Valiant: The Covenant Chronicles

[Covenant #16: The Art of Woodsplitting]

Log Date: 1/28/12764

Data Sources: Jayta Jaskolka

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Estate Grounds

11:27am SGT

“Today we will be doing something different for training.”

A sense of dread rises up in me at Aritska’s words. The last week had been a punishing one, filled with bruises, bleeding, and bandages. The daily sparring matches, usually coming after hours of posture and moveset practice, usually ended in a decisive clobbering that had me feeling like I was making up for all the fights I’d never gotten into as a teenager. And to date, each of those clobberings had been a resounding defeat on my end. The worst part of it?

I was getting clobbered by the crow harpies, most of which were shorter than me, skinnier than me, and had attention spans measured in mere minutes, if not seconds.

It was humiliating that they knew how to fight better than I did. They weren’t even good at it; their form was probably just as sloppy as mine was, but what they lacked in discipline, they made up for in eagerness and enthusiasm. I hadn’t really spent a lot of time around the harpies up until this point, but I was starting to learn that nothing delighted them more than the simple pleasures. And nothing was simpler or more pleasing than getting handed a bamboo practice sword and being told to smack someone with it.

So now, as I follow Aritska across the backyard of the House and towards the shed, I was assuming the worst. “What are we doing?” I ask apprehensively. I’m afraid she’s going to tell me that I’ll have to fight one of the raven or the hawk harpies, which seem to have their shit together, at least moreso than the crows, magpies, and shrikes.

“You are going to learn to split wood.” she answers as she unlocks the shed, and pulls the doors open.

I just stand there in the cold winter air, staring into the shed after her. “What?”

“Split wood.” she answers, returning with a traditional axe and what looks like some sort of massive metal doorstop. “You need to learn discipline, precision, and endurance. By the time you reach the sparring match at the end of every day, you are tired and worn out. Splitting wood will teach these to you.”

“Well, instead of doing the sparring matches at the end of the day, why don’t you just move them up to the middle of the day?” I demand, following her as she walks around the back of the shed, where it looks like the trunk of a tree has been cut into smaller, foot-long logs and stacked against the back of the shed. “That way I can actually compete when I’ve got energy.”

“That would just be catering to your weakness.” she says, setting down the axe and the doorstopper so she can pick up one of the logs. “Mother says we don’t want to create the illusion of success by shifting the goalposts. We want to train you to be stronger so you can actually reach the goalposts.”

I scowl at that. “I don’t see her out here chopping wood.”

“She is more powerful than all of us combined. She doesn’t need weapons and strength like we do.” Aritska says, dropping the log on another, larger round of wood that’s sitting on the ground, then picking up the axe.

“Well, I’m plenty strong. I’ve got a strength link on my chains.” I insist.

“That is strength, not endurance. If strength was enough, you would not be tired after a day of training.” Aritska says, swinging the axe up over her head and bringing it down. There’s a crunch as it buries itself in the center of the log. “Gaining endurance helps your strength last for long periods of time.”

I fold my arms. “So what, I’m just going to… split wood all day?”

“Yes.” she answers, swinging the axe down and widening the crack that’s spread through the middle of the log. “This will help you develop endurance.”

“How am I supposed to learn how to fight if I’m just chopping wood all day?” I demand.

“You have learned the basics. Once you can train all day without getting tired, then you can start to refine them.” Aritska says, prying the head of the axe out of the log, then picking up the giant metal doorstop. “Your progress will be judged on how many logs you split every day. Your goal is to eventually chop enough logs to keep all the fireplaces in the House burning for twenty-four hours.”

My jaw drops. “Are you kidding me? Do you know how many fireplaces there are in the House?!”

“A quarter-log will usually last four hours, and there are usually at least two quarter logs in each fireplace.” Aritska says, lodging the doorstopper’s narrow end in the crack in the log, and tapping on the thick end with the back of the axe’s head. “That’s two quarter logs every four hours for a total of twelve quarter logs in twenty four hours. There are at least twenty fireplaces of various sizes in the House, meaning at least two hundred and forty quarter logs. You can get four quarter logs from a single log, meaning you will have to split sixty logs in a single day in order to keep the House warm for twenty-four hours.”

“Sixty?!”

“I think. It may be more. The fireplaces in the common rooms are large.”

I’m flabbergasted by that. “You mean I have to keep doing this until I split at least sixty logs in a single day?”

“Yes.” Aritska says, stepping back and spinning the axe around so that she’s now swinging with the blunt end of the axehead. It makes a loud ringing when it strikes the metal doorstop wedged in the log, shoving it down into the crack several inches and splitting the log down the middle. Dropping the axe, she picks up the log, gripping it by the crack in the middle, and yanking outwards. The log breaks apart in two halves, the metal doorstop falling out. “Like that. Do you have any questions?”

“What if I run out of wood?” I ask, looking at the stack behind the shed.

“I will tell Danya, and she will have more delivered. You will never run out.” she says, picking up the axe and holding it out to me. “Every day you will be allotted a certain amount of hot water for a single shower in the evening. For every two logs you split, you will be allotted a minute of hot water.”

“Wha— are you serious?” I demand, taking the axe, surprised by how heavy it is.

