Written By Aleksei
Jan. 16, 2024, 12:25 a.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
My parents are Hardwicke and Symanthe Morgan. My father is Captain of the Guard at Sanctum, and my mother is the best baker in the city. She's from Farhaven, originally. He's very uptight and she's very Northern, but they make it work.
My father is Hardwicke Morgan. The man who raised me every day of my life until I left. My dad.
But my other father, my father by blood, is Skald.
We're all Children of Skald, because he made humanity, but for some people, it's a bit more literal. It's Skald's bloodline that helped keep Legion bound for all those years, enough of them over centuries that he could be able to wander off without Legion getting loose. His bloodline was strongest up North, because that's where Legion was bound. Probably why the Mad Mage stories were the most popular up there.
(He isn't a mage. He doesn't _do_ magic, he _is_ magic.)
All I knew about my father by blood for years was that 1) he didn't like puns, and 2) he could disappear. I didn't get very far with that for a long time, until I ran into the right person at the right time. When she mentioned the name Skald, all I knew was the stories of the Mad Mage. We didn't know who the Lost Gods were back then. I didn't know anything about who he really was and he mentioned it.
I had a lot of feelings about it. A _lot_ of feelings. They weren't great feelings, for the most part. I didn't act great. There was a lot of yelling and a lot of me antagonizing because I didn't know what the fuck else to do. I'd spent so many years aggressively embracing the fact that I was _different_ from the rest of my family, and suddenly there was this guy that seemed like where all those differences came from, except he was better.
Obviously he was better. He was a god.
It took someone very, very smart, who I loved so much my heart ached, to make me understand: of course he was bigger and stronger and more powerful than me. But it didn't mean he was better at everything. It's kind of a wild thing, comparing yourself to a god, finding things you do better. Swordfighting. _People_. Skald's been around us a long time, so he's learned some things, but he's not human, and it's hard for him to learn how we work. Dumb shit, but somehow it made me feel a bit better about the whole thing.
The thing that's really stuck with me is how much he enjoyed humanity. His Children of Skald. Sure, he hated getting prayers about shit he couldn't do anything about, and he didn't want anyone asking him for guidance. Because he wanted us to choose. Some days, I've actually wondered if he isn't a bit envious of us. We're born, we grow, we learn so much, we fuck up. We become something _different_. That's a thing he can't ever do: be someone different. Be someone who's not him. The gods can only be what they are.
But us? We can do whatever we want. We can _be_ whatever we want. And that's so amazing, so _remarkable_, that it can make at least one god a little jealous.
I asked him what we were made of once, because someone asked me. He said mostly potential. And then a bunch of weird alchemy type words that I didn't know. Ammonia? Phosphorous? _Flourine_?! No fucking clue. I asked, and he said some of them were poison. Just a little bit.
Because he wanted us to be tough. He made us to choose, to be unfettered, and to _survive_. He made us to be capable of anything.
We're capable of this, Arvum. No matter what the odds seem to be. No matter how terrifying it is.
We're capable of this.
I don't know what secrets are worth anymore. I know that secrets makes our enemy stronger, but I don't know if there are enough secrets in the world that could weaken what's coming just by being spilled. But somehow, in this moment, with so many others offering their truth--
I dunno. Just seemed like the right thing to do.
My father is Hardwicke Morgan. The man who raised me every day of my life until I left. My dad.
But my other father, my father by blood, is Skald.
We're all Children of Skald, because he made humanity, but for some people, it's a bit more literal. It's Skald's bloodline that helped keep Legion bound for all those years, enough of them over centuries that he could be able to wander off without Legion getting loose. His bloodline was strongest up North, because that's where Legion was bound. Probably why the Mad Mage stories were the most popular up there.
(He isn't a mage. He doesn't _do_ magic, he _is_ magic.)
