The first day after

When my companions and I emerged from the catacombs, it was a blinding winter afternoon. Our eyes, after so long in the soft glow of lanterns and what magical light I could produce, stung and smarted. However, we welcomed the sunlight, and the sharp air-- it felt cleansing, after all that had gone on below ground.
Many of us dropped to our knees in thanksgiving for our deliverance... from what we still thankfully do not know what. We had been outmatched at the onset. The foul creatures that we encountered left all of us wounded, some more sorely than others. The powers granted to me by Estereal were stretched thin protecting us. I looked forward to being able to rest in a quiet place and heal. Unfortunately, the journey to such a place would take days through the frozen wilderness, which could be as deadly as the foes we were leaving behind.
I take this time now to scribble down a few notes, not knowing what day it is. We must now resume our sore and weary way, and make use of the light we have left.

The second day after

This being the night of our second camp. That first night, we barely had strength to kindle a fire for the man on watch. I remember Oris, his round face cherry red from the fire, trying vainly to keep his hands warm as he studied. I slept like a dead man until I was awakened by Ragnar for the early watch. His breath had frozen on his beard, making him look like some sort of wintry apparition. I sat the early morning watch, almost too numb to pray.
That day dawned gray and colder than the one before. The smell of snow was in the air. We had a meager meal, and set off. Jarvis, our ranger, urged us forward, saying a storm was coming and we needed shelter-- a grove, or a hill to break the wind. The air seemed to get thicker, and the first falling snow began, muffling sounds. We pushed on, in our cold, hunger and weariness lacking the energy to talk. The snow grew heavier, and the world around us began to shrink until I could barely see the man in front of me. I felt a fear growing in my belly, and prayed for Estereal to aid us between each ragged breath.
As the trail took us near the tree line, we could see a dark shape in the snowfield ahead. The promise of shelter. As we stumbled toward it, we could see that instead of a rude crack or crevice, which would have been more than welcome, we could see the mouth of a cave that extended into the rock out of the screaming wind.
As we trooped in, the first thing I noticed was the stillness and quiet, out of the wind of the blizzard. And then, we heard a cry from back within, from the darkness.
I kindled a light to push back the dimness, and saw we were in no ordinary cave. I stood transfixed, as the others moved forward to investigate the cries. We were standing in a shrine carved out of the living rock. Pillars appeared to support the arched roof, the walls were covered in frescoes that I recognized as being typical of the Azkalites. Of course, whose worshipers would carve their shrine out of a mountain?
The cries had been emanating from the area of the altar, but had stilled. I could see nothing but the backs of the men standing around it, until Ragnar turned toward me, a bundled form in his hands. A baby.
After all the horrors we had been through, the hungry squalls of a child were unfamiliar to my ears. We gathered around Ragnar, staring in wonderment at the pink face and pudgy arm that were all that poked out of the swaddling clothes. The child had a firm grip on Ragnar's bushy beard, and stared up at him through clear blue eyes. We all wondered-- how could a child get to such a place? And how wonderful that it did not perish from hunger and cold before we came onto it?
As we gazed in awe at this apparent miracle, the child broke the silence with the perfectly mundane cry of an infant who wants to be fed. Ragnar looked at us, and we all looked at Ragnar.
As I write this entry, I am full of questions. Is it the child's bad luck to be found by us, only to die of hunger and cold as we journey forth? Is there a purpose to our finding her? Who could have brought her here, without being trapped by the storm? And, of course, who among us was going to take care of her? None of us had children of our own. Round-faced Oris loved magic, food, and the company of women; rangy Jarvis preferred to roam the wilds; I, myself, was occupied with spreading the law of Estereal; bull-necked Ragnar, to whose beard the child still clung, seemed the only choice.
Ragnar had a wife back home, to whom he hoped to return with enough gold to start a new life for both of them. With Estereal's blessing, he would now be able to do so; his share of the treasure, which seemed so meager to the rest of us, would allow him to start his own smithy. I suppose it is important to keep things in perspective, and to remember what really matters. For Ragnar, it was the chance to practice a trade he loved independently of any master, and thus provide for his wife and their children to come. Indeed, if the child survived, he and his wife would have a head start in expanding their family.
Jarvis, knowledgeable in the ways of animals, suggested that perhaps the child might be able to eat food chewed up for it, as we had no milk. Oris contributed that the timely application of certain small magic he possessed would make unwrapping the child from her swaddlings unnecessary. I offered to convey Estereal's blessings upon the child, for she surely would need them. In this way, we all were the child's family, with Ragnar playing the part of the mother, and the rest of us uncles, aunts, and cousins.
As I write this, I am silently amused by the sight of Ragnar tending to the infant. After her meal of chewed iron rations, her cries were stilled and she was content to gaze up at her mother with her big blue eyes. We had been hard pressed not to laugh while Ragnar was feeding her, chewing carefully then extracting soft morsels with his finger to feed the child-- so solicitous, so tenderly! Then he would glare at us fiercely from under his bushy eyebrows, daring us to laugh, and we would all suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere.
Darkness is falling. Oris' magic lights the shrine, and reflects off the snow still swirling outside. I hold the inkwell close to my chest to prevent it from freezing; Oris studies wrapped in a blanket, with only his stubby nose peeking out. Jarvis practices sword drills in the corner, his breath like smoke, his movements like a dancers. I glance from time to time at Ragnar, with the infant. He is cooing and poking her belly to make her laugh, and the sound of her giggling is like soothing balm to my battered spirit. I have a vision of Ragnar, ten years from now, using his hammer to shoe horses and make scythes, and playing with his children in the evenings much like this. I feel suddenly optimistic; I am certain that we all, the child too, will make it safe and sound to our loved ones at home.
I think I shall name the child tomorrow, at first light.

