Written By Avita
May 12, 2024, 7:40 p.m.(4/7/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I've decided I should do some remodelling in Ischia.
Oh, don't you worry, her beauty shall persist.
It's more that I require more ... majesty.
More flare.
More /drama/.
I'll have to see what I can do about that.
Prepare the stage for me, darling.
... oh, you don't work for me, do you?
Hm.
Even still.
I've decided I should do some remodelling in Ischia.
Oh, don't you worry, her beauty shall persist.
It's more that I require more ... majesty.
More flare.
More /drama/.
I'll have to see what I can do about that.
Prepare the stage for me, darling.
... oh, you don't work for me, do you?
Hm.
Even still.
Written By Avita
May 5, 2024, 9:51 p.m.(3/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
They say that scent is the sense most directly linked to memory.
If that's so, why are there no legends or grand ballads about the smell of our heroes?
No hymns of the aroma of humble beginnings, nor the banquet of life itself, which I so often glut myself upon.
Instead, we have grand retellings of the sight of terrible flames, of the sensation of blood cooling and pulling on our skin, or the brutality of war as it is observed, bodies strewn and scattered like sheaves of hay in the manger of meager existances.
Not mine, of course.
I am the sun, after all.
We have stories that speak of songs that echo through the very fabric of truth itself, that move us, that tug at the heartstrings until they snap and the dams of our composure break and fill the seas with our bitter tears, changing our world forevermore.
We spin stories about the feeling of a lover's skin beneath our fingertips, or the pain of an entirely different sort of breaking, legends of great beasts and beastly men alike and the fear they inspire.
Now, don't get me wrong, darling, I am a grand fan of the drift of cologne dancing in the shadows, avid in my avarice when the feast arrives and is placed upon my table.
But, the most poignant, the most keen amongst my memories?
Hardly.
They say that scent is the sense most directly linked to memory.
If that's so, why are there no legends or grand ballads about the smell of our heroes?
No hymns of the aroma of humble beginnings, nor the banquet of life itself, which I so often glut myself upon.
Instead, we have grand retellings of the sight of terrible flames, of the sensation of blood cooling and pulling on our skin, or the brutality of war as it is observed, bodies strewn and scattered like sheaves of hay in the manger of meager existances.
Not mine, of course.
I am the sun, after all.
We have stories that speak of songs that echo through the very fabric of truth itself, that move us, that tug at the heartstrings until they snap and the dams of our composure break and fill the seas with our bitter tears, changing our world forevermore.
We spin stories about the feeling of a lover's skin beneath our fingertips, or the pain of an entirely different sort of breaking, legends of great beasts and beastly men alike and the fear they inspire.
Now, don't get me wrong, darling, I am a grand fan of the drift of cologne dancing in the shadows, avid in my avarice when the feast arrives and is placed upon my table.
But, the most poignant, the most keen amongst my memories?
Hardly.
Written By Avita
May 5, 2024, 9:38 p.m.(3/21/1022 AR)
Dearest Diary,
There are times that I watch the skies and I wonder of the motive of the stars.
I consider the constellations, and I wonder if they are simply how they had been scattered across that vast void ... or if, more poetically, there is a reason for their formation -- that they represent some greater pattern, ever-expanding, so much larger than we are capable of truly seeing.
Perhaps they are nothing.
Maybe they are stories yet to be told.
Perhaps I should tell them.
There are times that I watch the skies and I wonder of the motive of the stars.
I consider the constellations, and I wonder if they are simply how they had been scattered across that vast void ... or if, more poetically, there is a reason for their formation -- that they represent some greater pattern, ever-expanding, so much larger than we are capable of truly seeing.
Perhaps they are nothing.
Maybe they are stories yet to be told.
Perhaps I should tell them.
Written By Avita
May 5, 2024, 9:11 p.m.(3/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I should be thrilled.
I know that I should.
And yet, I find myself sitting here, quietly writing for lack of anything more exciting to do.
