folk into following him off into some made-up battle. Me and a couple others had our doubts about this “persons” story, so we tagged along behind the group just a bit, to make sure things were not some elaborate ruse. And I'll be damned if our guts weren't right...
We watched as damned near half of town stopped following our visitor and turned to attack us, thinking us all the orcs they were called to go fight. And, if you hadn't guessed it, Master Seighart came flying back towards us, towards me, with all the fury and skill of The Blessed Storm. This time, I fared a bit worse, but Dawn Mother be praised we pulled through it! I believe once things calmed back down and started to return to normal, I merely looked at him and laughed while saying, “Seighart, we mustn't keep meeting like this!”
As much of a warrior he was having to face him, I learned quickly to appreciate his blades and skills being on our side. And I have learned to appreciate him as a person overall. Speaking with him outside Blackwater one morning while accompanying some allies, I learned that my notions were not wrong: He was a good and honorable man, a stout soul whom I dare say would have been a blessing to the ranks of Argulin's army before everything that has happened to our homes.
I count Master Sieghart as one of the mightiest warriors I know, and believe the Dawn Mother herself blessed me with being able to call the him a friend, and though our first meeting was a bit, well, aggressive... I still would say it was worth the fright it gave me!
"That wiley Fox is always huntin' a fight, the bigger the bastard the happier Sieghart is to deck'em in the jaw. Ye can't find a more loyal friend though. He'd follow ye the abyssal steppes and put a blade in the gut of anythin' that threatens ye. O'course he'd be sure ter tell ye just how ruttin stupid ye are ter be marchin' yer arse there in the first place"
-Bolgrim
"Sieghart is the only living person that has ever seen me cry. Emphasis on living. And I'd venture to say I'm the only living person that has ever seen him cry."
-Kaeldir Italrilde Manye, Stormbringer of the Havenheart Clan
“The Fox and the Wolf have a natural, symbiotic relationship--as the two are very different, but you will not often find one without the other in the same forest. The Wolf scares off the predators of the Fox, and the Fox does not hunt for the same game as the Wolf. The two are inclined to be around each other, so it makes sense that we like being around each other”
-Faelwyn Wolfwalker
The Fox’s Hunt
By Kannoth “Of Songs” Eldanar
Before the dawn of day did he awake,
To part with den, and hunt before day’s break
And on his way a turtle lay upside,
To which the fox in stealth did towards stride.
And past the turtle’s eyes did he so sneak,
And with his paws flipped the turtle’s
And snuck away before the shell could see,
Who thus in turn just thanked the wind with glee.
Next, with sun high noon, did he forward stride,
But soon he stopped to find in his surprise,
A baby doe whose hoof so stood ensnared,
To which the fox in stealth did towards dared.
And past the deer’s eyes did he so sneak,
And with his paws unlocked the trap antique,
And snuck away before the doe could see,
Who thus in turn just thanked its luck with glee.
Around this time, the sun had found its wane,
Fox’s tummy grumbled with hunger’s pain,
Which soon was joined by another’s grunt,
Of boar, who stuck its tusks during a hunt,
And past a dumb pig’s eyes did he so sneak,
And with his paws continued his technique,
And snuck away before the pig could see,
Who thus in turn just thanked with glee the tree
Now night, the fox settled to grab a fruit,
And with this apple he reversed his route.
He thanked himself, and to his den he went,
For fox’s hunt had left him worn and spent.