“Yes. I will be counting at the end of every day.” Aritska says, handing me the metal wedge next, then turning and setting one of the half-logs back on the wooden round. “I gave you a head start on your first thirty seconds of hot water. Once you finish splitting these two halves into quarters, you’ll have earned a half-minute of hot water.”

“This is ridiculous.” I mutter, dropping the wedge and moving to stand in front of the round, figuring out my grip on the axe. Aritska watches off to the side as I swing it up over my head, then bring it down. 

It doesn’t hit at quite the right angle, and the half-log falls on its side, with a sad-looking notch on its edge, and the axehead bouncing to the side and burying itself in the frozen dirt.

“It’s harder than it looks.” Aritska states in that same neutral tone that’s starting to irritate me.

“Yeah, no shit.” I say, picking up the log and setting it back on the round. Lifting the axe again, I swing it down, managing to hit the half-log this time.

Sorta. The head of the axe is buried towards the edge of the log, instead of right in the middle of it, which is going to result in something more akin to a one-eighth and three-eighths split.

“Precision is important. You cannot just flail at it; you have to be able to hit roughly the same spot on the log each time.” Aritska says.

“Thank you, captain obvious.” I grunt, placing a foot on the log as I try to yank the axehead out of the crack. Once I get it back out again, I take a deep breath, sizing up the mangled log, thinking about my movements and how I’m going to attempt my next chop. Bringing the axe up, I swing it down over my head again.

It completely misses the half-log, the axehead burying itself in the wooden round at the base, with the half-log toppling over at the reverberation.

“Hmm.” Aritska says, studying the whiffed axe. “I think you should plan on a cold shower tonight.”

I glare at her. “I will get this.” I say, starting to yank the axe back out of wooden round.

“By all means.” Aritska smiles. “Nightfall isn’t for another five hours, so you should have plenty of time. Perhaps you’ll have earned yourself ten minutes of hot water by the time evening arrives.”

“Stuff a sock in it, featherbrain. I’m trying to focus.”

“I’ve got a few tips, if you would like them.”

“Hrrrraaah!”

“That half looks like a lost cause now. Why don’t you start on the other one?”

“Would you shut up, gods dammit!”

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Jayta’s Room

9:22pm SGT

“Goddamn— frikken’— lumberjack bullshit—” I chatter, hopping out of shower and shivering all over. Desperately grabbing my towel, I start drying off as fast as I can, starting with my hair first. In the end, I’d only managed to earn six and a half minutes of hot water by the time I’d had to call it a day. And those six minutes had gone pretty damn fast in the shower. I’d barely started washing my hair when it switched from hot to cold, and it’d about given me a heart attack when it happened.

Once I’m in my nightclothes, I head straight for my bed, set on burrowing beneath the covers and aiming to get warm. Halfway across my room, I’m arrested by the sound of knocking on my door — and it’s weird knocking, too. Like there are four hands rapping on the door in sequence, rhythmic and almost musical. Switching directions to head to the door, I twist the doorknob and crack it open a few inches, peering out into the hall.

Standing out are the three white raven harpies, staring intently at me with their red eyes.

“Uh.” I say, somewhat unsettled by their crimson gazes. “Did you all need something…?”

“We have come to deliver hot cocoa.” the middle one says, holding up a steaming mug.

“It is fresh.” states the one on the left.

“Hazelnut and marshmallows, from our Lord’s recipe book.” says the one on the right.

“Oh.” I say, still unnerved by their persistent, unblinking gazes. “That’s. Very nice of you.” I open the door a bit more, holding a hand out for the mug.

“You must let us in so we can give it to you.” the middle one says, keeping the mug cradled close.

“Yes. You must let us in.” adds the left one.

“We also have your cat.” the left one says, reaching into the wide sleeve of her white tunic and pulling out Cinder.

I stare at them, dumbfounded, my mouth struggling to form words as I try to wrap my head around what’s happening. “Are you trying to— why do you— what is going on here?! Give me my cat back!”

“Let us in first.” the middle one says.

“Thus was the vision given to us.” the left one says.

“We saw it in our breakfast milk this morning after we finished our cereal.” the right one says, tucking Cinder back into her sleeve.

“You saw what in your cereal bowl?” I sputter. Shaking my head, I yank my door fully open and stand out of the way. “You know what? I don’t care. Come in. Just give me my cat back!”

“It is as we saw.” the middle one says, leading the way in and handing the mug to me.

“The future we witnessed has come to pass.” the left one says, roaming into my room and going straight to my dresser.

“Destiny has returned the huntress to her place of repose.” the right one says, crossing to my bed and extracting Cinder from her sleeve to place her on the blankets.

“So you brought me hot cocoa and kidnapped my cat just so you could get into my room.” I say, turning to watch them roam around my room. “Jeezus, you guys are creepy.”

“We came to see the lamb, fallen from grace.” the middle one says, looking around my room.

“Stained by sin.” the left one says, picking up one of my bracelets off my dresser and studying it.

“A victim of lust.” the right one says, snagging up one of my pillows and sniffing it.

“Hey, put that down!” I say, marching towards the one that’s messing with my bracelets, then giving a dirty look to the one that’s sniffing my pillows. “Excuse you?!”

“Twas foolish to humor the hound.” the middle one says, studying her reflection in the long mirror on the wall.

“You were not his first sacrifice, nor will you be his last.” the left one says, dropping my bracelet and jumping away as I swat at her.

