Dear Diary,

Some days it seems that each and every day I slip further from who I want to be.

There are a million reasons why. Millions, even, if I did my math right and the approximations on the population of the Alliance are correct. Over a million people in New Amsterdam alone. Hundreds of thousands in Phileo, in Camden Yards, in Newark and Norfolk. Only a couple tens of thousands from Calverton left, and I'm being generous there, but that's a big part of the threat right now. Just under a hundred thousand people died of the Plague in Calverton, their Souls twisted by the trauma until they rose again as unholy abominations bent on consuming the Mana of the living.

Funny. If I thought about it, I always thought of 'Mana' as some kind of uber mystical woo, shit that couldn't be weighed or measured or even really controlled. Like, the opposite of science. But I guess if it was, there'd be no way to use it. To control it. Yeah, 'magic' might exist, but it wouldn't ever be something you could count on. It would just be another random bullshit occurrence that fucked with things then wandered off to fuck with things elsewhere. Like natural disasters. Like Gods in the here and now. Like me.

I want to be better. I need to be better. I should be better. I want to live up to the faith that my worshippers have in me. That Saffron has in me. I want to be the kind of person that my kid can both look up to and use as a role model. I mean, I hope she'll outgrow me, do better than me, become something, someone genuinely good and righteous. It's... too late for me on that, I think, sometimes. Maybe it was too late when I went to look at the sharks. Maybe when my mom died. Maybe when my dad left. Fuck, maybe I never really had a chance at all.

But I will be fucked if I just lie down and let shit happen without trying to do something about it.

Of course, it would help if, when I let people know something like 'hey, there's this problem going on that requires the application of focused violence, has the potential for not only material gain, but the appreciation of people who have, in the past, had nothing but unveiled contempt for you', they did something other than saying shit like 'hurr, hurr, hurr, fucktoy vaghips make funny mouth noises'. I mean, yeah, I am a fucktoy, and my default mode does in fact have a vag rather than a dick, and I refuse to be ashamed of either of those things, but fucking hell on a pogo stick, does each and every one of these fucktards need to have sense beaten into them? Shit, burned into them, since they tend not to listen to a simple beatdown unless they're in the top one percent of thinking brain humanoid adjacent people here in Norfolk.

So yesterday after starting off Mootcon Forty Two, Saffron let the more or less official Royal Court of Norfolk know that the remains of Ericson's skull and what passed for his brains wound up in my Kitten's stomach after she licked me clean during the post victory brunch. Somehow that finally managed to get the right kind of 'holy shit, the Imperator is six tons of crazy in a sixty pound sack' into their brains. I mean, shit, I wasn't lying or exaggerating when I said I'm the nice one. I might fuck somebody up in the moment, and now and again I've done some more long term shit like with Pennypack and his plague profiteering buddies, but... I don't sit there brooding about shit, trying to figure out exactly how to maximize somebody's suffering.

I think my Kitten keeps extensive notes on that shit. She's like Batman, if he didn't have weaknesses like crippling dissociative identity disorder and a sense of mercy. I'm half sure she's got some kind of plan to execute everybody who might get in her way as painfully as possible. Shit, not just painfully, but effectively, like so they won't even wind up martyrs and shit. Hell, she might not even kill them, just leave them alive and focused entirely on unfucking whatever they'd fucked up.

I snuggled up to her, ignoring all that while Olga, her son who had found some clothes and joined us, her baby daddy, and Odin's local bitch shuddered their way to acceptance of the depths of my Kitten's depravity. I wonder what they'd think if I told them they weren't in the depths. Shit, they were barely wading in the kiddy pool.

"Hey, Kitten?"

With no one coming to us for arbitration yet, she took the opportunity to snuggle back into me. "Yes, love?"

"Just wondering. Apropos of nothing, really. Do you have a plan for how to deal with our major players if they go rogue?"

She shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

She wriggled into me, making herself comfortable. "It depends entirely on who you consider 'major'. Of course I have a plan to apprehend and correct any inappropriate behavior in anyone with enough influence to hamper your... our efforts to make the world a better place."

Like I said. Fuckin' Batman. Then an errant thought struck me. "Even me?"

She tipped her head back so I could see her face and Grinned at me. Ledger.

Oh, shit. I did my best young Ralph Wiggum impression. I'm in danger.

