Written By Sydney
Jan. 7, 2020, 12:54 a.m.(7/8/1012 AR)
Mired in indecision, the only path forward is to choose damn near any path at all and set to walking.
Why then do my feet refuse to obey?
Why then do my feet refuse to obey?
Written By Sydney
Jan. 4, 2020, 8:56 p.m.(7/3/1012 AR)
How does one proceed when they can see their destination, but balk at the means of reaching it?
Gradually and tentatively would seem to be the answer. At least in the meantime, I've made it clear that I'm willing to participate in any cause that I think might reasonably better Arx and its people - and that pays more than a handful of coppers in recompense for the risk to my well-being.
The skills of a pugilist are to be reckoned with - so long as you don't need me to spot a trap or sneak my way out of any situation, do consider me. I am a weapon that rivals any sword.
Gradually and tentatively would seem to be the answer. At least in the meantime, I've made it clear that I'm willing to participate in any cause that I think might reasonably better Arx and its people - and that pays more than a handful of coppers in recompense for the risk to my well-being.
The skills of a pugilist are to be reckoned with - so long as you don't need me to spot a trap or sneak my way out of any situation, do consider me. I am a weapon that rivals any sword.
Written By Sydney
Jan. 3, 2020, 4:05 p.m.(6/28/1012 AR)
Relationship Note on Korka
No amount of drink is enough to wash away some memories, but I'm ever open to the attempt.
Written By Sydney
Jan. 2, 2020, 1:06 p.m.(6/26/1012 AR)
Let it be known that there are few things more mortifying than marching through the Ward of the Crown dressed only in the small-clothes one intended to exercise in.
In the future, I endeavor to at least don my clothing before storming about.
The stares. The pointing. Kindly purge them from my memory.
In the future, I endeavor to at least don my clothing before storming about.
The stares. The pointing. Kindly purge them from my memory.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 30, 2019, 8:11 p.m.(6/21/1012 AR)
I consider myself to be a passing good judge of character.
...but boy, when I get it wrong? I get it terribly, /terribly/ wrong.
...but boy, when I get it wrong? I get it terribly, /terribly/ wrong.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 28, 2019, 11:35 p.m.(6/17/1012 AR)
Tomorrow marks the end of another year on this spin of the wheel for Sydney of no surname worth repeating, and I can't say it's been a particularly uneventful year. If you'd come at me a year ago and told me half of the outlandish things that were going to happen to me this year, I'd have looked at you blankly. Yet, here I stand. Through whatever twist of fate, I managed to catch a drink with some people who would change the trajectory of my life, all in one evening.
I went from spending every waking moment pinching coppers and scraping my living out in the pits to managing to inexplicably become the Peoples Choice at The People's Tournament, and with that came enough coin to stop living moment to moment. To buy hides enough to stop myself freezing to death. To make time enough to stop being the solitary woman I'd been since my apprenticeship. Connections. Friends. Recreations. It's been a year that defied every expectation.
It has not been without loss, nor without fear or doubt, but I like to think that has been overwhelmed by the positivity that has come from those around me. A willingness to offer me a shoulder. The unflinching resolve to slap me across the face when I needed it. To believe in me, in ways I've not been believed in before.
The way ahead feels dark and terrifying as I turn the page on this moment, but I'll make myself prepared, and meet it as I always do: Boldly, foolishly, and with a smile.
I went from spending every waking moment pinching coppers and scraping my living out in the pits to managing to inexplicably become the Peoples Choice at The People's Tournament, and with that came enough coin to stop living moment to moment. To buy hides enough to stop myself freezing to death. To make time enough to stop being the solitary woman I'd been since my apprenticeship. Connections. Friends. Recreations. It's been a year that defied every expectation.
It has not been without loss, nor without fear or doubt, but I like to think that has been overwhelmed by the positivity that has come from those around me. A willingness to offer me a shoulder. The unflinching resolve to slap me across the face when I needed it. To believe in me, in ways I've not been believed in before.
The way ahead feels dark and terrifying as I turn the page on this moment, but I'll make myself prepared, and meet it as I always do: Boldly, foolishly, and with a smile.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 28, 2019, 5:25 p.m.(6/17/1012 AR)
Though the city at large may well, the Lower Boroughs do not forget their own.
Those who would turn a blind eye to some of us turn a blind eye to all of us.
Arx is stronger than that. We are stronger than that.
Those who would turn a blind eye to some of us turn a blind eye to all of us.
