Written By Barik
June 15, 2018, 5:24 a.m.(12/26/1008 AR)
Relationship Note on Elara
Today I saw your name be made black on the Refectory inside your former headquarters. When they said you died sacrificing your soul and body for someone else; when the news arrive, I primarily thought you foolish. I thought- "To what end? Ours is the fire that burns and ever-so dwindles, why douse it with the waters of another's calamity?" And the more I thought on it, the more foolish I felt; the more dawning the truth was, to me, and perhaps to others.
The essence of love, is sacrifice. And Inquisitors are naught but full of sacrifice. To love is to put one-self at disadvantage; to love is to set aside one's own wordly and mortal boundaries for the sake of one other, or others. Then I understood that the essence of the Inquisition, is love, and soon a correlation with you was ultimately made. Your life of grief and loss prepared you for this moment, you were the best among us because you were prepared to lose everything without hesitation for your love for others. Because you knew what matters most.
The flame of your words were always cool, tender and compassionate. In our hands lies the responsibility of hoping to match and learn from an inkling of your legacy, Lady Elara.
Your cycle may be finished, but your ideals will live on forever.
Lagoma's flame guide you to the other side.
The essence of love, is sacrifice. And Inquisitors are naught but full of sacrifice. To love is to put one-self at disadvantage; to love is to set aside one's own wordly and mortal boundaries for the sake of one other, or others. Then I understood that the essence of the Inquisition, is love, and soon a correlation with you was ultimately made. Your life of grief and loss prepared you for this moment, you were the best among us because you were prepared to lose everything without hesitation for your love for others. Because you knew what matters most.
The flame of your words were always cool, tender and compassionate. In our hands lies the responsibility of hoping to match and learn from an inkling of your legacy, Lady Elara.
Your cycle may be finished, but your ideals will live on forever.
Lagoma's flame guide you to the other side.
Written By Barik
June 13, 2018, 11:38 p.m.(12/24/1008 AR)
Relationship Note on Lys
I know we haven't seen eye to eye in the past, my lady, but for the sake of one writer to the other, I'd like to address your last entry into this fabled library of Vellichor, as I found it most interesting.
Like the devourer and harvester eats away at a man's whole, I too devour- mine treat, however, is symbolism. So let me, perhaps, shine light from my perception upon this vague, thorny dream of yours. Feel no obligation to reply, this will be conducted publicly, and for a reader's desire upon the matter. Let it be known formally, however, that this is a direct correlation to Lady Lys de Lire's latest dream sequence.
You say the throne sat empty, yet could feel the overwhelming cold from these dead, yet intactly kept roses wound around its seams and ebonic foundations. You saw this throne with your own very eyes, and sat so close - so, so close in fact - that you could feel a pattern of burden emanating off of it. You could feel the possibility of a cut, of a scrape, from the thorns themselves; the emanating cold, the chilling perspectives set before you from a spectator's point. It is beautiful, that- seeing what could be, without being it. Yet, perhaps, and at the very least.
To thrones, it is often responsibility that comes to mind. To a black throne, a darker side of such responsibility- to thorn and vines that surround it whole, that binds it like a prison of pain for whosoever sits, either an even deeper instill of said burdening; of said painful responsibility or worse yet, the simple fact that such will entail certain attempts against your virtues should you ever sit upon it, or even worse. Do you carry any regrets? Do you hold onto fake truths preventing you from being who you really are? Life's a miserable concert of haphazard stanzas working in tandem with the forces of chaos, but there's truth behind the chaos- it is the beauty of it. There can be no lies in something so sublimely spontaneous as a dream.
I hope my take on the matter does nothing on the way of making you vestigial. Last I saw you you were a spirited woman, and a spirit that shines bright shines brighter in the presence of dark wings, and darker thoughts. Greatest of lucks.
Like the devourer and harvester eats away at a man's whole, I too devour- mine treat, however, is symbolism. So let me, perhaps, shine light from my perception upon this vague, thorny dream of yours. Feel no obligation to reply, this will be conducted publicly, and for a reader's desire upon the matter. Let it be known formally, however, that this is a direct correlation to Lady Lys de Lire's latest dream sequence.
