Written By Avita
Feb. 9, 2025, 10:20 p.m.(11/21/1023 AR)
Dearest Diary,
Have I ever told you that you're very unfortunate to look at?
Oh, don't give me that look.
It's not helping your case.
Have I ever told you that you're very unfortunate to look at?
Oh, don't give me that look.
It's not helping your case.
Written By Avita
Feb. 5, 2025, 1:17 p.m.(11/12/1023 AR)
Dearest Diary,
Did you know that the moon is simply a reflection of the sun's light?
The moon is a mirror, darling, desperately trying to capture the radiance of the sun that rises before, after, always.
If the moon is a tyrant of inevitabilities, of the ebb and flow of tides and time, is that a fragment of the sun's influence ... or a direct opposition of the freedom she represents in that mirror?
Curious.
Did you know that the moon is simply a reflection of the sun's light?
The moon is a mirror, darling, desperately trying to capture the radiance of the sun that rises before, after, always.
If the moon is a tyrant of inevitabilities, of the ebb and flow of tides and time, is that a fragment of the sun's influence ... or a direct opposition of the freedom she represents in that mirror?
Curious.
Written By Avita
Feb. 5, 2025, 12:03 p.m.(11/12/1023 AR)
Dearest Diary,
Have you ever wondered how the constellations are formed?
I wonder often if the tales we tell of their tapestry is our vain attempt at giving a reason for what we see in them, or if the story is written by the deeds of those that ascend into the eternal glory of that dazzling display.
Chicken, egg, egg, chicken.
But, if the constellations are formed in the wake of some heroic or villainous deed, or misdeed, how grand must one be to be painted there amidst the greatest legends.
I wonder what my stars will represent, when the time comes.
Have you ever wondered how the constellations are formed?
I wonder often if the tales we tell of their tapestry is our vain attempt at giving a reason for what we see in them, or if the story is written by the deeds of those that ascend into the eternal glory of that dazzling display.
Chicken, egg, egg, chicken.
But, if the constellations are formed in the wake of some heroic or villainous deed, or misdeed, how grand must one be to be painted there amidst the greatest legends.
I wonder what my stars will represent, when the time comes.
Written By Avita
June 30, 2024, 8:17 p.m.(7/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
Do you believe that the sun can be split in two?
Would it be more feasable for there to be two suns?
I wonder, would they chase one another, or would they come together to shine all the brighter as one?
I would posit that there should be a rivalry between two such celestial bodies -- but, the sun can have no rival.
The sun will not be ignored.
The sun will not surrender.
The Sun ... does not compete.
Certainly, she has a reflection -- that pale moon, pining away for the vibrance it can only wanly mirror, borrowing of the sun's radiance until she breaks the horizon once more.
Slowly, that reflection turns away, unable to cope with its jealousy, and the light fades; its back is turned, and its face grows dark, until it is forgotten ... until it grows cold -- too cold -- and must turn back to beg the Sun's forgiveness.
Of course, the Sun is generous.
The Sun forgives.
In Her mercy there is light.
There is hope.
Do you believe that the sun can be split in two?
Would it be more feasable for there to be two suns?
I wonder, would they chase one another, or would they come together to shine all the brighter as one?
I would posit that there should be a rivalry between two such celestial bodies -- but, the sun can have no rival.
The sun will not be ignored.
The sun will not surrender.
The Sun ... does not compete.
Certainly, she has a reflection -- that pale moon, pining away for the vibrance it can only wanly mirror, borrowing of the sun's radiance until she breaks the horizon once more.
Slowly, that reflection turns away, unable to cope with its jealousy, and the light fades; its back is turned, and its face grows dark, until it is forgotten ... until it grows cold -- too cold -- and must turn back to beg the Sun's forgiveness.
Of course, the Sun is generous.
The Sun forgives.
In Her mercy there is light.
There is hope.
Written By Avita
June 30, 2024, 8:06 p.m.(7/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I have recently had a conversation with dear Francis, and he asked a curious question of me.
Bold, of course, but you know what they say about Fortune and her favours, mm?
He asked me if the shadows existed because of the light, or if the light shone because of the backdrop of shadows.
It begs the question: Which came first?
Questions, actually, for they are in the multitudes by now as I sit and I ponder the meaning behind either, and how literal we have decided to be on this little thought-journey we find ourselves on.