It did not do my blood pressure, sanity, or sense of decorum any favors when she just grinned more.

"What about you?"

She squirmed around until she could snuggle into me, ignoring the Royal Court, whose expressions varied between amused on Team Olga and deeply concerned on Weyson, smiled warmly, and said, "Of course I do. You, my love. Should I ever become a greater danger than an asset to the world we wish to create, I trust you to correct that."

Not long after that, Thralls started trickling onto the Green. I nodded to the Court to head back to the Longhouse to supervise things, then stayed with Saffron while she did some inspirational speechifying, first to small groups who came to speak with her and be sure that yes, she was in fact the Imperator of the Alliance, who was here to free them all, and then to the whole lot of them when they'd all gathered. I missed most of it, since I focused on trying to build something like an accurate estimate of how many they were and how combat effective they looked.

Final tally came in at around five thousand, and while none of them had the bulk or obvious aggression of the Warrior types, they all looked pretty wiry, not to mention having an expression I recognized from back in Camden. One that basically translated to 'fuck off with your bullshit, you can't kick the shit out of me, life has left me shit free already, let's fuckin' go'. There is definitely a point of despair where morale doesn't matter any more, and by and large each of these men and women looked like they'd hit it long before. They had women in with them too, although pretty much all of them had that same kind of wiry looking strength and lack of fucks remaining that the guys had.

Like I said, I missed most of what she told them, but I did catch the end of it. "So, I cannot guarantee that any given one of you will survive this campaign. We will try, of course, but you and I both know that when things go sideways, it's Thralls like you, just like Volunteers from the Yards or Levies from Newark, who wind up paying the bulk of the butcher's bill. But I promise you two things. First, I will not waste your sacrifice. Should you fall, it will be doing something worth doing, making the world a better place for you and yours. Second, and I have already confirmed this with the Mayor of Calverton, any Thrall who fights to Liberate Calverton will have a home there. Not in some metaphoric sense, either. Calverton housed one hundred thousand before the Plague, and less than twenty thousand survive now. They may require repairs, as they've stood empty save Undead since last winter, but they will be yours. I will personally see to it that any family members you wish to bring along will join you as well."

Holy shit, Kitten, what are the Jarls gonna think?

On one hand, they are so focused on returning to their longhouses with loot, they've not thought about property. On the other? As you made abundantly clear to the Jarl who defied us, I do not give a shit.

The Thralls didn't cheer. They didn't look excited. What they did look was determined. Hungry, almost. I got it. If one thing rang absolutely true for poverty stricken fuckers from back in Camden and poor fuckers in the here and now, the idea of owning your own land, your own place held a deep and abiding allure. Going from slavery to landowners over the course of, what, a month? I had to hand it to Saffron, I think she'd just recruited a chunk of zealots to the cause of the Alliance that would scare even the folks from Camden.

By the tiny, savage smile on her face, she'd done it absolutely deliberately, too.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Just before lunch, I stepped the pair of us back to the throne room. "Hey guys?"

Skasn and Olga looked up from the groups they'd been speaking with. Through the doors, I spotted Weyson, Svart, and Johnson all speaking with small groups as well. "Yes, My Queen?"

"I've got an errand to run. The Imperator will fill on for me for Final Arbitration until I get back."

One of the two dudes in front of Olga called out, "if you're the nice one and you're going to fuck our asses with our own dicks if we annoy you, what's she going to do?"

I didn't bother to answer. Saffron's voice filled the throne room as she sat upon it, back ramrod straight, legs crossed at the ankle. "I will destroy your mind and work your body like a puppet until it is destroyed when we need cannon fodder in Calverton."

I smiled, waved toward my Kitten in a 'see, what did I tell you' gesture, then hopped over to where I saw Ericson's axe. I hefted it over one shoulder and jogged over to where Olga had a Jotnar sized pitcher set beside her. I hopped up onto the rim and, before she could ask me why, scried on Ericson's Jarldom using his Axe as a focus. It took a bit more power than I'd like, and I think Olga's water might have wound up tasting a little of Diaz' own take on Pocari Sweat, but when I saw the brawl in progress on Ericson's Green I dropped his axe and stepped there.

The noise assaulted my ears immediately. A couple dozen guys screaming and flailing at each other. Okay, less than a dozen actively doing so, the rest lying around in some degree of fucked up.

"YO! ASSHOLES!"