You say the throne sat empty, yet could feel the overwhelming cold from these dead, yet intactly kept roses wound around its seams and ebonic foundations. You saw this throne with your own very eyes, and sat so close - so, so close in fact - that you could feel a pattern of burden emanating off of it. You could feel the possibility of a cut, of a scrape, from the thorns themselves; the emanating cold, the chilling perspectives set before you from a spectator's point. It is beautiful, that- seeing what could be, without being it. Yet, perhaps, and at the very least.
To thrones, it is often responsibility that comes to mind. To a black throne, a darker side of such responsibility- to thorn and vines that surround it whole, that binds it like a prison of pain for whosoever sits, either an even deeper instill of said burdening; of said painful responsibility or worse yet, the simple fact that such will entail certain attempts against your virtues should you ever sit upon it, or even worse. Do you carry any regrets? Do you hold onto fake truths preventing you from being who you really are? Life's a miserable concert of haphazard stanzas working in tandem with the forces of chaos, but there's truth behind the chaos- it is the beauty of it. There can be no lies in something so sublimely spontaneous as a dream.
I hope my take on the matter does nothing on the way of making you vestigial. Last I saw you you were a spirited woman, and a spirit that shines bright shines brighter in the presence of dark wings, and darker thoughts. Greatest of lucks.
Written By Barik
June 13, 2018, 1:08 a.m.(12/22/1008 AR)
Last night I visited the Amphitheatre with a particularly gregarious, and open-minded, mirrormask woman of - thus far - fascinating interests. But that's not the point of this diary. We merely walked; we treaded up the dark, marbled steps into sits merely as to share conversation, but it wouldn't last long. She soon departed, and I was left - completely out of place - amidst a crowd of almost a hundred folk staring at an empty, yet lit stage.
I am, to this day, the only person I know to be terrorized by the prospect of music. There is something; something about it, something I cannot explain and give justice in words to the feeling it brings to my chest. An evil thing, for it goes against my nature and thus all things that collide with one's nature are evil, to hear a melodic display felt no different than to fall in a stupor. The way it plays with one's emotions, however once controlled, is daunting at the very least. But it was too late to leave- the lanterns that once lit the pathways leading down were snuffed out, and being afraid of heights I wouldn't dare step out of my little selection at the highest point in fear of tumbling down to the bottom, twisted in eight different dislocated ways. And so I waited.
As the fire died down, and the lights of the amphitheatre centered themselves upon the stage; as shadows framed this podium of wood and undulating, flickering flames, from within the crimson curtains staged a figure of melancholy, a woman dressed in a half take of white to her left's whole, and black to her right. She wore an elegantly flowing dress, of same hue and color to the bodypainting that deemed her a reflection of black and white. Such makeup sought to hide the nervous blush hidden beneath the blanket of contradicting hues, which it did wonderfully. A perceptive man would've noticed her tentative steps into the center of stage, for whoever dressed and embodied she was for the occasion, the woman beneath the collaboration of cloth clearly wasn't. And then she sang - Gods, she sang - and one could feel good triumph within her soul as all fears melted when the words came. She said them as if she had known them her whole life, and however many she had been gifted prior to this one. Something about a man - about a pursue, nostalgia, regret and spite. A pitfall into a self-destructive relationship clung to by two parties refusing to loosen a grip on a burning bond.
As the evening faded into color, mirth, sniffling women and men alike, a particularly sad - and thus spurred on by the song - woman dressed in dark, flowing purples beside me shared looks of passion in my direction, but luckily one single lift of my arm and the pungent smell of my armpit quickly send her off like the rodent in heat she was. I hadn't bathed in week and a half, I was prepared for the ocassion.
I left when the song and singing woman left. The emotions she gave me didn't belong to me, they belonged to her. Art's a terrifying thing, compassion and empathy the bane of duty. Next time I'll brave the dark steps rather than wait and live through it all again.
I am, to this day, the only person I know to be terrorized by the prospect of music. There is something; something about it, something I cannot explain and give justice in words to the feeling it brings to my chest. An evil thing, for it goes against my nature and thus all things that collide with one's nature are evil, to hear a melodic display felt no different than to fall in a stupor. The way it plays with one's emotions, however once controlled, is daunting at the very least. But it was too late to leave- the lanterns that once lit the pathways leading down were snuffed out, and being afraid of heights I wouldn't dare step out of my little selection at the highest point in fear of tumbling down to the bottom, twisted in eight different dislocated ways. And so I waited.