Arx is stronger than that. We are stronger than that.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 24, 2019, 4:31 p.m.(6/8/1012 AR)
There are few who seem to grasp the beauty that come come from a good fight - and no, dear knights, I do not speak of a spar in armor gleaming, nor of cleaving your enemies in twain, wading through their lives like a ruinous disaster wrought of steel.
I'm not eloquent in my own person. I understand that. I eschew pleasantries too often, drink too often, and care little for the pursuit of politics, and I'll accept your apology for assuming that means I'm incapable of stringing together a sentence that isn't full of swearing, savage lovemaking, or all things bawdy.
Even I find myself perusing the stacks. Even I look through old volumes, hoping to find answers. I seldom do, but when I do ? They strike such a chord in me. Here was an author who knew the joy of a fight. Who knew what beauty could be found testing your will against another with nothing to protect you save a few scraps for decency.
A second hand account from the fictional tale 'Lady Floribund, Paragon of Pugilism: Chapter 1 - Sylph of the Mist' struck a chord with me. It puts voice to what I've only ever felt. To those who think me self-indulgent for it, I agree, but care little. I would look back on this passage time and time again, and hope it brings pause to those who would scoff and declare the art I put my hands to a savagery.
---------------
Her opponent's knuckles bruise
her cheek and chin
and a red-welling crescent splits
across one sweat-darkened brow
and weeps blood into her eye
and makes her half-blind and
half-masked
behind the damage she allows.
She tucks her chin
and listens for
the sound of coppers
jingling in a purse
and stays on her feet.
---------------
May my fists be so blessed as to continue to rain down like falling water, and my path remain clear.
Up for a brawl?
I'm not eloquent in my own person. I understand that. I eschew pleasantries too often, drink too often, and care little for the pursuit of politics, and I'll accept your apology for assuming that means I'm incapable of stringing together a sentence that isn't full of swearing, savage lovemaking, or all things bawdy.
Even I find myself perusing the stacks. Even I look through old volumes, hoping to find answers. I seldom do, but when I do ? They strike such a chord in me. Here was an author who knew the joy of a fight. Who knew what beauty could be found testing your will against another with nothing to protect you save a few scraps for decency.
A second hand account from the fictional tale 'Lady Floribund, Paragon of Pugilism: Chapter 1 - Sylph of the Mist' struck a chord with me. It puts voice to what I've only ever felt. To those who think me self-indulgent for it, I agree, but care little. I would look back on this passage time and time again, and hope it brings pause to those who would scoff and declare the art I put my hands to a savagery.
---------------
Her opponent's knuckles bruise
her cheek and chin
and a red-welling crescent splits
across one sweat-darkened brow
and weeps blood into her eye
and makes her half-blind and
half-masked
behind the damage she allows.
She tucks her chin
and listens for
the sound of coppers
jingling in a purse
and stays on her feet.
---------------
May my fists be so blessed as to continue to rain down like falling water, and my path remain clear.
Up for a brawl?
Written By Sydney
Dec. 22, 2019, 10:15 a.m.(6/4/1012 AR)
Relationship Note on Carmen
Fear and greed, mostly.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 21, 2019, 9:09 p.m.(6/3/1012 AR)
With each new piece of knowledge, I grow hungrier for it still, even knowing full well that the end result is often unpalatable.
I'm full to bursting, at present.
Were I vessel, I'm sure it would be all but leaking from my ears.
I'm full to bursting, at present.
Were I vessel, I'm sure it would be all but leaking from my ears.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 18, 2019, 12:07 a.m.(5/23/1012 AR)
Alas, those who beg poorly remain without that which they seek, and become altogether less respectable for the attempt.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 16, 2019, 10:16 a.m.(5/20/1012 AR)
My mood has been tossed about so swiftly that I scarce know where to begin.
It has become clear to me that succor will not arrive from without, but must be brought from within. I always knew this, but I had hoped desperately to be proven wrong.
Realizing the form this vision must take is an entirely different matter.
It has become clear to me that succor will not arrive from without, but must be brought from within. I always knew this, but I had hoped desperately to be proven wrong.
Realizing the form this vision must take is an entirely different matter.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 14, 2019, 9:48 a.m.(5/16/1012 AR)
For the love of all that is good, I have heard your message loudly and clear.
Stop with the swords. I had to turn the last messenger right back around.