“Such is the great betrayer’s sentence, that he must betray all those he grows close to.” the right one says, sitting on my bed next to Cinder.

“I didn’t know.” I snap at them, irritated. “Danya told me that nobody knows about what he really is until he betrays them.”

“But you were warned.” the middle one says, preening the feathers in her hair.

“Many times did our Lord’s right hand warn you.” the left one says, now roving towards my closet.

“And still you labored in sin with the scum of the House.” the right one says, sprawling across my bed.

“I didn’t know.” I grumble again. “If I’d known, I would’ve kicked his ass to the curb. Hey, don’t go in there!” I shout towards the one wandering into my closet.

“We wonder now what your place in the House is.” the middle one says, straightening out the creases in her white tunic.

“For all things in this House must have a place.” the left one says, muffled from within my closet.

“And things which have no place must be cast out.” the right one says, dragging her fingers along Cinder’s spine.

That stops me dead on my way to the closet. “Cast out? What do you mean?” I demand.

“All things have a purpose; all things have a place.” the middle one says, turning away from the mirror to look at me. “Our Lord had such plans for you.”

“But our Lord cannot countenance insolence, nor can she reward disobedience.” the left one says, stepping back out of my closet to stare at me. “She may show mercy, but mercy is not cognate with approbation.”

“There is no room for unfaithful servants in the House of Regret.” the right one says, sitting up on my bed. “Are you one such servant, Jayta?”

My discomfort is growing as I realize this visit isn’t as innocent as it appeared on the surface. “I— no, I’m not unfaithful! I’m just— look, I didn’t know…”

The trio continue staring at me, unsettling with their pale red irises and their white hair and tunics. “Do you not trust that your Lord means well for you?” the middle one asks.

“A denizen of hell she may be, but malicious, she is not.” the left one admonishes.

“She does not take pleasure in punishing you, nor is it what she wants for you.” the right one adds.

“Well, what does she want for me, then?” I demand. “There has to be something more to all this than just being an errand demon for the rest of forever! I don’t want to be that! I don’t even want to be a demon!”

“In you, she seeks meaning.” the middle one says.

“In you, she sees kindred.” the left one says.

“In you, she sees a future.” the right one concludes.

“Oh no.” I say, taking a step back. “No no no. Are you saying— no! We share nothing in common. I’m not going to be a demon lord’s fancy!”

Their brows draw together, all at once. “Tell us why, then.” the middle one says, taking a few steps towards me.

“Is her countenance not pleasing?” the left one says, likewise leaving the closet to creep up on me.

“A deficiency in character or persona, perhaps?” the right one says, standing up off my bed.

“What? No! He— I mean she— godsdammit! They look okay in both their vessels.” I say hurriedly, backing up as the harpies close in on me. “It’s just… Raikaron’s not my type!”

“What is your type, then?” the middle one asks as my back hits the wall.

“Big, strong? Inconsiderate?” the left one asks.

“Less formal and pretentious? More easygoing?” the right one says, catching up with her sisters.

“Why do you want to know!” I demand, keeping the mug of hot cocoa clasped in front of me like it’s the last thing standing between me and them. “Are you going to report back to her and tell her?”

“No. We ask what your type is, that you may muse on it yourself.” the middle one says.

“You are in the habit of seeking those that will not help you to grow or change.” the left one says.

“You are in the habit of seeking those that will cast you aside.” the right one agrees.

“What is your type? Your ex never asked you to grow, but he also grew bored of you.”

“Is your type Harro? Tall, rugged, pleasing to gaze upon but rotten of soul?”

“What lacks our Lord against these? Has she not given you more respect than these combined?”

“She’s not my type, okay?” I snap. “She’s like… she’s like my boss! She’s always cold and distant, and aloof and up on her high horse all the time, like she’s better than everybody else. Yeah, my ex and Harro aren’t exactly saints, but I felt like I could talk with them, hang out with them, without being judged. I could chat and have fun with them.”

“And you cannot do that with your Lord?” the middle one asks simply.

The other two don’t speak, those pale red eyes fixed on me, waiting for answer. I lick my lips nervously as I answer. “I mean… can I?”

“I see no reason why it should be forbidden you.” the left one says.

“Danya may have forbidden it.” the right one points out. “Jayta is not as we are. She is a servant of the House, not one of its children. She is bound by the strictures of service.”

“More to the point, would you if you could?” the middle one goes on.

“If you could, you would.” the left one says hopefully.

“If you would, then you will.” the right one says.

I hunch my shoulders, looking away. “I mean, I dunno… Raikaron, she’s really… different. She’s a demon lord, for crying out loud. And I’m just some nobody from Coreolis. Like, how am I supposed to measure up to that?”

“She values what you are.” the middle one says.

“What you may become.” the left one agrees.

“Not what you are not.” the right one concludes.

“Yeah, you say that, but…” I mutter, sipping from my hot cocoa.

“We force nothing.” the middle one says, backing up and starting for the door.

“We offer many the truth.” the left one says, following her.

“Few choose to accept it.” the right one says as the trio stops in the doorway.

“Oh, so I’m just supposed to believe whatever you three tell me?” I demand.

“What you believe is immaterial.” the middle one says.

“We will tell you the truth, whether you like it or not.” the left one says.