As the fire died down, and the lights of the amphitheatre centered themselves upon the stage; as shadows framed this podium of wood and undulating, flickering flames, from within the crimson curtains staged a figure of melancholy, a woman dressed in a half take of white to her left's whole, and black to her right. She wore an elegantly flowing dress, of same hue and color to the bodypainting that deemed her a reflection of black and white. Such makeup sought to hide the nervous blush hidden beneath the blanket of contradicting hues, which it did wonderfully. A perceptive man would've noticed her tentative steps into the center of stage, for whoever dressed and embodied she was for the occasion, the woman beneath the collaboration of cloth clearly wasn't. And then she sang - Gods, she sang - and one could feel good triumph within her soul as all fears melted when the words came. She said them as if she had known them her whole life, and however many she had been gifted prior to this one. Something about a man - about a pursue, nostalgia, regret and spite. A pitfall into a self-destructive relationship clung to by two parties refusing to loosen a grip on a burning bond.
As the evening faded into color, mirth, sniffling women and men alike, a particularly sad - and thus spurred on by the song - woman dressed in dark, flowing purples beside me shared looks of passion in my direction, but luckily one single lift of my arm and the pungent smell of my armpit quickly send her off like the rodent in heat she was. I hadn't bathed in week and a half, I was prepared for the ocassion.
I left when the song and singing woman left. The emotions she gave me didn't belong to me, they belonged to her. Art's a terrifying thing, compassion and empathy the bane of duty. Next time I'll brave the dark steps rather than wait and live through it all again.
Written By Barik
June 11, 2018, 3:42 a.m.(12/18/1008 AR)
Relationship Note on Melody
Your capacity for collecting standing debts would put the most respectable of tax collectors to shame, Melody. Can a man convey sarcasm through text- does it count if so?
Tonight is my night, seems like.
Tonight is my night, seems like.
Written By Barik
June 11, 2018, 1:54 a.m.(12/18/1008 AR)
There's a certain unknown about this park. Nightingale park, they call it, certainly due to the all manner of birds that trek amongst its trees. Desolated trees, now that Autumn has finally hit and the leaves died, having gone somewhere nice.
But birds are silent when daylight dies, goodfolk having turned in to sleep away the witching hour. And yet here's my soul, anxious- wide awake, sitting on a bench amidst the cold of night surrounded by nothing but the faint, blued glimmer of the haphazardly put lanterns scattered about. To think I'm archiving experiences of my inability to sleep and find rest in the long of night must be rather comical to whosoever's following my trail of paperwork.
The stillness of this place inundates upon you a feeling of unknown. The swaying of crusty, bronzed leaves across the air, spinning as only wind has them, over empty and desolated benches, iced cold over a nice layer of unforgiving weather. I couldn't care less for the unsavory coordination that often visits, there's nobility to this place; nobility unlike that of our monarchic line. Something about the baroque walls that cordone this patch of land, the foetid smell of some dead animal thrown about, and the noisome rattling and kicking of the wind. I love it.
It feels just like home.
But birds are silent when daylight dies, goodfolk having turned in to sleep away the witching hour. And yet here's my soul, anxious- wide awake, sitting on a bench amidst the cold of night surrounded by nothing but the faint, blued glimmer of the haphazardly put lanterns scattered about. To think I'm archiving experiences of my inability to sleep and find rest in the long of night must be rather comical to whosoever's following my trail of paperwork.
The stillness of this place inundates upon you a feeling of unknown. The swaying of crusty, bronzed leaves across the air, spinning as only wind has them, over empty and desolated benches, iced cold over a nice layer of unforgiving weather. I couldn't care less for the unsavory coordination that often visits, there's nobility to this place; nobility unlike that of our monarchic line. Something about the baroque walls that cordone this patch of land, the foetid smell of some dead animal thrown about, and the noisome rattling and kicking of the wind. I love it.
It feels just like home.
Written By Barik
June 10, 2018, 9:13 a.m.(12/17/1008 AR)
I come to you again, journal - not diary - for another tale to write down and snip off to my white archives when I return to Arx, if I do. If I don't, well, perhaps Petrichor's plans weren't as mighty and high as I pretended them to be.
