Written By Sirius
May 31, 2020, 2:17 a.m.(5/21/1013 AR)
Relationship Note on Dycard
Whenever I purchase my own boat, or dinghy or ship or whatever it is you sea-men call it, it will have character. It shall have an essence, this lady of the sea, she'll be an extension of something dreadful and baneful; of something evil and fatal.
I can already see it. A place like my boat will be overgrown with tall grass, weeds, it growing out so much from its own blackened wood that it needn't even have a 'keep out' sign. But it will anyway- it will have a sign. It'll come in the form of a skeletonized puzzle; a horror of bones patched together from all manner of man* and beast, glaring from a crucifix to ward off any would-be adventurers, thieves and fruit-philanderers. Slugs will crawl through its eye sockets and arteries of army ants shall pulsate across its many limbs, for they'll be my allies, these ants. They'll be part of my crew.
With some luck, it'll have enough space for a cabin and some hammocks in the deepest, darkest recesses of its under-deck. Wait, 'under'... oooh, my boat will also be able to go underwater, and resurface anywhere it wants. I'll achieve this through some horrible means* of disputable nature that I'll not disclose here.
Most of this is a joke. I hope it isn't too upsetting, custodian of knowledge.
I can already see it. A place like my boat will be overgrown with tall grass, weeds, it growing out so much from its own blackened wood that it needn't even have a 'keep out' sign. But it will anyway- it will have a sign. It'll come in the form of a skeletonized puzzle; a horror of bones patched together from all manner of man* and beast, glaring from a crucifix to ward off any would-be adventurers, thieves and fruit-philanderers. Slugs will crawl through its eye sockets and arteries of army ants shall pulsate across its many limbs, for they'll be my allies, these ants. They'll be part of my crew.
With some luck, it'll have enough space for a cabin and some hammocks in the deepest, darkest recesses of its under-deck. Wait, 'under'... oooh, my boat will also be able to go underwater, and resurface anywhere it wants. I'll achieve this through some horrible means* of disputable nature that I'll not disclose here.
Most of this is a joke. I hope it isn't too upsetting, custodian of knowledge.
Written By Sirius
May 27, 2020, 3:48 a.m.(5/13/1013 AR)
Today the Legate of the Lost found me,
And with him I felt time collapse three years back, to the first time I tasted violence on the field,
Death is strange on the battlefield. The Abandoned don't kill like men of the Compact do, they make it fast. They leave you little wait between the now and the then. I got a good look at their handiwork after it was all said and done. Men strewn in pieces. Whole parts, legs, arms, bodies split in seams most unnatural. Instant death. Swing, head gone! And the body crumples and stiffens. Most of the dead looked like that, like they'd just been scared and sat frozen in their embarrassment. Most looked nothing like men at all. A man should look asleep when he's dead, don't you agree, Scholar?
That's how these years suffering for my past transgressions felt, altogether my fault. Like a slow death.
In war, few ever do receive the courtesy of a slow death, of a pause to get ready and make themselves comfortable and find peace, to curl up into a ball and depart this place in a similar shape to how they'd come in.
But I will say one man, taken apart at the beltline, managed to hang on. I found him myself, huddling the shredded remains of his Thraxian tabard. I told him to close his eyes because I thought if he went to sleep maybe the Queen'd wake up. But he didn't go to sleep. He just kept breathing, and talking. Talking about this dog he had as a boy, and how he got upset when his father slaughtered him for biting the neighbor's daughter. Talked about a girl, and then a wife, and a mother. Talked about two mothers, actually.
I did not know half a man could live for so long.
For a long while I felt like this man, legless. Like a torso twisting, turning and rolling around on the mud, whose foundations were swooped out from under him after the inadvertent troubles brought on to me for speaking on matters I didn't understand. I am thankful for the Faith's forgiveness, and I hope to have learned this valuable lesson to heart.
And with him I felt time collapse three years back, to the first time I tasted violence on the field,
Death is strange on the battlefield. The Abandoned don't kill like men of the Compact do, they make it fast. They leave you little wait between the now and the then. I got a good look at their handiwork after it was all said and done. Men strewn in pieces. Whole parts, legs, arms, bodies split in seams most unnatural. Instant death. Swing, head gone! And the body crumples and stiffens. Most of the dead looked like that, like they'd just been scared and sat frozen in their embarrassment. Most looked nothing like men at all. A man should look asleep when he's dead, don't you agree, Scholar?
That's how these years suffering for my past transgressions felt, altogether my fault. Like a slow death.
In war, few ever do receive the courtesy of a slow death, of a pause to get ready and make themselves comfortable and find peace, to curl up into a ball and depart this place in a similar shape to how they'd come in.
But I will say one man, taken apart at the beltline, managed to hang on. I found him myself, huddling the shredded remains of his Thraxian tabard. I told him to close his eyes because I thought if he went to sleep maybe the Queen'd wake up. But he didn't go to sleep. He just kept breathing, and talking. Talking about this dog he had as a boy, and how he got upset when his father slaughtered him for biting the neighbor's daughter. Talked about a girl, and then a wife, and a mother. Talked about two mothers, actually.
I did not know half a man could live for so long.
For a long while I felt like this man, legless. Like a torso twisting, turning and rolling around on the mud, whose foundations were swooped out from under him after the inadvertent troubles brought on to me for speaking on matters I didn't understand. I am thankful for the Faith's forgiveness, and I hope to have learned this valuable lesson to heart.
Written By Sirius
May 26, 2020, 4:51 p.m.(5/12/1013 AR)
Relationship Note on Dycard
While at first glance one may believe the Lord of Blackshore to be not unlike the average swashbuckler, tis' but a guise;
In truth, there in the miasma of rum surrounding him belies a learned man, of robust moral integrity and strong imperative for what is right and is wrong. More importantly, his fascination for boats and drinks and things tells he's too aware of the something-somethings that make the usually stale everydays here in the Capitol much more easily dealt with.
Here's to his success in finally acquiring himself that caravel,
If not, I'm sure he'll happen upon some other dinghy worthy of a flagship.
In truth, there in the miasma of rum surrounding him belies a learned man, of robust moral integrity and strong imperative for what is right and is wrong. More importantly, his fascination for boats and drinks and things tells he's too aware of the something-somethings that make the usually stale everydays here in the Capitol much more easily dealt with.
Here's to his success in finally acquiring himself that caravel,
If not, I'm sure he'll happen upon some other dinghy worthy of a flagship.
