Written By Costas
Feb. 19, 2017, 10:46 p.m.(12/15/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Abbas
I thought I saw this man sail his ship off of the top of a wave and crush another beneath the plummeting hull.
I should probably stop drinking when I'm out on a mission.
I should probably stop drinking when I'm out on a mission.
Written By Costas
Feb. 12, 2017, 11:22 p.m.(12/1/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Rymarr
There is a certain character of emotion to stalking round the circle, eyeing another with weapons drawn. The prelude to struggle. An anticipation. Intense scrutiny from both sides, but from behind the cover of indifference, for to betray thought is to give advantage. The calm before the elation of battle.
Why is it that I feel all of these things when this man and I stare at one another over a dinner table?
Why is it that I feel all of these things when this man and I stare at one another over a dinner table?
Written By Costas
Feb. 12, 2017, 11:13 p.m.(12/1/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Caelis
Lady Caelis possesses vim and gaiety much welcome in the Malvici household. They are a serious and dedicated martial family, my employers. All know this as their reputation. I am sure then that it would greatly surprise others to witness just how much warmth there is in those Halls these days, as more of the extended family arrive to the capitol to lend their aid. Surely discussions often revolve around matters of war or similar; they will never be ones for discussing flowers or dresses or cute animals. But there is a consistent thread of deep engagement with one another. An honesty that denies pretense. Lady Caelis is this forwardness most personified, and I look forward to knowing her better.
Written By Costas
Jan. 22, 2017, 11:07 p.m.(9/25/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Mailys
Every day Mirari surprises me in some way. Last night it was with a new relative. A courtesan recently free of her contract, Mailys is a delight of buoyant smiles and good cheer. We didn't get to talk long, but the girl has a sort of lightness of spirit that shines right through. She's a boon for us, and for Arx, and quite welcome.
Written By Costas
Jan. 18, 2017, 1:41 a.m.(9/10/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Orazio
This city does not deserve its Saiks.
Written By Costas
Jan. 15, 2017, 7:06 p.m.(9/3/1005 AR)
To sea again.
My enthusiasm for the task assigned me remains high despite the endless delays. I had no idea there would be quite so much paperwork involved in the legitimate operation of a ship. I now possess no less than six documents that I have been warned I absolutely cannot misplace. Very fancy and official looking; two even have little painted rods run through the ends of the scrolls and bear some extremely impressive seals. Despite, this is apparently considered relatively lax protocol; if I were in service to a House other than the Malvici I'd probably still be waiting on ceremony and out the cost of some finery I'd never wear again.
The lead ship I have chosen is called the Dauntless, and I think it amusingly appropriate as I sit here in its cabin, ruminating on the mission ahead. I cannot find it in me to be worried about the outcome or put off by the danger. This recklessness I attribute to my long time on land; near two seasons without a pitching deck beneath my feet. While I should be armored with concern and nursing a healthy trepidation, instead my blood only sings for a return to the waves and the sea spray. To be welcomed again into Mangata's embrace. This is the way all fools return to a distant lover, but She made me to be heedless of such lessons.
My enthusiasm for the task assigned me remains high despite the endless delays. I had no idea there would be quite so much paperwork involved in the legitimate operation of a ship. I now possess no less than six documents that I have been warned I absolutely cannot misplace. Very fancy and official looking; two even have little painted rods run through the ends of the scrolls and bear some extremely impressive seals. Despite, this is apparently considered relatively lax protocol; if I were in service to a House other than the Malvici I'd probably still be waiting on ceremony and out the cost of some finery I'd never wear again.
The lead ship I have chosen is called the Dauntless, and I think it amusingly appropriate as I sit here in its cabin, ruminating on the mission ahead. I cannot find it in me to be worried about the outcome or put off by the danger. This recklessness I attribute to my long time on land; near two seasons without a pitching deck beneath my feet. While I should be armored with concern and nursing a healthy trepidation, instead my blood only sings for a return to the waves and the sea spray. To be welcomed again into Mangata's embrace. This is the way all fools return to a distant lover, but She made me to be heedless of such lessons.
Written By Costas
Jan. 1, 2017, 11:39 p.m.(7/18/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Branan
Every time I run into this blackguard scoundrel I try to hate him more, and fail.