All I knew about my father by blood for years was that 1) he didn't like puns, and 2) he could disappear. I didn't get very far with that for a long time, until I ran into the right person at the right time. When she mentioned the name Skald, all I knew was the stories of the Mad Mage. We didn't know who the Lost Gods were back then. I didn't know anything about who he really was and he mentioned it.
I had a lot of feelings about it. A _lot_ of feelings. They weren't great feelings, for the most part. I didn't act great. There was a lot of yelling and a lot of me antagonizing because I didn't know what the fuck else to do. I'd spent so many years aggressively embracing the fact that I was _different_ from the rest of my family, and suddenly there was this guy that seemed like where all those differences came from, except he was better.
Obviously he was better. He was a god.
It took someone very, very smart, who I loved so much my heart ached, to make me understand: of course he was bigger and stronger and more powerful than me. But it didn't mean he was better at everything. It's kind of a wild thing, comparing yourself to a god, finding things you do better. Swordfighting. _People_. Skald's been around us a long time, so he's learned some things, but he's not human, and it's hard for him to learn how we work. Dumb shit, but somehow it made me feel a bit better about the whole thing.
The thing that's really stuck with me is how much he enjoyed humanity. His Children of Skald. Sure, he hated getting prayers about shit he couldn't do anything about, and he didn't want anyone asking him for guidance. Because he wanted us to choose. Some days, I've actually wondered if he isn't a bit envious of us. We're born, we grow, we learn so much, we fuck up. We become something _different_. That's a thing he can't ever do: be someone different. Be someone who's not him. The gods can only be what they are.
But us? We can do whatever we want. We can _be_ whatever we want. And that's so amazing, so _remarkable_, that it can make at least one god a little jealous.
I asked him what we were made of once, because someone asked me. He said mostly potential. And then a bunch of weird alchemy type words that I didn't know. Ammonia? Phosphorous? _Flourine_?! No fucking clue. I asked, and he said some of them were poison. Just a little bit.
Because he wanted us to be tough. He made us to choose, to be unfettered, and to _survive_. He made us to be capable of anything.
We're capable of this, Arvum. No matter what the odds seem to be. No matter how terrifying it is.
We're capable of this.
I don't know what secrets are worth anymore. I know that secrets makes our enemy stronger, but I don't know if there are enough secrets in the world that could weaken what's coming just by being spilled. But somehow, in this moment, with so many others offering their truth--
I dunno. Just seemed like the right thing to do.
Written By Tikva
Jan. 15, 2024, 8:03 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
I am Tikva, once Laveer, among other things. I have written before, publicly, about being a bastard and what it has meant to me and to my life. I am a daughter of broken vows. Everything I am I owe to the gifts of those who elevated me, and now I stand on my own two feet -- never alone; without surrender.
My father is the Dirge, once called Elegon. I spent years working to restore his sister, once Lia, once the Lianhan, who sang out her life in the War of Stolen Names. Her ghost clung to my soul like a cloak. It is done now. She is returned to the Wheel. She is free.
This is the most powerful truth I have. The last fragments of a broken soul shadowed me, borrowed pieces of my life and wove them with tears of anguish not my own. Her long horror of an undeath is ended and she has returned to the arms of the Queen of Endings. One day, we will embrace again there, like the sisters we once were in a life before this.
But I have a one last measure to sing before I go.
Let's sing it together.
My father is the Dirge, once called Elegon. I spent years working to restore his sister, once Lia, once the Lianhan, who sang out her life in the War of Stolen Names. Her ghost clung to my soul like a cloak. It is done now. She is returned to the Wheel. She is free.
This is the most powerful truth I have. The last fragments of a broken soul shadowed me, borrowed pieces of my life and wove them with tears of anguish not my own. Her long horror of an undeath is ended and she has returned to the arms of the Queen of Endings. One day, we will embrace again there, like the sisters we once were in a life before this.
But I have a one last measure to sing before I go.
Let's sing it together.
Written By Fortunato
Jan. 15, 2024, 7:49 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
Non omnis moriar.