Written By Sirius
May 26, 2020, 4:44 p.m.(5/12/1013 AR)
Good writing to you again scholar,
It's Sirius,
I met a monk on the roads and with him was a donkey-pulled cart, the poor draught animal with his head carried low in mute exhaustion. Broomstraw and virid moss were strung up one side of said cart, both twisting eagerly in the very winds that dried them, and some pots and pans clattered like rustic windchimes as the modest wares came to a bumbling stop before our marching company.
He had this barrel tottering on the edge of the cart's bed and a couple of bees swaying to keep up with it, poking and prodding at its cracks with thirsty curiosity.
He lifted his wool hat up out of his face but, funnily enough, the lips folded back down over his eyes when he did as he approached us, personally. He decided to take it off altogether and passed a sleeve across his brow while looking jolly and undisturbed to the veritable living armory that there stood before him.
Then, wishing us all a good evening, the 'brewrudite' then offered all there a drink for a paltry sum, voicing that he wasn't making anything by selling it in the Capitol. Gave us a story about his business and the stall he ran, and how things were nice and easy before the water turned on man. He seems to have a running theory about how the ocean's plotting to reclaim all of Arvum, washing away the stink of man with it.
Whatever the abyssopelagic depths have in store for us, I doubt it's something he knows anything about. Either way, we all had our honeyed mead and moved on.
Strange man, he was.
It's Sirius,
I met a monk on the roads and with him was a donkey-pulled cart, the poor draught animal with his head carried low in mute exhaustion. Broomstraw and virid moss were strung up one side of said cart, both twisting eagerly in the very winds that dried them, and some pots and pans clattered like rustic windchimes as the modest wares came to a bumbling stop before our marching company.
He had this barrel tottering on the edge of the cart's bed and a couple of bees swaying to keep up with it, poking and prodding at its cracks with thirsty curiosity.
He lifted his wool hat up out of his face but, funnily enough, the lips folded back down over his eyes when he did as he approached us, personally. He decided to take it off altogether and passed a sleeve across his brow while looking jolly and undisturbed to the veritable living armory that there stood before him.
Then, wishing us all a good evening, the 'brewrudite' then offered all there a drink for a paltry sum, voicing that he wasn't making anything by selling it in the Capitol. Gave us a story about his business and the stall he ran, and how things were nice and easy before the water turned on man. He seems to have a running theory about how the ocean's plotting to reclaim all of Arvum, washing away the stink of man with it.
Whatever the abyssopelagic depths have in store for us, I doubt it's something he knows anything about. Either way, we all had our honeyed mead and moved on.
Strange man, he was.
Written By Sirius
May 24, 2020, 6:04 a.m.(5/7/1013 AR)
Man is treated to war the day he is born.
It is his mother who is with him for that first battle, and to his mother whom he calls in his last. If only the evil we see in others could be seen in ourselves, then the call to swords might fall on deaf ears. How sad that men are so uncomfortable looking inward, and how sadder still that when the call for swords is made our ears hear better than ever.
I've always wondered if that is why the Queen of Endings is too known as the Mother of Beginnings, because in life; in our lives, of us with mortal coil, we see a cycling quasi-exhibition perhaps of her own life. That it isn't just our bearer we call to but, in a way, through the power and symbolism in the word itself, we too summon her.
Strange musings for you Scholar, I know, but I'm bed-ridden on account of a healing foot and there's nothing worse than my head when it's cooped-up and bored out of its mind.
It is his mother who is with him for that first battle, and to his mother whom he calls in his last. If only the evil we see in others could be seen in ourselves, then the call to swords might fall on deaf ears. How sad that men are so uncomfortable looking inward, and how sadder still that when the call for swords is made our ears hear better than ever.
I've always wondered if that is why the Queen of Endings is too known as the Mother of Beginnings, because in life; in our lives, of us with mortal coil, we see a cycling quasi-exhibition perhaps of her own life. That it isn't just our bearer we call to but, in a way, through the power and symbolism in the word itself, we too summon her.
Strange musings for you Scholar, I know, but I'm bed-ridden on account of a healing foot and there's nothing worse than my head when it's cooped-up and bored out of its mind.
Written By Sirius
May 21, 2020, 7:31 p.m.(5/2/1013 AR)
Training in the Center recently, I happened upon an old man; an old and wizened warrior, I believe. A veteran. Biggest nose I had ever seen in my life, and while he didn't impart upon me his name prior to leaving, I don't think he'll much care to ever learn I'll refer to him as 'Largefront';
I found him sitting at one of the lowest bleachers, looking off at some young squire going through his training in silence. It was early in the morning, so I chose to sit beside him, smile, greet him. Hear the raspiness in his voice- he mistook me for a fellow soldier, and I didn't bother to correct him. There was something earnest in his voice, there still is I think, and a message. While we dove through many subjects, there's one thing in particular that struck me when he said:
"You know, I've realized something as an old man who has operated far too long in this business of killing. I'm so much wiser these days. I've come to know so much, so much that I now know what I don't know. And I look back and think, I was such a dummy back in my youth. Then I thought, what of all the men I've slain, stopping their mortal coil when it was young and so ready to spring?" At the time, having been so playful he thus far, I didn't take it with the seriousness it beget -- I shrugged, but listened on;
"What I've realized is that I'm a killer of wisdom. That I took a lot of old men out of this world, and with them went so much learning and knowledge. There's so many worlds out there that I destroyed. Worlds where those men lived and went on living and did the great things they knew not was in them. Had that first woman I fought slew me down, how many lives would she have saved? How much wisdom would have been spared?" Then he apologized, feeling he had gone off into a tangent and droned on beyond my afforded time.
I tried to make him consider that perhaps he had saved other men in ending these lives, but that suggestion had him smile- a long and lorn smile, like only old people can make them. I knew he had already considered it, and sadly didn't disturb me with his answer on this.
It's a shame. The sadness to the cadence of his voice, the small glitters of regret. Had I been a better orator I could've perhaps assured him in some shape or form, but I'm not--I could not. Instead, I joined the circle of misery.
I hope you're warm tonight, wherever you are asleep, Largefront.