“You will know those who lie to you, because they will only tell you what you want to hear.” the right one says.

“Wait, where are you going?” I demand as they file out of my room. “You can’t just leave in the middle of a conversation!”

“It is bedtime. We must retire now.”

“You should go to bed as well, and start your woodchopping early to make up for the time you will lose after lunch.”

“Sleep well, child of Aurescura.”

It takes a second for their words to process, and when they do, I step out into the hall after them. “Hey, what’s that supposed to mean! What’s going to happen tomorrow after lunch?”

“You merely need to wait and see.”

“You will find out tomorrow.”

“Remember to finish your hot cocoa before it gets cold, or Cinder will finish it for you.”

They don’t slow down, turning the corner in an orderly fashion and disappearing from view. Grumbling to myself, I retreat back into my room, closing the door behind me and sipping from the mug. Cinder is cleaning herself on the bed, as if nothing had happened.

“Next time someone takes you hostage, I’m going to let them have you.” I mutter, heading back to my bed. “Move over, sootball. There’s no reason for you to hog the middle of the bed.”

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: The Library Labyrinth

1/29/12764 7:18am SGT

“So she’s got you chopping wood, then?” Mek says, leafing through one of the many dusty old tomes kept in the library.

“Yeeeeess.” I groan from where where I’m laying on the hardwood floor, sprawled out with my eyes shut. “It’s insane. Everything is sore. My arms are sore. My legs are sore. My back is sore. I don’t even know why my back is sore, it’s not like I was carrying anything!”

“You may have been placing strain on your back if you were repeating a bending-over motion, such as swinging the axe down, or reaching over to reposition one of the logs.” Mek explains without removing his bespectacled gaze from the pages of the tome. “Soreness is a common symptom of exercise, especially if you do not exercise regularly.”

“Don’t tell me that.” I say, planting my hands on my face. “It was so hard to get up this morning. The thought of being out there in the cold all day makes me wanna cry.”

“It is rather early. Is there a reason you are up at this hour?” Mek asks, starting to peel runes off a page. “Since Sjelefengsel is in its winter cycle, I believe the day cycle is only just now beginning.”

“I got up early because the triplets said something was going to happen around lunchtime and I was going to run out of time for chopping wood.” I say, taking my hands off my face to look at him. “They give me the shivers. They’re… creepy.”

“It’s not their fault. They’re clairvoyant, which nearly always comes with some level of eccentricity.” Mek says, watching as the runes coalesce into a chainlink. “Being able to see glimpses of the future requires you to process the universe around you differently. They don’t see reality the same way that most of us do; whereas we experience time as a single linear track, forever locked in place between the past and future, Trinity experiences time as a continual branching of potential paths, most of which wither and die when they do not become reality. As I am led to understand by Lord Syntaritov, Trinity is constantly having to make decisions about which branches to prune, every hour, every minute of the day. Many of the branches intersect, and there can be multiple paths to a single event or point in time, but they are always having to look ahead and plan their decisions to lead them to the events which they wish to experience or see come to pass.”

“Ungh. It’s too early to think about perceiving reality as a constantly evolving series of decision trees.” I grunt.

“A rather dense topic for this time of day, I would agree.” Mek says, holding up the chainlink. “Your chainlink is ready, by the by.”

“Don’t make me get up, Mek.” I beg. “Can you just. Bring it over here and attach it?”

“Just this once.” he says, getting up over out his chair and padding over to me. Kneeling down, he takes my wrist, tapping the mark and waiting for the translucent manacle to manifest before he starts to hook the chainlink onto the other two already there. “As requested by Lord Syntaritov, this is the heat tolerance chainlink. It’ll give you a bodily resistance to heat along the lines of what one might expect to find in, say, a campfire or a stove. This resistance does not extend to the clothing you wear, so bear that in mind.”

“So if I wanted to pick an ember out of one of the fireplaces and throw it at someone, I could do that without burning myself?” I ask as the chainlink clicks into place.

“You could, although it would be very rude.” Mek says, standing back up. “The ember would, to you, feel like a warm pebble. A crumbly one, granted, but it would not burn you.”

I stare at my orange manacle, thinking about that. “So if, like… I was cold, and wanted to get warm, I could just… sit in the fireplace?”

“Conceivably yes, but I’d again point out that this heat tolerance does not extend to your clothes. So unless you intend on ruining your clothes, you would need to undress before sitting in a fireplace. Not to mention all the soot and ash that would get all over you. It’d be quite messy.” Mek says, returning to his chair.

“Does this mean that other things that used to be hot to me won’t be hot anymore?” I ask. “Like showers. Since my tolerance for heat is higher now, is the hot water going to feel cold because I can endure higher temperatures?”

“It will not. Hot water will still be hot, just not uncomfortably hot. This remains true for most other higher temperatures; once they exceed a certain point, they will feel the same until they start to scale beyond the limits of your heat tolerance once more.” Mek answers. “I am glad to see, however, that you are so interested in the novelty uses of this chainlink.”

“Yeah, well, between spending most of the day outside and only having a few minutes of hot water for a shower at night, I can’t help but be interested in anything that’ll help me stay warm.” I say, letting my arm drop and my manacle fizzle out. “Hey Mek, you have a demon manifest, right?”