The Third Day

I took the last watch, as is my custom. My heart lifted in me to hear the dissipation of the storm winds in the darkness, and to see the pink dawn lighten a clear sky. Joyously, I murmured morning prayers, feeling as if I heard the words for the first time, and woke the others.
The sun had not arisen, but its coming stained the virgin snow a pale rose. I instructed the others to collect their gear and wait outside, as I prepared myself for the infants naming ceremony. I thought back on the other naming ceremonies I had witnessed or been a part of, back in my home parish. The rising sun would stream through the stained glass windows upon the hushed congregation, the intonations of the priest would echo from the church's stone walls, and the rumbling of the congragation's response would wash upon one like waves on a seashore. Taking my priestly stole from my pack, and folding it over my heavy cloak, I slowly walked out to where the group was gathered, with Ragnar holding the tightly swaddled infant in the center.
Ragnar was as nervous as any father on the naming-day of his issue, and the others shifted about in the cold morning air. The infant, however, looked out at me with calm blue eyes. I could feel the the sun was about to rise like a pressure in the back of my head, and could almost pretend that the rosy predawn light was the light streaming through the windows of my home church. I uncorked the last precious bottle of holy water and began the ceremony:

We are here to welcome this new child among us.
Who shall protect her?
Estereal: Lawgiver, Kingwatcher, Measurer. Lead her in the paths of righteousness.
Estereal, protect this child
Soltana: Lady of Mercy, Matchmaker, Good Sister. Grant her joy and compassion.
Soltana, protect this child
Azkal: Flamebringer, Warlord, General's Ally. Give her strength in times of struggle.
Azkal, protect this child
Jvelto: Great Captain, Oceanlord, Lifegiver. Shield her from the elements.
Jvelto, protect this child
Wajen: Mother Nature, Great Mother, Provider. Grant her plenty.
Wajen, protect this child
Torodin: Shadowmaster, Nightwalker, Dream Master. Lend her clear sight.
Torodin, protect this child

With each phrase, my sense of being in a mighty cathedral grew; with the cliff forming the altar wall, the tree line behind us the back, and the rosy arch of the sky its roof. The responses of our small party seemed to echo and resonate in the still air, and the smoke from their breath brought to mind clouds of fragrant incense. As the first golden limb of the sun rose above the horizon, I reached toward the child with a finger dipped in holy water, the sound of her name echoing clearly in my head:
With the gods as witnesses, I name you this day: Ester. As I traced the holy symbol of my faith on her forehead, the air seemed charged, as if by a storm. And although the air was clear, I felt I heard a far-off peal of thunder, like a great bell.
We welcome the child Ester among us
So let it be written
So let it be done
The weight that seemed to hang upon the air dissipated as the echoes of the last refrain faded. The sun was now fully above the horizon, bathing the child's face in light. She scrunched up her rosy face and sneezed, bringing a chuckle from us. It was time to get moving.
All along that days journey I was preoccupied and perplexed. During the naming ceremony, nature itself seemed to participate. There seemed to be something significant about this child, that perhaps she was destined for great things. Of course, I am not a proficient reader of signs and portents, but even the most exacting priest of Torodin would agree that the circumstances of her discovery and naming were unusual, to say the least. Found by chance in an empty shrine of Azkal? In the dead of winter? And while my subjective experiences during the ceremony could be put aside as the fancies of a cold and hungry man, the fact remains that I never intended to name the child Ester at all. I was going to name her Marga, after Ragnar's mother Margaurite. I had heard the smith mentioning his desire to name his first daughter after her. However, I probably felt in the back of my mind that invoking some additional measure of Estereal's protection might be called for, given her current circumstances.
We descended back into the tree line, where the bright sun set the snow sparkling among the bare, black trees. To accompany my musings, there was the crunching sound of Jarvis breaking trail ahead, the twittering of the forest creatures emerging after the storm, and the muffled voices of Oris and Ragnar ahead of me. They were discussing the meal they were going to have when we found an inn-- beef stew versus roast goose, I believe. The child, Ester, was bundled so deep in Ragnar's clothing that nothing was heard from her until we stopped for a midday meal, when she loudly demanded to be fed. Just like any other, ordinary baby.
We stopped as twilight was beginning. Oris cleared the campsite as Ragnar and I gathered wood for a fire. Jarvis ghosted off into the growing gloom and returned with a scrawny buck too slow for his bow. The sizzling meat was a welcome change from our meager rations, and everyone around the fire ate their fill.
As I write this, Jarvis is stomping off for more wood. Ragnar has broke a thigh bone, feeding her the rich marrow on his finger. Miraculously enough, most of the marrow actually went in her rather than on her, unlike most feeding infants I have seen. Oris, somnolent with his belly full of roasted deer meat, nods off facing the fire. I myself am drowsy, warm from the fire. Jarvis believes we may only be a day from a nearby caravan road, and may be able to reach an inn by nightfall. My old bones long for the return to civilization, and the routine activities of my home parish.