I found him sitting at one of the lowest bleachers, looking off at some young squire going through his training in silence. It was early in the morning, so I chose to sit beside him, smile, greet him. Hear the raspiness in his voice- he mistook me for a fellow soldier, and I didn't bother to correct him. There was something earnest in his voice, there still is I think, and a message. While we dove through many subjects, there's one thing in particular that struck me when he said:
"You know, I've realized something as an old man who has operated far too long in this business of killing. I'm so much wiser these days. I've come to know so much, so much that I now know what I don't know. And I look back and think, I was such a dummy back in my youth. Then I thought, what of all the men I've slain, stopping their mortal coil when it was young and so ready to spring?" At the time, having been so playful he thus far, I didn't take it with the seriousness it beget -- I shrugged, but listened on;
"What I've realized is that I'm a killer of wisdom. That I took a lot of old men out of this world, and with them went so much learning and knowledge. There's so many worlds out there that I destroyed. Worlds where those men lived and went on living and did the great things they knew not was in them. Had that first woman I fought slew me down, how many lives would she have saved? How much wisdom would have been spared?" Then he apologized, feeling he had gone off into a tangent and droned on beyond my afforded time.
I tried to make him consider that perhaps he had saved other men in ending these lives, but that suggestion had him smile- a long and lorn smile, like only old people can make them. I knew he had already considered it, and sadly didn't disturb me with his answer on this.
It's a shame. The sadness to the cadence of his voice, the small glitters of regret. Had I been a better orator I could've perhaps assured him in some shape or form, but I'm not--I could not. Instead, I joined the circle of misery.
I hope you're warm tonight, wherever you are asleep, Largefront.
Written By Sirius
May 16, 2020, 4:08 p.m.(4/20/1013 AR)
Relationship Note on Ida
Dame Ferron,
If I may be so bold to praise, that in your latest creation of Alaricite you didn't just simply win the bout, you enraptured the crowd while doing so and then went on to win all the accolades as you knocked series upon series of teeth off of contestants' mouths on the way to the top,
It was brutal, and an honor to watch,
Thank you.
If I may be so bold to praise, that in your latest creation of Alaricite you didn't just simply win the bout, you enraptured the crowd while doing so and then went on to win all the accolades as you knocked series upon series of teeth off of contestants' mouths on the way to the top,
It was brutal, and an honor to watch,
Thank you.
Written By Sirius
May 16, 2020, 4:05 p.m.(4/20/1013 AR)
This one shouldn’t be as long as the last, custodian,
Or as exasperating, or as long, and nuanced,
But here I am again, unknowing where-else defer these things I’ve experienced the last week. Sister Juniper’s hospice remains closed, and I’ve been finding no small measure of difficulty in continuing the habit of leaving flowers and things and knacks in it, and so I decided to swallow away my fears and visit the Queen of Ending’s shrine to this effect. Make no mistake, I understand you two are close what with your pantheonic ties and, as rumor goes, something-something I have not the gal to mention, but I mean no disrespect- it’s the spiders I fear, not her. Not her message; her cyclical connection to the world and its moving wheel, I understand these things,
But I don’t understand spiders,
Small, swarthy cretins with their head crouched beyond them as though gated by their own stride, legs squatting defilade. All eight of them, hairy, incredibly articulate these legs,
I’ve been mentioned before that beauty’s meant to be in the eyes of the beholder, and I promise you here, knowledge-bearer, that I’ve tried - I tried - to keep an open mind as I entered the Shrine first-time. I needed only take one cursory glance right to look at that pit of earth wreathed in white, where they keep them. At its rim the strangest of thin filaments which listed about at even the slightest suggestion of a breeze, and you’d know it, the Shrine scarcely felt any wind at all,
The closer I got, the webbing took a strange, civilized shape; the recency of its creation apparent in its tight strappings: cockroaches, flies, and even mice, all bound snug in the hangars of white silos and planes like morsels upon a pale rug,
I imagined myself inside one of these cocoons, the finality of being so thoroughly bound and turned inwards by something tightly surrounding me from every direction. It’s horrifying,
Just as I had gotten close - too close, foolishly so - a black shadow sauntered up from behind the veiled domicile, coming to the fore as if freshly departed from its trapdoor. Its mandibles clicked, suckling onto a kind of half-regurgitated appendage acting as an odd, macabre pacifier. It was the biggest spider I had ever seen, and before I used to think that “the hairier, the worse,” but I was wrong. Nary a hair on this one spider, one could see the pristine sleekness of its form, the black-and-crimson pattern of its hull that finished in some bizarre and vulgar recreation of a ‘skull’ on its abdomen,
I knew she meant business and she knew that I didn’t and so we parted ways,
Everything else was beautiful. The gothic feeling the atmosphere builds, is fantastic. If one can ignore the hundred of eyes blinking in and out of the darkness from up the ceiling, surveying all inside, there’s beauty to be had in this environment,
It felt strangely fitting to leave the Sister flowers here, seated on a bed of umbels probably crawling with spiders,
Looking forward to next week.
Or as exasperating, or as long, and nuanced,
But here I am again, unknowing where-else defer these things I’ve experienced the last week. Sister Juniper’s hospice remains closed, and I’ve been finding no small measure of difficulty in continuing the habit of leaving flowers and things and knacks in it, and so I decided to swallow away my fears and visit the Queen of Ending’s shrine to this effect. Make no mistake, I understand you two are close what with your pantheonic ties and, as rumor goes, something-something I have not the gal to mention, but I mean no disrespect- it’s the spiders I fear, not her. Not her message; her cyclical connection to the world and its moving wheel, I understand these things,
But I don’t understand spiders,
Small, swarthy cretins with their head crouched beyond them as though gated by their own stride, legs squatting defilade. All eight of them, hairy, incredibly articulate these legs,
I’ve been mentioned before that beauty’s meant to be in the eyes of the beholder, and I promise you here, knowledge-bearer, that I’ve tried - I tried - to keep an open mind as I entered the Shrine first-time. I needed only take one cursory glance right to look at that pit of earth wreathed in white, where they keep them. At its rim the strangest of thin filaments which listed about at even the slightest suggestion of a breeze, and you’d know it, the Shrine scarcely felt any wind at all,
The closer I got, the webbing took a strange, civilized shape; the recency of its creation apparent in its tight strappings: cockroaches, flies, and even mice, all bound snug in the hangars of white silos and planes like morsels upon a pale rug,
I imagined myself inside one of these cocoons, the finality of being so thoroughly bound and turned inwards by something tightly surrounding me from every direction. It’s horrifying,
Just as I had gotten close - too close, foolishly so - a black shadow sauntered up from behind the veiled domicile, coming to the fore as if freshly departed from its trapdoor. Its mandibles clicked, suckling onto a kind of half-regurgitated appendage acting as an odd, macabre pacifier. It was the biggest spider I had ever seen, and before I used to think that “the hairier, the worse,” but I was wrong. Nary a hair on this one spider, one could see the pristine sleekness of its form, the black-and-crimson pattern of its hull that finished in some bizarre and vulgar recreation of a ‘skull’ on its abdomen,
I knew she meant business and she knew that I didn’t and so we parted ways,
Everything else was beautiful. The gothic feeling the atmosphere builds, is fantastic. If one can ignore the hundred of eyes blinking in and out of the darkness from up the ceiling, surveying all inside, there’s beauty to be had in this environment,
It felt strangely fitting to leave the Sister flowers here, seated on a bed of umbels probably crawling with spiders,
Looking forward to next week.
