Written By Bastien
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:24 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
The Artist and His Love
One day, an artist fell in love.
The object of his adoration had broad shoulders and golden skin. His nose was straight and long, and his eyes were the clear grey-blue of the sea during a storm. His mouth was full and wide and prone to smiles that revealed the brilliant white of perfect teeth. His hands had wide palms and long, graceful fingers that were skilled and dextrous.
He was beautiful.
The artist decided that he must capture and immortalize the beauty of his love. He attempted to paint him, but found that his love's angles never seemed quite right. The shadows never fell as they should.
The years went on, and the artist and his love were happy together. Every painting that the artist attempted of him, his love would praise, humbly declaring it far more beautiful than the subject. Yet the artist found each painting wanting. Inadequate. Imperfect.
In later years, he began to attempt sculptures. He molded clay in his hands until it formed the shape of his love, until the clay face's nose was straight and long, its mouth full and wide, its fingers graceful. His love modeled patiently for every piece until it was done, and then declared it to be far more beautiful than he.
Each and every painting and sculpture the artist attempted of his love, he destroyed. Imperfect.
As the years passed, the artist began to feel a rising sense of dread and anxiety. He could begin to see his love age, change, grow. He was unable to appreciate the way the subtle wrinkles at his mouth were the product of his many smiles; he could only see his diminishing time to perfectly capture the image of his beloved.
And so one day the artist asked his love to model for him one last time. He took clay and began to mold it to his love's feet, covering his skin with the perfect detail only possible with his model underneath his hands. He molded clay to his love's calves, covering the graceful lines of muscles, and then his thighs. He covered his love's hips and the firm muscle of his rear, and he lovingly molded clay around the perfection of his phallus. He sculpted his love's torso, carving each abdominal, and then his back. He shaped his broad shoulders, and then his arms, and then his hands, and then each graceful finger.
His love looked at him and smiled, his body held fixed in this perfect sculpture of himself. The artist carefully molded his neck, his ears, the sharp line of his jaw. He shaped his high forehead and strong brow. He crafted each curl and strand of hair.
"How long do I have to stand until the sculpture is done?" the beloved asked the artist.
"Forever," the artist said. And then he molded his love's eyes, and his straight nose, and his full mouth.
When he was finished, he stepped back to survey his work. And finally he could feel his heart at peace, for it was perfect.
One day, an artist fell in love.
The object of his adoration had broad shoulders and golden skin. His nose was straight and long, and his eyes were the clear grey-blue of the sea during a storm. His mouth was full and wide and prone to smiles that revealed the brilliant white of perfect teeth. His hands had wide palms and long, graceful fingers that were skilled and dextrous.
He was beautiful.
The artist decided that he must capture and immortalize the beauty of his love. He attempted to paint him, but found that his love's angles never seemed quite right. The shadows never fell as they should.
The years went on, and the artist and his love were happy together. Every painting that the artist attempted of him, his love would praise, humbly declaring it far more beautiful than the subject. Yet the artist found each painting wanting. Inadequate. Imperfect.
In later years, he began to attempt sculptures. He molded clay in his hands until it formed the shape of his love, until the clay face's nose was straight and long, its mouth full and wide, its fingers graceful. His love modeled patiently for every piece until it was done, and then declared it to be far more beautiful than he.
Each and every painting and sculpture the artist attempted of his love, he destroyed. Imperfect.
As the years passed, the artist began to feel a rising sense of dread and anxiety. He could begin to see his love age, change, grow. He was unable to appreciate the way the subtle wrinkles at his mouth were the product of his many smiles; he could only see his diminishing time to perfectly capture the image of his beloved.
And so one day the artist asked his love to model for him one last time. He took clay and began to mold it to his love's feet, covering his skin with the perfect detail only possible with his model underneath his hands. He molded clay to his love's calves, covering the graceful lines of muscles, and then his thighs. He covered his love's hips and the firm muscle of his rear, and he lovingly molded clay around the perfection of his phallus. He sculpted his love's torso, carving each abdominal, and then his back. He shaped his broad shoulders, and then his arms, and then his hands, and then each graceful finger.
His love looked at him and smiled, his body held fixed in this perfect sculpture of himself. The artist carefully molded his neck, his ears, the sharp line of his jaw. He shaped his high forehead and strong brow. He crafted each curl and strand of hair.
"How long do I have to stand until the sculpture is done?" the beloved asked the artist.
"Forever," the artist said. And then he molded his love's eyes, and his straight nose, and his full mouth.