I shall not wholly die.
As the next Reckoning approaches, I will tell the story of Gold. A slightly different story than that which you may have heard.
On the final day of the final stand, Gold's armor was spotless. Gleaming. It was made so with magic. The gleaming of golden armor served no purpose save to gleam. As the king at the time said, "It gives heart to our defenders to see the strongest among us as untouchable." In memorials, statues, stories, the Metallic Order (at least those who died defending Arx) still gleam, untouchably. But as it becomes time for we ourselves to give every bit of ourselves in the world's defense, it is also time to talk about who Gold was.
He was a slave. A slave of the Rex'alfar, as many humans were. He had nothing but a name, and as all chains are broken now, for good and catastrophe both, I will share it. He was Firavan. And he guarded this name as a last, desperate secret, taking it out only in the Eclipse of Mirrors to hold in his mind. He had enough facility with magic, with fire, that his masters would have killed him for it had they taken notice. They did not take notice. Not in time. Anger, bile, you might say, hate, you might say, simmered in him for years before Platinum drew him out and made him Gold. He did not trust elves, he did not trust anyone, save, perhaps, one, who I can no longer remember, for my folly is to sacrifice things I should not. But he took the mantle. He became the mantle. For a better world. For change. Platinum was gleaming, then.
"Fire is the test of gold, and make no mistake, the world is unkind and will test you. Once broken, but never again." And did not Firavan's years-ago taskmaster say, "Gold can be built into anything at all." Mutable. Changeable. He would be Gold, bright and strong of purpose and heart. And he would see every chain broken.
He was militant. He planted the seed of Brass's arming of Cardian slaves years after his death, for these chains could not be tolerated at any cost. The fight would never end, there were so many chains, and there was Ruin that had to be bound, and Zircon making deals with villages that they'd end up breaking (and getting stuck forever in one terrible day), and dragon princesses to rescue (also from Zircon). And, of course, Platinum's brother went and let the Tyrant into the world.
But he also had a family with that one I can no longer remember. He had children. A stupid apron, stupid time with friends, a familiar relationship with Aurumadin, who he loved dearly. And when Steel died defending Arx, and Iron died defending Arx, and Silver died defending Arx, and it was only him remaining, he had plenty to lose that had nothing to do with militant purpose or embodying ideals.
He wanted to be someone else. Somewhere else. Not an option. Gold Guard goes out! They have to. Keep civilians alive. Man the walls. They all die. He knew they would. He's flying out on Aurumadin, facing the Beast of Midnight, reminiscing about how sometimes we have centuries to plan and agonize sometimes there is no /time/. There is only the clash, the flaming sword, the flame and -- then you're in a blackened pit and Aurumadin is crawling out with you, and you're both a wounded mess, but over in what-will-be-Pyre, they're winning. A moment of hope . . .
And then Onyx kills Aurumadin, and you can't prevent it, you watch your friend explode into dust. You didn't expect Onyx. He says he won't insult you by asking you to surrender, but you consider it! Just to see what he'll do. And you have nothing left. You're exhausted. But at least Onyx is the sort of polite fellow to respect dueling etiquette. It's almost a breath of time, making that circle of runes, enough time that you see the children watching and have your last moment of certainty. You can't win this duel, but Onyx can't reach the Thinnest Point.
So you fight until you burn away. I think. I don't have any details here. You go back to the Wheel.
It's not exactly a happy story. I don't know that I help in these dire days, taking the bright monument and talking about the /inside/, but when else can I tell it? Fire is the test of gold and we are immersed in flames. It will be hotter yet and yet. But in the heat is change. I am full of doubts and grief. Was I shaped into who I needed to be this time? I was never any good at the mantle. The mantle is in its way an /appearance/, a gleaming we give ourselves to give others hope while we rattle in terror inside. But mantled or no, we will fight for the Wheel.
We shall not wholly die.
I shall not wholly die.