Here we sit, upon the shores of an Empire of Glass, the scent of war still lingering upon the brine-salted breeze.
Oh, I'm sure this is all terribly vague, Diary, and I would -love- to clarify my thoughts for you, starved as I'm certain you are for a ponderance of any real significance.
But, I do not owe you an explanation.
In fact, I owe you nothing.
I should be thrilled.
I know that I should.
And yet, I find myself sitting here, quietly writing for lack of anything more exciting to do.
Here we sit, upon the shores of an Empire of Glass, the scent of war still lingering upon the brine-salted breeze.
Oh, I'm sure this is all terribly vague, Diary, and I would -love- to clarify my thoughts for you, starved as I'm certain you are for a ponderance of any real significance.
But, I do not owe you an explanation.
In fact, I owe you nothing.
Written By Avita
April 27, 2024, 7:19 p.m.(3/5/1022 AR)
Marquessa Avita S.
Home of Seraceni, Ischia
Rating: *....
I feel as though I should simplify, darling, as in the newness of my displeasure I may have gotten a little verbose.
Business: Scions' Sand Service and Palm Frond Emporium
Server: /FRANCIS/
Comments: Misleading advertisements, lackluster storytelling, and the complete absence of panache.
If you're looking to keep your sun-kissed skin from beading with sweat, I would look elsewhere.
Very basic.
Not worth the price.
He was not even properly oiled.
Written By Avita
April 27, 2024, 7:18 p.m.(3/5/1022 AR)
IN CONTINUATION:
Where was I?
... ah, yes, of course.
1 EXT. SCIONS (Excuse my brevity) ON DECK - DAY
Enter MARQUESSA AVITA SERACENI in casual lounging amidst the fray of battle, unfronded and unimpressed, as mayhem reigns aboard our stalwart vessel. Outraged by the singular lack of talent, she decides that she will lend her voice to the song of steel and screams.
((Footnote: A battle began, which had nowt to do with me, and thus has nowt to do with this missive.))
Moved by avid arousal inspired by her celestial body, the assailing villains lower their blades and surrender their goods before the greater sermon of the Sun.
Also, there were others that fought with swords.
And words not quite so fantastic as the Marquessa's, but one supposes they sufficed.
Primarily, however, it was the Marquessa's victory.
FRANCIS
(Uselessly, in trembling tone, frond in hand and shame in his eyes)
Marquessa! I was so frightened when you bravely strode toward such rivalry as you found yourself engaged that I could not join, myself! How, then, did you find the bravery to win the day so singularly?! We were so fortunate that you blessed us ...
...
(Here the missive ends, and is simply told as is.)
(It seems legit.)
Written By Avita
April 27, 2024, 7:14 p.m.(3/5/1022 AR)
Marquessa Avita S.
Home of Seraceni, Ischia
Rating: *....
Allow me to begin simply, as this tale is anything but:
I am appalled.
I'm not sure how long it will take for this missive to reach the mainland and be recited to the appropriate ears to make my righteous displeasure known in certainty, but I sit now upon my chaise (Which was NOT red, as so advertised, and failed to meet my expectation to be made to feel like the rising sun that I am, setting the tone for what is sure to be an impossible disappointment by all measure) penning my warning to any and all that seek service from these /deplorables/.
Hopefully, it will help to spare some the fate that has befallen me.
Francis.
/Francis/.
A name that has become synonymous with what profanity I shall not allow to reach this page, though it assuredly runs freely through my weary mind, the audience spared at my selfless expense.
You can thank me later.
(I'm sure you'll find a way.)
When first I arrived, I requested the presence of no less than two otter-smooth and liberally oiled palm-frond wielding men to attend to my heavenly body that I might make it to my destination without my artful inking becoming smudged upon my glistening, sweat-dewed skin before my avid fans had a chance to appropriately appreciate the story it tells.
No. Less. Than. Two.
NO.
LESS.
THAN.
TWO.