They all froze at my shout. Not out of any real expressed sense of intimidation or fear, but with the wary looks of experienced fighters who'd just had something show up that they had no idea how to react to. Of course, the biggest asshole stood in the middle of the group with one big paw clutching the back of each of two smaller guy's heads, like he'd been banging them together until they broke. Morale or skull, pretty sure he didn't care which. He snorted and called out, "fuck off, whore, the men are discussing matters of import."

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and instead of executing the big dumb fuck right then and there, chose the path of Nate Dogg. I stepped to where some soccer ball sized stones defined the edge of the Green, picked one up, and stepped right up in his face. Literally. My first swing shattered some of his teeth. I grabbed his ear, braced one foot in his crotch, and smashed him in the face over and over. Sometime around the third swing his jaw shattered completely, and he toppled forward. My foot hit the ground and I shoved, pushing him up and over backward. I never stopped swinging, although I hammered his ear once and then moved down to his shoulders. Mostly because his other ear, the one I'd been holding onto, came off as a bloody mass of pulp.

One of the two guys he'd been smashing reached down toward me. I caught the motion out of the corner of my eye and lashed out with a boot, catching him square in the sternum. I followed through hard with the kick, and I'm not sure where the fucker landed, but he did clip another couple guys with his legs before he disappeared into the distance. I laughed when I heard him hit with a splash, not at the thought of some overly Viking asshole drowning, but because the water in the air really did twinkle.

After smashing Mister Man of Import's shoulders, I stood up and looked around at the suddenly quiet crowd of big violent assholes around me. Like half of them looked like they thought the results inflicted on Man of Import and Twinkle Toes had been flukes. I sighed, powered up a Heal Injury to deliver through my left boot, and bounced my fuckin' rock off the ground. Through Import's pelvis. Then healed him. Then did it again. By the second time, none of them looked ready to assault me right at that moment. One bounce per word, I said, "Sit. The. Fuck. Down. NOW!"

They fuckin' sat. I dropped my rock into Import's lap, completely failing to heal any resulting damage, because fucker deserved that much pain, and addressed the crowd.

"You fuckers were arguing about who the next Jarl was, weren't you?" At their muttered assent, I said, "I killed Ericson. Unlike you dumb shits, he worked me hard enough for me to get off on granulating his skull with my thighs. You dumb shits wouldn't even do that much. I am Jarl Diaz, you all work for me now. Are we clear?"

They muttered agreement. "ARE WE FUCKIN' CLEAR?"

"YES MA'AM!"

"WHAT'S MY NAME?"

"JARL!"

"Fuckin' right it is." I looked down and dropped a Heal into Import. When his eyes fluttered open, I said, "if I have to kick the shit out of you again, I will get mean about it. Are we gonna have a problem?"

"No?"

I stepped onto the rock, balancing my weight on one foot, rocking onto my toes and back with each word. "Are. We. Going. To. Have. A. Problem?"

"No!"

I didn't hop off, because I wasn't about to do anything even that close to getting off with these little wasteful shits watching. "Okay, here's the deal. I'm gonna Heal you dumb fuckers, because I need you to go do God's Work in Calverton. Some time this afternoon, Seneschal Swanson will be by to collect you, and your ships, and any Thralls ready to fight alongside us in Calverton. If I hear from him that any of you gave him, anyone with him, or any of my Thralls the slightest bit of shit, I swear to fuckin' God you will learn what it feels like to inhale your own teeth through your nose. Are we FUCKING clear?"

"YES, MA'AM!" Even Import managed to get some volume in his answer.

"Good. I'll see you on the King's Green in two days."

My work?

Yeah. Any Glory they earn goes to you. I decided.

Many of them follow Odin, or Tyr, or Thor. Some might follow other Gods as well.

If they have a problem with my dispensation of the Glory earned, I will take an equal amount out of their asses.

I stepped back to the throne room, scooped up my Imperator, plopped my ass in the throne, and set her on my lap not entirely unlike she'd been perched on the throne.

"Are you okay, love?"

I grumped and leaned my elbow on the arm of the throne, my face propped up by my fist. "I'm sick and tired of having to beat the living shit out of assholes who think they ought to be in charge because they can beat the living shit out of everyone else. I. Don't. Want. Shit. Pyramid." I took a deep breath, let it out, and said. "Can I just sit here and play Booster Seat for you for the rest of the day?"