Written By Sirius
May 8, 2020, 4:45 a.m.(4/3/1013 AR)
I didn't think I'd return so soon to your embrace, scholar,
But your ears and attention have become a sanctuary to me as of late,
Hoping for your cathartic touch once more, I'll elucidate so that history may well remember my woes as many that come speak them to you in their times of personal crisis. For reasons I'd rather not disclose, I'll not explain the matter handily, but the fault lies on me. My mind is as if a great vortex that vacillates on its own axis, thoughts within it fluctuating distressingly, eliciting wild-eyed portents of doom every next hour I can only numb through heroic amounts of alcohol. Namely, rum.
As a young man, stooped and ill of my growing sicknesses as I was, I learned that the world has an almost exquisite method - sinister in nature - to make one feel lesser than we truly are. Small, decrepit, worthless. To turn everyone around us as if into giants, and have us look up to them as unreachable cuspids of the what-if we'll never be.
To combat this feeling, I'd have my custodian and caretaker then take me to the highest, seventh tower in Sanctum. Up, and up, to the top, where I could hear the full reverberation of the Chapel's bell many moving mechanisms before the metal was even struck, and made to vibrate aloud to summon the faithful.
This feeling returned to me recently. This feeling of weightlessness; of worthlessness, so I did what any warrior and fighter and stubborn soul would, and decided to walk the land on two feet to yet another grand peak, a summit so wide and vast I'd remember then as I survey the land that there's greatness yet for those who seek to brave the trenches and struggle, fight, back against fate's push. The truth is, I couldn't go far, my duties on Arx are paramount and I've given my whole in helping and resupplying the logistics of my household, Valardin, and so I armed an expedition of few for a hike West of the Capitol, very near by Pridehall, to attempt one of its less dangerous peaks as Winter culminated into Spring.
Our supply train departed some time in Limerance's morning. The snow hadn't yet melted, yet across the way many farmhouses in the distance housed the hard-working Crownsworns in charge of our food, beginning their duties to Spring. Fields of crops already seesawed to a crisp wind, rustling like calm ocean waves. Farmhands chopped through the fields with scythes dirty still with the touch of winter. Donkeys brought up their rear, drawing carts through the difficult and uneven shod of terrain.
It took us various weeks to reach the mountain's base, yet there we were. A selfish, immature dalliance for a decrepit want of a weak Prince, is why I had hauled that many soul there with me. But there we were, hoarder of knowledge. And in we pushed, pickaxes and shovels the limbs that pained us through the more difficult and rough of surfaces on our desire to pierce the difficulties of beginning the climb and the slippery, too far apart, rungs that led there.
Although deep in the mountains, I could see the peaks of the cordillera stretching further onward yet as we made it up, each one piping up between valleys of the other. It was a beautiful sight, but also an exhausting one. Hiking through the passes - and sometimes finding passes of my own - was hard on every accompanying footsoldier in my escort. Slopes of whinstone and sediment and unruly gravel had them clambering on hands and knees. Each slippery talus tunnels the weary back down from whence they came, testing the resolve of those who are not keen on so many a repeat journey.
And yet, around me there were mountain goats traipsing about. One bounded impossibly up an anticline with mocking ease and another chamfered on dry grass between confused bleats, watching us bug-eyed and gurning. Bridges of stone, cantilevered overhead with Jurassic geology, bore the winking heads of curious mountain cats. I got the feeling they had seen our kind before, trekkers from Cedar Vale perhaps. They knew not to attack, but followed us as faithful as our shadow nonetheless. "Maybe one of them will fall", they must've thought, and break something and the maimed would've been left behind because carrying the wounded under our circumstances then in such a place was a death for two.
Taking stock of my party, I found many had suffered injuries by the time we reached the snow-blanketed summit. Shin splints. Sore calves. Throbbing knees. Probably some broken bones, but nothing was fatal. Only the strong and agile could safely navigate their way through a place such as that, and indeed they were typically the first to the top of every climb.
Typically, but not at the end.
As I felt the cold wind embrace me at our meeting point of the aiguille, enchantment healed my weary body that over mountain had weakly roamed. I hastened forth without concern for myself and quickly made it to the top to reach that beautiful crest, where nothing else went up. Here, in the peak, breathing was a shallow affair that didn't bring much air, and I quickly turned red and sallow-faced as another climber pointed out.
Winter had forgotten Spring's arrival, and all the surrounding floor was colored a white so rich and sublime it was as if no human feet had ever trodden on it. From that high, I could see the treeline of pines connecting down to Arx and the watery ravine that divided them; I could look North, and wonder on the mysteries of the deep tundra. Look South, and see the twinkle light of Setarco's lighthouse. Or I thought I did. This is probably not the case.
The world once again in hand. From that far up, everything felt so small and unthreatening. Like I could fly. As if I should have taken flight and soared off into an even higher aerie.
In truth, I cannot tell how much time had passed until I decided to leave the top and return to Arx. On the way up, we dug for hours, days — an eternity. And we were rewarded with the view. On the way down, it was much simpler, it took us only half of that to reach the mountain's feet yet again.
It reminds me that in the end, every plan relies upon a strong arm, and tempered resolve.
I hope this entry does not come to you ill-timed, scholar; I know the days are fraught, with the winds of change stirring us towards war, but a little hope, however desperate, is never without its due worth.
Take care, keeper of knowledge,
May my next entry not be a tragic extension of my failings.