(You will have to do me the favour of clapping between each of my harshly exclaimed words, darling, as I am not there to properly punctuate my point in person.)
He fled the docks to fetch a frond, of course, at the behest of his Master -- not me, Elysia forfend, for I am no man's Master. All worship that falls at my feet is, as expected, rightly earned and freely given -- and soon returned with a singular fan that, if I can be completely frank, had seen far better days.
It wasn't even properly /green/, as would have been in compliment to my revolutionary attire -- WHICH, I feel I should mention, not one among the crew complimented me on, after I had given them the peerless prize of beholding me so wrapped, so artfully bound as any could dream in fantasy that couldn't dare near the dawn awed truth of the reality of my flesh.
Not. Even. Green.
It is not winter everywhere, Francis.
One frond.
I am no mathematician, dearest, but something seems /amiss/, does it not?
Incensed, yet still so generous, I decided I should give him a chance at redemption in my resplendent gaze:
I asked that he tell me a tale.
... when I say that our educational system has tragically failed our people, that is putting it kindly. (As anyone should expect from so fair a creature as one Marquessa Avita Seraceni.)
I shall have to look into this when I return. Though he is not Ischian, I am so moved by his fatuity that my fears might only be assuaged by ensuring no stage set within my domain should ever have to suffer as I have!
"A beautiful heroine", Francis?
Truly?
Ugh, such a lack of effort, such pedestrian language, such /felonious/ euphemism cannot be forgiven!
I am no child being tucked snug, no base and cooing babe whose worries can be soothed by such poor and prosaic prose!
I ...
... hm. ...
Should I persist in my expression, I fear the pigeon will be unable to carry my words where they've need to be...
... To be continued.
Written By Avita
Dec. 3, 2023, 7:58 p.m.(4/21/1021 AR)
Dearest Diary,
Did you know that there is a tale once told in the dunes of Eurus that is the very epitome of the concept of immortality at any cost?
The theory, really, is that so long as something you have done is remembered, you shall live eternal, and that each of these tales -- those which are worthy -- become the very stars in the sky?
At least, that is what I was told, once upon a time.
... Once upon a time...
Have you ever stopped to think of just how significant those four words are?
The suggestion of the importance of what you are about to hear: That once, long ago, far away, some soul did something that would echo through time like some haunting melody seeking to find your ear.
That once, in a time that so many have forgotten in its entirety, there was one thing worth remembering.
It's like being told a secret that no other will ever know, in a language that you didn't know you could speak.
... once upon a time...
Once upon a time, there was a voice...
This voice spoke a million words, each of which was a journey, and every one of them lead back to...
...
Did you know that there is a tale once told in the dunes of Eurus that is the very epitome of the concept of immortality at any cost?
The theory, really, is that so long as something you have done is remembered, you shall live eternal, and that each of these tales -- those which are worthy -- become the very stars in the sky?
At least, that is what I was told, once upon a time.
... Once upon a time...
Have you ever stopped to think of just how significant those four words are?
The suggestion of the importance of what you are about to hear: That once, long ago, far away, some soul did something that would echo through time like some haunting melody seeking to find your ear.
That once, in a time that so many have forgotten in its entirety, there was one thing worth remembering.
It's like being told a secret that no other will ever know, in a language that you didn't know you could speak.
... once upon a time...
Once upon a time, there was a voice...
This voice spoke a million words, each of which was a journey, and every one of them lead back to...
...
Written By Avita
Dec. 3, 2023, 7:48 p.m.(4/21/1021 AR)
Dearest Diary,
I feel as though I have asked this question a million times, yet not once have I received an answer that entertained, let alone satisfied me:
If you could tell but one story, one tale by which this weary world might remember you -- one caution to grant those that came after, one memory to remind the coming era of who you were, and what you stood for -- what would it be?
Go on.
I'll wait.