As the next Reckoning approaches, I will tell the story of Gold. A slightly different story than that which you may have heard.
On the final day of the final stand, Gold's armor was spotless. Gleaming. It was made so with magic. The gleaming of golden armor served no purpose save to gleam. As the king at the time said, "It gives heart to our defenders to see the strongest among us as untouchable." In memorials, statues, stories, the Metallic Order (at least those who died defending Arx) still gleam, untouchably. But as it becomes time for we ourselves to give every bit of ourselves in the world's defense, it is also time to talk about who Gold was.
He was a slave. A slave of the Rex'alfar, as many humans were. He had nothing but a name, and as all chains are broken now, for good and catastrophe both, I will share it. He was Firavan. And he guarded this name as a last, desperate secret, taking it out only in the Eclipse of Mirrors to hold in his mind. He had enough facility with magic, with fire, that his masters would have killed him for it had they taken notice. They did not take notice. Not in time. Anger, bile, you might say, hate, you might say, simmered in him for years before Platinum drew him out and made him Gold. He did not trust elves, he did not trust anyone, save, perhaps, one, who I can no longer remember, for my folly is to sacrifice things I should not. But he took the mantle. He became the mantle. For a better world. For change. Platinum was gleaming, then.
"Fire is the test of gold, and make no mistake, the world is unkind and will test you. Once broken, but never again." And did not Firavan's years-ago taskmaster say, "Gold can be built into anything at all." Mutable. Changeable. He would be Gold, bright and strong of purpose and heart. And he would see every chain broken.
He was militant. He planted the seed of Brass's arming of Cardian slaves years after his death, for these chains could not be tolerated at any cost. The fight would never end, there were so many chains, and there was Ruin that had to be bound, and Zircon making deals with villages that they'd end up breaking (and getting stuck forever in one terrible day), and dragon princesses to rescue (also from Zircon). And, of course, Platinum's brother went and let the Tyrant into the world.
But he also had a family with that one I can no longer remember. He had children. A stupid apron, stupid time with friends, a familiar relationship with Aurumadin, who he loved dearly. And when Steel died defending Arx, and Iron died defending Arx, and Silver died defending Arx, and it was only him remaining, he had plenty to lose that had nothing to do with militant purpose or embodying ideals.
He wanted to be someone else. Somewhere else. Not an option. Gold Guard goes out! They have to. Keep civilians alive. Man the walls. They all die. He knew they would. He's flying out on Aurumadin, facing the Beast of Midnight, reminiscing about how sometimes we have centuries to plan and agonize sometimes there is no /time/. There is only the clash, the flaming sword, the flame and -- then you're in a blackened pit and Aurumadin is crawling out with you, and you're both a wounded mess, but over in what-will-be-Pyre, they're winning. A moment of hope . . .
And then Onyx kills Aurumadin, and you can't prevent it, you watch your friend explode into dust. You didn't expect Onyx. He says he won't insult you by asking you to surrender, but you consider it! Just to see what he'll do. And you have nothing left. You're exhausted. But at least Onyx is the sort of polite fellow to respect dueling etiquette. It's almost a breath of time, making that circle of runes, enough time that you see the children watching and have your last moment of certainty. You can't win this duel, but Onyx can't reach the Thinnest Point.
So you fight until you burn away. I think. I don't have any details here. You go back to the Wheel.
It's not exactly a happy story. I don't know that I help in these dire days, taking the bright monument and talking about the /inside/, but when else can I tell it? Fire is the test of gold and we are immersed in flames. It will be hotter yet and yet. But in the heat is change. I am full of doubts and grief. Was I shaped into who I needed to be this time? I was never any good at the mantle. The mantle is in its way an /appearance/, a gleaming we give ourselves to give others hope while we rattle in terror inside. But mantled or no, we will fight for the Wheel.
We shall not wholly die.