Can one exist without the other?
Are they two separate things, or merely two sides of one and the same?
Is it a battle betwixt them, or is it a dance?
Is it as the tide, in ebb and flow that is at once gentle and terrible in equal measure?
Or is it the storm itself?
Does the lightning burn away the darkness on its heavenssent riot to the ground that waits below before the gloom and mire of those bitter, darkened clouds? Or, does it exist beyond, made bolder for the brooding roil that lurks like a shadow darkening the doorway?
Ah, this world...
... There is such magic in even the most mundane...
I have recently had a conversation with dear Francis, and he asked a curious question of me.
Bold, of course, but you know what they say about Fortune and her favours, mm?
He asked me if the shadows existed because of the light, or if the light shone because of the backdrop of shadows.
It begs the question: Which came first?
Questions, actually, for they are in the multitudes by now as I sit and I ponder the meaning behind either, and how literal we have decided to be on this little thought-journey we find ourselves on.
Can one exist without the other?
Are they two separate things, or merely two sides of one and the same?
Is it a battle betwixt them, or is it a dance?
Is it as the tide, in ebb and flow that is at once gentle and terrible in equal measure?
Or is it the storm itself?
Does the lightning burn away the darkness on its heavenssent riot to the ground that waits below before the gloom and mire of those bitter, darkened clouds? Or, does it exist beyond, made bolder for the brooding roil that lurks like a shadow darkening the doorway?
Ah, this world...
... There is such magic in even the most mundane...
Written By Avita
June 30, 2024, 7:32 p.m.(7/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
Have you ever seen the world as a tapestry?
Imagined every thread that interweaves to create the image we know as the truth before our eyes, and mapped every stitch that joins one concept to another in that intricate web we have woven with every breath we take, every step we make, every word we say, and -- perhaps more pointedly -- all the ones we choose not to commit to the cosmic memory of this greatest of mysteries?
Imagined each colour, and named each something new?
Dreamt in hues we cannot see, unknown and impossible, ancient, faded yet new and vibrant?
I find myself often wondering of what others see ... and how pale it must be in comparison to the grand vision before me.
Have you ever seen the world as a tapestry?
Imagined every thread that interweaves to create the image we know as the truth before our eyes, and mapped every stitch that joins one concept to another in that intricate web we have woven with every breath we take, every step we make, every word we say, and -- perhaps more pointedly -- all the ones we choose not to commit to the cosmic memory of this greatest of mysteries?
Imagined each colour, and named each something new?
Dreamt in hues we cannot see, unknown and impossible, ancient, faded yet new and vibrant?
I find myself often wondering of what others see ... and how pale it must be in comparison to the grand vision before me.
Written By Avita
June 23, 2024, 10:56 p.m.(7/7/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
One last thing ... until the next final word.
If our world were to plunge into deepest darkness, consumed by the stubborn eclipse ... what then should happen when the sun, set so long ago, should finally rise again?
Would it be as the basking warmth of the newly broken dawn we had longed for?
... Or would the whole world be blind once more?
One last thing ... until the next final word.
If our world were to plunge into deepest darkness, consumed by the stubborn eclipse ... what then should happen when the sun, set so long ago, should finally rise again?
Would it be as the basking warmth of the newly broken dawn we had longed for?
... Or would the whole world be blind once more?
Written By Avita
June 23, 2024, 10:53 p.m.(7/7/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I have found myself gazing up at the stars atimes, wondering of their purpose.
The sun is necessary for life to be maintained...
The moon, like the tides, brings purpose and light to the darkness...
But, the stars... ?
Perhaps they are there so that we might navigate this world ... when the sun sets, and turns away from her mirror.
I have found myself gazing up at the stars atimes, wondering of their purpose.
The sun is necessary for life to be maintained...
The moon, like the tides, brings purpose and light to the darkness...
But, the stars... ?
Perhaps they are there so that we might navigate this world ... when the sun sets, and turns away from her mirror.
Written By Avita
June 23, 2024, 10:49 p.m.(7/7/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
Have you ever looked to the horizon expecting to see the dawn's breaking ... and seen only blackness?
The whole world insists that the sun has risen and dances its way across the sky, and only you seem capable of seeing past the lie.