I feel as though I have asked this question a million times, yet not once have I received an answer that entertained, let alone satisfied me:
If you could tell but one story, one tale by which this weary world might remember you -- one caution to grant those that came after, one memory to remind the coming era of who you were, and what you stood for -- what would it be?
Go on.
I'll wait.
Written By Avita
Dec. 3, 2023, 7:45 p.m.(4/21/1021 AR)
Dear Diary,
Did you know?
I have never understood friendship.
People speak of love, and of comradery -- they speak of how their lives have been enriched by the people that they have met along the way, how they could never have gotten through their trials and tribulation without the love and support of all these people...
Did you know, diary, that support is simply another word for 'crutch'?
Where would I be now, had I waited for a friend to find me?
If I had waited for another to elevate me, rather than rising upon the horizon of my own volition?
Oh, don't look at me like that.
I can practically smell the pity on you.
I can see the 'what a shame', 'everyone needs friends' written plain upon your even plainer features.
Spare me.
We'll see if I return the favour.
Did you know?
I have never understood friendship.
People speak of love, and of comradery -- they speak of how their lives have been enriched by the people that they have met along the way, how they could never have gotten through their trials and tribulation without the love and support of all these people...
Did you know, diary, that support is simply another word for 'crutch'?
Where would I be now, had I waited for a friend to find me?
If I had waited for another to elevate me, rather than rising upon the horizon of my own volition?
Oh, don't look at me like that.
I can practically smell the pity on you.
I can see the 'what a shame', 'everyone needs friends' written plain upon your even plainer features.
Spare me.
We'll see if I return the favour.
Written By Avita
Nov. 26, 2023, 9:55 p.m.(4/7/1021 AR)
Dearest Diary,
I have thought of the storm.
I have considered the flame.
But, what of the shadows?
There are so many that fear them, for reasons beyond me.
They come to fear even their own, just as surely as their (oft unflattering) reflection.
But, the shadows are not nefarious things -- they are a comfort in the scorching, parching noon of summer, where we find our gentle rest and easy breezes.
There are flowers that bloom only within their soothing embrace, stretching long and as deep as the storm-tossed sea.
Me?
I rather like the dark.
Like a bleak horizon, it is where my radiance can best be seen.
I have thought of the storm.
I have considered the flame.
But, what of the shadows?
There are so many that fear them, for reasons beyond me.
They come to fear even their own, just as surely as their (oft unflattering) reflection.
But, the shadows are not nefarious things -- they are a comfort in the scorching, parching noon of summer, where we find our gentle rest and easy breezes.
There are flowers that bloom only within their soothing embrace, stretching long and as deep as the storm-tossed sea.
Me?
I rather like the dark.
Like a bleak horizon, it is where my radiance can best be seen.
Written By Avita
Nov. 26, 2023, 9:48 p.m.(4/7/1021 AR)
Dear Diary,
As I look out over the bay, I find my mind wandering to the storm.
Perhaps, more specifically, I think of how we choose to describe it, and its influence:
It rages.
We never stop to ask, "Is it justified?"
It rages, but we care not why -- we view it only as a destructive thing, much the same as an inferno, which also ... rages.
But, what is rage if not simply another face of passion?
What if the storm mourns, what if it lashes out the way that it does because though we hear its furious, thundrous call ... we do not -listen-?
What if we have, without our knowledge, stolen something precious from it ... and without our answer, no matter how many times it would ask that we return what was rightfully theirs, it could only grow louder?
As I look out over the bay, I find my mind wandering to the storm.
Perhaps, more specifically, I think of how we choose to describe it, and its influence:
It rages.
We never stop to ask, "Is it justified?"
It rages, but we care not why -- we view it only as a destructive thing, much the same as an inferno, which also ... rages.
But, what is rage if not simply another face of passion?
What if the storm mourns, what if it lashes out the way that it does because though we hear its furious, thundrous call ... we do not -listen-?
What if we have, without our knowledge, stolen something precious from it ... and without our answer, no matter how many times it would ask that we return what was rightfully theirs, it could only grow louder?
