Written By Cufre
Jan. 12, 2024, 7:05 a.m.(7/16/1021 AR)
I wish I knew more about the Laws of the Dream.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 12, 2024, 4:24 a.m.(7/16/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Rinel
I won't soon or ever forget the night I met the Oathlands scholar - the loveliest of scholars, as I would come to call her (much to her dismay).
It was at the Ambassador. She came into a bar with a stubborn refusal to drink anything but non-alcoholic cider. The selection made me cringe to my core. She was there, bright-eyed and naive, yammering on about some form of lichen she was intent on studying to some pointless end.
Of course, we toyed with her. She was eccentric and prideful, sanctimonious and stubborn. But she was abundantly optimistic with a sense of wonder and almost an endearing hopefulness - traits that would fade from my lovely, dear Rinel in time until she was less than a shell of the person I met that night.
Several at the bar took to merrymaking and in doing so began to chant a Valardin folk tune. Rinel joined in and it wasn't long before they hoisted her upon their shoulders and carried her around the Ambassador as if she were a banner. The bright smile on her face then, I would never see again after that night.
Rinel's time in Arx was fraught with confrontation and haughty insistence. For these, she alone was to blame. I nearly killed her myself, once. And though I tried to speak sense to her, in the end, even I had to turn my back on her.
But lest you think this is written to run her down, I shall dispatch promptly with the notion. For this is a hero's story. While it might take some time to reveal the arc of her redemption and bring an explanation to the enduring gratitude that I will hold for her, everlasting, I may as well just spoil the punchline: Rinel Tern saved me.
Your experiences may vary.
It was at the Ambassador. She came into a bar with a stubborn refusal to drink anything but non-alcoholic cider. The selection made me cringe to my core. She was there, bright-eyed and naive, yammering on about some form of lichen she was intent on studying to some pointless end.
Of course, we toyed with her. She was eccentric and prideful, sanctimonious and stubborn. But she was abundantly optimistic with a sense of wonder and almost an endearing hopefulness - traits that would fade from my lovely, dear Rinel in time until she was less than a shell of the person I met that night.
Several at the bar took to merrymaking and in doing so began to chant a Valardin folk tune. Rinel joined in and it wasn't long before they hoisted her upon their shoulders and carried her around the Ambassador as if she were a banner. The bright smile on her face then, I would never see again after that night.
Rinel's time in Arx was fraught with confrontation and haughty insistence. For these, she alone was to blame. I nearly killed her myself, once. And though I tried to speak sense to her, in the end, even I had to turn my back on her.
But lest you think this is written to run her down, I shall dispatch promptly with the notion. For this is a hero's story. While it might take some time to reveal the arc of her redemption and bring an explanation to the enduring gratitude that I will hold for her, everlasting, I may as well just spoil the punchline: Rinel Tern saved me.
Your experiences may vary.
Written By Titus
Jan. 12, 2024, 12:01 a.m.(7/15/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Khanne
My Khanne,
In the dwindling sands of our hourglass, time's a luxury we can't afford anymore. The relentless march of days is bringing us closer to a precipice, beyond which lies a void, a day devoid of tomorrow's promise. Thirty days from now, Arx will stand on the edge of oblivion, facing a devouring darkness, an insatiable maelstrom hungry for the essence of our being. This abominable force, blind to distinction or rank, whether you're a Godsworn, a valiant Knight, a mighty King or a humble Cobbler, sees us all as mere specks to be consumed in its ravenous gluttonous fury. It threatens not just the great city of Arx but the Shining Lands beyond and aims to shatter the chains binding it to Arvum, to unleash its catastrophic hunger upon the world in a final, apocalyptic reckoning.
In this fleeting existence, as we walk our divergent paths, laden with triumphs and failings, we must live with purpose and integrity. Make sure the trail you blaze has a lasting mark with your essence, your resolve unshaken, your honour unblemished, and your determination to do what's right unwavering. Leave behind a legacy that echoes your final, valiant stand long after you've left this realm.
In this hour of dire need, let heroes emerge from despair's depths. Harness this moment; let it be the crucible that forges unity from discord, strength from weakness, and resilience from despair. Extend your hand to those you once opposed, for the entity seeking our annihilation is indifferent to our squabbles; in its eyes, we're but fleeting morsels in its path of destruction. Insects to squash.
Let's come together as one indomitable force. Bolster each other, fortify our resolve, and engage in this ultimate battle for the existence of all.
To the Last. Stand unyielding, united in the face of darkness. To the Last. Let our final cry be a testament to our courage and tenacity. To the Last.