Written By Lucita
Jan. 15, 2024, 7:11 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
So much work to be done. Our gardens are lined with tents, communal cook fire areas, and necessities to help shelter incoming refugees. Food, medical and armory stockpiles are now packed in the various gatehouse rooms and a room set aside for birthing or infirmary. The training center jointly owned by Saik and Malvici is busy round the clock polishing skills of all adults and near-adults who take refuge with us. (All citizens of Saik, like those of Malvici, are required to have some degree of weapon training.) Heaps of makeshift weapons-clubs, pitchforks, scythe, sickle, big piles of stones for slings are piled next to racks and chests of knives, swords, spears, bows and arrows, lots and lots of arrows. Barracks are full, soldiers sleeping in shifts and some even putting bedrolls around the inside perimeter of the stable. Perhaps the snorting and whickering of horses is easier to sleep through than snoring of dozens of soldiers. Are we ready? No, of course not, but we're trying to prepare for all that we can, our lives are on the line.
Written By Ann
Jan. 15, 2024, 6:50 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
To any who survive this reckoning and know of my children. Tell them their Mama tried her best and loved them all her life.
To the Last.
Choice will always matter.
To the Last.
Choice will always matter.
Written By Lianne
Jan. 15, 2024, 6:09 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Jan
Your hard work is appreciated. A moment such as this merits the profoundest profanity.
Written By Raven
Jan. 15, 2024, 5:20 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
Thank gods I the Blackheart blade is back in my hand. Bad enough I felt naked without it but to have to make my last stand without it just didn't feel right.
Written By Victus
Jan. 15, 2024, 3:51 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Donrai
Fuck you.
Written By Victus
Jan. 15, 2024, 3:51 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Dagon
You are my regret. I hope, in another life, I can make it up to you.
Written By Victus
Jan. 15, 2024, 3:50 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Denica
You've always kept smiling. I don't know how you've done it, but I appreciate it. I always have.
Written By Victus
Jan. 15, 2024, 3:46 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Alarissa
My single, selfish want in marriage beyond strengthening our house, was to find someone tolerable. Against the odds of our world, I even found someone to love.
Written By Victus
Jan. 15, 2024, 3:44 p.m.(7/23/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Leona
My cousin once told me, years ago during the Gyre's war, that Maelstrom was not its walls. It was its people. A sentiment I see echoed often now.
Back then, I disagreed. I saw the monuments and history written into the stone as more important than life itself. Held close to my pride in the fact that Maelstrom is one of the few strongholds in the Compact to never fall in war.
Well. I'm older now. A few tens of thousands have died. I look at those walls now and I wonder what it's all for, if but a monument built on top of dead bodies that'll never get to walk their ramparts.
Still. It's home.
I walked the length of the Graveyard of Swords. I stood before the great Colossus of Mangata. Things that I have been fortunate enough to put into motion and see completed in my lifetime. Perhaps something will be left of it, when all is said and done. If not for us, then for the ones who come after to see. To grieve. To remember. To theorize once we've been long forgotten. Just momentos that tell them we were here once.
Do not cry for what will be lost. Tears in our wake, never at our wake.
If they remember me as someone who did their job "adequately", I think I'll be happy. I still miss you, Leona. Silver. Whatever you call yourself now. You'll always be a Thrax to me.
Back then, I disagreed. I saw the monuments and history written into the stone as more important than life itself. Held close to my pride in the fact that Maelstrom is one of the few strongholds in the Compact to never fall in war.
Well. I'm older now. A few tens of thousands have died. I look at those walls now and I wonder what it's all for, if but a monument built on top of dead bodies that'll never get to walk their ramparts.
Still. It's home.
I walked the length of the Graveyard of Swords. I stood before the great Colossus of Mangata. Things that I have been fortunate enough to put into motion and see completed in my lifetime. Perhaps something will be left of it, when all is said and done. If not for us, then for the ones who come after to see. To grieve. To remember. To theorize once we've been long forgotten. Just momentos that tell them we were here once.