Would this make you mad, or ... simply awake?
Have you ever looked to the horizon expecting to see the dawn's breaking ... and seen only blackness?
The whole world insists that the sun has risen and dances its way across the sky, and only you seem capable of seeing past the lie.
Would this make you mad, or ... simply awake?
Written By Avita
June 16, 2024, 3:10 p.m.(6/20/1022 AR)
Dearest Diary,
You know, I do believe Francis is growing on me.
Like a fungus.
... or a tumour.
Either way, his fronding has improved dramatically since we began, and he has kept the heat from dewing my impeccable skin with a stirring sort of dedication that I had not anticipated -- though, I did expect it.
Hence my disappointment.
His storytelling, however...
That ... still needs work.
You know, I do believe Francis is growing on me.
Like a fungus.
... or a tumour.
Either way, his fronding has improved dramatically since we began, and he has kept the heat from dewing my impeccable skin with a stirring sort of dedication that I had not anticipated -- though, I did expect it.
Hence my disappointment.
His storytelling, however...
That ... still needs work.
Written By Avita
June 16, 2024, 3:06 p.m.(6/20/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
You know, I really don't see what all the fuss is about.
All I want to do is /speak/ to him.
Someone must pay for the indignities I've suffered on my diplomatic forray, and I doubt some Senator has what it would take to appease me by this juncture.
Ugh, the way they look at me, as though I were mad.
I'm not mad, darlings.
I'm livid.
You know, I really don't see what all the fuss is about.
All I want to do is /speak/ to him.
Someone must pay for the indignities I've suffered on my diplomatic forray, and I doubt some Senator has what it would take to appease me by this juncture.
Ugh, the way they look at me, as though I were mad.
I'm not mad, darlings.
I'm livid.
Written By Avita
June 16, 2024, 3:02 p.m.(6/20/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
They made me walk.
/Walk/.
Fifteen miles, I'm certain of it, and all of it on ascending stairs!
Were I a lesser woman, I doubt I would have made it.
Yet, I rose from that staircase like a phoenix -- to NO APPLAUSE.
Disgraceful.
They made me walk.
/Walk/.
Fifteen miles, I'm certain of it, and all of it on ascending stairs!
Were I a lesser woman, I doubt I would have made it.
Yet, I rose from that staircase like a phoenix -- to NO APPLAUSE.
Disgraceful.
Written By Avita
May 19, 2024, 7:04 p.m.(4/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I'm not certain if my current adventure is /exciting/ so much as it is ... different than what came before?
Oh, it's still early, I know, and I'm giving it every chance it deserves to become something that does more than gently arch my brow, I promise.
I suppose I was simply expecting something more _dramatic_, darling, something spectacular, something ...
... worthy of my appearance.
Worthy of my interest.
Of my oh so valuable time, and even costlier attentions.
I'm not certain if my current adventure is /exciting/ so much as it is ... different than what came before?
Oh, it's still early, I know, and I'm giving it every chance it deserves to become something that does more than gently arch my brow, I promise.
I suppose I was simply expecting something more _dramatic_, darling, something spectacular, something ...
... worthy of my appearance.
Worthy of my interest.
Of my oh so valuable time, and even costlier attentions.
Written By Avita
May 12, 2024, 7:40 p.m.(4/7/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I've decided I should do some remodelling in Ischia.
Oh, don't you worry, her beauty shall persist.
It's more that I require more ... majesty.
More flare.
More /drama/.
I'll have to see what I can do about that.
Prepare the stage for me, darling.
... oh, you don't work for me, do you?
Hm.
Even still.
I've decided I should do some remodelling in Ischia.
Oh, don't you worry, her beauty shall persist.
It's more that I require more ... majesty.
More flare.
More /drama/.
I'll have to see what I can do about that.
Prepare the stage for me, darling.
... oh, you don't work for me, do you?
Hm.
Even still.
Written By Avita
May 5, 2024, 9:51 p.m.(3/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
They say that scent is the sense most directly linked to memory.
If that's so, why are there no legends or grand ballads about the smell of our heroes?
No hymns of the aroma of humble beginnings, nor the banquet of life itself, which I so often glut myself upon.