Written By Costas
Jan. 1, 2017, 11:11 p.m.(7/18/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Cai
I knew instantly, on meeting this grizzled ranger, that we would become fast friends. We are both men who have lived most of their adult lives outside the lands of the Compact, and though those lands could not have been more far removed from one another, we have staggeringly similar perspectives about our new homes. If completely different ways of approaching the problem. He can also drink, which is critical for developing fraternity. I would be glad to have him with me on any trek, especially if I expected trouble.
Written By Costas
Dec. 18, 2016, 3:58 p.m.(6/3/1005 AR)
These are some of the things I know about Baron Eos Saik:
When the enemy came to his doorstep, he went forth to confront them with no hesitation.
He died on a battlefield leading a force that struck down three or more for every one that fell.
He deeply loved his family and those in his household, and the people of his lands.
He was beloved in return by those people not just for his compassion, but for the wisdom of his leadership and the conviction with which he discharged his duties.
He drank whiskey, but not to excess.
He knew violence, but did not revel in it.
He understood and acted with Honor, but did not let this interfere with Duty.
He asked no man to do anything he would not do himself.
Eos Saik, you were beloved. I have wept for you, and will again when your spectre visits my memory. But I will do it in the sea, so that you need not look down upon my tears.
When the enemy came to his doorstep, he went forth to confront them with no hesitation.
He died on a battlefield leading a force that struck down three or more for every one that fell.
He deeply loved his family and those in his household, and the people of his lands.
He was beloved in return by those people not just for his compassion, but for the wisdom of his leadership and the conviction with which he discharged his duties.
He drank whiskey, but not to excess.
He knew violence, but did not revel in it.
He understood and acted with Honor, but did not let this interfere with Duty.
He asked no man to do anything he would not do himself.
Eos Saik, you were beloved. I have wept for you, and will again when your spectre visits my memory. But I will do it in the sea, so that you need not look down upon my tears.
Written By Costas
Dec. 11, 2016, 3:14 p.m.(5/10/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Leola
I first encountered Miss Leola Allenatore on the beaches outside Arx. I was at some work-out, putting in time to keep my sea legs from going to rust, and she was out with a hawk.. hawking? I will have to ask her the correct term. I do not well recall the beginning of our conversation. My blood was up from the exercise, she's a fair lass, it was a beautiful morning. What I do recall very specifically was the stormcloud came over her face when I suggested she stay inside the city when trouble inevitably comes knocking. The frank words she had to say about what it would mean to sit on a wall and watch others risk themselves when they would be better served with her skills in the field. I thought of those words again this morning when, at an hour most were still deep in their warm blankets, I encountered her already hard at work overseeing some laborers. I had not yet found my cell (a dire wanderlust has possessed me of late) and among my many flaws of character is a habit of waxing philosophical and garrulous in the late hours. Of this she remonstrated me, gently and without making it an accusation, but firmly by the simple canniness of her words. I had the immediate understanding, having twice now been so adjusted, of an animal at training. The guidance devoid of malice or judgement, only the firm smack of a hand on snout, a command reinforced with with the tap of a switch. Not powerful for strength of force, but for the uniformity of its application. Its constancy. There is no longer any wonder how she brought that great cat to heel.
I believe that the first opponent to underestimate her on the battlefield will die with confusion in his eyes.
I believe that the first opponent to underestimate her on the battlefield will die with confusion in his eyes.
Written By Costas
Dec. 4, 2016, 1:31 p.m.(4/17/1005 AR)
In the evening last I attended a prayer ceremony in the shrine of Mangata, hosted by the Princess Natalia. The shrine here in Arx is an odd thing to me. It is streams and waterfalls and a little grove that plays home to some charming birds. In this way it resembles the city herself: constructed for the pleasure of the eyes, evocative of superior notions, home to many fetching creatures. Yet this is not the house of the Lady of Waves that I know. Mine is as terrible as She is beautiful; for Her endless labor in birthing all things into this world, She has a devastating hunger. I think I shall conduct my future oblations at the edge of the sea, where I can feel Her touch in the salt spray, and hear Her voice in the waves. Despite my preference it seems that She however does pay heed to what is done in that place of worship. In the late evening I wandered the city unable to shake a deep foreboding from my heart, only coming to my bed as the dark eastern sky fled from morning's glow. Though I expected to find slumber but fitfully, I fell instantly and deeply into sleep as if caught by a rip tide.
