Written By Percephon
April 29, 2017, 11:30 a.m.(5/13/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Lianne
So amend my will to leave the Lianne Pravus her will. I shall also make certain Fiachra gives her one of the 'good' ones after the services.
On further consideration, she's to get my scalpel. She knows the one. I'll even be nice and make certain she gets it before said service, just in case the pain is so bad she needs to dig her eyes out. (If you do, tuck them in with me? You know I've always wanted to use them. Maybe I'd get them in my next life.)
On further consideration, she's to get my scalpel. She knows the one. I'll even be nice and make certain she gets it before said service, just in case the pain is so bad she needs to dig her eyes out. (If you do, tuck them in with me? You know I've always wanted to use them. Maybe I'd get them in my next life.)
Written By Calaudrin
April 29, 2017, 10:30 a.m.(5/13/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Armel
I like him. Even if he perhaps has a penchant for throwing rocks at rats. Giant rats. Giant mutated rats.
Written By Max
April 29, 2017, 10:16 a.m.(5/13/1006 AR)
People are not loyal to you.
They are loyal to their need of you.
If their need for you changes?
So will their loyalty.
They are loyal to their need of you.
If their need for you changes?
So will their loyalty.
Written By Alis
April 29, 2017, 9:28 a.m.(5/13/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Percephon
You are not allowed to die.
Written By Charlaine
April 29, 2017, 9:04 a.m.(5/13/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Branan
You recommended I write my story, please do not be disappointed if no one sees it.
Written By Max
April 29, 2017, 8:29 a.m.(5/13/1006 AR)
<This journal entry is a sketch, not terribly elegantly done, but clear in intent, with good perspective and decent detail. It sort of loses it in shading, but it's a good effort. It shows a battered brass compass sitting on the railing of a ship as the sun sets in the distance.>
Written By Max
April 29, 2017, 7:55 a.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
It's not that actions speak louder than words.
There are a lot of incredibly loud people, so loud their words can drown out, for the inattentive, any action taken
It's that actions prove who you are - while words just state who you pretend to be.
If you watch a mans actions - watch what he does, not what he says, you will never wonder who he is.
There are a lot of incredibly loud people, so loud their words can drown out, for the inattentive, any action taken
It's that actions prove who you are - while words just state who you pretend to be.
If you watch a mans actions - watch what he does, not what he says, you will never wonder who he is.
Written By Mirari
April 29, 2017, 6:42 a.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
Made a change recently. Can't wait to see his face when he sees it. No one tell him! Don't spoil the surprise.
Written By Branan
April 29, 2017, 6:42 a.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
We took ship to the fantastic Island Shore,
Counting myth and beast to keep score.
The pretty Mermaid, her breasts so bare,
Was combing out her golden flowing hair.
The Kraken came up on deck,
And slid round the dragons neck.
The Dragon sneezed - Achoo!
And fell on his knees,
And what became of the Kraken;
Leviathan from the depths she came,
And then the game was never the same.
Written By Branan
April 29, 2017, 6:37 a.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
A wise old owl lived in an oak.
The more he saw the less he spoke.
The less he spoke the more he heard.
Why can't we all be like that wise old bird?
The more he saw the less he spoke.
The less he spoke the more he heard.
Why can't we all be like that wise old bird?
Written By Joscelin
April 29, 2017, 2:11 a.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
Things don't always go as we want them to. Sometimes, shit falls apart and we've nothing left to recognize the dreams of what were. People change. People leave, by death or circumstance, a change of heart or even a change of pace. And we have a hard time explaining it to the monsters in our chests, the hearts that press against the cages of our ribs as we plead with it, 'don't beat for them, they are gone, they are gone'. And still, the violent thing throbs.
Ba-bum. Ba-bum.
And in the silence in between, it speaks their name.
We have memories left over, gifts so precious and time-consuming in their creation, the value is impossible to calculate. Heirlooms of unspeakable age and meaning, coveted through the generations of loved ones gone. A pearl fished out of the sea by a child. A brooch worn by heroes and royalty alike. A pendant carved into a specific symbol, a hidden locket carrying some secret message. A ring with a lover's inscription written along the inside of the band, to press the words to the skin like a kiss.
More often than not, my pieces are never returned to me. But as often as they are requested, generic gifts (birthdays, holidays, anniversaries) are outnumbered by the love tokens and engagement rings I create. Even then, even when there are refusals, they are kept as treasures for some other day.