When he was finished, he stepped back to survey his work. And finally he could feel his heart at peace, for it was perfect.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:22 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
A Boy and His Spider: A Bedtime Story
There once was a little boy who wanted to know everything. He was insatiably curious. From the moment he was born, he seemed to want to know every detail of the world around him. As he grew into a child, he did not shy from the darkness, but searched incessantly for what hid in the shadows.
One day, when he was still young, he went into the forest near his family's home to find what lurked there. The woods were thick, and the moonlight could not pierce the heavy canopy overhead. The forest was so still and so quiet, the little boy's steps seemed to echo in the dark air.
It was not long until the Queen of Spiders lowered from her silken web in the canopy to greet the boy.
"Why do you come here?" she asked him. "The woods are dark and no place for human children. I might eat you, if I were feeling peckish."
"I want to know what's in the darkness," the boy replied.
"Monsters are in the darkness," the Spider Queen told him, clicking her terrible mandibles. "It is what the darkness is for, little one."
The boy considered her words. "What else is in the darkness?" he asked her.
"Many things," she replied, "but only monsters are allowed to know. Do you want to be a monster, little one?"
The boy thought some more. He did not find the idea of being a monster particularly appealing, but he very much wished to know the other things in the darkness. "Is there something else I could do?" he finally asked her.
The Spider Queen was silent as she considered the question, apart from the scratch of her two front feet rubbing together. "Come here, little one," she said, and then she took him in her many legs, and then she wove him into a cocoon. It was warm and cramped, but he found he didn't mind it terribly much, and soon enough he fell asleep.
He awoke sometime later to the sound of the cocoon being opened. The Spider Queen was there, her many eyes glinting in the dark. "Now you will see through all of the darkness, little one," she promised.
The little boy returned home, and he began to see things. Everything that walked in the dark that no one else could see. As he grew older, he began to hear a whisper in his mind. It taught him how to see through the darkness, how to approach the creatures who lurked there, how to speak to them and learn their secrets.
Soon the boy became a man, the whisper his companion still. The man grew wise and learned in all matters of dark knowledge, for nothing could remain hidden from him. But one day, he began to feeling a scratching inside his head.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
As the years went on, the scratching grew louder. "What is that scratching?" he asked the whisper in his head.
"It is very small," the whisper replied.
More years passed, and the man grew used to the constant headaches throbbing in his mind. The scratching never ended. He still unearthed secrets, but it was harder now. The scratching was so loud, and his head hurt so much.
"How can I stop the scratching?" he begged the whisper after years of enduring.
"Let me out," the whisper said.
The man began to search for spells or incantations, rites or rituals, anything to remove the scratching from his mind.
"Let me out," the whisper said. "Let me out."
Years passed. Eventually the man could not find any secrets at all. He could not think. He could not breathe. Until one day he took a rock and cracked open his head.
It hurt, but not as much as the scratching.
His skin peeled away, and then his bone, and then the Spider Queen's son unwrapped his legs from the man's brain. He skittered out into the light after a lifetime in the dark.
"Why would you hurt me?" the man cried. "I did nothing to harm you."
The Spider Queen's son looked at him with infinite eyes. "I am a monster," he said. "You did not wish to be, and so you were eaten. There are only two options."
The man died, as most do when dealing with monsters. The spider slipped back into the shadows, and then he was gone.
There once was a little boy who wanted to know everything. He was insatiably curious. From the moment he was born, he seemed to want to know every detail of the world around him. As he grew into a child, he did not shy from the darkness, but searched incessantly for what hid in the shadows.
One day, when he was still young, he went into the forest near his family's home to find what lurked there. The woods were thick, and the moonlight could not pierce the heavy canopy overhead. The forest was so still and so quiet, the little boy's steps seemed to echo in the dark air.
It was not long until the Queen of Spiders lowered from her silken web in the canopy to greet the boy.
"Why do you come here?" she asked him. "The woods are dark and no place for human children. I might eat you, if I were feeling peckish."
"I want to know what's in the darkness," the boy replied.
"Monsters are in the darkness," the Spider Queen told him, clicking her terrible mandibles. "It is what the darkness is for, little one."
The boy considered her words. "What else is in the darkness?" he asked her.
"Many things," she replied, "but only monsters are allowed to know. Do you want to be a monster, little one?"
The boy thought some more. He did not find the idea of being a monster particularly appealing, but he very much wished to know the other things in the darkness. "Is there something else I could do?" he finally asked her.
The Spider Queen was silent as she considered the question, apart from the scratch of her two front feet rubbing together. "Come here, little one," she said, and then she took him in her many legs, and then she wove him into a cocoon. It was warm and cramped, but he found he didn't mind it terribly much, and soon enough he fell asleep.
