Journal Entry - Obtoxicullous

'Forever condemned to exile is the outcast who is consigned by their own hand. For no pity should be spared on those who pick their own path—These are the words of those who put up the gates and fences.'

This passage has resonated with me for most of my life, as it exquisitely illustrates one point; that the laws and rules of the world are, by design, only there to benefit the few, while professing to benefit the many. But what of Serellia then? How has a country that has more bears than people, managed to exist so peacefully alongside a country like Lorellia, which long ago drove such creatures out of their lands? Surely, there have been many impressive military attempts made to capture the wild north. Serellia is, after all, rich in ore and the rare Ironbark forests that, alone, would move any Lorellian noble to find just cause to take it and see his purse filled for doing so.

Indeed, I could blindly pick any Lorellian town or city and rest assured that the odds were in my favor of it holding more inhabitants than a Serellian one picked out in the same random manner. Why then, has Serellia remained sovereign?

As with anything, the answer is complex, and many folds pleat the fabric of this answer. First, is the weather. The north has only a very short mild summer, framed by fleeting falls and springs, and for the rest of the year, it is held in the tightest grasp of winter. While the season arrives in Lorellia as well, it is not nearly as harsh or prolonged. Serellians spend all the rest of the year preparing for the first blizzard that closes the passes to the northern towns and cities. They stockpile food and resources that they will need when snowed in for weeks or months on end. Those without this ability must move to the southern towns, or catch boats to other countries before the seaways are iced over. All of this means that any invading force would only have a short window of suitable weather for fighting and traveling before they, too, would be subjected to harsh freeze. Supplies and shelter would be costly and difficult to transport, but without them, they would suffer heavy casualties or be forced to retreat.

Then there are the wilds, where not only are there long, grueling winters to contend with, but dire bears and dire wolves; mammoths, saber elk, and the cunning spider folk, or "Utsi" as they call themselves. And above all else, the north is still home to dragons.

Serellia has long been a place of refuge for those creatures run out of Lorellia. Not by choice, but certainly by the marginal disregard for their arrival. It was how the Silent Slough even came into being. Certainly, no Serellian welcomed in all the dark things that reside there now, but they found homes in the frigid swamps and were allowed to flourish in relative safety, as long as they remained out of sight. But I think that the old kings of Serellia were never completely ignorant of what lay in the Slough. They knew what lurked out there in the shadows of their kingdom, and they felt pity for any invading army that stumbled on them unwittingly... For those nightmares would fight more ruthlessly than any human army.

This is why I took such a shine to the Slough... My own small kingdom within a kingdom, and though no official title was ever recognized or sealed, it is mine all the same. Its subjects are ruled by no laws save for that of the natural order of things. You either survive, or you do not...

***

Ardaik 15th - Tulot, Serellia

It wasn't until Artus had gotten to the second floor that he realized he wasn't quite sure what room to find the marquis in. He did, however, spot a familiar face on the opposite end of the south gallery. Captain Spar was speaking with two other guards, one of whom spotted Artus, and tipped his head toward him. Spar followed his comrade's tell, setting eyes on Artus, and saying something to the other two guards before heading in his direction.

"Prince Viotto," he stated, rather than greeted. "Ya haven't run off ta find a place ta faint again are ya?"

Artus raised his chin to meet the hazel eyes of the tall guard as he stopped in front of him. "No. I feel fine, Captain, thank you."

"Then shouldn't ya be at supper still?" Folian asked, tilting his head slightly, dark brows raised while his arms crossed comfortably in front of him.

"I already ate." Artus's tone was dismissively royal in character.

"Did ya need somethin' then? Any help?"

"No," Artus asserted, stepping around Spar to continue on his self-assigned quest. "I want to speak with Lord Cullach before I retire."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"Why're ya headed that way, then?"

Artus stalled to a stop, crossing one leg in front of the other to pivot around, folding his hands behind his back.

Spar wore a small, smug grin that suited his confidant, but relaxed, posture well. "Ya don't know where Bhalthier is, do ya?"

Heat rose to Artus's cheeks and he drew in a deep breath before replying, "Would you care to show me there, Captain?"

"I'm a little busy," Folian replied, laughing immediately at the expression his comment evoked. "It's this way, Yer Highness. Follow me."

When they arrived in front of a door situated in the west wing, Folian raised a fist and rapped briefly on the dark-stained panel. "Cullach, Prince Viotto's 'ere ta see ya," he called against the wood before glancing at Artus and stepping back to wait.

After a few seconds of silence, Artus looked up at Folian. "Perhaps he's sleeping."

The captain scrunched his nose and shook his head. "He's not. Give 'em another minute."

Artus sucked in a breath, holding it for a moment and resisting the urge to wring his hands.

The door handle clanked as it was unlatched and then drifted lazily open by its own weight alone. Cullach's back was to them as he retreated to his table, having only ventured across the room long enough to unfasten the lock while the ink dried from the last scrawled line.

