It had been a bad day.
Kane peered at the words. No. No, actually bad implied something else. He bit his lip and sucked his teeth, willing the right words to come. The journal remained impassive, the blank page like a closed door to him. This day had been…
He felt his thought slipping into elipsis. Today had been…
His quill tapped ugly blotches on the vellum. He was making a mess but frustration compelled him to continue.
Today had been…
The new town at Hollow Tooth Hill had been finished. Livestock and worker families had moved into new dwellings. That had been good; the workers were now labouring in the copper mines under Hollow Tooth and a steady, if not impressive profit was already swelling the coffers. That was a good.That was very good.
It’s just that he had seen it before. He had planned that town almost two centuries ago and had it raised within a week with his Kislevite workforce. He had then seen that town smashed to bits, like an infant tumbling blocks, when the orc army had come west. He had seen its pieces picked over by the bastard Striganny, the mercinary gypsies theaving scraps from the rubble. He had rebuilt that town again after Vlads Great War and all the ignonimities that had enforced upon them. He had been helpless as his own kin, mad with decadance and power kicked it down and the ordered domain he had created and then burn great scars into the land.
Back in the first days, when he had commissioned new maps of the land, the place had been named Green Tooth, the copper oxide leaving stains in the soil and water. After the civil strife caused by Vlads botched power struggle, the mines had become infested with the petty evils the Striganny had helped him create and other, lost things. It was a small wonder that the name had changed and even the cartographers paid attention to the locals instead of the lords.
Yes, that memory soured his day. Kane made a note of it in his journal. Am I doomed to repeate this pattern of rebuild and ruin, rebuild and ruin, over and over again until I am dust or something worce?
He had tried to examine his motives several times and with disarming honesty had discovered that, yes, he was a creature of habit and routine, his very existance tied into salvaging and reording chaos and destruction. It was not a cheering thought.
He put the journal aside, angry at its contents. He kicked his boots off, sending the cracked leather rolling onto the old rug. Someone would see to that. Mertha perhaps.
Only when he leaned back in his seat did he realise that the fire was not lit. In fact the old logs lay untidy in the grate, the home of spiders and beetles not fire. Then he remembered that Mertha was dead. She had been his nursemaid as a child. She had passed when he was forty.
The door opened behind him. Something tottered across grey threads, old bones creaking audibly. A brown and black skeleton knelt to strike a fire and pick up his boots.
Kane felt his lip curl as the revanant responded to his unconsious will. This day had not been a bad one. No. No, actually bad implied something else. Today was…