Written By Bastien
Jan. 3, 2018, 2:01 p.m.(11/23/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Carita
Oh, no, I think not. It's what helps me avoid attempts at elevation.
Written By Bastien
Jan. 3, 2018, 1:56 p.m.(11/23/1007 AR)
My word. The bed of a Velenosa princess really seems to be a ready path to the peerage. Maybe their noble breeding stock is running thin.
Written By Bastien
Jan. 2, 2018, 6:59 p.m.(11/22/1007 AR)
There isn't enough silver in the world to convince me to abolish my pettiness.
Written By Bastien
Jan. 2, 2018, 1:20 p.m.(11/19/1007 AR)
Why must you all persist in taking my insulting journals as invitation to write me private letters attempting to befriend me?!
If you are reading this, I do not want to be your friend.
If you are reading this, I do not want to be your friend.
Written By Bastien
Jan. 2, 2018, 12:20 p.m.(11/19/1007 AR)
It never ceases to amaze me how the nobility can never resist the urge to defend themselves against powerless commoners who they deem to be useless and inconsequential.
My heart bleeds for you, you poor, maligned creatures. How awful that someone said something mean about you.
My heart bleeds for you, you poor, maligned creatures. How awful that someone said something mean about you.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 18, 2017, 12:17 a.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Fortunato
That sounds very much like something that someone planning to encase someone else in clay would say.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:24 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
The Artist and His Love
One day, an artist fell in love.
The object of his adoration had broad shoulders and golden skin. His nose was straight and long, and his eyes were the clear grey-blue of the sea during a storm. His mouth was full and wide and prone to smiles that revealed the brilliant white of perfect teeth. His hands had wide palms and long, graceful fingers that were skilled and dextrous.
He was beautiful.
The artist decided that he must capture and immortalize the beauty of his love. He attempted to paint him, but found that his love's angles never seemed quite right. The shadows never fell as they should.
The years went on, and the artist and his love were happy together. Every painting that the artist attempted of him, his love would praise, humbly declaring it far more beautiful than the subject. Yet the artist found each painting wanting. Inadequate. Imperfect.
In later years, he began to attempt sculptures. He molded clay in his hands until it formed the shape of his love, until the clay face's nose was straight and long, its mouth full and wide, its fingers graceful. His love modeled patiently for every piece until it was done, and then declared it to be far more beautiful than he.
Each and every painting and sculpture the artist attempted of his love, he destroyed. Imperfect.
As the years passed, the artist began to feel a rising sense of dread and anxiety. He could begin to see his love age, change, grow. He was unable to appreciate the way the subtle wrinkles at his mouth were the product of his many smiles; he could only see his diminishing time to perfectly capture the image of his beloved.
And so one day the artist asked his love to model for him one last time. He took clay and began to mold it to his love's feet, covering his skin with the perfect detail only possible with his model underneath his hands. He molded clay to his love's calves, covering the graceful lines of muscles, and then his thighs. He covered his love's hips and the firm muscle of his rear, and he lovingly molded clay around the perfection of his phallus. He sculpted his love's torso, carving each abdominal, and then his back. He shaped his broad shoulders, and then his arms, and then his hands, and then each graceful finger.
His love looked at him and smiled, his body held fixed in this perfect sculpture of himself. The artist carefully molded his neck, his ears, the sharp line of his jaw. He shaped his high forehead and strong brow. He crafted each curl and strand of hair.
"How long do I have to stand until the sculpture is done?" the beloved asked the artist.
"Forever," the artist said. And then he molded his love's eyes, and his straight nose, and his full mouth.
When he was finished, he stepped back to survey his work. And finally he could feel his heart at peace, for it was perfect.
One day, an artist fell in love.
The object of his adoration had broad shoulders and golden skin. His nose was straight and long, and his eyes were the clear grey-blue of the sea during a storm. His mouth was full and wide and prone to smiles that revealed the brilliant white of perfect teeth. His hands had wide palms and long, graceful fingers that were skilled and dextrous.
He was beautiful.
The artist decided that he must capture and immortalize the beauty of his love. He attempted to paint him, but found that his love's angles never seemed quite right. The shadows never fell as they should.
The years went on, and the artist and his love were happy together. Every painting that the artist attempted of him, his love would praise, humbly declaring it far more beautiful than the subject. Yet the artist found each painting wanting. Inadequate. Imperfect.
In later years, he began to attempt sculptures. He molded clay in his hands until it formed the shape of his love, until the clay face's nose was straight and long, its mouth full and wide, its fingers graceful. His love modeled patiently for every piece until it was done, and then declared it to be far more beautiful than he.
Each and every painting and sculpture the artist attempted of his love, he destroyed. Imperfect.
As the years passed, the artist began to feel a rising sense of dread and anxiety. He could begin to see his love age, change, grow. He was unable to appreciate the way the subtle wrinkles at his mouth were the product of his many smiles; he could only see his diminishing time to perfectly capture the image of his beloved.