In the dwindling sands of our hourglass, time's a luxury we can't afford anymore. The relentless march of days is bringing us closer to a precipice, beyond which lies a void, a day devoid of tomorrow's promise. Thirty days from now, Arx will stand on the edge of oblivion, facing a devouring darkness, an insatiable maelstrom hungry for the essence of our being. This abominable force, blind to distinction or rank, whether you're a Godsworn, a valiant Knight, a mighty King or a humble Cobbler, sees us all as mere specks to be consumed in its ravenous gluttonous fury. It threatens not just the great city of Arx but the Shining Lands beyond and aims to shatter the chains binding it to Arvum, to unleash its catastrophic hunger upon the world in a final, apocalyptic reckoning.
In this fleeting existence, as we walk our divergent paths, laden with triumphs and failings, we must live with purpose and integrity. Make sure the trail you blaze has a lasting mark with your essence, your resolve unshaken, your honour unblemished, and your determination to do what's right unwavering. Leave behind a legacy that echoes your final, valiant stand long after you've left this realm.
In this hour of dire need, let heroes emerge from despair's depths. Harness this moment; let it be the crucible that forges unity from discord, strength from weakness, and resilience from despair. Extend your hand to those you once opposed, for the entity seeking our annihilation is indifferent to our squabbles; in its eyes, we're but fleeting morsels in its path of destruction. Insects to squash.
Let's come together as one indomitable force. Bolster each other, fortify our resolve, and engage in this ultimate battle for the existence of all.
To the Last. Stand unyielding, united in the face of darkness. To the Last. Let our final cry be a testament to our courage and tenacity. To the Last.
Written By Eithne
Jan. 11, 2024, 10:27 p.m.(7/15/1021 AR)
The world is on fire and all I can focus on is how my daughter, my once super adorable little girl is going to be thirteen soon. She's going to be thirteen and I spent a better part of my evening assuaging Ferrando that 'my daughter' (because she's my daughter today) is pulling away from him, giving his sass and obsessed with Champion Bliss. He feels distant, unimportant, and obviously bullied (thirteen year olds are bullies).
How I wish this were the extend of the crisis we were facing. Any other day I might allow this to get to me, but today, I sat in the moment of this family issue and gave quiet thanks to the gods for giving me this beautiful gift. Now, we just have to protect it with our all so that Carson can continue bullying Ferrando throughout the rest of her teenage years.
How I wish this were the extend of the crisis we were facing. Any other day I might allow this to get to me, but today, I sat in the moment of this family issue and gave quiet thanks to the gods for giving me this beautiful gift. Now, we just have to protect it with our all so that Carson can continue bullying Ferrando throughout the rest of her teenage years.
Written By Mattheu
Jan. 11, 2024, 4:32 p.m.(7/15/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Ann
With a horde once again finding its way to the city. I find myself remembering of the first trip to Riva where we brought the children.
Sil, Raya, and Ilan were like eager fledglings, their excitement palpable in the air as we entered the heart of Riva. Cobblestone paths wound their way through the lively market square, bustling with merchants hawking goods from every corner of the realm. The children were entranced by the vibrant tapestry of life in the Rivenshari enclave.
The towering longhouse, perched on a hill overlooking the confluence of rivers, beckoned like a sentinel of history. Sil, true to his adventurous spirit, proposed a climb to the very top, where the cascading waterfall behind it provided a backdrop of mesmerizing beauty. Raya, with the regality that came so naturally to her, and Ilan, the quiet observer, all eagerly accepted the challenge.
Sil led the way, his copper hair catching the sunlight as he moved with the confidence of a future Rivenshari leader. Raya, head held high, followed suit, while Ilan, with her gentle demeanor, silently observed every detail.
Finally reaching the summit, the panoramic view of the rivers' confluence stretched before us like a living tapestry. The waters sparkled in the sunlight, and the greenery surrounding the settlement painted a picture of timeless beauty. The children's eyes widened, absorbing the grandeur of Riva and the legacy it held.
The majestic sight of our navy, the floatila, gliding on the river below was both awe-inspiring and slightly awkward from our elevated vantage point. The colorful sails billowed in the wind, carrying stories of Rivenshari seafaring prowess. As we stood there, a sense of unity with our people settled upon us, a reminder of the Rivenshari's legacy of strength and resilience.
The children chattered excitedly about the sights and the tales they would share with their cousins back home. Sil, Raya, and Ilan forged memories that would become a part of their own stories in the ongoing saga of our house.
Sil, Raya, and Ilan were like eager fledglings, their excitement palpable in the air as we entered the heart of Riva. Cobblestone paths wound their way through the lively market square, bustling with merchants hawking goods from every corner of the realm. The children were entranced by the vibrant tapestry of life in the Rivenshari enclave.
The towering longhouse, perched on a hill overlooking the confluence of rivers, beckoned like a sentinel of history. Sil, true to his adventurous spirit, proposed a climb to the very top, where the cascading waterfall behind it provided a backdrop of mesmerizing beauty. Raya, with the regality that came so naturally to her, and Ilan, the quiet observer, all eagerly accepted the challenge.
Sil led the way, his copper hair catching the sunlight as he moved with the confidence of a future Rivenshari leader. Raya, head held high, followed suit, while Ilan, with her gentle demeanor, silently observed every detail.