A few days ago is the first time a betrothal gift was returned.
A friend dropped a beautiful praseodymium ring in my hand, the green metal glinting mutely, decadent in its exquisite details. I knew this ring, I'd made it for him to give to his beloved. He'd given it to me and requested neither refund nor exchange. He bade me melt it down, disperse the materials into something new, the rose-cut diamond reshaped or re-cut, the green alloy melted with ounces of the same, to lose the meaning of what once was, to let the inscription that declared his beloved his 'mountain top' dissolve into nothing.
As we are friends, my lord told me some of why, and the rest was easy to guess. He wasn't struggling to let go; he was struggling to accept that he might always be angry, that he might always be distrusting. Even then, it's a complicated tangle, but the man was ready. He wanted complete destruction but understood the value of creating something useful from his pain.
Before his eyes, I dropped it into my crucible, fanned the flames and let it melt. With narrow steel tongs I plucked the diamond from its molten cradle, laying the gemstone on my anvil to cool. The puddle of praseodymium was added to an pile of scrap that eventually became an ingot.
Sometimes we need to tear down the old to create a better foundation. Sometimes, when the loss occurs, the grief strips away the bullshit and the lies and you see what work needs to be done. You look beyond the wounds and the sorrow and the ache of knowing they're gone and see, truly, what it is you -really- want. Peace. Satisfaction. Validation. Comfort. Safety. Love.
I have hope for the future, for the scouring clean of our old fears and hatreds to a better chance at thriving after so much loss. Things will grow as they can or die if need be. Our losses are irreplaceable but in time, they become easier to bear.
Do not give up, do not lose hope; tomorrow is coming and the fires are out, the rains bring solace and soon, the new green of life returning.
Ba-bum. Ba-bum.
And in the silence in between, it speaks their name.
We have memories left over, gifts so precious and time-consuming in their creation, the value is impossible to calculate. Heirlooms of unspeakable age and meaning, coveted through the generations of loved ones gone. A pearl fished out of the sea by a child. A brooch worn by heroes and royalty alike. A pendant carved into a specific symbol, a hidden locket carrying some secret message. A ring with a lover's inscription written along the inside of the band, to press the words to the skin like a kiss.
More often than not, my pieces are never returned to me. But as often as they are requested, generic gifts (birthdays, holidays, anniversaries) are outnumbered by the love tokens and engagement rings I create. Even then, even when there are refusals, they are kept as treasures for some other day.
A few days ago is the first time a betrothal gift was returned.
A friend dropped a beautiful praseodymium ring in my hand, the green metal glinting mutely, decadent in its exquisite details. I knew this ring, I'd made it for him to give to his beloved. He'd given it to me and requested neither refund nor exchange. He bade me melt it down, disperse the materials into something new, the rose-cut diamond reshaped or re-cut, the green alloy melted with ounces of the same, to lose the meaning of what once was, to let the inscription that declared his beloved his 'mountain top' dissolve into nothing.
As we are friends, my lord told me some of why, and the rest was easy to guess. He wasn't struggling to let go; he was struggling to accept that he might always be angry, that he might always be distrusting. Even then, it's a complicated tangle, but the man was ready. He wanted complete destruction but understood the value of creating something useful from his pain.
Before his eyes, I dropped it into my crucible, fanned the flames and let it melt. With narrow steel tongs I plucked the diamond from its molten cradle, laying the gemstone on my anvil to cool. The puddle of praseodymium was added to an pile of scrap that eventually became an ingot.
Sometimes we need to tear down the old to create a better foundation. Sometimes, when the loss occurs, the grief strips away the bullshit and the lies and you see what work needs to be done. You look beyond the wounds and the sorrow and the ache of knowing they're gone and see, truly, what it is you -really- want. Peace. Satisfaction. Validation. Comfort. Safety. Love.
I have hope for the future, for the scouring clean of our old fears and hatreds to a better chance at thriving after so much loss. Things will grow as they can or die if need be. Our losses are irreplaceable but in time, they become easier to bear.
Do not give up, do not lose hope; tomorrow is coming and the fires are out, the rains bring solace and soon, the new green of life returning.
Written By Lianne
April 29, 2017, 1:45 a.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Percephon
I would like my book back if you up and die.
Do try not to up and die.
Do try not to up and die.