I swaggered late in the night off into the woods, spurred on by fantasies of some unimaginative bravado and dilettante desire to probe the outskirts of the Lodge, while on my way to it. I had made the trek a hundred times, but this time - this hundred and one - a finagled wind threatened the very cyclopean stones upon which I treaded, rattling the hundred; the infinitesimal thousand of leaves scattered thorough the trees flanking the road into a throw-down of cacophonic madness. It was a truly daunting experience, hearing that prattle; that repeated- that constant swing and smack of wood and trunk, as if whips unleashed to subdue those who dared their road. It was just me this time, fastidious Barik - Barik upon having finished a particularly strong; an empowered bottle of wine - from spending time with an equally empowered woman, who had left me in hesitation and questioning of my manly capacity. I must've been of slow metabolism, for I still hadn't processed the poison this little trickster of a girl had placed in me- no, I forged on into the rattling abyss; into the sluddering abomination of swaying shadows, licking and kicking beneath the odd stirring light of the hung lanterns pillared and framing the road from absolute darkness.
Malaise soon ensued, and a hard- a powerful lesson that faked bravery, however noble, isn't the true steel. Perceptive as only one enraptured by fear, I swear on Gods yet to be factual that I saw a being not of this world. It huddled against a tree, back first, front first? I do not know- was it hugging it, or was it laying against it? I do not know. On its head was no true head, it was a skull; a deerskull I could only denote as such given the scintillating lights rising from the not-so-hollow sockets for once-eyes, for these were no eyes; these were something else. It was then I noticed that I hadn't made clue of this camouflaged being until I was enough arm's length from it to feel uncomfortable; to breach a certain contract of intrusion. And from this uncomfortableness; from this understanding of fear and hesitant behavior, it stirred - Gods, it stirred - swinging itself away from the tree; the not so big tree, as it was, for the being itself had branch-like limbs, with half the width of an oaken figure. It was at this point I realized this was no philistine being, no- this one was moved and stirred by something else. Holding onto a hundred prayers unknown to me twenty minutes back, I stood to see it thunder back into the woods from whence it came, and so it was, that I was left on knees sprawled out on the road, breathless. It must've been the size of a house- no, it was.
A man of the proverbial lesson, I learned the truth of the matter once I came to my senses; I learned two lessons: No matter the litany of information and evil once endeavors in; however one reads, learns, clues-in into what is dark and what is light, one is never prepared for that first-hand experience.
And never head towards the Lodge drunk as a clog sandal.
I swaggered late in the night off into the woods, spurred on by fantasies of some unimaginative bravado and dilettante desire to probe the outskirts of the Lodge, while on my way to it. I had made the trek a hundred times, but this time - this hundred and one - a finagled wind threatened the very cyclopean stones upon which I treaded, rattling the hundred; the infinitesimal thousand of leaves scattered thorough the trees flanking the road into a throw-down of cacophonic madness. It was a truly daunting experience, hearing that prattle; that repeated- that constant swing and smack of wood and trunk, as if whips unleashed to subdue those who dared their road. It was just me this time, fastidious Barik - Barik upon having finished a particularly strong; an empowered bottle of wine - from spending time with an equally empowered woman, who had left me in hesitation and questioning of my manly capacity. I must've been of slow metabolism, for I still hadn't processed the poison this little trickster of a girl had placed in me- no, I forged on into the rattling abyss; into the sluddering abomination of swaying shadows, licking and kicking beneath the odd stirring light of the hung lanterns pillared and framing the road from absolute darkness.
Malaise soon ensued, and a hard- a powerful lesson that faked bravery, however noble, isn't the true steel. Perceptive as only one enraptured by fear, I swear on Gods yet to be factual that I saw a being not of this world. It huddled against a tree, back first, front first? I do not know- was it hugging it, or was it laying against it? I do not know. On its head was no true head, it was a skull; a deerskull I could only denote as such given the scintillating lights rising from the not-so-hollow sockets for once-eyes, for these were no eyes; these were something else. It was then I noticed that I hadn't made clue of this camouflaged being until I was enough arm's length from it to feel uncomfortable; to breach a certain contract of intrusion. And from this uncomfortableness; from this understanding of fear and hesitant behavior, it stirred - Gods, it stirred - swinging itself away from the tree; the not so big tree, as it was, for the being itself had branch-like limbs, with half the width of an oaken figure. It was at this point I realized this was no philistine being, no- this one was moved and stirred by something else. Holding onto a hundred prayers unknown to me twenty minutes back, I stood to see it thunder back into the woods from whence it came, and so it was, that I was left on knees sprawled out on the road, breathless. It must've been the size of a house- no, it was.