I do not have a belt that was purchased with the intent of carrying /one/ blade, let alone /three/. I have no less than /three/ swords. That is three more than I currently know how to utilize. Have you seen a brawler train with a sword before? Well, I'll spoil the ending for you. The blade tends to go flying an awful sharding lot - and that's even without an opponent. You've made your point. I'll try. But please, /please/ no more swords.
...unless it's Alaricite.
But let's be realistic, here.
Stop with the swords. I had to turn the last messenger right back around.
I do not have a belt that was purchased with the intent of carrying /one/ blade, let alone /three/. I have no less than /three/ swords. That is three more than I currently know how to utilize. Have you seen a brawler train with a sword before? Well, I'll spoil the ending for you. The blade tends to go flying an awful sharding lot - and that's even without an opponent. You've made your point. I'll try. But please, /please/ no more swords.
...unless it's Alaricite.
But let's be realistic, here.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 13, 2019, 12:47 a.m.(5/13/1012 AR)
A rash in a place you'd not discuss.
Oh, you know it's there. It itches, but it's ultimately something that isn't terribly important, and you're able to go about your day without ever looking at it. Perhaps you decide to live with it for days, or weeks. You scratch at it only occasionally, after all, and you offer excuses to yourself:
It might clear up any day, now.
That dab of soap you applied might make a difference.
Other rashes have cleared up before this, so this will be no different.
How long can it really last?
Anyhow, it's not like anyone else can see it.
When it spreads, you cover it with makeup. It's still there.
But it's fine, so long as no one can see it.
As long as you don't have to look at it.
It wouldn't be difficult, but it's ever-so embarrassing.
I see it, and I wait with poultice and ointment ready.
Whenever you are.
Oh, you know it's there. It itches, but it's ultimately something that isn't terribly important, and you're able to go about your day without ever looking at it. Perhaps you decide to live with it for days, or weeks. You scratch at it only occasionally, after all, and you offer excuses to yourself:
It might clear up any day, now.
That dab of soap you applied might make a difference.
Other rashes have cleared up before this, so this will be no different.
How long can it really last?
Anyhow, it's not like anyone else can see it.
When it spreads, you cover it with makeup. It's still there.
But it's fine, so long as no one can see it.
As long as you don't have to look at it.
It wouldn't be difficult, but it's ever-so embarrassing.
I see it, and I wait with poultice and ointment ready.
Whenever you are.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 10, 2019, 10:40 a.m.(5/8/1012 AR)
Illness has a way of making children of us all.
I found myself incredibly ill earlier this week, something I've had the fortune not to experience on such a scale in several years. Difficult to feel so at odds with the identity I've crafted for myself as a fighter whilst feeling so feverish that I could scarce sleep.
My gratitude to the help of a good friend in sending some mercies my way to check in, and my deepest thanks to those that practice at potion and poultice - I daresay without them, I'd have even more scars than I have now.
I found myself incredibly ill earlier this week, something I've had the fortune not to experience on such a scale in several years. Difficult to feel so at odds with the identity I've crafted for myself as a fighter whilst feeling so feverish that I could scarce sleep.
My gratitude to the help of a good friend in sending some mercies my way to check in, and my deepest thanks to those that practice at potion and poultice - I daresay without them, I'd have even more scars than I have now.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 7, 2019, 12:53 p.m.(5/2/1012 AR)
Gather all your ingredients.
Cheap and inexpensive, tend to sparingly and set them aside until well chilled.
Bring the oil to a high temperature and spread over your ingredients - don't fret if you miss one or two, what's important is that everything's nice and cooked when it leaves the pot. Serve to those that ask most politely.
Cheddar melted delicately over mashed tubers, well smoked.
A forgettable recipe.
Cheap and inexpensive, tend to sparingly and set them aside until well chilled.
Bring the oil to a high temperature and spread over your ingredients - don't fret if you miss one or two, what's important is that everything's nice and cooked when it leaves the pot. Serve to those that ask most politely.
Cheddar melted delicately over mashed tubers, well smoked.
A forgettable recipe.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 6, 2019, 11:21 a.m.(4/28/1012 AR)
What do I have to put scratch to paper to, of late?
Many and more, but as it turns out, the words of Orathy Culler ring true to me. I've never met the man, but his reputation precedes him, and I hardly expected to agree with him.
When our prayers and hopes and dreams are examined and pored over for damning details, details which can have you marked for apostasy, have we not strayed from the intent of the open flow of knowledge? I see that only as a victory for those who would oppose Knowledge, encouraging journals of any quality to be marked black.