Do not cry for what will be lost. Tears in our wake, never at our wake.
If they remember me as someone who did their job "adequately", I think I'll be happy. I still miss you, Leona. Silver. Whatever you call yourself now. You'll always be a Thrax to me.
Written By Aconite
Jan. 15, 2024, 1:50 p.m.(7/22/1021 AR)
I feel as if I am to live and die alone. It is for the best.
When I die my blacks may be made public. I did not really trust them once I knew what lay beneath the library. So they won't say much.
When I die my blacks may be made public. I did not really trust them once I knew what lay beneath the library. So they won't say much.
Written By Jan
Jan. 15, 2024, 11:01 a.m.(7/22/1021 AR)
To sort out any confusion on expanding my vocabulary. It is to succinctly sum up the present catastrophic situation as 'fucked' doesn't seem adequate, does it? Fear not, if ever there was an occasion I was born for it was to find the right profanity for this occasion.
Written By Sen'azala
Jan. 15, 2024, 8:09 a.m.(7/22/1021 AR)
My adopted people were nomads that followed the seasonal caribou migrations from the northernmost parts of the Northlands into the Everwinter. I grew up knowing forests, tundras, mountains and plains, caves, rivers, vast lakes, little ponds, spring, summer, fall and winter. Every few years, we would have to change our routes, sometimes dramatically so, either because of Compact expansion or patrols, threats from other tribes, or the Horned God. Often the Horned God. There were places I loved that I would stay only a month or so, and one day we'd simply never go back that way again. I've said this multiple times in the past week alone, so I imagine anyone who's been around me is getting tired of hearing it, but I'm going to say it again:
Home is where you stand.
Houses and castles, those are buildings. They can be rebuilt, or built elsewhere. Fields and orchards can be replanted, or new ones grown. Things you own, no matter how precious, no matter how irreplaceable, are ultimately just things. As painful as it may be to leave somewhere you love, somewhere you've been your whole life, somewhere your family has lived for generations, that place is ultimately a patch of land, earth and stone. You can find another. No matter how much it may hurt, you can find another.
Another Reckoning is here. If all you've got holding you in place is pride, then toss it aside and walk away. I don't expect to be listened to, but there are plenty of houses that refused to retreat to Arx the last time whose names you don't know because not a single person was left to remember them. Some of the names that managed to be remembered came back to haunt us, such as House Marin. If you are trying to endure this alone you won't survive, and your lands will be taken from you anyway.
There are forces moving to protect major holdings, escort refugees, or try to slow down what's coming. There are not nearly enough for any of it, and every single person who can wield a weapon who does not aid those efforts or fall back to defend Arx in favor of valiant but ultimately pointless last stands is not only throwing their own life away, but the lives of however many other people their actions could otherwise help save. What's at stake is not a house, not a holding, not a kingdom, and not the Compact. What's at stake isn't even Arvum and every person living on it. It's the world. We hold the city or everyone dies, and no one in the entire world will be left to remember you.
Home is where you stand, and if we do not stand together, the only thing that will matter will be who gets devoured first.
Home is where you stand.
Houses and castles, those are buildings. They can be rebuilt, or built elsewhere. Fields and orchards can be replanted, or new ones grown. Things you own, no matter how precious, no matter how irreplaceable, are ultimately just things. As painful as it may be to leave somewhere you love, somewhere you've been your whole life, somewhere your family has lived for generations, that place is ultimately a patch of land, earth and stone. You can find another. No matter how much it may hurt, you can find another.
Another Reckoning is here. If all you've got holding you in place is pride, then toss it aside and walk away. I don't expect to be listened to, but there are plenty of houses that refused to retreat to Arx the last time whose names you don't know because not a single person was left to remember them. Some of the names that managed to be remembered came back to haunt us, such as House Marin. If you are trying to endure this alone you won't survive, and your lands will be taken from you anyway.