Who can say why the gods do what is done? Perhaps She found my simple offering unworthy of the blessing I asked. Or perhaps She tests me, or simply takes in advance of what She shall give. Though I suspect (and hope) it is the last, this is as far as I will meditate on Her intentions. Whatever the reason, Her dreadful punishment came in the form of a dream most premonitory. In the dreamscape I walk amidst a flock of shrikes, those little birds I have come to admire so thoroughly. They swoop and flutter round, beaks laden with wriggling prey. Laughing, I follow them to a bush where I know they will alight to conduct their grim ritual. But it is not a thistle. In stead of long, sharp thorns there are little flowers shaped like bells, the bruised purple of a sky before storm. Landing among the wide leaves the shrikes release their catch, now only drawn to the small black berries that hang lustrous and ripe with promise of sweetness.
In the dream I try to raise my voice in alarm, to warn them that which shines is poison, but find I have no voice at all. My little friends gorge themselves, devouring all that they can find. I cannot summon the strength to move, only bearing witness as they fall one by one to the ground. Motionless, eyes vacant, beaks stained wine-red. For a long time I stare at the pattern of their corpses in the dust but I am no haruspex. Can find no meaning. The dream ends as I too take a handful of the berries into my mouth and, laying myself down amidst my departed companions, crush the ripe flesh between my teeth. They are as sweet as promised; more so, I think to myself in the final moment, for the touch of oblivion renders all things into sharp contrast.
Lying in bed this morning I recalled one of the old salt-stained tomes from my collection. Included in its philosophical musings was a contradiction on the art of oneiromancy, the interpretation of dreams as divine guidance. The author claimed our sleeping reveries are but the rational mind's reordering of the contents of our experience. Random strands of our past woven together into a tapestry without meaning, and only the foolish thereafter ascribe some purpose, born of their own hopes or fears. Though I respect the logic I am too superstitious to dare hold the opinion in much esteem. Be it a warning or my Lady of Wave's acknowledgement of the winds I have tacked sail to, She made me as I am, and I shall do as I was made to do.
Who can say why the gods do what is done? Perhaps She found my simple offering unworthy of the blessing I asked. Or perhaps She tests me, or simply takes in advance of what She shall give. Though I suspect (and hope) it is the last, this is as far as I will meditate on Her intentions. Whatever the reason, Her dreadful punishment came in the form of a dream most premonitory. In the dreamscape I walk amidst a flock of shrikes, those little birds I have come to admire so thoroughly. They swoop and flutter round, beaks laden with wriggling prey. Laughing, I follow them to a bush where I know they will alight to conduct their grim ritual. But it is not a thistle. In stead of long, sharp thorns there are little flowers shaped like bells, the bruised purple of a sky before storm. Landing among the wide leaves the shrikes release their catch, now only drawn to the small black berries that hang lustrous and ripe with promise of sweetness.
In the dream I try to raise my voice in alarm, to warn them that which shines is poison, but find I have no voice at all. My little friends gorge themselves, devouring all that they can find. I cannot summon the strength to move, only bearing witness as they fall one by one to the ground. Motionless, eyes vacant, beaks stained wine-red. For a long time I stare at the pattern of their corpses in the dust but I am no haruspex. Can find no meaning. The dream ends as I too take a handful of the berries into my mouth and, laying myself down amidst my departed companions, crush the ripe flesh between my teeth. They are as sweet as promised; more so, I think to myself in the final moment, for the touch of oblivion renders all things into sharp contrast.
Lying in bed this morning I recalled one of the old salt-stained tomes from my collection. Included in its philosophical musings was a contradiction on the art of oneiromancy, the interpretation of dreams as divine guidance. The author claimed our sleeping reveries are but the rational mind's reordering of the contents of our experience. Random strands of our past woven together into a tapestry without meaning, and only the foolish thereafter ascribe some purpose, born of their own hopes or fears. Though I respect the logic I am too superstitious to dare hold the opinion in much esteem. Be it a warning or my Lady of Wave's acknowledgement of the winds I have tacked sail to, She made me as I am, and I shall do as I was made to do.