Finally reaching the summit, the panoramic view of the rivers' confluence stretched before us like a living tapestry. The waters sparkled in the sunlight, and the greenery surrounding the settlement painted a picture of timeless beauty. The children's eyes widened, absorbing the grandeur of Riva and the legacy it held.
The majestic sight of our navy, the floatila, gliding on the river below was both awe-inspiring and slightly awkward from our elevated vantage point. The colorful sails billowed in the wind, carrying stories of Rivenshari seafaring prowess. As we stood there, a sense of unity with our people settled upon us, a reminder of the Rivenshari's legacy of strength and resilience.
The children chattered excitedly about the sights and the tales they would share with their cousins back home. Sil, Raya, and Ilan forged memories that would become a part of their own stories in the ongoing saga of our house.
Written By Titus
Jan. 11, 2024, 4:17 p.m.(7/15/1021 AR)
If you've ever been lax at recording your life and thoughts in journals and the power of confession, now is a good time to start recording everything. You might die, this is true, but your words you write can live on for others to find. There is power in words, in memory. It shapes how people think and in shaping thoughts you have the ability to shape the Dream itself.
If you choose not to scribe your journal, you leave vast amounts of your life to be consumed by forgetfulness, lost forever to oblivion. That seems a poor trade when you're given such an opportunity to live a life how you want.
If you choose not to scribe your journal, you leave vast amounts of your life to be consumed by forgetfulness, lost forever to oblivion. That seems a poor trade when you're given such an opportunity to live a life how you want.
Written By Fatima
Jan. 11, 2024, 12:34 p.m.(7/14/1021 AR)
Day 4
Confession has its uses, but does not often cause us to change our course or our convictions.
When you gaze into the mirror, what lies within gazes back at you.
I never dumped a bucket of water on Lady Medeia's head.
Day 5
Sometimes our convictions blind us to the truth. As a result, alternate paths may be obscured.
Shadowmeld is made of Elysian silk and dragon hide.
The monsters are real, and have us surrounded. And yet, we still cling to hope.
Confession has its uses, but does not often cause us to change our course or our convictions.
When you gaze into the mirror, what lies within gazes back at you.
I never dumped a bucket of water on Lady Medeia's head.
Day 5
Sometimes our convictions blind us to the truth. As a result, alternate paths may be obscured.
Shadowmeld is made of Elysian silk and dragon hide.
The monsters are real, and have us surrounded. And yet, we still cling to hope.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 11, 2024, 6:24 a.m.(7/14/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Ennettia
Journal
In the months leading up to my venture to Halfway House, I found myself fallen for the lady, Ennettia Igniseri, born to House Saik. I met her in the Velenosan Ward on a springtime day picnicing on a yellow blanket beneath the warm, cloudless sky. Her eyes were a brilliant hazel that seemed half asleep to the world for the strain of keeping them open would be much too efforty an endeavor. Her skin an olive compexion that reminded me of home. Her hair a deep, dark brown visible beneath the sun but in other settings it was a lovely black. But it wasn't her figure or form that was captivating. It was how she moved - or didn't move much. Her grace was defined by effortlessness, except hers was not a practiced perfection. It was effortlessness in its raw form - truly, no effort, whatsoever. I'm not being poetic.
Ennettia is the most honest person I have ever met, and I endlessly adored her for it. She was determined to revel in life's simplicities and anything just out of reach was a reach too far and she could skip it. She would not skimp on luxury. Her very being demanded service to her indolence. My gods was she charming.
She never walked, she drifted. She never sat, she lazed. She never laid down, she would sort of fall into the furniture and drape over it. I would toy with her languid proclivities. When we would drink together, I would place her cup just a finger's nail out of reach - knowing it would be too far. Or I would present it to her lips, to save her the strength of holding the glass herself.
She was not without depth. And her life was not easy as it seemed. I trust in her way she did work for the lifestyle she came to enjoy, and once attained with a sufficient degree of opulence, she was content to soak in it forever. And her life was not without its tragedy. Born of Saik, she married to Igniseri and bore a son. Though the marriage was political in its nature, like so many she grew a fondness for her husband and was tragically widowed. She was a kind and patient mother, but also knew there was a reason nannies and tutors were on hire and gladly let them to their work. Her mind was sharp. Her wit could cut a man to size with words carelessly offered to the wind without so much of a turn of the head lest her comfort be impacted. She enjoyed puzzles, and was great with numbers, and was studious. I suspect, anything she could do whilst reclined with a bowl of fruit nearby - or better yet - offered to her mouth by a servant - was a thing in which she excelled. And you always knew where you stood with Ennettia, for it would be just too much work to play pretend. But it would also be too much work to loathe - she seemed to get along with most. Like anyone, she had her limits and when I explored these her warnings would be sharp and I would relent, for I loved her.