12 Esterealan

Blessed be to Estereal! We have reached Honest Al's Inn For the Wearye of Feete. Indeed, I believe we qualify. Oris and Ragnar settled their argument by each having beef stew and roast goose, with hot mulled wine besides. I myself partook of the kidney pie, and felt my insides start to thaw out. Ester was immediately adopted by the barmaids, and got a proper bottle of warmed goats milk. Ragnar kept one eye on his food and one on Ester, who was being fed and cooed at by the maids, also Honest Al's daughters. Ester was nonplused by all this feminine attention, and concentrated on her meal.
Ragnar asked for hot water so he could bathe the child, which was grudgingly given after Esters two new nursemaids were repeatedly assured that Ragnar knew not to burn, drop, or drown the child, and would for heavens sake dry her quickly before she caught cold. The two maids brought the water, and had to be vigorously shooed out before I could return to my journal and Ragnar could bathe his daughter in peace.
And then the third odd thing happened. Ragnar was unwrapping her from her swaddlings for the first time, and we caught sight of markings on her back. He gave a cry and motioned me to come closer. Across Esters pudgy little back spread what looked like a tattoo of ox horns. One more mystery; how the child got to the shrine, how she survived, and where did she get a tattoo, of all things. Such a fearful thing it is for any parent to see something wrong in their child! At a loss to explain how the tattoo got there, I reassured Ragnar that the child was happy and healthy, and moreover had the blessings of all the gods bestowed upon her. Whoever left her in the shrine was probably responsible for her tattooing, and while the mysteries of the worshipers of Azkal are often impenetrable, whoever tattooed her meant her no harm.
And thus I quieted Ragnar's fears. And my own. Although the question of how the markings got there, and why, still nagged at me, I realized that the markers intent was probably not malicious. Until we knew more, the tattoo was only a curiosity. I left Ragnar happily bathing the child, and went to find Oris. To the bar, naturally, where he was entertaining the barmaids with tales of adventure and excitement.
Oris knew no significance of tattoos or markings, but asked if he could try to erase the mark. What kind of husband, he put to me, would want a woman with horns on her back? We reentered the room, finding Ragnar drying the gurgling infant. We asked Ragnar to show us the child's back.
Oris remarked on the quality of the tattoo, the clarity of its lines, its strong, sweeping strokes, until Ragnar gave him a baleful glance. A mumbled phrase, a mystic pass and--- Nothing. Oris scratched his balding pate, rolled up his sleeves, and spoke a string of harsh words, tracing the tattoo as he went. The child giggled, and the tattoo remained as clear as ever.
Oris frowned, and was reaching into one of his many pouches when I stayed his hand. I suggested that perhaps the tattoo was meant to stay there. I passed my holy symbol over it, invoking Estereal's aid, and felt no answering prickle of evil. Oris shrugged, and returned to his attempts to charm the barmaids. Ragnar looked at me, and allowed that it really was a nice tattoo, and entirely appropriate for a smith's daughter. We smiled at each other.
Preparing to sleep, I send up a special prayer to whomever created warm beds. Tomorrow, we travel like civilized men!

And then...

That next day, my companions and I joyfully parted. Oris back to his master to the south, Jarvis back to his work patrolling the woods of the local Reeve, Ragnar back to his waiting wife. I can only imagine the reception he will get when he returns home safe, and with the most precious of treasures. We made promises to see one another again, and I made especial care to note down the location of Ragnar's town. I felt I might want to check up on little Ester someday.
With mixed feelings, I headed back to my home parish. I would miss my traveling companions, and feared I might find the routine activities of our church dull after the adventures I had been through. Yet, after leagues of muddy and snowy roads, rancid food and sour wine, I felt my heart lift joyfully as I began recognizing bends in the road.
It was all I could do to prevent myself from spurring my mount into a gallop when I espied the edge of town. Was it my imagination, or did the day seem a bit brighter over the parish church? I cried out joyfully when I saw the familiar figures of Brother Aaron and Brother Simms running to meet me and take my horse. After long and weary journeying, I was home!