But your ears and attention have become a sanctuary to me as of late,
Hoping for your cathartic touch once more, I'll elucidate so that history may well remember my woes as many that come speak them to you in their times of personal crisis. For reasons I'd rather not disclose, I'll not explain the matter handily, but the fault lies on me. My mind is as if a great vortex that vacillates on its own axis, thoughts within it fluctuating distressingly, eliciting wild-eyed portents of doom every next hour I can only numb through heroic amounts of alcohol. Namely, rum.
As a young man, stooped and ill of my growing sicknesses as I was, I learned that the world has an almost exquisite method - sinister in nature - to make one feel lesser than we truly are. Small, decrepit, worthless. To turn everyone around us as if into giants, and have us look up to them as unreachable cuspids of the what-if we'll never be.
To combat this feeling, I'd have my custodian and caretaker then take me to the highest, seventh tower in Sanctum. Up, and up, to the top, where I could hear the full reverberation of the Chapel's bell many moving mechanisms before the metal was even struck, and made to vibrate aloud to summon the faithful.
This feeling returned to me recently. This feeling of weightlessness; of worthlessness, so I did what any warrior and fighter and stubborn soul would, and decided to walk the land on two feet to yet another grand peak, a summit so wide and vast I'd remember then as I survey the land that there's greatness yet for those who seek to brave the trenches and struggle, fight, back against fate's push. The truth is, I couldn't go far, my duties on Arx are paramount and I've given my whole in helping and resupplying the logistics of my household, Valardin, and so I armed an expedition of few for a hike West of the Capitol, very near by Pridehall, to attempt one of its less dangerous peaks as Winter culminated into Spring.
Our supply train departed some time in Limerance's morning. The snow hadn't yet melted, yet across the way many farmhouses in the distance housed the hard-working Crownsworns in charge of our food, beginning their duties to Spring. Fields of crops already seesawed to a crisp wind, rustling like calm ocean waves. Farmhands chopped through the fields with scythes dirty still with the touch of winter. Donkeys brought up their rear, drawing carts through the difficult and uneven shod of terrain.
It took us various weeks to reach the mountain's base, yet there we were. A selfish, immature dalliance for a decrepit want of a weak Prince, is why I had hauled that many soul there with me. But there we were, hoarder of knowledge. And in we pushed, pickaxes and shovels the limbs that pained us through the more difficult and rough of surfaces on our desire to pierce the difficulties of beginning the climb and the slippery, too far apart, rungs that led there.
Although deep in the mountains, I could see the peaks of the cordillera stretching further onward yet as we made it up, each one piping up between valleys of the other. It was a beautiful sight, but also an exhausting one. Hiking through the passes - and sometimes finding passes of my own - was hard on every accompanying footsoldier in my escort. Slopes of whinstone and sediment and unruly gravel had them clambering on hands and knees. Each slippery talus tunnels the weary back down from whence they came, testing the resolve of those who are not keen on so many a repeat journey.
And yet, around me there were mountain goats traipsing about. One bounded impossibly up an anticline with mocking ease and another chamfered on dry grass between confused bleats, watching us bug-eyed and gurning. Bridges of stone, cantilevered overhead with Jurassic geology, bore the winking heads of curious mountain cats. I got the feeling they had seen our kind before, trekkers from Cedar Vale perhaps. They knew not to attack, but followed us as faithful as our shadow nonetheless. "Maybe one of them will fall", they must've thought, and break something and the maimed would've been left behind because carrying the wounded under our circumstances then in such a place was a death for two.
Taking stock of my party, I found many had suffered injuries by the time we reached the snow-blanketed summit. Shin splints. Sore calves. Throbbing knees. Probably some broken bones, but nothing was fatal. Only the strong and agile could safely navigate their way through a place such as that, and indeed they were typically the first to the top of every climb.
Typically, but not at the end.
As I felt the cold wind embrace me at our meeting point of the aiguille, enchantment healed my weary body that over mountain had weakly roamed. I hastened forth without concern for myself and quickly made it to the top to reach that beautiful crest, where nothing else went up. Here, in the peak, breathing was a shallow affair that didn't bring much air, and I quickly turned red and sallow-faced as another climber pointed out.
Winter had forgotten Spring's arrival, and all the surrounding floor was colored a white so rich and sublime it was as if no human feet had ever trodden on it. From that high, I could see the treeline of pines connecting down to Arx and the watery ravine that divided them; I could look North, and wonder on the mysteries of the deep tundra. Look South, and see the twinkle light of Setarco's lighthouse. Or I thought I did. This is probably not the case.
The world once again in hand. From that far up, everything felt so small and unthreatening. Like I could fly. As if I should have taken flight and soared off into an even higher aerie.
In truth, I cannot tell how much time had passed until I decided to leave the top and return to Arx. On the way up, we dug for hours, days — an eternity. And we were rewarded with the view. On the way down, it was much simpler, it took us only half of that to reach the mountain's feet yet again.
It reminds me that in the end, every plan relies upon a strong arm, and tempered resolve.
I hope this entry does not come to you ill-timed, scholar; I know the days are fraught, with the winds of change stirring us towards war, but a little hope, however desperate, is never without its due worth.
Take care, keeper of knowledge,
May my next entry not be a tragic extension of my failings.
Written By Sirius
May 5, 2020, 12:35 a.m.(3/25/1013 AR)
It is the strangest thing, scholar, to lead a company of women and men,
Riveting, to find how their personalities and inner facets change and fluctuate to a mad rhizome very difficult to trace,
In the dimmer hours of the afternoon, I headed out of camp to relieve myself somewhere off into a bush and I found myself midstream when the din of combat erupted behind me. Pinching it off, I fixed my drawers and headed back for the encampment. There, I found the whole company engaged in battle not with any particular foe, but with itself.
Footmen were clambering over equipment and the campfire and each other to swing fists and spin elbows and wrestle one another around or tackle each other to the ground. Anyone who fell was stomped, literally, until someone came along to distract the ones doing the kicking, then the one who had fallen jumps to their feet and throws themselves back into the fray.
Once the ol' fracas eased as the group slowly realized my presence, they shaped up and lined up as though a swift reorganization would be a suitable resolution for their churlish behavior. I shook my head, and sourly, asked them what sparked it. In the strangest of unions, they all shrugged away the notion; not a single one of them could remember. I did the obvious - a rolecall to make sure nobody was dead. Then I told them to shake hands, keeping a keen eye on them as they did so. No bad blood was there to sniff out.