And so one day the artist asked his love to model for him one last time. He took clay and began to mold it to his love's feet, covering his skin with the perfect detail only possible with his model underneath his hands. He molded clay to his love's calves, covering the graceful lines of muscles, and then his thighs. He covered his love's hips and the firm muscle of his rear, and he lovingly molded clay around the perfection of his phallus. He sculpted his love's torso, carving each abdominal, and then his back. He shaped his broad shoulders, and then his arms, and then his hands, and then each graceful finger.
His love looked at him and smiled, his body held fixed in this perfect sculpture of himself. The artist carefully molded his neck, his ears, the sharp line of his jaw. He shaped his high forehead and strong brow. He crafted each curl and strand of hair.
"How long do I have to stand until the sculpture is done?" the beloved asked the artist.
"Forever," the artist said. And then he molded his love's eyes, and his straight nose, and his full mouth.
When he was finished, he stepped back to survey his work. And finally he could feel his heart at peace, for it was perfect.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:22 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
A Boy and His Spider: A Bedtime Story
There once was a little boy who wanted to know everything. He was insatiably curious. From the moment he was born, he seemed to want to know every detail of the world around him. As he grew into a child, he did not shy from the darkness, but searched incessantly for what hid in the shadows.
One day, when he was still young, he went into the forest near his family's home to find what lurked there. The woods were thick, and the moonlight could not pierce the heavy canopy overhead. The forest was so still and so quiet, the little boy's steps seemed to echo in the dark air.
It was not long until the Queen of Spiders lowered from her silken web in the canopy to greet the boy.
"Why do you come here?" she asked him. "The woods are dark and no place for human children. I might eat you, if I were feeling peckish."
"I want to know what's in the darkness," the boy replied.
"Monsters are in the darkness," the Spider Queen told him, clicking her terrible mandibles. "It is what the darkness is for, little one."
The boy considered her words. "What else is in the darkness?" he asked her.
"Many things," she replied, "but only monsters are allowed to know. Do you want to be a monster, little one?"
The boy thought some more. He did not find the idea of being a monster particularly appealing, but he very much wished to know the other things in the darkness. "Is there something else I could do?" he finally asked her.
The Spider Queen was silent as she considered the question, apart from the scratch of her two front feet rubbing together. "Come here, little one," she said, and then she took him in her many legs, and then she wove him into a cocoon. It was warm and cramped, but he found he didn't mind it terribly much, and soon enough he fell asleep.
He awoke sometime later to the sound of the cocoon being opened. The Spider Queen was there, her many eyes glinting in the dark. "Now you will see through all of the darkness, little one," she promised.
The little boy returned home, and he began to see things. Everything that walked in the dark that no one else could see. As he grew older, he began to hear a whisper in his mind. It taught him how to see through the darkness, how to approach the creatures who lurked there, how to speak to them and learn their secrets.
Soon the boy became a man, the whisper his companion still. The man grew wise and learned in all matters of dark knowledge, for nothing could remain hidden from him. But one day, he began to feeling a scratching inside his head.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
As the years went on, the scratching grew louder. "What is that scratching?" he asked the whisper in his head.
"It is very small," the whisper replied.
More years passed, and the man grew used to the constant headaches throbbing in his mind. The scratching never ended. He still unearthed secrets, but it was harder now. The scratching was so loud, and his head hurt so much.
"How can I stop the scratching?" he begged the whisper after years of enduring.
"Let me out," the whisper said.
The man began to search for spells or incantations, rites or rituals, anything to remove the scratching from his mind.
"Let me out," the whisper said. "Let me out."
Years passed. Eventually the man could not find any secrets at all. He could not think. He could not breathe. Until one day he took a rock and cracked open his head.
It hurt, but not as much as the scratching.
His skin peeled away, and then his bone, and then the Spider Queen's son unwrapped his legs from the man's brain. He skittered out into the light after a lifetime in the dark.
"Why would you hurt me?" the man cried. "I did nothing to harm you."
The Spider Queen's son looked at him with infinite eyes. "I am a monster," he said. "You did not wish to be, and so you were eaten. There are only two options."
The man died, as most do when dealing with monsters. The spider slipped back into the shadows, and then he was gone.
There once was a little boy who wanted to know everything. He was insatiably curious. From the moment he was born, he seemed to want to know every detail of the world around him. As he grew into a child, he did not shy from the darkness, but searched incessantly for what hid in the shadows.
One day, when he was still young, he went into the forest near his family's home to find what lurked there. The woods were thick, and the moonlight could not pierce the heavy canopy overhead. The forest was so still and so quiet, the little boy's steps seemed to echo in the dark air.
It was not long until the Queen of Spiders lowered from her silken web in the canopy to greet the boy.