Written By Costas
Nov. 24, 2016, 8:56 p.m.(3/16/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Ianthe
On the second ship I crewed, there was this mate named Titch. Shifty little bastard but he'd been sailing longer than most had seen summers. Not officer material on account of a petty temper, but canny enough to know that was for the best. The one weird thing about Titch was he had this knife, taken it off some Thraxian marine in his first boarding action. It was a nice knife, honestly. Wickedly curved, sharp as hell, set with some of the largest peridots I've ever seen. He took good care of it too, every time we came into port he'd have the gripped re-wrapped with new leather.
I remember one night we had this card game. Ship was at anchor and we'd been hard at oar that day, so all awake were getting well into cups. We're in the middle of a hand and out of nowhere Titch starts losing his mind. Screaming about where's his knife. Sure enough, empty strap where he kept it. We're all thinking drunk bastard must've dropped it, but everyone knows this will just go on until he gets it so we get up to start looking, and then we hear this giggle. One of the new fish, he's got the fucking thing in his teeth, wiggling his eyebrows, having a good stitch up.
Titch flew at the bloke like crossbolt. Knocks him down and just starts pummeling his gob, screaming. I remember he kept saying "You don't touch it.", over and over while he knocked out teeth. Brun, this big fucking islander we had as a quarterman, tries to pull him off and gets his nose broke for the trouble. We're all thinking, okay, just let him get it all out, we'll toss them both in the cage after and get on with the night. Titch though, he grabs this growler off the floor and before we can realize what's going to happen, caves the kids head right in with one blow. We all get lashes the next morning. Titch gets double, takes it smiling the whole time.
So about a year later we're pulling the cork on this little sloop. Titch is in the sling after sledging the bitch, and he gets caught up in the anchor rode as they're hauling him in. He pulls out that knife to cut it and the wind comes up- knocks it right out his hand. I'm thinking, well, that's the end of that. But Titch, no hesitation, slips right out of the fucking sling and dives straight into the water after it. Down there for three, four minutes before we all start thinking okay, that's the end of Titch. But then he shoots up out of chop, grinning like a damn fool, and sure enough he's got that fucking knife. He's holding it up above his head, laughing his ass off, and of course we're all shouting and clapping because hell, it was damn impressive thing. And that's when this big old toothy white shark comes up outta nowhere, and bites Titch right in half. Was probably down there the whole time gnawing on a corpse until Titch started splashing around and hollering.
Point of this story is- I don't know if this girl is the knife, or the shark.
I remember one night we had this card game. Ship was at anchor and we'd been hard at oar that day, so all awake were getting well into cups. We're in the middle of a hand and out of nowhere Titch starts losing his mind. Screaming about where's his knife. Sure enough, empty strap where he kept it. We're all thinking drunk bastard must've dropped it, but everyone knows this will just go on until he gets it so we get up to start looking, and then we hear this giggle. One of the new fish, he's got the fucking thing in his teeth, wiggling his eyebrows, having a good stitch up.
Titch flew at the bloke like crossbolt. Knocks him down and just starts pummeling his gob, screaming. I remember he kept saying "You don't touch it.", over and over while he knocked out teeth. Brun, this big fucking islander we had as a quarterman, tries to pull him off and gets his nose broke for the trouble. We're all thinking, okay, just let him get it all out, we'll toss them both in the cage after and get on with the night. Titch though, he grabs this growler off the floor and before we can realize what's going to happen, caves the kids head right in with one blow. We all get lashes the next morning. Titch gets double, takes it smiling the whole time.
So about a year later we're pulling the cork on this little sloop. Titch is in the sling after sledging the bitch, and he gets caught up in the anchor rode as they're hauling him in. He pulls out that knife to cut it and the wind comes up- knocks it right out his hand. I'm thinking, well, that's the end of that. But Titch, no hesitation, slips right out of the fucking sling and dives straight into the water after it. Down there for three, four minutes before we all start thinking okay, that's the end of Titch. But then he shoots up out of chop, grinning like a damn fool, and sure enough he's got that fucking knife. He's holding it up above his head, laughing his ass off, and of course we're all shouting and clapping because hell, it was damn impressive thing. And that's when this big old toothy white shark comes up outta nowhere, and bites Titch right in half. Was probably down there the whole time gnawing on a corpse until Titch started splashing around and hollering.