She attained to herself a contentment and complacency that any might envy. Her joy in life once acquired was simple. She was easy to be around. A person who required only not to be bored, there was no need for masks or shadows or flamboyance. She liked to talk. And she liked her comforts. Ennettia was an end out of grasp. And if I had to do it again, I would sacrifice everything that came after to return to that comfort found in the luxury of languorous simplicity.
In the months leading up to my venture to Halfway House, I found myself fallen for the lady, Ennettia Igniseri, born to House Saik. I met her in the Velenosan Ward on a springtime day picnicing on a yellow blanket beneath the warm, cloudless sky. Her eyes were a brilliant hazel that seemed half asleep to the world for the strain of keeping them open would be much too efforty an endeavor. Her skin an olive compexion that reminded me of home. Her hair a deep, dark brown visible beneath the sun but in other settings it was a lovely black. But it wasn't her figure or form that was captivating. It was how she moved - or didn't move much. Her grace was defined by effortlessness, except hers was not a practiced perfection. It was effortlessness in its raw form - truly, no effort, whatsoever. I'm not being poetic.
Ennettia is the most honest person I have ever met, and I endlessly adored her for it. She was determined to revel in life's simplicities and anything just out of reach was a reach too far and she could skip it. She would not skimp on luxury. Her very being demanded service to her indolence. My gods was she charming.
She never walked, she drifted. She never sat, she lazed. She never laid down, she would sort of fall into the furniture and drape over it. I would toy with her languid proclivities. When we would drink together, I would place her cup just a finger's nail out of reach - knowing it would be too far. Or I would present it to her lips, to save her the strength of holding the glass herself.
She was not without depth. And her life was not easy as it seemed. I trust in her way she did work for the lifestyle she came to enjoy, and once attained with a sufficient degree of opulence, she was content to soak in it forever. And her life was not without its tragedy. Born of Saik, she married to Igniseri and bore a son. Though the marriage was political in its nature, like so many she grew a fondness for her husband and was tragically widowed. She was a kind and patient mother, but also knew there was a reason nannies and tutors were on hire and gladly let them to their work. Her mind was sharp. Her wit could cut a man to size with words carelessly offered to the wind without so much of a turn of the head lest her comfort be impacted. She enjoyed puzzles, and was great with numbers, and was studious. I suspect, anything she could do whilst reclined with a bowl of fruit nearby - or better yet - offered to her mouth by a servant - was a thing in which she excelled. And you always knew where you stood with Ennettia, for it would be just too much work to play pretend. But it would also be too much work to loathe - she seemed to get along with most. Like anyone, she had her limits and when I explored these her warnings would be sharp and I would relent, for I loved her.
She attained to herself a contentment and complacency that any might envy. Her joy in life once acquired was simple. She was easy to be around. A person who required only not to be bored, there was no need for masks or shadows or flamboyance. She liked to talk. And she liked her comforts. Ennettia was an end out of grasp. And if I had to do it again, I would sacrifice everything that came after to return to that comfort found in the luxury of languorous simplicity.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 11, 2024, 5:08 a.m.(7/14/1021 AR)
Journal
We had half a map and it is all that we had. Lady Olivia Ashford, Lady Tessa Moore, Sir Jordan Ober (of House Ashford), Violet Marjawn (now Baroness Violet Farwatch), Sister Astraea Valardin, and me. Much went into the planning for our venture to Halfway House, but much was not enough.
Wandering the woods to which the map took us, the shardhaven's taunts began well before the location was in our sights. The map itself seemed to laugh at us as it withheld its final destination when under scrutiny. We had to view it with half a gaze to get anywhere. It was terribly annoying, if punny. All about us the shadows themselves seemed to twist and grin menacingly for our approach. We were all too welcome guests to a night that would be fraught with terror.
Everything about the Halfway House was half. It was half decrepit and half new construction. It was half open, and half closed in doors and window. Ominous music played on a loop, but only to half the song. The only full completion of a thing on the premises was a grave just outside the building. In hindsight, an all too obvious thing to have dug up. We missed it entirely.
The smell of fresh popcorn permeated the air as we considered our first moves. It was well determined much ahead of time that we would not /enter/ the Halfway House. We decided our best course of action would be to walk a perimeter and - as you might imagine - that proved to be impossible because we could only get as far as half way around it. We walked to no end and had no choice but to double back along a tall stone wall covered in lush, beautiful vines and half-bloomed flowers with a glorious scent.
We began our prayers. Prayers to Petrichor, for we knew the nature of corruption here was that of his dark reflection. And the prayers stung the keep like a rapier piercing the flesh of a giant. The vines began to twist and come alive. They came for me and Jordan. Quickly, Violet and he fought them off, but it was the least of our concerns. For so as quickly, I became afflicted with a violent hunger. The ground began to shake as if rebelling against the prayer. The wall crumbled to reveal a garden of beautiful flowers, greenery, and lovely, supple berries. The aching of gnawing hunger was unsatiable for Sir Jordan and I, as we stuffed our faces with what rations Lady Olivia had carried. But the reveal of the garden, and its tender fruit, was all too obvious a trap.