Instead, we have grand retellings of the sight of terrible flames, of the sensation of blood cooling and pulling on our skin, or the brutality of war as it is observed, bodies strewn and scattered like sheaves of hay in the manger of meager existances.
Not mine, of course.
I am the sun, after all.
We have stories that speak of songs that echo through the very fabric of truth itself, that move us, that tug at the heartstrings until they snap and the dams of our composure break and fill the seas with our bitter tears, changing our world forevermore.
We spin stories about the feeling of a lover's skin beneath our fingertips, or the pain of an entirely different sort of breaking, legends of great beasts and beastly men alike and the fear they inspire.
Now, don't get me wrong, darling, I am a grand fan of the drift of cologne dancing in the shadows, avid in my avarice when the feast arrives and is placed upon my table.
But, the most poignant, the most keen amongst my memories?
Hardly.
They say that scent is the sense most directly linked to memory.
If that's so, why are there no legends or grand ballads about the smell of our heroes?
No hymns of the aroma of humble beginnings, nor the banquet of life itself, which I so often glut myself upon.
Instead, we have grand retellings of the sight of terrible flames, of the sensation of blood cooling and pulling on our skin, or the brutality of war as it is observed, bodies strewn and scattered like sheaves of hay in the manger of meager existances.
Not mine, of course.
I am the sun, after all.
We have stories that speak of songs that echo through the very fabric of truth itself, that move us, that tug at the heartstrings until they snap and the dams of our composure break and fill the seas with our bitter tears, changing our world forevermore.
We spin stories about the feeling of a lover's skin beneath our fingertips, or the pain of an entirely different sort of breaking, legends of great beasts and beastly men alike and the fear they inspire.
Now, don't get me wrong, darling, I am a grand fan of the drift of cologne dancing in the shadows, avid in my avarice when the feast arrives and is placed upon my table.
But, the most poignant, the most keen amongst my memories?
Hardly.
Written By Avita
May 5, 2024, 9:38 p.m.(3/21/1022 AR)
Dearest Diary,
There are times that I watch the skies and I wonder of the motive of the stars.
I consider the constellations, and I wonder if they are simply how they had been scattered across that vast void ... or if, more poetically, there is a reason for their formation -- that they represent some greater pattern, ever-expanding, so much larger than we are capable of truly seeing.
Perhaps they are nothing.
Maybe they are stories yet to be told.
Perhaps I should tell them.
There are times that I watch the skies and I wonder of the motive of the stars.
I consider the constellations, and I wonder if they are simply how they had been scattered across that vast void ... or if, more poetically, there is a reason for their formation -- that they represent some greater pattern, ever-expanding, so much larger than we are capable of truly seeing.
Perhaps they are nothing.
Maybe they are stories yet to be told.
Perhaps I should tell them.
Written By Avita
May 5, 2024, 9:11 p.m.(3/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I should be thrilled.
I know that I should.
And yet, I find myself sitting here, quietly writing for lack of anything more exciting to do.
Here we sit, upon the shores of an Empire of Glass, the scent of war still lingering upon the brine-salted breeze.
Oh, I'm sure this is all terribly vague, Diary, and I would -love- to clarify my thoughts for you, starved as I'm certain you are for a ponderance of any real significance.
But, I do not owe you an explanation.
In fact, I owe you nothing.
I should be thrilled.
I know that I should.
And yet, I find myself sitting here, quietly writing for lack of anything more exciting to do.
Here we sit, upon the shores of an Empire of Glass, the scent of war still lingering upon the brine-salted breeze.
Oh, I'm sure this is all terribly vague, Diary, and I would -love- to clarify my thoughts for you, starved as I'm certain you are for a ponderance of any real significance.
But, I do not owe you an explanation.
In fact, I owe you nothing.
Written By Avita
April 27, 2024, 7:19 p.m.(3/5/1022 AR)
Marquessa Avita S.
Home of Seraceni, Ischia
Rating: *....
I feel as though I should simplify, darling, as in the newness of my displeasure I may have gotten a little verbose.
Business: Scions' Sand Service and Palm Frond Emporium
Server: /FRANCIS/
Comments: Misleading advertisements, lackluster storytelling, and the complete absence of panache.
If you're looking to keep your sun-kissed skin from beading with sweat, I would look elsewhere.
Very basic.
Not worth the price.