There are forces moving to protect major holdings, escort refugees, or try to slow down what's coming. There are not nearly enough for any of it, and every single person who can wield a weapon who does not aid those efforts or fall back to defend Arx in favor of valiant but ultimately pointless last stands is not only throwing their own life away, but the lives of however many other people their actions could otherwise help save. What's at stake is not a house, not a holding, not a kingdom, and not the Compact. What's at stake isn't even Arvum and every person living on it. It's the world. We hold the city or everyone dies, and no one in the entire world will be left to remember you.
Home is where you stand, and if we do not stand together, the only thing that will matter will be who gets devoured first.
Written By Mabelle
Jan. 15, 2024, 1:48 a.m.(7/21/1021 AR)
I did not want to leave the first time it burned.
I will not leave now that it is threatened again.
Our people will be safe.
House Laurent will live on.
I am none without Artshall.
I will not leave now that it is threatened again.
Our people will be safe.
House Laurent will live on.
I am none without Artshall.
Written By Lys
Jan. 15, 2024, 1:13 a.m.(7/21/1021 AR)
Fuck it. It's the end of the world. Anyone want to be my husband and be a baron for a couple of weeks?
Written By Titus
Jan. 15, 2024, 12:59 a.m.(7/21/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Khanne
Write about those you know of, of yourself. Commit to Vellichor's memory not just that you go to stand against the countless shards of darkness, of a mighty maw of the Devourer who wishes to engulf Arvum. Write about the little things which colour the names of who will one day become legends so people in the future know the lives that were lived and sacrificed for the many lives that will come.
For example, Duchess Khanne absolutely adores hairpins. She has probably over a hundred pairs and is always overjoyed and happy when a new pair is gifted to her.
I like to eat the Blueclaw Vine, it has a hot and peppery flavour and a velvet texture. It also has a faint glow of light blue in the summer nights, and if you were in Caldera you could catch a very rare moment when the nightbirds come to drink the nectar of those flowers and their feathers glow with a million different colours like little rainbows or auroras at night.
For example, Duchess Khanne absolutely adores hairpins. She has probably over a hundred pairs and is always overjoyed and happy when a new pair is gifted to her.
I like to eat the Blueclaw Vine, it has a hot and peppery flavour and a velvet texture. It also has a faint glow of light blue in the summer nights, and if you were in Caldera you could catch a very rare moment when the nightbirds come to drink the nectar of those flowers and their feathers glow with a million different colours like little rainbows or auroras at night.
Written By Lys
Jan. 15, 2024, 12:01 a.m.(7/21/1021 AR)
[This White Journal has bold, large lettering at the top of it.]
THE TRUTH AND LIES OF LYS DE LIRE.
I am a liar. I am a con artist, a scammer, a grifter.
I was abandoned as a baby to an orphanage. My parents were last known as 'Lord Valt' and 'Lady Willow'. One was a con artist and the other a grift. Two people pretending to be nobles with the idea in their heads to seduce a real, rich noble to land themselves a rich, titled spouse. Somewhere in their schemes they fell in love. They had me and abandoned me to the orphanage. The status of my parents is unknown. Do they live? Maybe. Are they dead? Maybe.
I grew up there in that orphanage in the Lowers. It was awful. I left younger than I should have. I was never good enough at any job to do well in them. I was too loud, to bright, to charming, to stubborn, to opinionated, to ready to fight. I fought customers, I fought my employers, I fought everyone and everything tooth and nail.
I belonged no where and with no one. I slept on the streets. In the backrooms of shops. I slept in dirt. I slept on the beach once or twice. I didn't always know where I was going to get food from because I was often without a job. And I was so very, very tire of fighting tooth and nail to survive. I was tired of trying to claw my way up to a better life through honesty and hard work.
Then Lord Commander Audric of the Valorous Few was ennobled by Talen Velenosa. As a reward for Talen winning the Rose Tournament, so many many years ago. Audric grew up in the same orphanage as I. So why wouldn't we be related? Why couldn't I be one of his long lost cousins?