But one by one, the shardhaven took its hold on us. Not with twisted monsters and physical threat. It attacked us at our minds and our wits. Lady Tessa was hungry and insatiable for curiosity. She broke from the group and went around to enter the house at the door. Violet became inexplicably and painfully ill, retching and nauseated. Sir Jordan and I were hungry - so, so very hungry. Only Lady Olivia was without ailment and her continued prayer alleviated our senses, somewhat, for a small while.
Inexplicably, Sir Jordan was pegged in the back of his head by a piece of popcorn. But no one was around who could've possibly thrown it.
We could only half-return from halfway around the house. It was terribly frustrating. And, eventually, the shardhaven warped its way to Lady Olivia's mind as well, and Violet's. They became hungry. And suddenly, that obvious trap of the garden seemed like a mercy. The Halfway House was our salvation! Not our doom. All we had to do was hack through those horrible vines - and how readily they yielded as we sought after, in a righteous cause, the garden and its array of plump, juicy springtime berries.
We fell upon the bushes and devoured them until we were full - staining our lips and fingers. And just as we were on the brink of gluttony, the vines snapped us up and threw us out.
And this piece of the story just ended? That was the easy part.
We had half a map and it is all that we had. Lady Olivia Ashford, Lady Tessa Moore, Sir Jordan Ober (of House Ashford), Violet Marjawn (now Baroness Violet Farwatch), Sister Astraea Valardin, and me. Much went into the planning for our venture to Halfway House, but much was not enough.
Wandering the woods to which the map took us, the shardhaven's taunts began well before the location was in our sights. The map itself seemed to laugh at us as it withheld its final destination when under scrutiny. We had to view it with half a gaze to get anywhere. It was terribly annoying, if punny. All about us the shadows themselves seemed to twist and grin menacingly for our approach. We were all too welcome guests to a night that would be fraught with terror.
Everything about the Halfway House was half. It was half decrepit and half new construction. It was half open, and half closed in doors and window. Ominous music played on a loop, but only to half the song. The only full completion of a thing on the premises was a grave just outside the building. In hindsight, an all too obvious thing to have dug up. We missed it entirely.
The smell of fresh popcorn permeated the air as we considered our first moves. It was well determined much ahead of time that we would not /enter/ the Halfway House. We decided our best course of action would be to walk a perimeter and - as you might imagine - that proved to be impossible because we could only get as far as half way around it. We walked to no end and had no choice but to double back along a tall stone wall covered in lush, beautiful vines and half-bloomed flowers with a glorious scent.
We began our prayers. Prayers to Petrichor, for we knew the nature of corruption here was that of his dark reflection. And the prayers stung the keep like a rapier piercing the flesh of a giant. The vines began to twist and come alive. They came for me and Jordan. Quickly, Violet and he fought them off, but it was the least of our concerns. For so as quickly, I became afflicted with a violent hunger. The ground began to shake as if rebelling against the prayer. The wall crumbled to reveal a garden of beautiful flowers, greenery, and lovely, supple berries. The aching of gnawing hunger was unsatiable for Sir Jordan and I, as we stuffed our faces with what rations Lady Olivia had carried. But the reveal of the garden, and its tender fruit, was all too obvious a trap.
But one by one, the shardhaven took its hold on us. Not with twisted monsters and physical threat. It attacked us at our minds and our wits. Lady Tessa was hungry and insatiable for curiosity. She broke from the group and went around to enter the house at the door. Violet became inexplicably and painfully ill, retching and nauseated. Sir Jordan and I were hungry - so, so very hungry. Only Lady Olivia was without ailment and her continued prayer alleviated our senses, somewhat, for a small while.
Inexplicably, Sir Jordan was pegged in the back of his head by a piece of popcorn. But no one was around who could've possibly thrown it.
We could only half-return from halfway around the house. It was terribly frustrating. And, eventually, the shardhaven warped its way to Lady Olivia's mind as well, and Violet's. They became hungry. And suddenly, that obvious trap of the garden seemed like a mercy. The Halfway House was our salvation! Not our doom. All we had to do was hack through those horrible vines - and how readily they yielded as we sought after, in a righteous cause, the garden and its array of plump, juicy springtime berries.
We fell upon the bushes and devoured them until we were full - staining our lips and fingers. And just as we were on the brink of gluttony, the vines snapped us up and threw us out.
And this piece of the story just ended? That was the easy part.
Written By Mattheu
Jan. 11, 2024, 1:28 a.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Jeffeth
there was a scarf, hair bells, and cookies.
It was a good roll withing the mud. laughter and friendship was found
It was a good roll withing the mud. laughter and friendship was found
Written By Lianne
Jan. 10, 2024, 11:08 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Apollo
We worship those we think, rightly or otherwise, above ourselves, such as Gods, heroes, parents. It is an act of reverence.