She leaned back, her shoulder blades pressing into my breasts. "I may wiggle a bit if I get uncomfortable."

"I may pretend you need a seat belt and use my arms to buckle you in."

"What will your subjects think?"

"Whatever the fuck you tell them to," I growled.

"Good Girl."

I hated whining, but a whine crept out. I pitched my voice too low to carry beyond her ears. "I want to believe that. I do. I really, really do. But all I've been doing all day is beating the shit out of people who are ostensibly my... fuck, they're not even my allies. They're my subjects. The people I'm supposed to protect and nurture. I'm a fucking shit queen. A Shit Queen of Shit Pyramid."

Saffron reached back, took my hands, and pulled them in front of her waist. Then she drove her fingernails into the backs of my knuckles; not enough to break skin, I don't think, but definitely enough to draw my fuckin' attention away from moping. "As Queen, it is also your duty to administer justice. The men in question disobeyed direct orders in time of war. You could have had them executed."

"Some of them would rather be executed, I think."

She shrugged. "I don't know if the Blood Eagle is real or myth, but you could have imposed it."

"Fuck. Fucking Hell." My voice got a little louder, a lot rougher.

"What's wrong?"

"I don't want to want to see that, and definitely not for the reason I want to see it."

"So don't do it."

I shook my head. "Just say no, huh?"

She purred at me, and if she wriggled, she did so in a fashion that made it look like she was just settling in comfortably. "I'm sure if we really work at it, we can find things to distract you."

Right about then she reminded me that she had, indeed, pulled one of me into the Love Shack for potential Nefarious Goings On. I spent the rest of the day playing booster seat in Norfolk and letting her erase any thoughts of mayhem from my brain back at the Academy.

Overnight chibi Chefs drowned Mimic in shrimp and self-sacrifice until I couldn't even feel the fuckin' Trolls' need for me to be a monster.

After spending most of the morning on a review of the logistics of a war between Troy and Sparta, duBois looked at me. "So, Diaz. Do you have an Order of Battle for us?"

I nodded. "An incomplete one, because those fuck..." I stopped, took a deep breath. "Sorry, guys. The Order of Battle includes some estimates, because our new troops from Norfolk are undisciplined, but there are two thousand Trolls advancing toward Calverton through the Bay now; I figure they and a few Jotnar volunteers will make sure the Undead don't have anything waiting for us underwater. There are," I closed my eyes and focused through where I sat on the throne nominally overseeing the Thing, even though Weyson had been basically running it since breakfast. "two hundred Jarls or fighters of a similar competency; not up to par with our Heroes, but probably equal to what I fought from New Amsterdam and Calverton. We have approximately three thousand additional Warrior type Karls ready to ship out when the last ships arrive, probably with a few dozen more in tow. There are also roughly five thousand Thralls, although they're closer in combat effectiveness to poorly equipped New Amsterdam Levies."

"Most of what makes New Amsterdam Levies dangerous is their armament and armor." Fuckin' Smith.

I nodded and sighed. "Yeah. Their Morale is top drawer, though. They're ready to liberate Calverton or die trying, no in between."

"Anything else?" asked duBois

"I didn't get a count of ships yet; from what Swanson suggested, he's bringing a big chunk. Probably another five hundred Thralls, unless I miss my guess. Other than that, nothing."

DuBois looked at the rest of the class. "Okay, ladies and gentlemen. We've got numbers to work with. Leave some wiggle room, because apparently even with Cadet Diaz motivating them, the Norfolk leadership still has problems with advanced mathematical concepts like counting. Get to work."

I wish I could say I helped out, but honestly I still had way too much pissed off flowing through me whenever I thought about the situation. I wasn't even sure why, just that even after all the freaky violent shit I pulled conquering Norfolk, I had a deep and abiding need to get to Calverton and start wrecking shit as hard and as fast as I could.

Not unlike what Saffron had me doing in the Love Shack all day, really. As class broke for dinner, I pulled an exhausted Marie over me like a blanket, snugged sweat soaked Saffron close to use her lap like a pillow, and sighed in, if not contentment, momentary bliss. "Thanks, you two. I'm sorry, I'm just in a mood, and I can't think of another even vaguely healthy way to let it out."

My whole body got kinda warm and pink when Saffron patted me on the head and said, "Good girl."