Aris Cretu's Journal
Third of August, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War
Sgt. Gork's squad (including Tam and I) pulled goat-trail duty. Everyone's getting rotated through it, but those skirmishes up in the clouds are close and brutal affairs if the camp whispers are true.
On the other hand, Tam and I are now properly armored. It'll take a few days before we're used to wearing it, but I for one am not about to turn down good equipment. A full set of scale mail costs much more than I'd make in my life back in Sapphire as a fisherman. Add in the greatsword, and I don't think I've ever seen this much wealth just issued to one person.
We have two days of drill to get used to our new equipment, then its up into the mountains for perhaps my first taste of battle.
I hope Tam and I both get to come back down the mountains alive.
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Shaman's Record
Fifth of August, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War
Shaman Koroc the Singer of Clan Glacierheart recording.
The fighting along the goat trails is growing more vicious. Warriors are notoriously tough, but the Elders have decided to start sending shamans along to heal the injured in the field. It sounds so simple when stated that way. Warriors that would otherwise not make it back alive will now do so, and infections and disease should go down as well.
But shamans are more than just healers. We are living emblems of belief, and wise eyes and ears. I think Elder Wolfbite and Elder Vuggie intend us to be a restraining influence on some of the more aggressive scouts, some of whom are disappointed that the humans are too smart to send Pikes chasing along those mountain trails to be picked off.
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Shaman's Record
Seventh of August, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War
Shaman Koroc the Singer of Clan Glacierheart recording.
Transcribed from field notes and memory.
The humans we saw up on the goat-trails were laughably pathetic. For all of their impressive equipment, none of them wore it well. We heard them clanking about and crashing through the bushes long before we saw them.
And if my eyes did not deceive me, the humans must be desperate for warriors indeed. The squad was led by a half-orc, whose blood is inherently divided against itself, and had at least one female in it. Elder Vuggie is a strong warrior indeed, but she is the exception, not the rule, and fights three times as hard as any other warrior under her command just to keep challengers at bay.
The scouts I'm following are headed back out on the morrow. If we find those same humans again, I'm going to recommend that we kill them instead of letting them slip away again.
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Aris Cretu's Journal
Ninth of August, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War
I have tasted battle, and found it vile.
We were ambushed up on the goat-trails, but Sgt. Gork held us together. I know not how long we fought for, but as soon as it was safe, I threw up. Tam was a shaking wreck, and most of the other recruits were somewhere between the two of us.
Head-count came up three short, and two others are hurt. Just like that, the squad is short one man in five.
We are to be up here for another three days, then we can head down and rest. It can't come soon enough for me.
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Shaman's Record
Eleventh of August, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War
Shaman Koroc the Singer of Clan Glacierheart recording.
Transcribed from field notes and memory.
We did find the same squad again, and I can see why the Scouts find it so hard to restrain themselves. My blood pounded in my veins, and I have never felt so alive.
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
I must also, to my shame, credit the humans I scored with more prowess than I had thought possible. The half-orc led his band well, and both the female and one or two other men distinguished themselves in the fighting. We had to fall back, dragging our dead and injured with us.
I have sung the death-song for four orcs this day, and healed a fifth. He will not fight for some weeks while he heals, but will still have the full use of his arm at the end of that time.
I gave my report to the Elders, and was then asked to record their gathering as to the timing of the main attack. Elder Lokk still wants to strike now, but Elder Vuggie wants to wait until the end of the harvest. It it the raider's debate: strike early, capture humans and force them to harvest the crops for you, or strike late and capture the already-harvested crops? Striking early leaves raiders in the field longer, risking more fighting, and requires taking humans alive, Often difficult to do. Striking late risks starvation however, as a failed raid will leave the clan short of food with the snow flying in the air.
Elders Otab and Wolfbite are of a more vicious mind. They plan to strike in the middle of the harvest. Human slaves or not, there will be food to take if Glacierheart does not hold the fort at the end of things.
Elder Wolfbite worries me however. I was seated next to him when the meeting ended, and he muttered something about fields on fire.