He was not even properly oiled.
Written By Avita
April 27, 2024, 7:18 p.m.(3/5/1022 AR)
IN CONTINUATION:
Where was I?
... ah, yes, of course.
1 EXT. SCIONS (Excuse my brevity) ON DECK - DAY
Enter MARQUESSA AVITA SERACENI in casual lounging amidst the fray of battle, unfronded and unimpressed, as mayhem reigns aboard our stalwart vessel. Outraged by the singular lack of talent, she decides that she will lend her voice to the song of steel and screams.
((Footnote: A battle began, which had nowt to do with me, and thus has nowt to do with this missive.))
Moved by avid arousal inspired by her celestial body, the assailing villains lower their blades and surrender their goods before the greater sermon of the Sun.
Also, there were others that fought with swords.
And words not quite so fantastic as the Marquessa's, but one supposes they sufficed.
Primarily, however, it was the Marquessa's victory.
FRANCIS
(Uselessly, in trembling tone, frond in hand and shame in his eyes)
Marquessa! I was so frightened when you bravely strode toward such rivalry as you found yourself engaged that I could not join, myself! How, then, did you find the bravery to win the day so singularly?! We were so fortunate that you blessed us ...
...
(Here the missive ends, and is simply told as is.)
(It seems legit.)
Written By Avita
April 27, 2024, 7:14 p.m.(3/5/1022 AR)
Marquessa Avita S.
Home of Seraceni, Ischia
Rating: *....
Allow me to begin simply, as this tale is anything but:
I am appalled.
I'm not sure how long it will take for this missive to reach the mainland and be recited to the appropriate ears to make my righteous displeasure known in certainty, but I sit now upon my chaise (Which was NOT red, as so advertised, and failed to meet my expectation to be made to feel like the rising sun that I am, setting the tone for what is sure to be an impossible disappointment by all measure) penning my warning to any and all that seek service from these /deplorables/.
Hopefully, it will help to spare some the fate that has befallen me.
Francis.
/Francis/.
A name that has become synonymous with what profanity I shall not allow to reach this page, though it assuredly runs freely through my weary mind, the audience spared at my selfless expense.
You can thank me later.
(I'm sure you'll find a way.)
When first I arrived, I requested the presence of no less than two otter-smooth and liberally oiled palm-frond wielding men to attend to my heavenly body that I might make it to my destination without my artful inking becoming smudged upon my glistening, sweat-dewed skin before my avid fans had a chance to appropriately appreciate the story it tells.
No. Less. Than. Two.
NO.
LESS.
THAN.
TWO.
(You will have to do me the favour of clapping between each of my harshly exclaimed words, darling, as I am not there to properly punctuate my point in person.)
He fled the docks to fetch a frond, of course, at the behest of his Master -- not me, Elysia forfend, for I am no man's Master. All worship that falls at my feet is, as expected, rightly earned and freely given -- and soon returned with a singular fan that, if I can be completely frank, had seen far better days.
It wasn't even properly /green/, as would have been in compliment to my revolutionary attire -- WHICH, I feel I should mention, not one among the crew complimented me on, after I had given them the peerless prize of beholding me so wrapped, so artfully bound as any could dream in fantasy that couldn't dare near the dawn awed truth of the reality of my flesh.
Not. Even. Green.
It is not winter everywhere, Francis.
One frond.
I am no mathematician, dearest, but something seems /amiss/, does it not?
Incensed, yet still so generous, I decided I should give him a chance at redemption in my resplendent gaze:
I asked that he tell me a tale.
... when I say that our educational system has tragically failed our people, that is putting it kindly. (As anyone should expect from so fair a creature as one Marquessa Avita Seraceni.)
I shall have to look into this when I return. Though he is not Ischian, I am so moved by his fatuity that my fears might only be assuaged by ensuring no stage set within my domain should ever have to suffer as I have!
"A beautiful heroine", Francis?
Truly?
Ugh, such a lack of effort, such pedestrian language, such /felonious/ euphemism cannot be forgiven!
I am no child being tucked snug, no base and cooing babe whose worries can be soothed by such poor and prosaic prose!
I ...
... hm. ...
Should I persist in my expression, I fear the pigeon will be unable to carry my words where they've need to be...
... To be continued.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.