"How can I be of service?" Bhalthier wondered while wetting his quill, his eyes trained on the parchment before him as he sized up his next stroke. But he wasn't writing, this time his work appeared to be of a more intimate nature, an illustration in fact.

Artus didn't move at first. It wasn't often to him that he felt as though he were intruding upon a space, likely from his upbringing. He was a prince, and with the exception of perhaps his father's office or his parent's private room, he generally had the right to go where he pleased.

"Yer up," Folian said, giving the younger man a gentle nudge before striding away down the hall, back to his duties.

After stepping inside, Artus closed the door tentatively behind himself. "You can be of service by teaching me to control my magic."

Bhalthier hesitated in his next stroke for only a moment before making his delicate line across the page.

"That is what the Citadel is for..." he said plainly, his art still consuming the majority of his attention as he forged his next series of strokes. "...That is their entire function after all," he added, this time managing a short glance in the Lorellian's direction.

"Then why didn't you send me there when you were invited to?" Artus was careful to keep his tone more inquisitive than accusatory. "That would've been the simplest action to take... To hand me off to them while they were in Homenil, but you chose not to. Surely, there was a reason."

Bhalthier's lips tightened as he withdrew his hand from its intention and instead stared intensely at his artwork as if searching for his answer between the plains of black and white. But his answer was not as straightforward. It existed in the realm of moral grey that was near impossible to capture on paper, a world muddied by emotions and personal motives that refused to be constrained to a world of black and white.

"To understand that, you'd have to understand that my relationship with the Citadel is not entirely impartial... For an adult, the Citadel is a place of academia and boundless knowledge. It can even be enjoyable to some... But for a child, especially one that had been abandoned there against their will, it can be a very cold and lonely place. Mages who prove to be a danger to themselves and others are subjected to far crueler evaluation than those innocuous mages, like myself. In short... I suppose I was only delaying the inevitable... I just didn't know it at the time..." Saying it out loud however, didn't seem to settle well on the Marquis, he had done what he had to allow Artus to have a choice. A choice that he'd never been given, and Artus had chosen him.

He set the quill down and pushed his chair back, rubbing a hand over his face as he thought. "I never intended to apprentice anyone..."

Artus took a few steps toward the table, seeming to almost drift there from the elegance of his gate. He tilted his head, studying the marquis's artwork before finally speaking. "I don't believe you intended much of this, but it's up to us to decide what we do from here, is it not?" Artus lifted his face to look directly at Bhalthier. "I've done what I wanted to do, and the results of that were..." Artus swallowed. Disastrous... Incorrigible. He'd put both Rowan and Flann in horrific danger, and Rowan had seemingly paid the price for it. His eyes grew glossy, and he was so quick to look back toward the illustration that he nearly made himself dizzy as he issued a brief sniffle. "...very unfortunate. I cannot allow what befell my home city to happen here... Nor anywhere else, if there's even the slightest chance that I can do something to prevent it...and I believe that you can help me, Lord Cullach. Provided that you're willing."

"Say that I am and that I agree... What of you then? I can't imagine it will be long before I receive a rather polite letter from your father, wondering why no one has bothered to inform him of your whereabouts. I'm sure that the next to follow will be considerably less amiable. I find it rather incriminating on my part to harbor you in my home—or anywhere in Serellia—without first knowing your intentions and why you seem to find it necessary to conceal them from your family."

"I'll compose a letter explaining my intention to stay for a time." Artus's gaze searched the room, almost as if it were as cluttered as Bhalthier's actual study in Homenil, only he wasn't trying to search for any physical thing... "I just need a reason that my father would find less objectionable than the truth."

"Then find it quickly. I mean to return to Homenil at first light."

The statement drew Artus's immediate attention. "So soon?"

"I only came for the assembly. I'd leave presently, but my driver deserves to rest, even if I cannot."

Artus's fingers drummed briefly against his leg. "Who are you drawing?" he asked, motioning with his chin towards the page on the desk. There were eyes, a nose, and the beginnings of other features implied, though not really enough for Artus to even distinguish if the lovely subject was even a man or a woman.

"I don't know her name..." Bhalthier admitted dragging his fingers over the dried ink strokes. "A side effect of melding minds with so many people is that their memories get tangled in with my own... I feel like I've met people, have traveled to places, or experienced doing things that I never have."

"Does that make your self-imposed solitude more comfortable?" Artus asked. "Less to regret missing out on?"

"No. False memories, even vivid ones are little more than dreams," Bhalthier said as he slid the picture aside and out of view and then settled his gaze back on Artus. "But I've made do." The rings under his eyes looked particularly dark in the dim candlelight.

"If I were to not go back with you in the morning, would I be able to have a carriage bring me in a few days?"

"Artus, if you have more important things to do, then so do I. The Citadel is always open whenever your schedule will allow."

The prince frowned. "I see. First light, then." Artus strode promptly back towards the door. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Lord Cullach."