Richard
Wybert Easome
Somewhere in a pine forest, The Witherlands

A small group of men, 4 to be exact, made their way in the deep snow, each armed with a weapon, stolen from a foe slain on some battlefield probably. The leader of the group had strapped a sword to his hip, his cloak hiding his chainmail. The 2 bandits behind him were armed with a axe and a mace, as the one in the back carried an bow and a dozen arrows. One of the bandits, the one with the mace, turned to face the archer, who had stopped. "What is it? Did ya run out of breath?" The archer didn't respond, falling forwards, An arrow stuck to his back. As he fell, the bandit could see a man standing behind the his dead comrade, dropping the bow he carried as he pulled out a sword, before vanishing into the dark when the archers torch hit the snow. "Oh shi- boss, we got trouble!" Yelled the thief, his 2 remaining friends turning around as well. "What is it..?" Said the leader, before he screamed in agony. Their attacker had grabbed the man from behind, driving his sword into his back. The leader fell, the torch falling into the snow. The closest bandit to him swung his axe towards the knight, his attack being blocked before being struck by an armored clove to his face. He staggered backwards before being struck down by a swing of an sword. The last bandit ran, his attacker not chasing after him. Instead, Wybert walked to the now dead archer, picking up his bow, as well as an arrow. He placed armed the bow, pulling back the string, as he kneels down. Then, he released the arrow. Nothing was heard for a moment, but the torch that had belonged to the runaway bandit fell. Then, a blood freezing scream. The arrow had hit its mark. Wybert stood up, taking the rest of the arrows as he vanished into the darkness.
Marcia
Aleksandr Skagerlly's Study
Gran Stead, The Witherlands

His study was a skeleton of what it had once been; the claustrophobic space was haunted by the lack of its ghost, the reserved man who locked himself within its walls. Books were deserted, though once loved, evidence by their spines broken. Now they were left in lonely bookshelves to gather dust. Candles unburnt, papers unorganized, sheets dirtied. Aleksandr had escaped in haste, but never had his thoughts drifted from his home, if one could call it that. The garden that lie beneath his tower's watch was no more than an army of wilting shrubs. It seemed as if the foliage had forgotten the flowers it had once bore, and without the cautious hand of their master, they hadn't remembered to survive.

Most important to him was the dear journal abandoned on his desk, front and center for any visitor with wandering eyes. He feared what would happen if a certain prying brother thumbed through some of the scornful entries, the scribbles that detailed the horrible abuse of the Skagerlly dove, that flung unmistakable grief towards the family; it disgusted him to think that they would bear his hate like a crown, to admire.

Aleksandr Skagerlly's Journal

*Tonight, in the darkest night of no moon, I danced in the garden. There was no moon to observe, and even the stars grew dim in an inky sky. It was a strange feeling, the night air prickling at my skin; there was something... Free. It almost felt devious, so merrily trotting among the greenery like a wedding dove, in a place where such kindness has been lost. Maybe the Gods above were pitying me.

It wouldn't come as a surprise.

Only a few hours ago, my brothers came 'round my place. They always carry trouble with them, and I should've slipped out of the tower when my eyes met theirs. But I couldn't... Move. Not at all. I had shackles that none another than myself could bear witness to. They laughed and cackled. I couldn't find the humor. Then, suddenly, I was struck with understanding; it came in the form of a cruel whip. My skin was on fire. They didn't spare a moment, they hadn't even left my study. After that, I was drug out into the garden, the only place I had to myself. Was it naive of me to make a desperate wish for safety? I would soon answer my own inquiry.

Yes.*

*The sun even seemed to turn her eyes away in the coming hours. It began with a crucifix; this was not so bad, not when your skin has become acquainted with the splintered wood and the cruel sting of nails. Pain began to flood my barricades when hot irons were driven into the flesh that barely even manages to stretch across my back. All I could think of was their faces, twisted into some unusual form of pleasure. They kept at it for longer than I expected. It all grew into an extension of the same few moments, and I stopped trying to tell the time. 

That was all they had for me today.
It seemed to be afternoon only an hour before, but by then the sun was beginning to sink beneath the horizon. I don't know what they've pressed into my skin now. Do I want to? Whatever crude sort of humor it is, it doesn't matter, it'll just be replaced by a new mockery when the joke dulls to them. I'm just appreciative for their mercy this evening. It wasn't water torture, or amputation, or that blasted fighting that they seem to so enjoy.*
Sharon
Kelsafyr Skagerlly 
Skagerlly home, the Witherlands 

Kelsafyr fingered the page , her heart painfully tight in her chest; she was not sure what had called her from the comfort of her room to this cold, desolate place but the pull had been urgent, drawing her through the halls with an almost magnetic force.For several minutes upon arriving she stood in the doorway, carefully taking in the place that had been a source of curiosity to her for so long; she was disappointed to find it icy and dark just like so much of the house. The beginnings of a small smile graced her face though as she took in the books that lay scattered across the place- perhaps there was hope for this room yet. 

