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Terrence's Journal

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Terrence’s Journal

Author: Terrence “the Terror”, bandit chief at the Toll-Keeper’s Ruin
Age of Origin: Age VI
Type: Manuscript
Found At: Session 4 - The Toll-Keeper’s Ruin: the bandits’ gatehouse

A battered leather journal, pages stained with grease and ale. The handwriting is surprisingly neat for a bandit. A crude drawing of two crossed axes is scratched into the back cover.

Contents

Week 3, Some Month. Who’s Counting.
Same road. Same toll. Same faces. The boys are bored. Tam’s been in the doorway for three hours. I swear she’s turning into the furniture. The strongbox map says Last Kingdom patrols use this stretch post-Frost, but I ain’t seen a soldier in weeks. Reckon they found a better road. Or a worse one. Don’t give a shit.

Tried a new axe-spin today. Dropped the left one. Nobody saw, hehehe

Gods-Count-What. Mid-Month Maybe.
Three runners today. All paid. Tam’s in a good mood, which means she’s only scowling instead of yelling. Old Moss-Tooth brought us a bottle of something that might’ve been ale once. The boys toasted to THE TERROR. I grinned. Tam rolled her eyes. Standard.

I shouldn’t complain. We got a roof. We got food that’s, honestly, way better than it has any right to be lately. But I keep thinking: is this it? Stand here, tax the road, drink, sleep, do it again? I didn’t pick up two axes so I could be a tax collector.

Tam says the road is the point. The toll is the point. I reckon she believes it, too. That’s what I can’t figure out. She actually believes this matters.

Later. Same Night.
She was in the doorway again. Just standing there. I almost said something. I SWEAR IT FELT LIKE MY BLOOD WAS BOILING. I almost said somethin.

Yesterday, I Think. Lost Track.
Something happened. Writing it down because I need to get it straight.

A traveler came up the Northern Road, mid-afternoon. Alone. No sled. No crew. Just walking like he owned the place.

Now, I’ve seen a lot of travelers come up that road. Scared ones. Angry ones. Resigned ones. But this one was real fuzzy. That’s the wrong word. Not like an animal. Like a person who happened to look like a rabbit. Long ears. Fur. Big eyes. Not threatening, not at first. Just strange. Am I being racist? I don’t give a rip but I might be being racist bout that. I’m sure bunny-folk are real common somewhere else in the world.

Tam stepped into the road and did her routine. “We got a toll, rabbit. Pay up or turn around.” Standard.

He said no.

Just no. Calm as anything. Like she’d asked him the time. He was a bit trembly though, I clocked it on him.

Tam didn’t even get mad at first — she was confused. Nobody says no. Then he said something about how we should let travelers pass, how the road belongs to everyone, and Tam’s face went hard. I’ve seen that look before. That’s the look she had when she hit her superior officer.

She told him to turn around or pay. He didn’t. She told him again. He drew a weapon.

Now, I’ll give him this — he wasn’t a coward. He knew it was one against six and he still pulled steel. That’s either brave or stupid, and I’m still not sure which. But numbers are numbers.

We beat him down. Hard. Tam got the first hit — cudgel across the shoulder, he went to one knee. The boys piled on. I got a few good swings in. He didn’t scream at that point. Didn’t beg. Just took it. Tough, honestly.

When it was over, he wasn’t moving. Tam checked for a pulse, shrugged, and told the boys to drag him off the road. They dumped him in the rubble by the collapsed arch.

Tam said, “Reckon that’ll teach the next one.” And that was it. We went back inside. Had dinner. The cooking was good again — I don’t know what’s in that spice but it’s the best thing we’ve scavenged in months. Low key keeping our gang together single-handedly.

Next Day,
The body was gone.

I went out at first light to check the road, same as always. Honestly wanted to check on the kid. The spot where they’d dumped him was empty. The snow was fresh, so maybe I saw wrong, but… Not dragged. Not disturbed. Just… empty. I like to think he just stood up and walked away. Tough son of a gun.

I checked the snow for tracks. Of course, there weren’t any. I ain’t never been a tracker though.

Now, I’ve seen dead men. I’ve made dead men. A man who takes a beating like that does not stand up and walk away. His shoulder was broken. He was bleeding from the head. He was not breathing when we left him.

I told Tam. She said I was seeing things. Said maybe a scavenger dragged him off. Except there weren’t any drag marks. We both know it.

I didn’t argue. I just went back inside and wrote this.

What kind of person survives that? What kind of person leaves no tracks? Was it him or something else that got that kinda power?

I don’t believe in ghosts. I don’t believe in much of anything. I didn’t even used to believe in rabbit people. But I believe what I saw. And what I saw was a rabbit-man who should be dead and, just maybe, isn’t.

I don’t know what I’m saying, honestly. I think maybe I’m crazy. Just wanna believe in something. If he comes back, I don’t know what I’ll do. Fight him again? Run? Apologize?

THE TERROR, they call me.

Yeah. Right.

Today.
Tam asked why I was quiet. I said I was tired. She believed me. She’s not as sharp as she used to be — that spice, maybe. Or the boredom. Or both.

I almost finally told her all my thoughts bout everything.

Almost.

The remaining pages are blank.

Disposition

Found by the crew in the gatehouse after the fight. Held by Harriet Jumpman.

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