Ah, the always safe measurement of manliness, I guess.
Take care, grand Scholar.
Riveting, to find how their personalities and inner facets change and fluctuate to a mad rhizome very difficult to trace,
In the dimmer hours of the afternoon, I headed out of camp to relieve myself somewhere off into a bush and I found myself midstream when the din of combat erupted behind me. Pinching it off, I fixed my drawers and headed back for the encampment. There, I found the whole company engaged in battle not with any particular foe, but with itself.
Footmen were clambering over equipment and the campfire and each other to swing fists and spin elbows and wrestle one another around or tackle each other to the ground. Anyone who fell was stomped, literally, until someone came along to distract the ones doing the kicking, then the one who had fallen jumps to their feet and throws themselves back into the fray.
Once the ol' fracas eased as the group slowly realized my presence, they shaped up and lined up as though a swift reorganization would be a suitable resolution for their churlish behavior. I shook my head, and sourly, asked them what sparked it. In the strangest of unions, they all shrugged away the notion; not a single one of them could remember. I did the obvious - a rolecall to make sure nobody was dead. Then I told them to shake hands, keeping a keen eye on them as they did so. No bad blood was there to sniff out.
Ah, the always safe measurement of manliness, I guess.
Take care, grand Scholar.
Written By Sirius
April 29, 2020, 5:04 a.m.(3/13/1013 AR)
I commend myself to you once more, grand scholar,
Take these etchings and make of them what you would,
It's been a strange couple of weeks, grandmaster of truth. All my years, I've preferred the examined life -- thinking, reflecting, observing. Watch the world develop and from the experience there found by those who carefully measure then take action, act. Hesitate on past mistakes, learn from them, and yet I find that with every passing day here on Arx I teeter and threaten towards the strangest of brinks.
To action unmeasured.
I am a leader, a hunter, a warrior, but feel more as of late like a traveler. Life is transient, meaning hard to come by, it is why I act brashly at times here in Arx, where if one's to delay the next step there's chance to miss out on what tomorrow holds. Even here, as I write, the words flow out in a brash freehand; the wording comes easily, it's almost mechanically simple; a language developed for mental rigour and simplicity which I've oft used, but kept from the journals. Picturesque prose always felt more form-fitting for you, learned one.
I've tried to loosen, as my family suggested. I tried the many distractions the city has to offer- the Theater, the Empyrean, the local arenas. Every inn, every drink. Ashes on wool. Perhaps it is winter, and I am simply not in control.
I don't know. I apologize if this feels as if I'm nagging you, you most likely have hundreds of haranguing letters as it is.
Take these etchings and make of them what you would,
It's been a strange couple of weeks, grandmaster of truth. All my years, I've preferred the examined life -- thinking, reflecting, observing. Watch the world develop and from the experience there found by those who carefully measure then take action, act. Hesitate on past mistakes, learn from them, and yet I find that with every passing day here on Arx I teeter and threaten towards the strangest of brinks.
To action unmeasured.
I am a leader, a hunter, a warrior, but feel more as of late like a traveler. Life is transient, meaning hard to come by, it is why I act brashly at times here in Arx, where if one's to delay the next step there's chance to miss out on what tomorrow holds. Even here, as I write, the words flow out in a brash freehand; the wording comes easily, it's almost mechanically simple; a language developed for mental rigour and simplicity which I've oft used, but kept from the journals. Picturesque prose always felt more form-fitting for you, learned one.
I've tried to loosen, as my family suggested. I tried the many distractions the city has to offer- the Theater, the Empyrean, the local arenas. Every inn, every drink. Ashes on wool. Perhaps it is winter, and I am simply not in control.
I don't know. I apologize if this feels as if I'm nagging you, you most likely have hundreds of haranguing letters as it is.
Written By Sirius
April 26, 2020, 10:58 a.m.(3/8/1013 AR)
Here lies a moment to sit back and return to your pages once more, scholar,
I pray you haven't forgotten me, and that in your eternal wisdom, guard me from ignorance,
Recently I led a sortie of men to the outskirts of Arx as an instructing drill on surviving in the wilderness. My presence's not really often necessary when in these congregations, for we give the stick of teachings to the more aged and experienced. Many agree that, in my youth, there's simply things that I don't know, and at home I should've stayed. I challenge this notion- how am I to learn, if I cannot be then a part of these sessions?
Before we could even arrive to the location itself, a tribesman from the surrounding hinterland of friendly demeanor happened upon our marching muster. A good thirty of us- we weren't many. Most men and women at arms, all fit for violence, so we didn't need fear an ambush. He, too, didn't fear us much- having spotted the Dragon's colors, it eased him. I felt a strange kind of pride in learning this. It saddened me, too; it did so deeply.
After some song, play and mild dalliance, a group of my Sergeants and I decided to rest by a shy flame in rocky formation when the tribesman joined us. He was humble from the start, and found a seat not so far from myself. He told us many stories of how the tribes come and go, but the one that struck me the most is this one:
I'll try and quote him, but in his accent, some was lost on translation.
"We're only run by the strong," he said. He poked at the fire with a stick while doing this, as if remorseful. "But a strong man is only as good as his health and constitution. When he gets old, he loses both. When he gets old, he therefore loses." A strange smile hit him then, as if visiting some old irony beheld only in the back of his mind, us made witness only through this strange, visceral mirth in his face. "And so the new strong man comes to power, and with it a shattering of the tribe's history and successes. I do in part envy the southerner's sense of greater purpose, and the southerner's ability to hide his power, to stock it at arm's length so that others must do more than just swing a sword to get it from them. I tell you this in truth, and only here, as far away from my countrymen as I can be."
The way with which he spoke, his mannerisms. Only a few weeks of distance living from the Capitol, and yet with a culture so vastly different, views of the world so changed and warped from the ways of our people below the light of the Faith.
It learned me one valuable lesson: our fight isn't simply against the woes that betide the Compact, it is against the condition of man as he's spread across this horrid world, more the ones lost than those who are found. Civilization then is our greatest challenge ahead, we must endure yet the tide of woes that machine against it, and survive it for those that come yet come after us.
I hope he finds his way to Arx. I hope he already has.
I pray you haven't forgotten me, and that in your eternal wisdom, guard me from ignorance,
Recently I led a sortie of men to the outskirts of Arx as an instructing drill on surviving in the wilderness. My presence's not really often necessary when in these congregations, for we give the stick of teachings to the more aged and experienced. Many agree that, in my youth, there's simply things that I don't know, and at home I should've stayed. I challenge this notion- how am I to learn, if I cannot be then a part of these sessions?