He awoke sometime later to the sound of the cocoon being opened. The Spider Queen was there, her many eyes glinting in the dark. "Now you will see through all of the darkness, little one," she promised.
The little boy returned home, and he began to see things. Everything that walked in the dark that no one else could see. As he grew older, he began to hear a whisper in his mind. It taught him how to see through the darkness, how to approach the creatures who lurked there, how to speak to them and learn their secrets.
Soon the boy became a man, the whisper his companion still. The man grew wise and learned in all matters of dark knowledge, for nothing could remain hidden from him. But one day, he began to feeling a scratching inside his head.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
As the years went on, the scratching grew louder. "What is that scratching?" he asked the whisper in his head.
"It is very small," the whisper replied.
More years passed, and the man grew used to the constant headaches throbbing in his mind. The scratching never ended. He still unearthed secrets, but it was harder now. The scratching was so loud, and his head hurt so much.
"How can I stop the scratching?" he begged the whisper after years of enduring.
"Let me out," the whisper said.
The man began to search for spells or incantations, rites or rituals, anything to remove the scratching from his mind.
"Let me out," the whisper said. "Let me out."
Years passed. Eventually the man could not find any secrets at all. He could not think. He could not breathe. Until one day he took a rock and cracked open his head.
It hurt, but not as much as the scratching.
His skin peeled away, and then his bone, and then the Spider Queen's son unwrapped his legs from the man's brain. He skittered out into the light after a lifetime in the dark.
"Why would you hurt me?" the man cried. "I did nothing to harm you."
The Spider Queen's son looked at him with infinite eyes. "I am a monster," he said. "You did not wish to be, and so you were eaten. There are only two options."
The man died, as most do when dealing with monsters. The spider slipped back into the shadows, and then he was gone.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:16 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
When one door closes, you can often force open another if you're aggressive enough. Or just find a door more appreciative of your talents. Doors are fickle things.
Written By Belladonna
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:03 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
It is good to be busy again.
I could use another hand or twelve, though.
I could use another hand or twelve, though.
Written By Amarantha
Dec. 17, 2017, 7:59 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Astraea
My sister keeps volunteering us for things. While I love her enthusiasm for life and helping others, I'm not sure I'm cut out for this. The last time I held a sword was right before gifting it to my dearly departed husband.
And back then, I nearly dropped it on his foot.
And back then, I nearly dropped it on his foot.
Written By Cara
Dec. 17, 2017, 6:41 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
On Reincarnation
From time to time, I converse with someone who has some experience with reincarnation -- they themselves, perhaps, are an older soul reborn, or they know someone who is, or the like. One topic seems to consistently emerge in these discussion, and that is this:
How much of who we are comes from our past lives?
It is a worthy question, I think, and one with no clear answer, save for this -- we are each of us both old and new, the product of a life lived many times, but we are also each gifted with the ability to change.
A past life is not a predictor of the present one; it is as much a part of you as childhood memories, true, though oft forgotten, but it is not a determination of destiny. No matter the patterns of fate that we might fall into, our particular resonance in the reality of life repeating itself, we -- each of us -- have the capacity to choose.
This is our gift; we are not bound.
Someone who lived a life emperiled and desperate, who fell to dark choices, might be reborn and try again. They are not destined to fall each time.
Someone who lived a life of greatness and magnificent deeds are not doomed to repeat the past, pulled into battles over and over again. They have the choice to walk a different path.
This gift we are given by the Queen of Endings, may She always be remembered. This gift we are given by Skald, who is an okay guy (or so I hear). This gift we are given by Lagoma, the force of Change, and by Gild, and by Petrichor and Vellichor and all of the gods.
May those who have found that they have lives beyond the one they know hold this thought dear. They are not altered by the past, but simply informed by it, and their life is wholly their own to create.
From time to time, I converse with someone who has some experience with reincarnation -- they themselves, perhaps, are an older soul reborn, or they know someone who is, or the like. One topic seems to consistently emerge in these discussion, and that is this:
How much of who we are comes from our past lives?
It is a worthy question, I think, and one with no clear answer, save for this -- we are each of us both old and new, the product of a life lived many times, but we are also each gifted with the ability to change.
A past life is not a predictor of the present one; it is as much a part of you as childhood memories, true, though oft forgotten, but it is not a determination of destiny. No matter the patterns of fate that we might fall into, our particular resonance in the reality of life repeating itself, we -- each of us -- have the capacity to choose.