A man of the proverbial lesson, I learned the truth of the matter once I came to my senses; I learned two lessons: No matter the litany of information and evil once endeavors in; however one reads, learns, clues-in into what is dark and what is light, one is never prepared for that first-hand experience.
And never head towards the Lodge drunk as a clog sandal.
Written By Barik
June 9, 2018, 11:32 p.m.(12/16/1008 AR)
Relationship Note on Aslaug
There's a certain, unspoken truth to dreams and nightmares. They're your nightmares; your dreams, they're made out of what you're made of. And thus if you're weak, then they'll consume you- they'll play you much like fear and greed plays a man of loose virtue. I flee my nightmares, they play me like a composer plays his flute, but lately, a dangling light has come to appear in them. No matter the pelagic horrors; the unspeakable, sluddering abominations product of mine fears and considerations alone, this creature with a prodigious hat appears in them. A silent reminder of reality, on her shoulder a long - absurdly long - pole with a shimmering lantern at its end. I've never seen her face, all things that could comprehensibly have a face - when they're not all manners of horrifyingly broken beasts - suffer from a lack of faces in these dreams of mine, it is no different for this one. But there she is, shaking silently and quietly her lamp, down a trail of numb stars faded in color. Everytime I've followed her I've come across a nothingness without explanation, but there's merit to nothingness. A peace outside the convoluted turmoil of a conflicted heart, a priceless commitment. That lantern I'd follow into the storm, with little hesitation, beginning with a wish of whisper to forever find it in that realm however catatonic my state.
Written By Barik
June 9, 2018, 7:52 a.m.(12/15/1008 AR)
Relationship Note on Valarian
There's a man I met two weeks ago out on the road towards the Spirits. His was a tall frame - a tallness only and often tied to Northerners - with bronzed, long hair and a strictly fox-like expression about his ego-driven countenance. He made mockery of me at a moment of weakness, and I made the mistake of seeing it as a stain upon my honor- a mistake it was, for I soon came to understand that there's more to what meets the eye. While outwardly urbane and cynical, thus far in my many interactions with mister Harrow I've come to understand that within the shell of strainingly tight leather and choked hindquarters lies a man of relatable pragmatism, who doesn't quite take himself as deliberate as others of his profession do. Being the funereal man that I am, stultifyingly dull to a pulse, I challenged a small set of mocking notions he threw my way and was regarded with nothing but humbling reaction, and apology. He taught me a valuable lesson;
Cutting implements come fashioned in more than steel and rubicund.
Cutting implements come fashioned in more than steel and rubicund.
Written By Barik
June 8, 2018, 7:38 a.m.(12/8/1008 AR)
It is hard to stirr the heart in the right direction when directions are vague, and your stirring isn't as deft as on-looking eyes would think. I heard a lot of magical things today; a lot of things I didn't believe. All of them I didn't believe. A man in dark greens bid me to find my reflection, and study it like one would an enemy. My reflection? Just an unreachable other self of me. If I cannot reach myself, then how can a copy of me have any hope at doing so? I feel so disconnected from all of this; all of this magic, all of this talk of legends, myths, what could be.. Like I was never meant to be a part of it- like I was cut from a different cloth, born in a different land. I don't see the streaks of light, I don't enjoy the senseless humility, compassion, and love of those shamelessly serving the so-called Will of the Gods.
Every man has a dark side. It is a matter of balance- it is how the world works, are you petty? Are you a coward? Are you petty and a coward? Then come, sit by. You and I, we share a limp of the leg. But there's a harrowing feeling of faked perception behind these strong believers, an unspoken haughtiness that denotes a certain belief that their path is unblemished, and untouchable. Brother Driskell had it right- he saw the truth, in a way; he saw that there's no light, without darkness. And while light and darkness in these words alone of mine are metaphor, he didn't see them as metaphor. To a man like Brother Driskell, rhetoric and belief were one and the same. And nothing makes the past a sweeter a place to visit than the prospect of imminent death, with these horrible, nightmarish creatures coming to eat us all. At least I've seen those; at least I know they're real, but the Gods? It'll take more than a voice to stirr my heart in the right direction.