Written By Avita
Nov. 26, 2023, 9:40 p.m.(4/7/1021 AR)
Dear Diary,
Have you ever sat and watched a candle burn until -- with a gentle hiss, and a twist of smoke -- it is gone?
Melted away, spent, with not a moment spent mourning its tragic passing?
The flame dances for our entertainment, seductive as flame is to our minds.
We are but moths, lured closer with every lash and flicker ... even the words we use to describe it as it devours all are indicative of our wanting.
It isn't the limbs of flame, but tongues...
I wonder, darling diary ... what does it say to you?
Have you ever sat and watched a candle burn until -- with a gentle hiss, and a twist of smoke -- it is gone?
Melted away, spent, with not a moment spent mourning its tragic passing?
The flame dances for our entertainment, seductive as flame is to our minds.
We are but moths, lured closer with every lash and flicker ... even the words we use to describe it as it devours all are indicative of our wanting.
It isn't the limbs of flame, but tongues...
I wonder, darling diary ... what does it say to you?
Written By Avita
Nov. 19, 2023, 4:30 p.m.(3/21/1021 AR)
Dearest Diary,
I've learned something.
When you feel as though you have heard every story there is...
... We must simply write our own.
Allow me to begin:
Once upon a time...
I've learned something.
When you feel as though you have heard every story there is...
... We must simply write our own.
Allow me to begin:
Once upon a time...
Written By Avita
Nov. 19, 2023, 4:04 p.m.(3/21/1021 AR)
Dear Diary,
I feel as though I've seen your face a thousand, thousand times by now, and yet I could not even begin to reach for your name within my memory.
Should I try, the closer I am to remembering, the more your features drift into that hazy periphery of my imagination.
Were your eyes green?
Were they blue?
The dimple in your cheeks ... left... or right?
How I wish it mattered.
I feel as though I've seen your face a thousand, thousand times by now, and yet I could not even begin to reach for your name within my memory.
Should I try, the closer I am to remembering, the more your features drift into that hazy periphery of my imagination.
Were your eyes green?
Were they blue?
The dimple in your cheeks ... left... or right?
How I wish it mattered.
Written By Avita
Nov. 19, 2023, 3:49 p.m.(3/21/1021 AR)
Dear Diary,
I am fascinated, in some small measure, by the attention paid to the far-away in this place.
Foreign lands, forgotten languages, creeds, creatures...
So few understand even what is upon their doorsteps, let alone in the courtyard that sprawls before them.
For example, what do you REALLY know about the Saffron?
I am fascinated, in some small measure, by the attention paid to the far-away in this place.
Foreign lands, forgotten languages, creeds, creatures...
So few understand even what is upon their doorsteps, let alone in the courtyard that sprawls before them.
For example, what do you REALLY know about the Saffron?
Written By Avita
Nov. 12, 2023, 3:56 p.m.(3/7/1021 AR)
Dearest Diary,
Red.
Orange.
Gold.
Black.
Fire, smoke, and ash ...
Blood, sand, and silence...
Tch.
There's a story here somewhere.
A tale to be told in fabric, in hides, in feathers, gems and ink ...
It begins once upon a time, and ends beyond a sun-stricken horizon -- a dream, a nightmare, one in the same.
It's the middle that eludes me, really.
Who is the hero?
Who is the villain?
The nature of hope, versus the gravity of despair?
No.
NO!
That is a story that has been told, again and again...
I'm better than that.
... you know, you're remarkably unhelpful.
Red.
Orange.
Gold.
Black.
Fire, smoke, and ash ...
Blood, sand, and silence...
Tch.
There's a story here somewhere.
A tale to be told in fabric, in hides, in feathers, gems and ink ...
It begins once upon a time, and ends beyond a sun-stricken horizon -- a dream, a nightmare, one in the same.
It's the middle that eludes me, really.
Who is the hero?
Who is the villain?
The nature of hope, versus the gravity of despair?
No.
NO!