I didn't expect him to welcome me with open arms. I didn't expect him to give me everything I had never had. I never expected him to give me a place to belong. I never expected him to teach me how to fight. How to /really/ fight. I didn't expect him to nurture me. To guide me. I didn't expect him to embrace me as family and love me. And yet he did.
I didn't expect him to not only help me awaken my natural abilities but to accept them. As unsavory as most find powers gifted to one by the abyss.
I miss him daily. But it is time to live. Time to let the ghosts go. Time to laugh again.
Time to stop pretending. Time to stop pretending at happiness and find some real joy. Time to step into the light and tell people who I am. I have no desire to harm others. No desire to see the world ended. To be torn asunder. But I am not a good woman. I am a Liar. I am a Trickster. I am a Teller of Tall Tales. Veil smiles upon me. I am telling the world this truth now, so that you know. It is not must job to show you the truth. When you see me, when you meet me, when you hear my words. It is your job to figure out what the truth is and what is ... the trick. The joke. The lie. Because:
I am Alyssa de Lire, Baroness of Afflua, Liar and Trickster.
THE TRUTH AND LIES OF LYS DE LIRE.
I am a liar. I am a con artist, a scammer, a grifter.
I was abandoned as a baby to an orphanage. My parents were last known as 'Lord Valt' and 'Lady Willow'. One was a con artist and the other a grift. Two people pretending to be nobles with the idea in their heads to seduce a real, rich noble to land themselves a rich, titled spouse. Somewhere in their schemes they fell in love. They had me and abandoned me to the orphanage. The status of my parents is unknown. Do they live? Maybe. Are they dead? Maybe.
I grew up there in that orphanage in the Lowers. It was awful. I left younger than I should have. I was never good enough at any job to do well in them. I was too loud, to bright, to charming, to stubborn, to opinionated, to ready to fight. I fought customers, I fought my employers, I fought everyone and everything tooth and nail.
I belonged no where and with no one. I slept on the streets. In the backrooms of shops. I slept in dirt. I slept on the beach once or twice. I didn't always know where I was going to get food from because I was often without a job. And I was so very, very tire of fighting tooth and nail to survive. I was tired of trying to claw my way up to a better life through honesty and hard work.
Then Lord Commander Audric of the Valorous Few was ennobled by Talen Velenosa. As a reward for Talen winning the Rose Tournament, so many many years ago. Audric grew up in the same orphanage as I. So why wouldn't we be related? Why couldn't I be one of his long lost cousins?
I didn't expect him to welcome me with open arms. I didn't expect him to give me everything I had never had. I never expected him to give me a place to belong. I never expected him to teach me how to fight. How to /really/ fight. I didn't expect him to nurture me. To guide me. I didn't expect him to embrace me as family and love me. And yet he did.
I didn't expect him to not only help me awaken my natural abilities but to accept them. As unsavory as most find powers gifted to one by the abyss.
I miss him daily. But it is time to live. Time to let the ghosts go. Time to laugh again.
Time to stop pretending. Time to stop pretending at happiness and find some real joy. Time to step into the light and tell people who I am. I have no desire to harm others. No desire to see the world ended. To be torn asunder. But I am not a good woman. I am a Liar. I am a Trickster. I am a Teller of Tall Tales. Veil smiles upon me. I am telling the world this truth now, so that you know. It is not must job to show you the truth. When you see me, when you meet me, when you hear my words. It is your job to figure out what the truth is and what is ... the trick. The joke. The lie. Because:
I am Alyssa de Lire, Baroness of Afflua, Liar and Trickster.
Written By Faye
Jan. 14, 2024, 11:17 p.m.(7/21/1021 AR)
I sent a note to the scholar staffing the traveling library dedicated to my mother. I am not sure if the note will reach him in time, but I told him he'd better get his ass to Sanctum. Leave the books, if necessary. If any of us survive, we will write more.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.