This fall and winter will be forever sung of in the Clan-songs. Whether they are songs of triumph or sorrow is yet to be seen.
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Chronicler Vian's Log
Seventeenth of August, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War.
The fighting along the goat-trails is going well. Ironbark is winning as much or more then the orc Clans are. The question on the Captains mind is how many orcs we face. They have yet to show their full strength, and have left the fort untouched, the farms un-raided. This is most unusual.
Our fortification efforts are well underway. The captain is concentrating Ironbark's efforts on the outposts closest to the orcs in case they strike during the harvest. The garrison is lending their aid for now, weaving construction efforts into their field-tending work. They may not be worth much in a fight (I'd take our recruits over their numbers), but they are more than willing to defend their homes.
I need to begin the search for a real Assistant Chronicler. Old Leon's help is invaluable, but he will not live forever. And if I have to train someone to read and write, then I should start looking now. Ironbark always keeps a Log, passed down from Chronicler to Chronicler, all the way back to the Founding. I may be worrying without need, but there is this itch that I just cannot scratch.
There are still drums in the night. I can but hope that Ironbark survives the winter.
Addendum: The Captain is drafting a letter back to the Jeweled Cities, informing them of the circumstances and asking for reinforcements.
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Chronicler Vian's Log
First of September, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War.
A reply from the Jeweled Cities has arrived, and it is not good. On the surface, they express their confidence that Ironbark can hold their own against any raiders. That reinforcements are being assembled, just in case they are needed, and will be moving towards the border by the end of November.
The stench becomes stronger, and the fuse on this particular powder keg is now burning from two ends.
The Jeweled Cities intend for Ironbark to provoke the orc Clans into an attack by our very presence on the border, and for us to take the brutal shock of their raids. Inevitably, even with the garrison, there are too few of us to prevent all casualties. The Jeweled Cities intend to use those casualties as an excuse to launch a war of their own. The 'reinforcements' aren't there to reinforce us, but to pick up the pieces.
It is a callous maneuver, but not unheard of in the Logs. Ironbark does not abandon contracts, but this has put the Jeweled Cities on our Blacklist. We will never take another one of their contracts again.
As for the local Westmarchers, their ire is only smoldering for the moment. Should the betrayal become common knowledge however, then the Gods alone know where this Westmarch War will end.
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Aris Cretu's Journal
Ninth of September, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War.
The harvest has begun, but the celebrations are soured. There are ugly rumors being passed around. Betrayal from on high, back stabbed by the Council of the Jeweled Cities, winter war. The veterans all look sour, like they bit a biscuit and found half a maggot. The local Westmarchers are worse however. They may be waiting to see how this all plays out, but the Council is in for a rude surprise if they expect this to all blow over.
They only way the Council comes out of this intact is if the orcs slaughter us, and are slaughtered in turn. They can afford no survivors to tell the tale.
It will take some time for this to fully sink in among the garrison, but as Lady SiDabolo would say, the Council will reap what they have sown. And they have sown a hurricane fit to wash them away. The Garrison and the newbloods of Ironbark, Tam and I included, are coming to an unspoken agreement. The Council can take their war and cram it up their asses. Westmarch will stand, and Ironbark will stand with them.
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Shaman's Records
Fifteenth of September, Seven Hundred and Sixty Ninth year since the Seminal War
Shaman Elder Wolfbite Galcierheart recording.
There is little holding the Clan back now. The war drums are beating, and Warlord Elder Lokk the Brutal is leading the chants. We go to war with the dawn.
But I take it upon myself to write in the Records once again for good reason. I can point to nothing real, but I have this feeling of a third hand of another in this. A third cook stirring the pot, fouling the stew.
I have cast the bones, and one always lands in the shadows, its runes concealed from the firelight. This Ironbark Company is more than the eye shows, and perhaps they know more then they tell.
But the Clan is going to war, and there is no stopping it. I can but hope that this will stop with raiding, and not escalate into atrocity. My dreams of fields on fire haunt me still.