That is a story that has been told, again and again...
I'm better than that.
... you know, you're remarkably unhelpful.
Written By Avita
Nov. 12, 2023, 3:16 p.m.(3/7/1021 AR)
Sigh.
Dear Diary,
I've an event I'm planning, darling, but I'm having a terrible time of it.
Oh, no, I don't care about all that.
It's the fashion, you see.
I'll not be caught dead wearing something I've already been seen in -- how gauche -- and I lack not for ideas or inspiration, but rather an abundance of it.
Normally I would adorn myself in flawless dawnstones, and though they will doubtlessly be included amongst the multitudes necessary to sing my glory to all that behold me in all my stunning splendor, I feel that it's...
... Well...
Simply ... not enough.
Not this time.
I need something ... special.
Dear Diary,
I've an event I'm planning, darling, but I'm having a terrible time of it.
Oh, no, I don't care about all that.
It's the fashion, you see.
I'll not be caught dead wearing something I've already been seen in -- how gauche -- and I lack not for ideas or inspiration, but rather an abundance of it.
Normally I would adorn myself in flawless dawnstones, and though they will doubtlessly be included amongst the multitudes necessary to sing my glory to all that behold me in all my stunning splendor, I feel that it's...
... Well...
Simply ... not enough.
Not this time.
I need something ... special.
Written By Avita
Nov. 12, 2023, 3:08 p.m.(3/6/1021 AR)
Dear ... vaguely familiar Diary ...?
I recognise you from somewhere.
Perhaps you were one of the recipients of my recent charitable works.
... What?
You haven't heard of my charitable works?
I find that hard to believe, what with it inspiring so many others to action!
To feed and to clothe the poor, those which we have overlooked, the sick, the infirm, the huddled masses that have gone so woefully without as the Compact scrambles to make sense of all that has been, all that is, and the stark and staggering promise of what yet could be!
Oh, I don't know that I'd call myself a pillar of society.
A paragon of the generosity of self and spirit.
A stalwart and stoic ally of the disenfranchised.
Of course, I'd understand if you did.
... with gratitude and conviction.
Oh, I'm not saying I'm owed such, of course.
...
... ...
You're quite welcome.
I recognise you from somewhere.
Perhaps you were one of the recipients of my recent charitable works.
... What?
You haven't heard of my charitable works?
I find that hard to believe, what with it inspiring so many others to action!
To feed and to clothe the poor, those which we have overlooked, the sick, the infirm, the huddled masses that have gone so woefully without as the Compact scrambles to make sense of all that has been, all that is, and the stark and staggering promise of what yet could be!
Oh, I don't know that I'd call myself a pillar of society.
A paragon of the generosity of self and spirit.
A stalwart and stoic ally of the disenfranchised.
Of course, I'd understand if you did.
... with gratitude and conviction.
Oh, I'm not saying I'm owed such, of course.
...
... ...
You're quite welcome.
Written By Avita
Nov. 5, 2023, 3:23 p.m.(2/21/1021 AR)
Oh, Diary...
You've no idea the things I've got planned.
Oh, no, nothing quite like that.
Not yet.
I speak of Fashion, darling.
I speak of art given motion, of words given voice, of songs once lifeless now sung with spirits high, of that which is seen most clearly through a mirror thoroughly broken.
No.
I don't care to elaborate.
Good of you to ask.
Just know that a story is being told, and she dances between the lines you read, laughing at the blindness of the eyes that seek her there yet cannot see her sinful cipher.
You've no idea the things I've got planned.
Oh, no, nothing quite like that.
Not yet.
I speak of Fashion, darling.
I speak of art given motion, of words given voice, of songs once lifeless now sung with spirits high, of that which is seen most clearly through a mirror thoroughly broken.
No.
I don't care to elaborate.
Good of you to ask.
Just know that a story is being told, and she dances between the lines you read, laughing at the blindness of the eyes that seek her there yet cannot see her sinful cipher.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.