Every man has a dark side. It is a matter of balance- it is how the world works, are you petty? Are you a coward? Are you petty and a coward? Then come, sit by. You and I, we share a limp of the leg. But there's a harrowing feeling of faked perception behind these strong believers, an unspoken haughtiness that denotes a certain belief that their path is unblemished, and untouchable. Brother Driskell had it right- he saw the truth, in a way; he saw that there's no light, without darkness. And while light and darkness in these words alone of mine are metaphor, he didn't see them as metaphor. To a man like Brother Driskell, rhetoric and belief were one and the same. And nothing makes the past a sweeter a place to visit than the prospect of imminent death, with these horrible, nightmarish creatures coming to eat us all. At least I've seen those; at least I know they're real, but the Gods? It'll take more than a voice to stirr my heart in the right direction.
Written By Barik
June 7, 2018, 11:11 a.m.(12/7/1008 AR)
There's an unsaid correlation to the recent happenings of the past week. Now the borders here are white, and thus my words will have no darkness to them, but there's no longer any doubt. Doubt left me yesternight, when I witnessed with my own two eyes the truth of it all; the truth that from the white comes the black, and that grey is but a bridge- a succession to a final happening, and when in turn, a start; a beginning. I've trailed cold footsteps of a dead, dark man leading into dead, dark corners and came upon answers for questions, but when one question is answered then two arise, and the maze grows ever bigger, the Inquisitorial duties are a thankless affair. We're trained to don the black and submit to the darkness as to understand it, to adjust our eyes to its fog and in its gloom face the truth laid bare beneath such veil, but when the truth comes with many faces, and interpretations, then how? What kind of training coaches you into knowing right from wrong? None. We're just human, in the end; we're the result of our everyday, and every day changes us; we're ever-changing, unlike as many say that we don't quite change. I refuse that notion. A man is like the passage of water, subject to weather and man's desire to manipulate the soil beneath it.
The tale of the mirrormask is a sad, frightening tale that has me going to bed at night in preparation for nightmare and waking up is easy, sleeping not so much. I was never a praying man, but thinking of what could be often times has me wondering if I ought to ask Lagoma to spare a little ember for little me, should such time ever come.
The tale of the mirrormask is a sad, frightening tale that has me going to bed at night in preparation for nightmare and waking up is easy, sleeping not so much. I was never a praying man, but thinking of what could be often times has me wondering if I ought to ask Lagoma to spare a little ember for little me, should such time ever come.
Written By Barik
June 5, 2018, 5:45 p.m.(12/3/1008 AR)
Relationship Note on Aslaug
There are so many things I could say about her, and at the same time I know so little. Her silence, her hesitations, her thoughts- they're all a mystery, and I know it'd be no different if she had the most loose of tongues. The fact that she's a mute only exacerbates a final truth, this woman understands that subtlety and safety are one and the same.
Written By Barik
June 3, 2018, 11:50 p.m.(11/28/1008 AR)
Relationship Note on Driskell
He supposedly died as he lived, surrounded by vermin. Completely inaccurate thing to say, but it's funny nonetheless. I hope he's having a chuckle there here then where he is.
Written By Barik
June 3, 2018, 11:48 p.m.(11/28/1008 AR)
Had the rather unhappy effect of hearing the news about Brother Driskell this morning. I can't say I know what was that predated such effect, but it is a terrifying thought. Bugs.. I've never liked bugs, I always felt them to be creatures of pure, unadulterated evil. Somehow, I still feel it'd only make sense for Brother Driskell to have turned into a thousand little bits of said bugs and ran off to finally leave a life of royalty amongst bugkind. I jest, of course, but being eaten by bugs sounds equally absurd. Something's odd about the whole story, I reckon, but one can only hope for the best.