Before we could even arrive to the location itself, a tribesman from the surrounding hinterland of friendly demeanor happened upon our marching muster. A good thirty of us- we weren't many. Most men and women at arms, all fit for violence, so we didn't need fear an ambush. He, too, didn't fear us much- having spotted the Dragon's colors, it eased him. I felt a strange kind of pride in learning this. It saddened me, too; it did so deeply.
After some song, play and mild dalliance, a group of my Sergeants and I decided to rest by a shy flame in rocky formation when the tribesman joined us. He was humble from the start, and found a seat not so far from myself. He told us many stories of how the tribes come and go, but the one that struck me the most is this one:
I'll try and quote him, but in his accent, some was lost on translation.
"We're only run by the strong," he said. He poked at the fire with a stick while doing this, as if remorseful. "But a strong man is only as good as his health and constitution. When he gets old, he loses both. When he gets old, he therefore loses." A strange smile hit him then, as if visiting some old irony beheld only in the back of his mind, us made witness only through this strange, visceral mirth in his face. "And so the new strong man comes to power, and with it a shattering of the tribe's history and successes. I do in part envy the southerner's sense of greater purpose, and the southerner's ability to hide his power, to stock it at arm's length so that others must do more than just swing a sword to get it from them. I tell you this in truth, and only here, as far away from my countrymen as I can be."
The way with which he spoke, his mannerisms. Only a few weeks of distance living from the Capitol, and yet with a culture so vastly different, views of the world so changed and warped from the ways of our people below the light of the Faith.
It learned me one valuable lesson: our fight isn't simply against the woes that betide the Compact, it is against the condition of man as he's spread across this horrid world, more the ones lost than those who are found. Civilization then is our greatest challenge ahead, we must endure yet the tide of woes that machine against it, and survive it for those that come yet come after us.
I hope he finds his way to Arx. I hope he already has.
Written By Sirius
April 16, 2020, 4:45 a.m.(2/15/1013 AR)
Hello once more, Vellichor,
Or whosoever spirited, kindly scholar that here-in peeks at this letter upon delivery,
I have missed long the opportunity to write to your archives again. I must admit, there's a certain weariness to my being that is exacerbated with the accumulation of days that pass by, where I'm not chanced to put in paper my woes for you, Custodian of Knowledge. It is a strange, odd feeling that has been marinating in me -- as if by some measure, failing to subscribe my doings to your shelves is against my health or, at the least, my hope for legacy,
Either way, it doesn't matter much,
Winter, as too the last, has made a familiar number upon my being. My nose's, seemingly, perpetually clogged. Skin is peeling off of its surface, too -- I've even obtained freckles I knew not to have. A Mercy deemed it natural, claimed the changing heat and cold my skin's constantly exposed to is the perpetrator, but what can I do? A mere few inches too far from any fire is enough to make me feel as if I'm freezing again, and I've never been one of poor constitution. Wherefor that Valardin grit known of my family? It's gone now,
It's just Sirius, now,
Getting cold. Feeling itches on his elbows, his toes quick to get freezing sweat on them too. More lethargic by the day. I nearly fell asleep on my horse last I drilled the men too, doing our eleventh foot rehearsal. Unacceptable. Shameful, too, and I blame the tea. It is not strong enough- it used to be I could sleep only four hours, have a proper cup, and I'd be good for the day whole to tackle its many challenges,
Tea, however, doesn't come as good as it used to. Or as strong. And it matters not how caffeinated I am, my body just falls apart and is quick to hang slack when I need it the most. Must be I'm getting old... coming off of my prime at eighteen, I can already see the white hair prickling out of my chin. My hairline receding. Wait, scratch that; we won't even joke about that. I did have an uncle... nevermind, let us not even summon the memory of Prince Landry.
I hope, perhaps, that in the future I'll have more time to defer to you my woes and worries once more, old wizened Vellichor. Also, worry not about my nose any longer- a kindly flower gifted me a cloak recently. I owe her more than she could know.
Or whosoever spirited, kindly scholar that here-in peeks at this letter upon delivery,
I have missed long the opportunity to write to your archives again. I must admit, there's a certain weariness to my being that is exacerbated with the accumulation of days that pass by, where I'm not chanced to put in paper my woes for you, Custodian of Knowledge. It is a strange, odd feeling that has been marinating in me -- as if by some measure, failing to subscribe my doings to your shelves is against my health or, at the least, my hope for legacy,
Either way, it doesn't matter much,
Winter, as too the last, has made a familiar number upon my being. My nose's, seemingly, perpetually clogged. Skin is peeling off of its surface, too -- I've even obtained freckles I knew not to have. A Mercy deemed it natural, claimed the changing heat and cold my skin's constantly exposed to is the perpetrator, but what can I do? A mere few inches too far from any fire is enough to make me feel as if I'm freezing again, and I've never been one of poor constitution. Wherefor that Valardin grit known of my family? It's gone now,
It's just Sirius, now,
Getting cold. Feeling itches on his elbows, his toes quick to get freezing sweat on them too. More lethargic by the day. I nearly fell asleep on my horse last I drilled the men too, doing our eleventh foot rehearsal. Unacceptable. Shameful, too, and I blame the tea. It is not strong enough- it used to be I could sleep only four hours, have a proper cup, and I'd be good for the day whole to tackle its many challenges,
Tea, however, doesn't come as good as it used to. Or as strong. And it matters not how caffeinated I am, my body just falls apart and is quick to hang slack when I need it the most. Must be I'm getting old... coming off of my prime at eighteen, I can already see the white hair prickling out of my chin. My hairline receding. Wait, scratch that; we won't even joke about that. I did have an uncle... nevermind, let us not even summon the memory of Prince Landry.
I hope, perhaps, that in the future I'll have more time to defer to you my woes and worries once more, old wizened Vellichor. Also, worry not about my nose any longer- a kindly flower gifted me a cloak recently. I owe her more than she could know.
Written By Sirius
March 29, 2020, 12:21 a.m.(1/6/1013 AR)
Relationship Note on Malcolm
Perhaps, my Lord, you ought to consider purchasing yet another snazzy hat,
Solve this conundrum from its seams,
End this plight before regret and loss hardens your heart,
Go by the old adage of: "Fastest way to forget a hat we loved is to wear another, curvier hat." Feathered, if you would.