We may demonstrate devotion to our equals, to whoever we feel merits it. It is not a passive thing. It is an act of consistent care.
We may demonstrate devotion to our equals, to whoever we feel merits it. It is not a passive thing. It is an act of consistent care.
Written By Lianne
Jan. 10, 2024, 11:02 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Valerius
Transcribed from my Blacks by my own hand:
(7/6/1008 AR)
He was crying when he told me he loves me, that he has never felt so comfortable with anyone in his entire life, that he didn't want to return to a life without me. I cried, too. With relief, with joy, with ache and worry for the burden he must carry in being close to me.
I love him, too. I sometimes find myself thinking of ways I might bend my world to better fit him in it.
I don't think anyone would imagine he's where I would put my heart, my time, all my attention. I would argue that they don't know either of us very well. He is honest, always. He is made of light and laughter and bravery. He is not without fear, but I have yet to see him shy away from either responsibility or challenge, no matter how he might say he avoids the former. He loves deeply. He answers all my questions, even when they make him uncomfortable. He lets me see him. And I think he, too, sees me, even if he doesn't always understand.
I woke beside him this morning after a night of crying and confessions. I woke with his skin beneath my fingers, and I can't remember the last time I felt such peace.
This will not be easy, but I have no doubt that it will be worth it, if only for moments like those.
(7/6/1008 AR)
He was crying when he told me he loves me, that he has never felt so comfortable with anyone in his entire life, that he didn't want to return to a life without me. I cried, too. With relief, with joy, with ache and worry for the burden he must carry in being close to me.
I love him, too. I sometimes find myself thinking of ways I might bend my world to better fit him in it.
I don't think anyone would imagine he's where I would put my heart, my time, all my attention. I would argue that they don't know either of us very well. He is honest, always. He is made of light and laughter and bravery. He is not without fear, but I have yet to see him shy away from either responsibility or challenge, no matter how he might say he avoids the former. He loves deeply. He answers all my questions, even when they make him uncomfortable. He lets me see him. And I think he, too, sees me, even if he doesn't always understand.
I woke beside him this morning after a night of crying and confessions. I woke with his skin beneath my fingers, and I can't remember the last time I felt such peace.
This will not be easy, but I have no doubt that it will be worth it, if only for moments like those.
Written By Fortunato
Jan. 10, 2024, 8:57 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
I think that we will make it. I hope we will make it. I would like the Dream to persist. I would not like the Eater to end it. What a miserable end that would be.
I must grieve, though. I must grieve, and grieve, and grieve at so many lost. Countless lost. Peoples and settlements and nations. Gone. I think we will make it. I think we will preserve the seed of Arvum to regrow in another season. I think, perhaps, the world will not utterly end.
But the loss is incalculable. All I wanted, all I have wanted, was to prevent this. Do you remember the empty pages raining on Arx? Do you remember the terrible visions of his depredations? I wanted it to stop. I wanted the common folk, the every day folk, the people that perhaps have little weight on either the Dream or on society, I wanted them to live. I'm just from the Lowers myself.
I think we will preserve a seed to regrow in another season. I think we will come together with unlikely allies. I think perhaps we will be able to perform a great working with help. Or we will have a way or another way. I have this hope. But the loss is incalculable. The world will not be the same world and for a long time Arvum will be barren. Arx a faint shoot in a land of desolation. Spring will come. But I have not prevented this winter. Should I survive this end, I do not think I can stay. I will walk the ruined roads and remember the loss.
I must grieve, though. I must grieve, and grieve, and grieve at so many lost. Countless lost. Peoples and settlements and nations. Gone. I think we will make it. I think we will preserve the seed of Arvum to regrow in another season. I think, perhaps, the world will not utterly end.
But the loss is incalculable. All I wanted, all I have wanted, was to prevent this. Do you remember the empty pages raining on Arx? Do you remember the terrible visions of his depredations? I wanted it to stop. I wanted the common folk, the every day folk, the people that perhaps have little weight on either the Dream or on society, I wanted them to live. I'm just from the Lowers myself.
I think we will preserve a seed to regrow in another season. I think we will come together with unlikely allies. I think perhaps we will be able to perform a great working with help. Or we will have a way or another way. I have this hope. But the loss is incalculable. The world will not be the same world and for a long time Arvum will be barren. Arx a faint shoot in a land of desolation. Spring will come. But I have not prevented this winter. Should I survive this end, I do not think I can stay. I will walk the ruined roads and remember the loss.
Written By Lianne
Jan. 10, 2024, 7:49 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
Transcribed from my Blacks by my own hand, with a note that this was a relatively minor demon:
(8/7/1005 AR)
All I could see was blackness.
It came in through my eyes. My ears, nose, mouth, but also my eyes, blotting out all light, leaving me in darkness. As if the allegorical darkness which I had denied had risen up just to tell me that it is real, that it is not mere metaphor, that there is no other word for this evil but what it is: Darkness.