“I do, yes.” he says, adjusting his spectacles. “I think I know where this is going, and no, I do not think you want to see it. Unlike yourself, mine is not a pleasant one to gaze upon — my soul is far more sullied by the sins of my past life than yours is.”

Some of the levity leaves me. “You say that, but I’ve killed someone that didn’t deserve it.” I say quietly. “I’m no saint.”

“I know.” Mek answers gently. “Yet I stand by my assessment. You’ve only killed one person; as I understand, it was in a fit of passion, and it was a quick death. That puts you in far kinder bracket than I currently reside in.”

I part my lips to say something, before the phrasing catches me. Something about the way he said it, the way he described it. I’ve ‘only’ killed one person, as he puts it. As if one murder was not much, relative to… well, some other undisclosed metric, clearly. The implication is clear, but it’s hard to really square that with the Mek that I know — the one that is mild and calm and thoughtful and kind.

For a moment I consider asking more, but then I think about how uncomfortable that might be for him. And I don’t want to do that to Mek; I respect him too much. He’s the only real friend it feels like I have down here. If he wants to share it with me, he will, but right now it’s clear he’s edging around the subject.

So I leave it alone, simply nodding and looking to the ceiling. After a few moments of silence, I find another topic to segue onto. “Well… while we’re talking about manifests. Does Raik— does Lord Syntaritov have a demon manifest?”

“She does, yes, but you would not want to see it.” Mek says, closing up the tome that he’d pulled the chainlink from.

“Lemme guess, because she’s had her fair share of sins as well?” I guess.

“It is not for me to say. I know only the vague outline of our Lord’s past, and it seems unwise to me to ask after it, given my station and rank.” Mek says, stacking the tome back among the rest. “But that is not the reason I say you wouldn’t want to see it. You must understand that demon Lords are a very different breed of demon than the rest of us. They are highly intelligent; often decades, centuries, sometimes millennia older than most souls in Sjelefengsel; and they exhibit vast self-control in keeping their demon manifests from view. They are rarely angered enough to demonstrate the truth which hides beneath their carefully cultivated exteriors.”

I work on sitting up. “So you’ve never seen Raikaron’s manifest before?”

“I have seen it, only once.” Mek says, carefully brushing dust off the cover of another fragile tome. “It was in a moment of great wrath, thankfully not directed at me, but at another Lord. Even so, it was terrifying. To be in the presence of a fully manifested Lord is to be unsure that your safety is guaranteed, even if their fury is not directed at you.”

“What did it look like?” I ask. I figure since Mek is pliant on this topic, I may as well push and see how much I can get out of him.

Mek takes a breath, closing his eyes. “I won’t describe it, because words cannot do it justice. I will only say that it was great and terrible. Demons like you and I, we grow horns and tails, wings and spikes and whatever else when we manifest, but we largely retain a humanoid form, or something cognate to what our native species is. Lords, though…” He trails off, shaking his head.

“So it’s indescribable?” I guess.

“There is a way to describe it. I simply need to think of a metaphor to frame it in.” he says, resting an arm on the table and propping his chin on his fist. “It’s like… a shadow cast on the wall of a cave. The shadow gives you the outline of the thing which casts it, but none of the detail, none of the color or pattern or depth. The shadow does not convey the full majesty of the thing which produces it — it provides only hints or echoes of that truth. So too are the Lords: their civil forms are little more than shadows of what lurks beneath. Below the placid exterior of their civil forms, there lies a great and terrible truth, blinding like a star — it is hard to look directly at it for any amount of time, and so we can only bear looking at the shadows it casts.”

I smile a little. “Sounds poetic.”

“Yes, I suppose it does.” Mek says, tugging at a fold in his uniform. “The only way to describe something which defies description is to take liberties with said description, I would imagine. But at any rate, that’s enough from me. If you intend to meet the quota that Aritska has set for you, I should let you go so you can get a hearty breakfast and get to it.”

I puff out a long sigh. “Yeah…” Grunting, I get back to my feet, albeit stiffly, with how sore I am. “Thanks for taking my questions and for the new chainlink.”

“Oh, well. I’m little more than a keeper of the chainlinks.” Mek demurs. “Lord Syntaritov is the one that gave the order to equip you with it. The thanks should go to her, really.”

“Well. You still answered my questions, so I’m thankful for that.” I say, starting back towards the archway leading back into the labyrinth. “Have a good one, Mek. I’ll see you around if the woodchopping doesn’t kill me first.”

“Somehow, I think you’ll survive.” he says with a faint smile, giving me a wave. “Take care, Jayta. Try to stay warm.”

Event Log: Jayta Jaskolka

The House of Regret: Servants’ Dining Hall

11:42am SGT

The improvement between yesterday and today’s woodchopping was, at best, incremental.

If anything, I felt more tired today than I was yesterday, and I was only halfway through the day. I thought that, at least armed with the knowledge of what to expect, I’d be able to work my way through the logs a bit quicker, and earn myself more hot water for the end of the day. But the fact of being so sore and tired from yesterday meant that I was hitting my wall barely two hours into the day, with my chopping growing sloppy and weak. I’d already butchered two logs today, and I’d been told any badly-split logs would be subtracted from my daily total.