Point of this story is- I don't know if this girl is the knife, or the shark.
Written By Costas
Nov. 24, 2016, 7:40 p.m.(3/16/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Eirene
This woman has more in common with some I've met in sea havens, and on some ships, than anything I've imagined of the nobility.
Firstly, she reeks of booze. Well not reeks really, I happen to like the smell of whiskey and think it goes fine with women but again, nobility. Second, unlike her unreadable niece, there is little room for interpretation of her words. Not to say that all is on the surface. Uncomplicated would fall short of the mark. I suspect this woman is in fact quite complicated. Does she stand off others by nature? I've met some like this. But her way with Calypso did not put me in mind of a simply quarrelsome woman. Of the two times I've seen her one was wearing a dress - well, I add - and much joking was made of it by those familiar with her. I think this distance she puts between her and others is instead similar to the way that some folk keep a conspicuously clean home. Their way of keeping the sight-lines clear round the fort. Some place to exist where the context is comfortable, in their control.
My curiosity is best left at that else I risk incurring it in return.
Firstly, she reeks of booze. Well not reeks really, I happen to like the smell of whiskey and think it goes fine with women but again, nobility. Second, unlike her unreadable niece, there is little room for interpretation of her words. Not to say that all is on the surface. Uncomplicated would fall short of the mark. I suspect this woman is in fact quite complicated. Does she stand off others by nature? I've met some like this. But her way with Calypso did not put me in mind of a simply quarrelsome woman. Of the two times I've seen her one was wearing a dress - well, I add - and much joking was made of it by those familiar with her. I think this distance she puts between her and others is instead similar to the way that some folk keep a conspicuously clean home. Their way of keeping the sight-lines clear round the fort. Some place to exist where the context is comfortable, in their control.
My curiosity is best left at that else I risk incurring it in return.
Written By Costas
Nov. 24, 2016, 5:37 p.m.(3/16/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Calypso
There is no comfort in considering why this woman has spared my life.
When I saw it was the hall of the Black Hawk to which the silent guards hauled me, I made serious calculations about my chance of escaping from their custody. Four armed men and me bruised and beaten, I might have dispatched one, maybe a second by way of surprise but didn't like my chances after that- Malvici armsmen have no reputation as slouches. Still, I was briefly tempted to try. Dying in a street with a blade in my hand would be better than many of the fates I could imagine waited for me within those walls. Perhaps it would just be hanging, which in the end is a few short moments of scorn and choking.
I chose cowardice. I wonder if I will again, when next I come close to the threshold of death.
Anyway- Calypso. What to make of this woman? She leaves little to consider, few clefts in her disposition to begin judgement. How much of that hard exterior is truth? Every word she speaks seems measured, but against what rule? The product of hard spirit, knowledge of what it take to command men, noble indifference? I have only questions, and the deep foreboding that answers will come at cost. I rule out compassion as her motivation in the outcome of our meeting. Not that I suspect she is without it, but then why take me into the house? No, she conceives of some use for me. To put me to work as a blade? Doubtful, she has no appraisal of my competence. To sea seems more likely. In this case I have two advantages- my long experience in navigation, and my knowledge of the routes and habits of pirates. I see no edge in revealing these first, better to wait for her command.
When I saw it was the hall of the Black Hawk to which the silent guards hauled me, I made serious calculations about my chance of escaping from their custody. Four armed men and me bruised and beaten, I might have dispatched one, maybe a second by way of surprise but didn't like my chances after that- Malvici armsmen have no reputation as slouches. Still, I was briefly tempted to try. Dying in a street with a blade in my hand would be better than many of the fates I could imagine waited for me within those walls. Perhaps it would just be hanging, which in the end is a few short moments of scorn and choking.
I chose cowardice. I wonder if I will again, when next I come close to the threshold of death.