For all the weight of that word, I must try to document this clearly, to articulate what I witnessed. Here, first, for myself and for Vellichor and for Tehom who sees what darkness is left in me. Later, for my beloved duchess. Perhaps, then, after review, for a few fellow scholars.
What I witnessed was a black, ominous cloud barreling toward myself and the admiral. Cassius had alerted me, shouting from upstairs, and I reached for my holy water. I was unable to wield it effectively, to create a barrier which might have prohibited its movement. I did, however, see how it reshaped itself to avoid what I was able to spill, which only made the gaps I left behind all the more evident. As it rushed toward my face, I then tried, in vain, to guard myself against its trespass, but the mist was too fine. It got in.
It was wet and oppressive and slick like oil. I could barely breathe for how it contaminated every inhalation without ever being expelled. It could not have been more than a minute, and yet it felt so much longer. While within me, heavy and wrong and inescapably black, I could feel it taking from me, this... pulling from within my very being.
I remember very clearly what it felt like to be stripped of all that awfulness, to feel it forced from me as I was pushed past the barrier which had been drawn around us. I felt clean. For an instant, I felt perfectly pure, that imperfection washed away by Mangata herself. And then I hit the ground. Cassius had erected a circle of holy water, Felix then pushed up through it, trapping the mirrorborn in its mist-form, too fine to defy the holy wall which bound it. Once it took to a more solid form, it was able to push through, the blessed water eating away at its ruined and fluid flesh, but it was also once more able to be struck. And vulnerable to combustion, at which point it crumbled into oil and ash and mirror shards, of which I have collected a few.
I will want later to record the others' experiences, what they witnessed, but this evidence is my own.
I feel pitted still, as if all of my innards have been weathered and worn by what was within me. I know this is not the case, that I am well and whole, yet that metaphor feels so real, as if I have been scarred in ways the rest of Arvum will never see. No. Perhaps if I think of it as wounds, injuries, it will heal. To call it a scar is to bear it forever, to be marked by the mirrorborn. This, like any other wound, will heal.
Any further exposition would detract from the purpose of this journal.
(8/7/1005 AR)
All I could see was blackness.
It came in through my eyes. My ears, nose, mouth, but also my eyes, blotting out all light, leaving me in darkness. As if the allegorical darkness which I had denied had risen up just to tell me that it is real, that it is not mere metaphor, that there is no other word for this evil but what it is: Darkness.
For all the weight of that word, I must try to document this clearly, to articulate what I witnessed. Here, first, for myself and for Vellichor and for Tehom who sees what darkness is left in me. Later, for my beloved duchess. Perhaps, then, after review, for a few fellow scholars.
What I witnessed was a black, ominous cloud barreling toward myself and the admiral. Cassius had alerted me, shouting from upstairs, and I reached for my holy water. I was unable to wield it effectively, to create a barrier which might have prohibited its movement. I did, however, see how it reshaped itself to avoid what I was able to spill, which only made the gaps I left behind all the more evident. As it rushed toward my face, I then tried, in vain, to guard myself against its trespass, but the mist was too fine. It got in.
It was wet and oppressive and slick like oil. I could barely breathe for how it contaminated every inhalation without ever being expelled. It could not have been more than a minute, and yet it felt so much longer. While within me, heavy and wrong and inescapably black, I could feel it taking from me, this... pulling from within my very being.
I remember very clearly what it felt like to be stripped of all that awfulness, to feel it forced from me as I was pushed past the barrier which had been drawn around us. I felt clean. For an instant, I felt perfectly pure, that imperfection washed away by Mangata herself. And then I hit the ground. Cassius had erected a circle of holy water, Felix then pushed up through it, trapping the mirrorborn in its mist-form, too fine to defy the holy wall which bound it. Once it took to a more solid form, it was able to push through, the blessed water eating away at its ruined and fluid flesh, but it was also once more able to be struck. And vulnerable to combustion, at which point it crumbled into oil and ash and mirror shards, of which I have collected a few.
I will want later to record the others' experiences, what they witnessed, but this evidence is my own.
I feel pitted still, as if all of my innards have been weathered and worn by what was within me. I know this is not the case, that I am well and whole, yet that metaphor feels so real, as if I have been scarred in ways the rest of Arvum will never see. No. Perhaps if I think of it as wounds, injuries, it will heal. To call it a scar is to bear it forever, to be marked by the mirrorborn. This, like any other wound, will heal.
Any further exposition would detract from the purpose of this journal.
Written By Gwenna
Jan. 10, 2024, 7:13 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
There are few in the Compact who have not heard the tales of Queen Valeria Redrain in the time of the Reckoning, and certainly not a soul in the Northlands. Fewer records survived about her sister Elira. Elira the warrior, Elira the strategist, Elira the steadfast. Valeria's little sister who offered sanctuary in Farhaven to others as the North became more and more deadly, and Elira who held the territory around Farhaven against demonic forces. Elira, who held Farhaven for ten long years as Valeria and the others fought through the White Legions in hopes of freeing the city. The gates never fell.