Written By Percephon
April 29, 2017, 1:21 a.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
Given the situation, I suppose it is important to update ones will. Really, for me, there is only one thing I care about, should I die:
Alis -- you have been given your instructions as to what to do at the ceremony for me.
Fiachra -- you have your orders for after the ceremony. Give them to people who share the most interesting bit of knowledge about me.
Ansel -- you can distribute my other things as you see fit.
Percephon Troll (this bit is scratched out) Telmar
Alis -- you have been given your instructions as to what to do at the ceremony for me.
Fiachra -- you have your orders for after the ceremony. Give them to people who share the most interesting bit of knowledge about me.
Ansel -- you can distribute my other things as you see fit.
Percephon Troll (this bit is scratched out) Telmar
Written By Esoka
April 29, 2017, 12:27 a.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Rymarr
When I was a girl, tales of knights were distant, foreign things. Legends from a world of which I was not a part. Grim, towering warriors on horseback, shining and stoic and untouchable. Most knights I've met in life do not live up to this image. I certainly do not, and struggle with how I feel about my own knighthood still, on many days. But the Marquis of Deepwood is a man who matches the picture of a knight I held in my head a girl. I am honored to know him, and that I can seek his counsel on matters of swordsmanship and command. Most importantly, he treats Marquessa Samantha well.
Written By Rowan
April 29, 2017, 12:17 a.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Khanne
Lady Stray, how many last breaths have there been? Between then and now? I wonder how many more there will be. Whatever the count, it remains the same.
Written By Rowan
April 28, 2017, 11:53 p.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
Stitched wounds, they don't bother me much. They don't slow me down, as much as I should probably let them. I've popped enough of them I should know better. Cracked and broken ribs - they're worse. Can't do much of anything with those without remembering just how bad I fucked up in letting that swing get past my guard. Still, I can deal with those. A few moments still and the pain subsides.
But burns. These things can fuck right off. They never stop hurting. Not to mention what they've done to my ink.
But burns. These things can fuck right off. They never stop hurting. Not to mention what they've done to my ink.
Written By Serafine
April 28, 2017, 10:34 p.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
Post script: The name of the song is 'The Nox'Alfar and His Spider-Lover'. Really, folks, learn about other cultures.
Written By Serafine
April 28, 2017, 10:21 p.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
"-and then he said with great delight,
'My lord I've eight legs, do the math,
if you've a cock for just your twain,
your ass will definitely enjoy my wrath!
"So we collapsed in a heap of living silk.
my delicious four-cocked lover and I,
and Queen of Endings, it was a blessing,
in love we fell before the winking eye!
"We left and married on a moonlit night
and built a house in the dank of a cave,
to love each other for hours and hours
a paradise only we could rightly brave!
"And the best thing about spiders is,
you needn't a womb to carry their young,
it's all a matter of a warm tight space,
so now our children number a thousand and one!"
....Why am I the -only- -one- who knows this song?
'My lord I've eight legs, do the math,
if you've a cock for just your twain,
your ass will definitely enjoy my wrath!
"So we collapsed in a heap of living silk.
my delicious four-cocked lover and I,
and Queen of Endings, it was a blessing,
in love we fell before the winking eye!
"We left and married on a moonlit night
and built a house in the dank of a cave,
to love each other for hours and hours
a paradise only we could rightly brave!
"And the best thing about spiders is,
you needn't a womb to carry their young,
it's all a matter of a warm tight space,
so now our children number a thousand and one!"
....Why am I the -only- -one- who knows this song?
Written By Serafine
April 28, 2017, 10:21 p.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
[angry splotches like writing just wasn't in the cards]
Written By Serafine
April 28, 2017, 10:20 p.m.(5/12/1006 AR)
"-and then he said with great delight,
'My lord I've eight legs, do the math,
if you've a cock for just your twain,
your ass will definitely enjoy my wrath!
"So we collapsed in a heap of living silk.
my delicious four-cocked lover and I,
and Queen of Endings, it was a blessing,
in love we fell before the winking eye!
"We left and married on a moonlit night
and built a house in the dank of a cave,
to love each other for hours and hours
a paradise only we could rightly brave!
"And the best thing about spiders is,
you needn't a womb to carry their young,
it's all a matter of a warm tight space,
so now our children number a thousand and one!"
....Why am I the -only- -one- who knows this song?
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.