So now I was sitting here in the dining hall for the servants, with a half-finished bowl of stew in front of me, trying to work up the will to finish the rest of it. It wasn’t that the stew was bad; it was actually great, but I’m just dreading the thought of having to go back into the cold, pick up that axe and wedge, and chop wood for another five hours. Just the thought of it is draining my will, and some despairing part of me says to just throw in the towel and stay inside. That I’ve have to take a cold shower every day, but at least it would just be ten or fifteen minutes of cold, instead of having to be out in the cold for hours. Hell, maybe I might even grow to like cold showers — though I doubt it, with how miserable last night’s shower was.

“That stew isn’t going to eat itself.”

Looking up, I see that Aritska’s joined me in the dining hall, sitting down with a bowl of her own stew and some bread to dip in it. She’s taken her combat jacket off, so I can see the lean, muscular tone of her arms, a far cry from my own twig-like appendages.

“I’m trying.” I mutter, listlessly stirring my spoon around my bowl. Yet even a motion like that makes my arm ache, so I stop doing it after a few seconds.

“You’ll need your energy if you’re to keep splitting wood until nightfall.” Aritska observes in that simple, matter-of-fact way of hers. “I’d say get seconds if you can. The stew’s really calorie-dense, and it’s the good kind of calories. Not the stuff you get from sugar and pastries. The meat will help you build muscle.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” I reply tersely. “I was a science major. I’m well versed in the importance of proper nutrition, thank you very much.”

“Just sayin’.” Aritska shrugs, starting to rip up her bread roll so she can dip it in her stew. She pauses at the sound of talking in the hall; both of us look up and towards the doorway, where a moment later, we can see Danya leading a man and woman deeper into the House — both of them dressed in suits. The man in a tan suit, the woman in a black one. The man’s got his blonde hair all styled like he’s a cover model for a business magazine, while the woman’s black hair is down to her shoulders. When she glances aside into the dining hall, I catch a glimpse of her hollow green eyes — and it sends a shiver down my spine.

Then as quickly as they came, they disappear from view, following Danya down the hall. I recognize the type of deference she’s giving them — they must be Lords, if Danya is showing them this kind of respect.

“Who are they?” I ask as the sound of their footsteps start to fade up the stairs.

“Those are the Lords of Envy and Spite.” Aritska answers, still staring at the doorway. “They are equals to the Lord of Regret. His peers or coworkers, one could say. Together, the three of them are answerable to the Lord of Lust.”

“Envy was the woman, right?” I ask quietly, even though they should be upstairs by now, and there’s no way they’d hear me.

“The one with the empty eyes, yes.” Aritska says, turning back to her bowl. “I do not like her. Her gaze sets me ill at ease.”

“Why are they here?” I ask, picking up my spoon again.

“They may have a meeting with our Lord. Sometimes Lust assigns them group projects that they collaborate on. It’s usually very secret, though.” she says, dipping her bread in the her stew. “Usually when other Lords visit, it’s only one. If two of them are here, it must be official business.”

“Didn’t someone from the House of Spite win the Iron Liver last year?” I ask, starting to eat my stew again.

“They did, yes.” Aritska says around a mouthful of bread. “You did very well for your first Iron Liver. You came in third place.”

I snort at that. “If we’re being honest, I wish I hadn’t.” Ever since Harro had abandoned me to the angels, I’ve thought back to that night a lot. Wondering if things would’ve been different if I hadn’t participated. I’m not sure I would’ve been brave enough to take a roll in the hay with him if I hadn’t been wired up on magic alcohol or whatever the hell those drinks were. And maybe, if I hadn’t had those drinks scrambling my brain, I would’ve never made the choices that led me to where I am now. Chopping firewood like a prisoner in a hard labor camp. “Actually… what is in those drinks? I have never had anything like that before. It definitely wasn’t alcohol, but it was… it was something.”

“You must ask our Lord. She is the one that brews them. I think she uses emotions and other things, but I am not sure.” Aritska says, dipping another chunk of bread into her stew.

“How do you put emotions into drinks, though?” I insist. “They’re not something you can… touch or handle. It has to be some sort of chemical or group of chemicals that trigger a specific response in the brain or other organs… but no, that’s so complex. And body responses aren’t always associated the same way between different people… it should be impossible for a specific drink to make different people feel the same emotional response every time.”

Aritska shrugs. “You had the drinks. You know it is not impossible.”

“Yeah, well it should be.” I retort.

“Did you like the drinks, though?” she asks.

I shrug after having a spoonful of stew. “I mean… yeah, I guess… kinda hard to really savor them when you’re belting them back without any time to let them settle. It felt good to belt some of them back, but others I would rather sip on. Like the Snowcherry.” I give a shiver as I remember how that one practically frosted me over. “That one seems like it’d be really nice to sip on a hot summer day.”

“Maybe ask your Lord if you can sample them sometime.” Aritska suggests.

I raise an eyebrow. “You think she’d let me?”

Aritska shrugs. “If you ask nicely, maybe? Or maybe if you excel on a task she has required of you. When the harpies do well on an assignment, our Lord lets us have a little bit of Bubble Hiccup. For most of the smaller harpies, it’s their favorite drink. It’s sweet and tasty and makes them all giggly and loopy.”

“I mean, I do have a bottle from the Iron Liver.” I admit. “But it’s a bottle of the stuff that knocked me out, and it didn’t taste good. It tasted like… metal or stone, or something. And I don’t even know what it’s supposed to do.”