This is our gift; we are not bound.
Someone who lived a life emperiled and desperate, who fell to dark choices, might be reborn and try again. They are not destined to fall each time.
Someone who lived a life of greatness and magnificent deeds are not doomed to repeat the past, pulled into battles over and over again. They have the choice to walk a different path.
This gift we are given by the Queen of Endings, may She always be remembered. This gift we are given by Skald, who is an okay guy (or so I hear). This gift we are given by Lagoma, the force of Change, and by Gild, and by Petrichor and Vellichor and all of the gods.
May those who have found that they have lives beyond the one they know hold this thought dear. They are not altered by the past, but simply informed by it, and their life is wholly their own to create.
Written By Percephon
Dec. 17, 2017, 6:31 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
To celebrate the grand proclamation of Prince Edain -- Highlord of the Oathlands, Prince of Prince of Sanctum, the Baconbringer and amateur goatherd -- and Princess Consort Caelis Valardin, I will be returning to my leisurely pursuit of art in the form of stuffed animals and figures. Starting with a line of patchwork Timmons, the pygmy goat. Each Timmons will be lovingly and meticulously made by hand. The highest form of art that I can produce in order to honor the High Lord and his Princess Consort.
Written By Sameera
Dec. 17, 2017, 6:06 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
*sketches of various pieces of jewelry*
Written By Clover
Dec. 17, 2017, 5:57 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Joscelin
Mistress Joscelin makes the absolute best jewelry!
Written By Clover
Dec. 17, 2017, 5:57 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
*A sketch of a single feather, colored in in fiery, fiery colors.*
Written By Clover
Dec. 17, 2017, 5:56 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Ryhalt
*A sketch of a stack of papers, some of them curled at the edges, while others are folded. Ink is spilled across the surface of the desk they rest on.*
Written By Clover
Dec. 17, 2017, 5:56 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Sorrel
*A sketch of a raven haired woman, a nimbus of curls around her face and shoulders. She's got her sword lifted up into the air, and her mouth open as if speaking. The entire piece is bordered with musical notes.*
Written By Calypso
Dec. 17, 2017, 5:44 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Armel
When you do eventually come back to the city, we have much to discuss.
Written By Jhond
Dec. 17, 2017, 5:37 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
a successful trip. it's good to help the formal thralls and see them so well settled. to be useful.
Written By Jhond
Dec. 17, 2017, 5:36 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Its good to be sculpting again. Interesting subjects.
Written By Corban
Dec. 17, 2017, 4:58 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
It was good to return to the Telmarch to lead the efforts to integrate our freed Kennex thralls. I am not sure that Duke Arn (returned to our seat of government to manage its affairs) cracked a look other than vague disapproval the entire time. But I hope that even he cannot argue with the results: Our army swelled, our revenue rising -- and, I hope -- better understanding and relations between the Telmarch's citizenry and the new freedmen we brought to live among us.
Of course, an undertaking of this magnitude does not happen alone, and I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge those who came with:
* Lady Monique Greenmarch, translator and hostess extraordinaire, who mingled among our new arrivals, answering question, and served as go-between between locals and our newest citizens.
* Lord Percephon Telmar, who taught lessons on Oathlands culture for the freed thralls and lessons on Islands culture for those taking on the freedmen into their communities that rivaled any taught at the finest academies.
* Minister Korka Glynn, the Telmarch's Minister of Loyalty, who ensured that those opposed to this project were identified and addressed before they could inhibit our efforts.
* The wonderful members of Whisper House, Bliss (who organized their number), Jhond, and Nisaa, who all were the most-gracious and able of diplomats.
The last bears some attention. Some think Whispers are merely party organizers and companions on the social circuit. But I saw Whispers mingle at the campfire with Isles freedmen and in the Great Hall of the Telmarch Keep with equal facility and skill. Do not seek them out only for their courtly charm. They are diplomats that can further any aim that you have.
Of course, an undertaking of this magnitude does not happen alone, and I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge those who came with:
* Lady Monique Greenmarch, translator and hostess extraordinaire, who mingled among our new arrivals, answering question, and served as go-between between locals and our newest citizens.
* Lord Percephon Telmar, who taught lessons on Oathlands culture for the freed thralls and lessons on Islands culture for those taking on the freedmen into their communities that rivaled any taught at the finest academies.
* Minister Korka Glynn, the Telmarch's Minister of Loyalty, who ensured that those opposed to this project were identified and addressed before they could inhibit our efforts.
* The wonderful members of Whisper House, Bliss (who organized their number), Jhond, and Nisaa, who all were the most-gracious and able of diplomats.