Anyway- Calypso. What to make of this woman? She leaves little to consider, few clefts in her disposition to begin judgement. How much of that hard exterior is truth? Every word she speaks seems measured, but against what rule? The product of hard spirit, knowledge of what it take to command men, noble indifference? I have only questions, and the deep foreboding that answers will come at cost. I rule out compassion as her motivation in the outcome of our meeting. Not that I suspect she is without it, but then why take me into the house? No, she conceives of some use for me. To put me to work as a blade? Doubtful, she has no appraisal of my competence. To sea seems more likely. In this case I have two advantages- my long experience in navigation, and my knowledge of the routes and habits of pirates. I see no edge in revealing these first, better to wait for her command.
Written By Costas
Nov. 24, 2016, 3:42 p.m.(3/15/1005 AR)
I'm not sure why I bought this. Who buys an empty book?
That's a lie actually. I surely know. The shop girl had my silver the moment she flashed that smile. Gods, what a mark I am. If I'm not careful this city will eat me alive. How much did I even give her? Have to figure out what things are actually worth. Can't just throw what feels like the right sized handful on the counter anymore.
Is this really how land folk live? I don't know how the common class can't see how rigged it all is. Last night I met a Prince (a Prince!), and if I had to I'd wager the cloak round his shoulders, bought in a shop, could restock a three-mast thrice over. I'd seen its like before in plunder. Traded a dress made from the same stuff to a hustler for one of the better nights of my life- gods what was her name? Alia? Dahlia? Something like that... Anyway, well let's do the figures- Probably a plantation grows the stuff, we can assume the serfs working it get paid next to nothing if at all, but there's overhead in feed and board paid by the master. I don't recall seeing much raw silk in cargo so I assume he'll turn around, sell it for a profit to the cloth maker. That one's got to pay for some skilled labor, probably some fancy equipment, warehousing... Then that goes to a tailor, likely by way of a merchant- more overages there. To finally end up on a display rack as a finished product that's a lot of hands involved and all need to get silvered, each margin increasing by leaps and bounds else what would be the point in doing the thing.
Does the cloth-maker envy the tailor his superior profit? Do they all envy the merchant? What is it that allows them to coexist? How does the noble walk into the shop with so full a purse, and escape with his life? The tailor must pay the cloth-maker for his wares. Does each man in the chain simply go along because of the need to cover his debt to the one before? That rings right, but traced backward that would would put all debts ultimately paid to the plantation hand, whose wages are the most meager of all. What is his end, the pleasure of toil?
Seen this way, the number of pirates seems suspiciously low.
That's a lie actually. I surely know. The shop girl had my silver the moment she flashed that smile. Gods, what a mark I am. If I'm not careful this city will eat me alive. How much did I even give her? Have to figure out what things are actually worth. Can't just throw what feels like the right sized handful on the counter anymore.
Is this really how land folk live? I don't know how the common class can't see how rigged it all is. Last night I met a Prince (a Prince!), and if I had to I'd wager the cloak round his shoulders, bought in a shop, could restock a three-mast thrice over. I'd seen its like before in plunder. Traded a dress made from the same stuff to a hustler for one of the better nights of my life- gods what was her name? Alia? Dahlia? Something like that... Anyway, well let's do the figures- Probably a plantation grows the stuff, we can assume the serfs working it get paid next to nothing if at all, but there's overhead in feed and board paid by the master. I don't recall seeing much raw silk in cargo so I assume he'll turn around, sell it for a profit to the cloth maker. That one's got to pay for some skilled labor, probably some fancy equipment, warehousing... Then that goes to a tailor, likely by way of a merchant- more overages there. To finally end up on a display rack as a finished product that's a lot of hands involved and all need to get silvered, each margin increasing by leaps and bounds else what would be the point in doing the thing.
Does the cloth-maker envy the tailor his superior profit? Do they all envy the merchant? What is it that allows them to coexist? How does the noble walk into the shop with so full a purse, and escape with his life? The tailor must pay the cloth-maker for his wares. Does each man in the chain simply go along because of the need to cover his debt to the one before? That rings right, but traced backward that would would put all debts ultimately paid to the plantation hand, whose wages are the most meager of all. What is his end, the pleasure of toil?
Seen this way, the number of pirates seems suspiciously low.
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