“Take it to Lord Syntaritov and ask.” Aritska says. “She’s the one that brewed it. She would know what it does. Maybe she might even be willing to exchange it for a different bottle.”

“You really think so?” I say, starting to think back to that night and the other seven drinks I’d had. “There were a few of them that I did like. The one that looked like star gas, that one was interesting—”

IF YOU WOULD SO MOCK THIS FORM, THEN PERHAPS YOU WOULD PREFER MY OTHER ONE BETTER?

Aritska and I both hunch down on instinct as the tremor goes through the House, the walls shuddering and rattling. Both of us very clearly hear the voice, but I can’t tell if it’s in my head, in my ears, or simply traveling through the fabric of reality itself. But it’s deep and guttural, almost primal, and inherently terrifying.

“What was that?” I whisper, looking around.

“Our Lord is upset!” Aritska whines, her hands gripping the edge of the table as she looks around frantically. In an instant, she’s gone from strong and stoic to looking like she’s on the verge of tears. “Something has angered her—”

GET BACK HERE, YOU WRITHING MAGGOT OF A DEMON!

I clutch my hands to my head as another one of those tumultuous tremors ripples through the House again. There’s a grinding rumble that sounds as if entire rooms were shifting around us, and the hall outside seems to twist and bend, sections of it folding into itself as other corridors briefly connect to it, forming doorways that disappear nearly as quickly. It feels almost like the House has come alive, shifting and evolving with us inside of it. As the room we’re in starts to shudder and develop shifting doorways, I push away from the table, wincing as another tremor quakes the House.

DO YOU THINK YOURSELF BEYOND ME, SPITE? ALLOW ME TO DISABUSE YOU OF THAT NOTION.

“What should we do?!” I shout at Aritska as I stand up.

“I don’t know!” she shouts back, looking around frantically. “She is shifting the House to keep someone from getting out! She is not angry at us, but we do not want to be in her way if she comes through here!”

“Well, we should get out then, right?” I ask, running to one of the doorways, only for it to shrink into nothing right in front of me, blipping out of existence. “Where would we be safe?”

“Uh, uh— outside?” Aritska answers, sounding like she’s guessing. “In our rooms, if we can find them?”

I AM A CHILD OF A DREAMING, A SCION OF THE PLANE FROM WHICH THE GOD EATERS ARE BORN, AND WHAT ART THOU? ANSWER ME, SPITE, IF YOU ARE NOT TOO BUSY FLEEING!

Both of us crouch down at the sound of thunderous, rapid pounding overhead, as if something was tearing through the hall on the floor above. It’s followed by more heavy, deliberate thuds, so massive that the paint on the ceiling cracks with each thump as it follows the sound of the fleeing footsteps. Whatever’s on the floor above, it’s not human. Not by a long shot.

“Come, we must go!” Aritska says, grabbing by arm and tugging me towards a corridor that’s opened. I stagger after her, trying to keep up as she runs down the hall. Though it starts off straight, it develops kinks as we go, at first snapping to the right, then to the left, before the floor beneath our feet suddenly elevates itself in segments, turning into a stairwell.

YOU ARE NO MORE THAN A REMNANT, THE LAST ECHO OF A DEMAGOGIC WARLORD LONG SINCE PASSED FROM LIFE AND REMEMBERED ONLY FOR SACRIFICING YOUR MEN IN A WAR THAT COULD NOT BE WON. IT IS ECHOES SUCH AS YOU THAT THE CREATURES OF THE DREAMING FEED UPON, AND YOU THOUGHT IT CLEVER TO TEST MY PATIENCE?

“Shit shit shit she sounds pissed!” I squeak, banking a hard right as the hall abruptly snaps to the left ahead of us. “I recognize some of the halls but nothing’s where it’s supposed to be! How are we supposed to find anything like this?”

“It’s… we…” Aritska pants as we pause at a nexus of halls, looking around. “We just need to find one of the doors leading outside. Come now, this way!” She bolts across the hall, and I scurry after her as the corridor we were just in collapses itself and folds back open into one of the common rooms. All throughout the House about us, there is the drumming of large paws over the floor, and the thumping of something colossal following after it.

LONG HAVE I TOLERATED YOUR PETTY PRATTLING AND YOUR CHILDISH CLAMORING, SPITE. I BORE IT WITH STOICISM IN THE PRESENCE OF OUR MASTER, BUT LUST IS NOT HERE, AND I WOULD HAVE YOU LEARN YOUR PLACE IN OUR HIERARCHY.

“Oh! Oh, I think I can see the front door from here!” Aritska calls hopefully, half-sliding down the flight of stairs that has suddenly dropped into existence. Scrambling down the steps after her, we emerge into one of the common rooms, which now appears to be adjacent to the House’s main lobby, with the main doors in view. Some of the other harpies are on this floor as well, hiding under tables or chairs and screeching every time they hear the guttural cacophony of our Lord.

“What are we going to do once we’re outside?” I say as we run across the room.

“I don’t know! Maybe wait beneath one of the trees—”

Aritska and I both skid to a halt as a giant… beast comes hurtling out of the hall between the double wing of stairs in the main lobby. It looks like a colossal black cat or panther that stands five feet at the shoulder, with sucker-laden tentacles trailing from its shoulders and haunches, and sickly green eyes embedded at various spots across its body. As we watch, it scrambles up the side wall, flowing along it like some horrifying alien, and upon arriving above the main doors, uses one of its tentacles to open it enough to slither out into the cold, disappearing from view.

