Below is an excerpt from Foul Moon. It's a first draft, pre-revision. It is set in Ketva of 709 (C. 20,520-2), about 50 years before the campaigns of Poison and Starvation take place. Consummon is not yet a threat. This is my first time putting writing for Ochre out there so uh. have fun i suppose. I'll post more from other projects in a moment as well.
The best quality for a martyr to have, Varron thought, is to die easily. Not too much fuss, fight, or to-do. He considered them much like the delicate tissue-paper figurines that he loved to make, and in fact was folding in his hands at this very moment. A beautiful presentation, but one that would crumple at the slightest touch. After all, no one wants a martyr who puts up too much of a fight. That turns them instead into a hero. Less relatable.
Especially no one wants a martyr who survives. They only have one job - and an easy one, at that. Varron could see exactly how to do it, if he were so inclined. All he would have to do is pick a cause he believed in, find a few people to carry on the torch in his absence, and throw himself into danger. And when the predictable happened, the masses and media would delude themselves into sadness for this one innocent soul. Meanwhile, the torchbearers would weaponize this sadness for the good of their cause. A simple plan. And the more beautiful, perfect, and pristine the martyr's presentation was, the uglier the hand would be that crushed it.
Take, for example, Lydrelor's Lamb. Until a few weeks ago, Viola Leaf-luck was known only to her small community as a paragon of good will. She was charitable, a follower of the Lovers, and special emphasis was being placed in the newspapers on her everyday acts of kindness to her fellow common men. Holding doors, hosting feasts for the hungry, even teaching the children of her town as best as she could in her own home.
But then, a few months ago, violence reached her doorstep. Tensions between two different sub-races of elves - plains-elves and wood-elves - reached a boiling point, and soon, an all-out massacre began. In just this past year, close to three million wood elves were killed through a campaign called the Backburn. When the Backburn finally reached the east coast of Lydrelor, Viola Leaf-luck obviously did not flee. She could have, very easily - her husband, Metsumar, was a high-ranking official in the militia. But instead, she chose to stay and hold the metaphorical door open for other refugees. Other wood-elves, like herself.
She was caught one night trying to smuggle a small group of refugees across the border to Mahmlar. She told the refugees to run, while she held off the few men. However, Viola was not a fighter. She fell to the first blow. Conveniently, there was an ex-journalist in the group that Viola protected. He was skilled at recounting the exact happenings of certain events. And, more conveniently, he possessed a scenecap runestone. Within the next few days, the picture of Viola being struck down by the Huntsmen was circulating in newspapers all across the world. And so, Lydrelor's Lamb was born. And Varron Virvelheim's mind kept wandering back to the topic, no matter how hard he tried to stop it.
This was one such time. As Varron came back to himself in one sudden rush, he shook his head, as though physically tossing out the thoughts.
"Not appropriate," he mumbled to himself. He refocused his attention on the delicate figure in his hands. Layers upon layers of multi-colored tissue paper were folded precisely over one another, rippled and crimped in spots to prevent their unraveling. Together, they made up the form of a small river-bird that often basked in the creek behind his home. As he looked, he chased away the thought of how easy it would be to crush, to malform, and leave his sister with no birthday present.
Inappropriate indeed.
Varron sighed, and set the bird down onto his desk. He would wrap it later. First, he needed a walk to clear his head. He made his way down the stairs of his two-story home, debating internally on what flavor of ice cream he should purchase from the corner shop. But just as he met the front door, his mother called out to him from the kitchen.
“Varron! Come in here.”
He sighed for the second time in as many minutes, hand still poised on the doorknob. “Yes? What is it?”
“Just come in here.”
Varron closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for patience, before acquiescing. He found his mother, Liriana Virvelheim, sitting at the round kitchen table. Around her, piles of papers, magazines, and discarded keno slips laid, intermixed with cigarette butts and remains of last night’s dinner. He eyed the sink - full of dishes that were days overdue from their promised cleaning - but said nothing about it. Instead, he directed his question to his mother.
“Yes?”
“Don’t give me that look.” Liriana said. “I’m going to do them tonight.”
“Ma, I’m not worried about the dishes. What am I in here for?”
“I wanted to talk to you about the party tonight. Apparently, Zahl isn’t feeling well. He doesn’t want to get us sick, so the party is postponed until next weekend.”
Varron bit back a groan. Zahl Kirigan, the new husband of his sister, was often a piece of work in his opinion. “And how does Laila feel about this?”
“Oh, he says she’s fine with it. After you get past a certain age, a birthday is just a day, you know?”
Varron was going to reply, but decided not to fight. Instead, he just nodded. “Thank you for telling me, then. I’ll use the extra time to work more on my gift.”
“Good idea,” Liriana replied.
Varron found it an appropriate time to take his leave, finally escaping into the crisp fall air. Once outside, he relaxed, taking a deep breath. The smell of pine was strong on this unseasonably warm day. Soon, he knew that it would become too cold to smell much of anything. So he savored the scent for a moment longer, before straightening his jacket and beginning his short journey.