I am not sure if history might be repeating itself or if the paths before us are coincidence. I know where I must be and what we must do for the Northlands and Arx. There is no way to know what will prove successful or foolish until the histories are ready to be written. All we can really know is that we will make our stand and fight.
To the Last.
I am not sure if history might be repeating itself or if the paths before us are coincidence. I know where I must be and what we must do for the Northlands and Arx. There is no way to know what will prove successful or foolish until the histories are ready to be written. All we can really know is that we will make our stand and fight.
To the Last.
Written By Aconite
Jan. 10, 2024, 3:08 p.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
Worshipping requires action. It does not need belief or attachment to be practiced.
Devotion is similar to worship, but requires no action because it comes from the soul.
Devotion is similar to worship, but requires no action because it comes from the soul.
Written By Aelgar
Jan. 10, 2024, 12:50 p.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
A new initiative in the Archives has arisen and I am to catalog many long-neglected documents in the lower levels of the building. This is a happy day as who knows what fascinating knowledge might be found in those old pages? I hope to raise the most interesting ones up to the ground floor for copying and further review. The Archives are built to discourage moisture and vermin, but it will also be a pleasure to check the various niches and corners to ensure all is safe down there. This is a long overdue project.
Written By Medeia
Jan. 10, 2024, 11:50 a.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
Lord Emilio Saik
I commit his name to the whites, so that some shred of him can be remembered. He existed. None of us remember him. I beg of you to remember him anyway.
He was Estaban's twin. He was my older brother. Estaban could remember him, knew that he was a member of the Inquisition, knew that Azazel had killed him.
I don't know if Emilio was a good brother, carrying me on his back through the vineyards while laughing. I dont know if Emilio tormented me, dipping my hair in ink. Maybe he was both - people are so rarely ever just one thing. Maybe his favorite color was blue, the specific shade of blue that comes to far reaches of the sky when the sun is about to dip below the horizon. Maybe he loved to dance in the dining room to songs he made up about dinner. I don't know. You don't know. Remember him anyway!
Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik was born to Lady Giovanna and Lord Aaron Saik. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik swam off the Saikland beaches as a child - surely he did, we all did. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik once had dirt under his fingernails. Whatever it is, so long as it is likely truth, tell someone. Write it down, even if it is just to say in your journals that I am crazy to insist that Lord Emilio Saik was real.
He was. Remember him. Remember all of them.
I commit his name to the whites, so that some shred of him can be remembered. He existed. None of us remember him. I beg of you to remember him anyway.
He was Estaban's twin. He was my older brother. Estaban could remember him, knew that he was a member of the Inquisition, knew that Azazel had killed him.
I don't know if Emilio was a good brother, carrying me on his back through the vineyards while laughing. I dont know if Emilio tormented me, dipping my hair in ink. Maybe he was both - people are so rarely ever just one thing. Maybe his favorite color was blue, the specific shade of blue that comes to far reaches of the sky when the sun is about to dip below the horizon. Maybe he loved to dance in the dining room to songs he made up about dinner. I don't know. You don't know. Remember him anyway!
Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik was born to Lady Giovanna and Lord Aaron Saik. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik swam off the Saikland beaches as a child - surely he did, we all did. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik once had dirt under his fingernails. Whatever it is, so long as it is likely truth, tell someone. Write it down, even if it is just to say in your journals that I am crazy to insist that Lord Emilio Saik was real.
He was. Remember him. Remember all of them.
Written By Eirene
Jan. 10, 2024, 11:13 a.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
After all my work with the refugees, I wonder if I was kinder to have let them forget...
Written By Fatima
Jan. 10, 2024, 2:31 a.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
Day 3:
I found a coin that belongs to me, brought up from the depths of the sea. It was a coin I never knew was lost until it was found.
I swam with sharks, and came out of the water unscathed. I saw the armies of the Dune Emperor, driven into their waiting teeth.
My fleet is very small, and will not pose a threat to the Dune Emperor at all.
(Anyone who can see the Bay of Thrax, and any available docks and harbors, will know the third one is the lie. The waters are filled with ships, thousands of Eurusi, knights, mercenaries, sellsails and men-at-arms and more, readying to set sail.)
I found a coin that belongs to me, brought up from the depths of the sea. It was a coin I never knew was lost until it was found.
I swam with sharks, and came out of the water unscathed. I saw the armies of the Dune Emperor, driven into their waiting teeth.
My fleet is very small, and will not pose a threat to the Dune Emperor at all.
(Anyone who can see the Bay of Thrax, and any available docks and harbors, will know the third one is the lie. The waters are filled with ships, thousands of Eurusi, knights, mercenaries, sellsails and men-at-arms and more, readying to set sail.)
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.