Then the thudding of other similarly large beasts, echoing down that same hall, has us skidding to a halt, not wanting to get between them and the front doors.

WE MAY BE EQUALS ON PAPER, BUT IN PRACTICE YOU ARE A SMALL DOG WHICH THINKS ITSELF BRAVE FOR BARKING AT WOLVES. EVER HAVE YOU MISTAKEN MY PLACIDITY FOR ACEDIA, AND MY MILDNESS FOR ARROGANCE. NO MORE.

Something that looks like a giant hyena, roughly six or seven feet at the shoulder, comes tearing out of the main hall. It’s got six legs — the usual four, then a smaller pair mounted on its collarbone just beneath its chin, like a spider. Both the tail and mane are composed of what appear to be vipers, though it’s hard to tell because something long, dark, and sticky comes shooting down the hall like a chameleon’s tongue. It hits the hyena’s back, and what appear to be dozens of tiny arms fold out of the edges, grabbing onto the fur with oozing fingers, yanking it to a halt. Aritska and I both stagger back, clawing over the couches and hiding behind them as the hyena barks and thrashes, straining and kicking as it tries to get free.

IF YOU HAVE EVER DOUBTED MY WILLINGNESS TO GET MY HANDS DIRTY, ALLOW ME TO DISPEL THAT ILLUSION BY WASHING MY HANDS IN YOUR BLOOD.

With that, the tongue — for a lack of a better way to describe it — starts retracting back down the hall that it was launched from. Whatever fired it remains out of sight, though the shadow it casts is near total. The hyena, which I assume is Spite, is dragged, foot by foot, back into the hall, clawing and tearing up the floor and banisters in his efforts to get free. As he reaches the threshold of the main hall, he uses his forelegs to grab onto the corners of the walls on either side, trying to keep himself from being pulled back down the hall. Yet it’s no use; his claws rip through wallpaper and tear through drywall and plaster, leaving long, raking gouges on the walls as he’s yanked back down the hall and out of view.

Aritska and I both remain huddled behind the couch, listening to the sound of feral screeching and growling rippling down the hall. Walls shudder as large things fight with each other and are slammed against the floor out of sight; wood cracks and splinters, likely from display tables or doors getting in the way of the beasts. There is a a grisly rip and crunch that sounds like a raw chicken being ripped apart, accompanied by a high scream that has both of us wincing, and a moment later, Spite comes hurtling back out of the hall, one of his collarbone forearms ripped off, the stump dripping orange ichor. He does not slow down as he approaches the front doors; instead, he barrels right through the doors and the wall they’re mounted in, leaving a splintered, gaping hole in his wake.

As his pawsteps fade down the path leading through the estate grounds, the House returns to deafening silence. The harpies taking cover under chairs and tables don’t move, and neither do Aritska and myself — it’s unclear that it’s safe to come out yet. As the cold winter air seeps into the House through the gaping hole where the front doors once were, I can hear a thud — then another, and another, moving down the main hall. Heavy, almost ponderous pawsteps that sound like they could belong to an elephant or something similarly large.

Carefully creeping up on the couch, I peek over the back of it. The shadow cast across the main lobby is shrinking from something jagged and hunched to something more humanoid, the pawsteps growing softer and less ponderous until they’ve finally morphed into the click of shined shoes against a hardwood floor. Stepping out of the main hall is Raikaron, arrayed in her usual vest, slacks, button-down and tie — albeit missing her glasses, her scarlet hair thoroughly disheveled, and no longer wearing the black collar that I’d noticed on her during our last meeting. In the barest seconds after she’s stepped into view, there are flickers of something slithering back into her vest and the buttoned fold of her shirt — tendrils of darkness that are gone so quickly that I wonder if I’d imagined them. Reaching up, she slowly pushes the back of her hand across her mouth, wiping away the stain of the orange ichor that was lingering there, dripping from her bottom lip.

Then the brilliant green of her eyes flick in my direction, locking onto me.

My heart jumps in my chest, and I duck down, out of sight. I don’t know why I do it; it’s not like I’ve done anything wrong, but the way her eyes silently swiveled towards without moving her head was just terrifying. Like a predator fresh off a kill staring at you, perhaps sizing you up as well. Huddled on the couch, I find myself silently hoping she won’t come over here and confront me.

A long silence passes, and is finally broken by the sound of a heel turning on the hardwood floor. “Find Danya. Tell her we need a repair contractor out here to fix the main entrance, and that it is to be billed to the House of Spite, since they are responsible for this mess. If it can be arranged, have the contractor add a note to the bill letting Spite know that if he does not cough up the payment, Regret will take his other arm as recompense next time I see him.”

With that, the leisurely click of shoes over the floor starts up again, headed back down the main hall. It’s only when the sound has fully faded that I let out the breath I’d been holding, slumping on the couch next to Aritska. In this room and the adjacent ones, the harpies start to come out of hiding, casting about cautiously. Taking a deep breath, I look over at Aritska, who looks similarly relieved.

“Remind me never to get on our Lord’s bad side.”