When she finally dared to enter, her eyes trailed from the gently loved books to a small journal laying on a desk. Her hands twitched with the desire to open it and allow it's crisp pages to divulge any secrets that it's owner had entrusted it with. Her feet moved of their own accord and suddenly she was at the desk, the notebook in her hands. She glanced over her shoulder once, to be sure that no one was watching, before opening to a page, her eyes consuming the words with a voracious appetite. Not until her eyes had seen the end of the entry did she pull away, her mind turning as she considered what had been written. Her jaw tightened as she thought of the monsters she called family and as she had done so many times before, she made a vow to see them suffer for what they had done.

 Curiosity engulfed her as she lightly fingered the pages and stood, wondering where this brother of hers was now. Thoughts of revenge made little room for concern and yet, she could not help but wish to find her brother- protect him, although the notion sounded strange in her mind, considering how little she truly knew about him. She gently tapped the journal, unsure of what her next action should be.
Marcia
Aleksandr Skagerlly's Journal
Gran Stead

If Kelsafyr continued to investigate his entries, she would certainly be met with some answers to the inquiries she had about her ever-so-fickle brother, ghastly in nature. Though information about him was scattered throughout the various descriptions of his days, it could certainly be found in abundance. His final diary entry was arguably the most revealing, though he had written it as more of a eulogy.

*My name is Aleksandr Skagerlly. At the time of writing, I am in my early twenties, though I'm not sure of my exact age. I don't expect any eyes to be on this journal beyond my own, yet I feel obligated to explain why I have left this book in great haste. Every journal I have bothered to ink, every tear I have shed while slaving over these entries, have been produced from my heart of hearts. I believe I write to remind myself that I still have one. I haven't felt love in my life. I am a commodity of the Skagerlly house, and men— no, boys— of my sort aren't crafted to feel anything but the deep currents of despair. 

I will be leaving at dawn on the morrow. The knight Jax has taken me as his squire. I fear that I have only taken such a role to escape my brothers, and by association my father. Aleksandr isn't a knight, nor is he anything but a desperate line to be thrown when it is advantageous. Despite this, I cannot fail Jax. No, to disappoint him now would be to sentence myself to a fate worse than death; I would cast myself into the depths of self-loathing, though I already bathe in them. 

I can only hope to return alive.*
Sharon
Kelsafyr Skagerlly 
 Skagerlly Home, the Witherlands 
 
 Kelsafyr had been unable to help herself, poring over her brothers writing as though it was a darkened bruise her fingertips could not help but brush, despite knowing the pain it may cause. She had brought the journal with her, feeling more secure reading it within the confines of her bedroom. With every word she read, the fascination and curiosity grew, ensnaring her so deeply that she felt her heart drop as she came to the last entry.. When she finished she allowed the book to remain open in her hands, pondering all that she had read, unfulfilled with the ending. Though she wished to believe that his escape from this place had been successful, she found it hard to believe that anyone might have such luck. Perhaps she could find a way to reach out to him, although it was doubtful he would even wish to speak with her. The very notion of finding him seemed ludicrous and unrealistic to her, and it was not as if she truly had any reason to do so. But she could not deny that the boy intrigued her with his oddness, and his journal had provided a welcome distraction from the monotony of her life. There was no harm in at least trying to find him, even if only to reassure herself that leaving this place was a plausible idea. She shut the journal, finally resolved. Now, if only she knew where to start..
Marcia
Aleksandr Skagerlly's Journal
Gran Stead

His journal was littered with loose papers that had been placed in to mark notable events that had occured. Some were barren, while others were thoroughly blanketed with his ramblings entailing both brutality and quiet acceptance. There was a particular marker, a parchment folded into a dense square, age evidenced by its brittleness. It was clear that this was not meant for anybody's eyes, perhaps even not his own. The splotches on the paper, coupled with the messy scribbling, told a tale of endless grief by themselves.

*I know misery today.
Feri was an angelic woman of sunkissed skin and freckles, stars across her features; sandy hair that captured the waves of the ocean; emerald eyes that shone in the blackest night; a jingling laugh that told hope and empathy. She was a servant to a tyrant, and my only solace as I joined her beneath his iron fist. I was told he was some duke, not that I would care or wish to remember anything about him. 

Feri guided me through bright halls, beaming all the way, telling me tales that painted pictures of knights, of magic, of dragons and kings. When time was able to be stolen, we celebrated and danced like the coming days marked the end of the world. For months, every moment was lived as if it were the last, and I learned joy. We were opening our arms and greeting death in a bohemian dance; servitude became a treat rather than a punishment, but without Feri, it became Hell.*

*Feri had been skipping out on her duties to see me. She'd pressed too far. Stolen. Lied. All so we could merrily march arm in arm. She never exposed her scars, and she was always such a... Rock, to me. But scars did she gather, lining her skin, highlighting every bone that ran in her body; I was so stupid to never recognize the way her sleeves doubled in length. But when they took her out that day, when the sky wept alongside me, it all became terribly true. When we joked about the ending of days tomorrow, I never expected the ending of days to arrive on the wheels of a guillotine. When her head divorced her body, I never expected her to call out for me.

I see her everywhere. Always. The halls are dim. What was her sacrifice for? She gave herself in the name of... Nobody. History will forget Aleks. My grief will never be written in words, nor can it ever be relieved. I don't want to carry on without her. When my eyes meet any weapon, any height, any chemical, they see only a method to join their dearest Feri.

Who knew the word 'Aleks' would become her final communion?*