Franz Lohner's Chronicle - A Quiet Solstice
An absent-minded man of mysteries, Franz Lohner relies on his bulging journal to keep track of occurrences, intrigues and arguments around Taal's Horn Keep. Sometimes his notes are even useful, believe it or not. The Franz Lohner Chronicles are extracts from that journal.
Mondstille’s upon us, and as usual we’ve got one of those little breathers. It’s strange, ain’t it, how even the most black-hearted and bestial decide to pack it in when we hit the solstice? Some things transcend squabbles. Then again, I do find it strange. Seems like it was only yesterday we were having our little Mondstille celebrations. I mentioned it to Olesya, and she told me it was either Tzeentch playing silly games with the nature of causality, or I was getting old and forgetful – which coming from that baggage is a little bit rich, if you don’t mind my saying.
None of that’s to say that the Pactsworn have packed things in. No… I’m sure the Ubersreik Five are keeping good and busy when they’re away from home, though for the most part they seem to be acquiring provisions more than anything else.
Bardin, of course, is never one to shirk the preparations for a feast – even if no one else is much minded to small the “delicious” selections of cheeses, curds and dried meats he insists on providing. Come to think of it, I’m fairly sure a lot of them are exactly the same as the ones he presented last year. Even got Kruber’s tooth marks, in one or two cases. Still, he’s tracked down plenty of Bugman’s ale – increasingly a rarity – and after enough of that you’re not notice if you’re accidentally chewing down on a Troll’s Finger Surprise.
Kruber and Sienna, no strangers to culinary largesse, have overseen most of the rest. The whole mountainside’s smothered in the aromas of roasted meats and spilt spirits. An entire cask of Estalian brandy broke open on the rocks outside the main gate just this afternoon, and I reckon if anyone strikes a tinderbox before sun up tomorrow, the entire hillside’s likely to go up in flame.
And then there’s Kerillian. She’s never much bothered with this sort of “mayfly merriment” in years past.
Assuming years have actually passed. Bloody Tzeentch, stopping a body knowing if he’s coming, going or standing still.
Back to Kerillian. She’s garlanded the trees on the keep approach with all manner of woven decorations. Claims they’ll keep evil spirits at bay until Mondstille’s over, she does. I thought the holly ones were particularly delightful. Through some trickery, she’d managed to shape them into the form of spikey little figurines no more than a hand’s breadth high. Sweet little things, until they climbed down the trees and started attacking the servants. The more things change around here, the more they don’t, if you take my meaning. Which is probably why Victor’s in his quarters, muttering and praying, and banging on the ceiling whenever Bardin’s singing gets too loud. Doesn’t know to quit when he’s ahead, does Salty. Better the singing than the brass instruments, after all.
Anyway, I’d better go show my face before the Bugman’s is all gone, or disaster – rather, a different kind of disaster – befalls. Happy Mondstille to all, and we’ll see what the New Year brings.
If it is a New Year.
Bloody Tzeentch.