(The wagon stops just above the crossroads, overlooking the rainswept farm and it’s strange, single plume of smoke. Rogan covers his mother Dauengard as best he can with Bregg’s shield and two heavy blankets The Thyrd Son’s first mate gave them for the journey. He touches his mother’s face with the tenderness of a son so afraid of losing the one who gave him life.)
“Tyvian. Look. Her eyes are moving again. She seems to be dreaming. I pray to Aethelgrim that soon…well, with his blessing…hope…”
(Tyvian smiles, then touches his friend on the shoulder to reassure him. Rogan covers Dauengard again, then adjusts his helmet one more time before joining the others on the road. The tavern maid is far away while her body heals with amazing grace.)
“The Wyrld is covered in a veil of lavender silk. The clouds are drizzled in the ink of sacred books found in the lessons of my youth. Each one a different shape, spread across the sky like a mothers tears fallen upon a son’s birth mask. My son’s birth mask. My Rogan. My boy, who nearly passed through my fingers before even drawing a single breath of that Amendaran spring morning air into his tiny Migdin lungs. My tears upon the glistening golden mask. ‘A dwarf’s son, they said…does not require a birth mask. They’re a hearty lot and are birthed like cattle’. I stood my ground. My son…is of Nyverian blood…and will have a proper birth mask. A mask of gold fit for a duke. And so it was. My Rogan. My prince of the dwarves in a kingdom of men. Breathe he did. Greedy with every gulp, he kicked and punched his way from my loins with a passion for life. Though it was not my father’s way, my mother taught me to love the gods. So this love I passed on to my son. His father. Such a proud man of Gartenforge…taught Rogan to pray to the Sun, as was the way of his family. His brother Galdenab came to Amendar to assure the safety of his kin, and to be certain that this Migdin prince knew in his heart the truth of both lands. My father fought with his judgements and his magistrate’s declarations. ‘My daughter will never wed a stunted bastard of the cast-off island.’ Our union was ever so important, so married we were. Then from his steely grasp a dowry was declared larger than was custom of our city.
The Wyrld is covered…silk and lavender and the beautiful smile of my Rogan. Married we were. My handsome Cabarns. Married we were. Married… Then so soon…father…so much blood. The magistrate is dead. No longer will he deliver his hatred. No longer his pain. His pain. His pain. Oh, my god….the pain. Gone now. I am no murderess. Someone had to…
Father Bregor, god of love and light and the life-giving sun. Father, cleanse these wounds and restore my spirit. Please…return me to my boy, my handsome boy…my prince of the dwarves in a kingdom of men. Your brother. Blessed be his name. Your sister. Blessed be her name. Go I shall to the abbey by your side and to my end of days I shall serve you…til all the darkness falls. In your glory. In your hands I commend my spirit.
In all things, Seva Koresad, Bregorum Sthah.”