"Why do you come here?" she asked him. "The woods are dark and no place for human children. I might eat you, if I were feeling peckish."
"I want to know what's in the darkness," the boy replied.
"Monsters are in the darkness," the Spider Queen told him, clicking her terrible mandibles. "It is what the darkness is for, little one."
The boy considered her words. "What else is in the darkness?" he asked her.
"Many things," she replied, "but only monsters are allowed to know. Do you want to be a monster, little one?"
The boy thought some more. He did not find the idea of being a monster particularly appealing, but he very much wished to know the other things in the darkness. "Is there something else I could do?" he finally asked her.
The Spider Queen was silent as she considered the question, apart from the scratch of her two front feet rubbing together. "Come here, little one," she said, and then she took him in her many legs, and then she wove him into a cocoon. It was warm and cramped, but he found he didn't mind it terribly much, and soon enough he fell asleep.
He awoke sometime later to the sound of the cocoon being opened. The Spider Queen was there, her many eyes glinting in the dark. "Now you will see through all of the darkness, little one," she promised.
The little boy returned home, and he began to see things. Everything that walked in the dark that no one else could see. As he grew older, he began to hear a whisper in his mind. It taught him how to see through the darkness, how to approach the creatures who lurked there, how to speak to them and learn their secrets.
Soon the boy became a man, the whisper his companion still. The man grew wise and learned in all matters of dark knowledge, for nothing could remain hidden from him. But one day, he began to feeling a scratching inside his head.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
As the years went on, the scratching grew louder. "What is that scratching?" he asked the whisper in his head.
"It is very small," the whisper replied.
More years passed, and the man grew used to the constant headaches throbbing in his mind. The scratching never ended. He still unearthed secrets, but it was harder now. The scratching was so loud, and his head hurt so much.
"How can I stop the scratching?" he begged the whisper after years of enduring.
"Let me out," the whisper said.
The man began to search for spells or incantations, rites or rituals, anything to remove the scratching from his mind.
"Let me out," the whisper said. "Let me out."
Years passed. Eventually the man could not find any secrets at all. He could not think. He could not breathe. Until one day he took a rock and cracked open his head.
It hurt, but not as much as the scratching.
His skin peeled away, and then his bone, and then the Spider Queen's son unwrapped his legs from the man's brain. He skittered out into the light after a lifetime in the dark.
"Why would you hurt me?" the man cried. "I did nothing to harm you."
The Spider Queen's son looked at him with infinite eyes. "I am a monster," he said. "You did not wish to be, and so you were eaten. There are only two options."
The man died, as most do when dealing with monsters. The spider slipped back into the shadows, and then he was gone.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:16 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
When one door closes, you can often force open another if you're aggressive enough. Or just find a door more appreciative of your talents. Doors are fickle things.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 8, 2017, 5:20 p.m.(9/24/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Nierzen
Just as a warning, his book is /poetry/, which everyone knows is the lowest form of written artistry.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 8, 2017, 3:06 p.m.(9/24/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Thena
Not particularly.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 8, 2017, 2:32 p.m.(9/24/1007 AR)
There are some people who have a great deal of difficulty fathoming a world in which their advances are unwelcome. I assume their world involves a good deal of random piles of silver and spontaneous cake being delivered to them as well.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 8, 2017, 12:40 p.m.(9/24/1007 AR)
You all have been very busy, haven't you?
Written By Bastien
Dec. 6, 2017, 1:58 p.m.(9/20/1007 AR)
Please note that if you are a noble reading my white journals criticizing nobles that it is not an invitation to write me praise under the assumption that you are somehow above the criticism.
I don't need to have met you personally to know that the criticism probably applies to you, too. Don't make me feel aggravated and dirty by writing me like I'm on your side.
I don't need to have met you personally to know that the criticism probably applies to you, too. Don't make me feel aggravated and dirty by writing me like I'm on your side.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 6, 2017, 8:03 a.m.(9/20/1007 AR)
Ah, yes. It had been all of a day since some noble in power complained about being misliked for it. Of course! We are all so equally vulnerable, from those who dine on feasts daily to those who are current starving in the streets. Yes, yes. Quite equally vulnerable. Woe!
Written By Bastien
Nov. 8, 2017, 6:50 p.m.(7/18/1007 AR)
How delightful to see that the disaster of shared rulership is traveling from the south over to the Mourning Isles.
One must wonder if the Marquis Kennex had encouragement in his recent disastrous proclamations. It would be so terribly unfortunate if his Marquessa were to survive him and mournfully wed another man to populate Stormward March with a cadet branch of Pravuses.
One must wonder if the Marquis Kennex had encouragement in his recent disastrous proclamations. It would be so terribly unfortunate if his Marquessa were to survive him and mournfully wed another man to populate Stormward March with a cadet branch of Pravuses.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.