Perhaps I should stick to filling these journals with shopping lists and my insipid thoughts on parties, if that is all the common folk may write with any degree of safety afforded to them, any longer.
Today, I perused the marketplace for bolts of linen, bandages, and browsed extensively for a fashionable piece of furniture in which to store my excessive amount of old leathers. Something compels me not to rid myself of them.
Bread.
A sharp wheel of cheese.
A bottle of wine that I might share in good company.
A sewing needle and thread.
A new flask that holds more, and doesn't keep the reek of old alcohol inside.
Some sort of belt to hold my sudden overabundance of blades and swords.
A journal to hold all of the entries I can no longer in safety share.
A busy shopping day, to be sure.
Many and more, but as it turns out, the words of Orathy Culler ring true to me. I've never met the man, but his reputation precedes him, and I hardly expected to agree with him.
When our prayers and hopes and dreams are examined and pored over for damning details, details which can have you marked for apostasy, have we not strayed from the intent of the open flow of knowledge? I see that only as a victory for those who would oppose Knowledge, encouraging journals of any quality to be marked black.
Perhaps I should stick to filling these journals with shopping lists and my insipid thoughts on parties, if that is all the common folk may write with any degree of safety afforded to them, any longer.
Today, I perused the marketplace for bolts of linen, bandages, and browsed extensively for a fashionable piece of furniture in which to store my excessive amount of old leathers. Something compels me not to rid myself of them.
Bread.
A sharp wheel of cheese.
A bottle of wine that I might share in good company.
A sewing needle and thread.
A new flask that holds more, and doesn't keep the reek of old alcohol inside.
Some sort of belt to hold my sudden overabundance of blades and swords.
A journal to hold all of the entries I can no longer in safety share.
A busy shopping day, to be sure.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 3, 2019, 11:12 a.m.(4/22/1012 AR)
The last few days are a haze. I slept little and ate less, drank myself into a stupor and was spat out the other side without an ounce of relief. What do we do when our tried and true vices fail to provide the comfort we need to continue crawling, to say nothing of walking?
Friendships splintered, plans scattered, I feel more adrift now than I can put to words.
Thank all of the gods for those willing to put up with the flailing mess that is a drunken brawler, to offer her kind words and an anchor to the world. Even those I meant to target with all of my bile and vitriol found ways to defuse and comfort me before I even had the chance to act in anger.
I wanted to scream, to be unsightly, to gain that catharsis and release that comes with letting all of this poison out of me, but was instead met with reason, with warmth, and with guidance.
I am grateful.
And resentful.
But so very, very thankful, even in my despair.
Friendships splintered, plans scattered, I feel more adrift now than I can put to words.
Thank all of the gods for those willing to put up with the flailing mess that is a drunken brawler, to offer her kind words and an anchor to the world. Even those I meant to target with all of my bile and vitriol found ways to defuse and comfort me before I even had the chance to act in anger.
I wanted to scream, to be unsightly, to gain that catharsis and release that comes with letting all of this poison out of me, but was instead met with reason, with warmth, and with guidance.
I am grateful.
And resentful.
But so very, very thankful, even in my despair.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 1, 2019, 8:12 p.m.(4/19/1012 AR)
I had a dream, and in that dream, everyone I loved was happy.
I woke from that dream.
I woke from that dream.
Written By Sydney
Nov. 30, 2019, 12:46 a.m.(4/15/1012 AR)
Attended an event at Whisper House.
Learned a great many things, met a few people, and I even won a display case.
And best of all, people complimented my new gloves. It makes all the wheeling and dealing and running around and getting it designed so very worth it. To make it sound as though I did any of the work, when I mostly balked at the fancy materials and shelled over borrowed coin. Still.
I hope I do get to run in to some of those I met tonight in a context that isn't quite so crowded. Many seemed quite interesting, and I'd like to get a chance to share a drink with them somewhere without the thrum of noise and spectacle.
Learned a great many things, met a few people, and I even won a display case.
And best of all, people complimented my new gloves. It makes all the wheeling and dealing and running around and getting it designed so very worth it. To make it sound as though I did any of the work, when I mostly balked at the fancy materials and shelled over borrowed coin. Still.
I hope I do get to run in to some of those I met tonight in a context that isn't quite so crowded. Many seemed quite interesting, and I'd like to get a chance to share a drink with them somewhere without the thrum of noise and spectacle.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.