The last bears some attention. Some think Whispers are merely party organizers and companions on the social circuit. But I saw Whispers mingle at the campfire with Isles freedmen and in the Great Hall of the Telmarch Keep with equal facility and skill. Do not seek them out only for their courtly charm. They are diplomats that can further any aim that you have.
Written By Joscelin
Dec. 17, 2017, 3:59 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Victus
To describe a person as 'social lubricant' can be tricky, but in the case of Alarissa, I've rarely seen a person's influence so profoundly on another as I did Lord Thrax. While it was odd stepping foot into the Wards of Thrax, it was odder still to be -apologized- to by the very man who'd tossed me out of it last I was there.
And he did, Lord Victus Thrax, with the grace of a Whisper offer his apologies, and without a hitch in his pride or a back-handed compliment. Sincere, open, and swiftly given without a fuss. There was no nudging from his wife, either, nor did he expect me that evening to visit her.
I pride myself on a measure of perception, to see in my clients and in strangers alike what it is they want from me. Generally this is in regards to what I make, and as I dictate this I swear to you, it's almost as if the man is a completely different person, and not in the sense that he has been changed, but in that he has found himself, reverted to a state of truth and self-awareness some go through life without ever approaching.
Perhaps it's the weight of responsibility, the stripping of trappings provided by danger, or even affection, or, dare I say it, compassion. I make no attempt to unravel the mystery of that man, but I'll be the first to declare that he is a man worth respecting, and though timid I may be in approaching him, I would no longer do so in fear.
And he did, Lord Victus Thrax, with the grace of a Whisper offer his apologies, and without a hitch in his pride or a back-handed compliment. Sincere, open, and swiftly given without a fuss. There was no nudging from his wife, either, nor did he expect me that evening to visit her.
I pride myself on a measure of perception, to see in my clients and in strangers alike what it is they want from me. Generally this is in regards to what I make, and as I dictate this I swear to you, it's almost as if the man is a completely different person, and not in the sense that he has been changed, but in that he has found himself, reverted to a state of truth and self-awareness some go through life without ever approaching.
Perhaps it's the weight of responsibility, the stripping of trappings provided by danger, or even affection, or, dare I say it, compassion. I make no attempt to unravel the mystery of that man, but I'll be the first to declare that he is a man worth respecting, and though timid I may be in approaching him, I would no longer do so in fear.
Written By Joscelin
Dec. 17, 2017, 3:50 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Winter is on its way, the cold has crept in and my hands are cracking from the washing of rouge and soot from my fingers. I've been working with praseodymium for the first time in a year, and twice now I've made a filigree design that I'd retired. It's pleasing to bring up old designs, rework them into something newer.
The mood of the city seems to sway into mellow fear and melancholy as the days get shorter. The word 'jewelry' comes from the word 'joy', and I've managed in some capacity to share this here and there, restocking my shop with items less expensive in materials but still in the quality I'm pleased to present it in. I think I will do this well into Solstice, my little shop is doing well and, more importantly, so are the other members of the Guild.
I know, scholar, I ramble about this often, but I'm proud of the Crafters' successes. .... like a mother? Ha! Alright then, yes, there's a measure of mother-henning going on, but I promise, their work and success is their own, I'm only grateful to witness it.
The mood of the city seems to sway into mellow fear and melancholy as the days get shorter. The word 'jewelry' comes from the word 'joy', and I've managed in some capacity to share this here and there, restocking my shop with items less expensive in materials but still in the quality I'm pleased to present it in. I think I will do this well into Solstice, my little shop is doing well and, more importantly, so are the other members of the Guild.
I know, scholar, I ramble about this often, but I'm proud of the Crafters' successes. .... like a mother? Ha! Alright then, yes, there's a measure of mother-henning going on, but I promise, their work and success is their own, I'm only grateful to witness it.
Written By Valery
Dec. 17, 2017, 3:25 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Well, in some way, light is better than smoke.
Sometimes mistakes are nice.
Sometimes mistakes are nice.
Written By Roxana
Dec. 17, 2017, 2:40 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
I am terribly excited! His Majesty had mentioned some weeks ago that perhaps in order to get acclimated at court and find something to do for my idle hands, I might serve as a Lady in Waiting to Queen Symonesse. It seems that such an opportunity does indeed exist, and I will be doing so after the birth of her child and her physical recovery.
It is likely a blessing that I cannot begin right away. I don't know anything about elves...
It is likely a blessing that I cannot begin right away. I don't know anything about elves...
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.