Solve this conundrum from its seams,
End this plight before regret and loss hardens your heart,
Go by the old adage of: "Fastest way to forget a hat we loved is to wear another, curvier hat." Feathered, if you would.
Written By Sirius
March 27, 2020, 8:24 a.m.(1/3/1013 AR)
It had been a while since I last laid eyes on Arx, and the rumors were true: no Winter's ever the same at the heart of the Compact.
Even the decorations are different, the arrangements, the very spirit of the people is different. Last Winter was dark and gloomy due to things that had happened; things I was only scarcely here for, but now I see something long-absent in the sallow faces of passersby - a glimmer of hope.
Even in the Lowers, would you believe it?
Seeing the Valardin regiments at the Capital once more, too, was inspiring. I've decided that, for them, a strict regimen is paramount if they're to master the unforgiving arithmetic of combat as is expected from such a famed legion.
Not that I have a say in it just yet. There's paperwork to be had, oh Vellichor, paperwork to be had...
Why is it, that the youngest must always be sequestered to the office work? Why can't I be allowed to ride out in the rain with the others? I can ride too. I can fight... well, I can try to fight. I can tell others to fight for me?
I can make a strong case to our soldiers why they shouldn't let the enemy kill me. There.
No matter, there's plenty of time to prove myself. For now, biscuits, tea and another deep case study of the Battle for Valor's Point. Ah, nothing like the writings of Lord Janus Valardin on the beauty of an Oathlander knightly wedge. He's very descriptive of their results.
It is rather morbid.
Even the decorations are different, the arrangements, the very spirit of the people is different. Last Winter was dark and gloomy due to things that had happened; things I was only scarcely here for, but now I see something long-absent in the sallow faces of passersby - a glimmer of hope.
Even in the Lowers, would you believe it?
Seeing the Valardin regiments at the Capital once more, too, was inspiring. I've decided that, for them, a strict regimen is paramount if they're to master the unforgiving arithmetic of combat as is expected from such a famed legion.
Not that I have a say in it just yet. There's paperwork to be had, oh Vellichor, paperwork to be had...
Why is it, that the youngest must always be sequestered to the office work? Why can't I be allowed to ride out in the rain with the others? I can ride too. I can fight... well, I can try to fight. I can tell others to fight for me?
I can make a strong case to our soldiers why they shouldn't let the enemy kill me. There.
No matter, there's plenty of time to prove myself. For now, biscuits, tea and another deep case study of the Battle for Valor's Point. Ah, nothing like the writings of Lord Janus Valardin on the beauty of an Oathlander knightly wedge. He's very descriptive of their results.
It is rather morbid.
Written By Sirius
Oct. 20, 2019, 5:10 a.m.(1/18/1012 AR)
Relationship Note on Elisha
The days are fraught when the most recent logging of white journals belie less-than-white words--black words; words of blood and rote promises; of death and untrammeled wanton; of Kings and Queens, allegorized into virtues both good and bad, to prove a point of shallow meaning. I cannot speak for that one's supposed savagery, nor how noble your intentions could hope to be, but here lies a situation I've experienced much amongst my troops- an opportunity, you see, for a tontine--a pledge, so that you too can find peace with one another.
I ask that distance's made. For your sake, hers, to leave her be. And I assure you, she'll be glad to make a trade; to side with the idea of not assaulting you and daring upon your life.
Here come us, the learned, to lecture--to criticize and demand - always the citizens of the Compact come scold the bloodthirsty Prodigal! A tale and happening as old as the very origin of their name. Pay heed to your sense, and this bit of my own I'm prostrating for you, and leave each other be.
As a last addition: Your rhymes and ditties, too, are beautiful. The way they're laced with anecdote and recital make them even more so inspiring, so it's of good to us all your art's preserved by not corkscrewing like a cetacean into certain death.
I ask that distance's made. For your sake, hers, to leave her be. And I assure you, she'll be glad to make a trade; to side with the idea of not assaulting you and daring upon your life.
Here come us, the learned, to lecture--to criticize and demand - always the citizens of the Compact come scold the bloodthirsty Prodigal! A tale and happening as old as the very origin of their name. Pay heed to your sense, and this bit of my own I'm prostrating for you, and leave each other be.
As a last addition: Your rhymes and ditties, too, are beautiful. The way they're laced with anecdote and recital make them even more so inspiring, so it's of good to us all your art's preserved by not corkscrewing like a cetacean into certain death.
Written By Sirius
Oct. 18, 2019, 7:54 a.m.(1/14/1012 AR)
I am Sirius Valardin,
And I was born into this world, just like you, who reads this. A world of unceasing mysteries, and endless questions. Within a nation of humans at its heart, who some would say is a bastion of hope, and courage; the Compact.
Whose history taught us was once led by the cowardly, torn apart by the selfish. At times weakened, at others strengthened, but "no longer" we tell ourselves, will that cycle continue. A heart full of pride beats within the populace of Arx, I've noticed. I remember growing, being taught by Priests of the faith that virtue and honor were a thing of the Oathlands, noplace else. That I'd find an alien people on Arx, uncannily different to me and mine, but they were wrong.
I am shocked by the kindness I've received from all here, noble and commoner alike, and hope for a future where I can speak only more kindness of Arx, here, to be filed and archived forevermore.
To my future children when they read this, my very first entry, I leave a message: Drink your tea only from the Mercier shop, and brook no competition to it in matters of quality. This is my edict to you, children.
And I was born into this world, just like you, who reads this. A world of unceasing mysteries, and endless questions. Within a nation of humans at its heart, who some would say is a bastion of hope, and courage; the Compact.
Whose history taught us was once led by the cowardly, torn apart by the selfish. At times weakened, at others strengthened, but "no longer" we tell ourselves, will that cycle continue. A heart full of pride beats within the populace of Arx, I've noticed. I remember growing, being taught by Priests of the faith that virtue and honor were a thing of the Oathlands, noplace else. That I'd find an alien people on Arx, uncannily different to me and mine, but they were wrong.
I am shocked by the kindness I've received from all here, noble and commoner alike, and hope for a future where I can speak only more kindness of Arx, here, to be filed and archived forevermore.
To my future children when they read this, my very first entry, I leave a message: Drink your tea only from the Mercier shop, and brook no competition to it in matters of quality. This is my edict to you, children.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.