Written By Barik
May 31, 2018, 5:15 p.m.(11/20/1008 AR)
Even in the house where I was raised and born never did I feel like I belonged. There was a certain weight to my existence; a certain, unspoken understanding between father and mother that I was some sort of weight upon their shoulders. A burden, she called me once. And thus I always tried to make my existence as least bothersome as possible- I'd clean after myself; I'd wash after my used goods, and I'd eat as little as possible. Drink as little as possible. Made me stay skinny and puny for the better part of fourteen years, but it made me feel better when they argued, and came to unleash their blames upon myself. I don't feel that sensation here, in the House of Questions. There's a certain assertiveness to this sprawling tomb of a home, beneath the screams of the faithless and the sworn vows of shared Confessors. This is home now. We all have a duty; we all have an enemy, and while some haven't seen its face I have. The Inquisitor said our enemy doesn't know fear.
I believe him. We'll teach them fear, then.
I believe him. We'll teach them fear, then.
Written By Barik
May 27, 2018, 6:02 a.m.(11/10/1008 AR)
The more I look into this journal's frame the more I guiltify myself by the white nature of its borders. Almost as if I had no right to stand in the white light of a white book, as if my thoughts were a poison meant for darker wings, and darker words. Black journals aren't exactly healthy, however- and no legacy ever stood on them.
I met Prince Ainsley the other night. He seemed disturbed, as if something within him struggled. I consider myself socially perceptive, but with what little hints I received I underwent the assumption he had failed his latest romantic pursuit, but that's folly of my part. It could've been anything. But could've anything made him threaten a scholar? I can't judge him, Rinel does have a rather abusable countenance at times, so help me Vellichor, but it seemed to be against his very nature. I wish him the very best, and a hasty recovery, Gods watch over him. Except the last one. If they even exist, that is.
I met Prince Ainsley the other night. He seemed disturbed, as if something within him struggled. I consider myself socially perceptive, but with what little hints I received I underwent the assumption he had failed his latest romantic pursuit, but that's folly of my part. It could've been anything. But could've anything made him threaten a scholar? I can't judge him, Rinel does have a rather abusable countenance at times, so help me Vellichor, but it seemed to be against his very nature. I wish him the very best, and a hasty recovery, Gods watch over him. Except the last one. If they even exist, that is.
Written By Barik
May 27, 2018, 5:56 a.m.(11/10/1008 AR)
Relationship Note on Rinel
I've never stood up for anyone before. Not even for myself. I don't know what I see in this scholar to be risking my neck, but my neck I risked; neck I've tenderly cared for the past eighteen years. Maybe I should distance myself from her, or do something; find something to snap out of this bout of chivalric streamlining that is bound to get me killed. Its not who I am.
Still, I can't shake off a feeling. Maybe I am getting the fevers, like that girl said.
Still, I can't shake off a feeling. Maybe I am getting the fevers, like that girl said.
Written By Barik
May 24, 2018, 4:25 a.m.(10/23/1008 AR)
Today I braved the most daunting task I had ever braved. Or was it yesterday? I don't know, I had the wisdom of stealing not one, but two bottles of cheap rum from the hands of a certain nobleman whom's kindness had him turn a blind eye upon my deed, and with them I drank myself into forgetting the shame I felt. I sat on the chair of a certain Duke, at a certain feast, and there's no pride to be had in such affairs. It was my most idiotic deed to date, and if Vellichor truly judges- if he reads this with those beady eyes I imagine him to have, I ascertain he's judging me. He's judging me without hesitation. I pray to the Sentinel that there's no justice coming after me for such stupid deed, that Lagoma's flame doesn't give me away when I'm inevitably hiding in some alley avoiding the King's justice for nearly soiling my trousers while in the presence of nobility, and that the goddess Gild guides me into a more straight-backed path. Dreams and aspirations those are, Barik, dreams and aspirations. But what are dreams and aspirations, if not the foundations, yet not the fabric of its intended creation? I don't know. I suppose I'm not smart enough to know, either- all that time spent playing the baliset and meandering around the countryside made you soft in the head. I ought to thank a priest of Vellichor for learning me how to write, otherwise I'd be writing down my experiences in the form of glyphs. Very ugly ones, too.
Written By Barik
May 18, 2018, 1:12 a.m.(10/6/1008 AR)
I never thought I'd have my dreams and aspirations shattered to this level; to this degree. Recently I arrived upon the training grounds meaning to drop yet another donkey wagon worth of questions upon that scholar I met a day prior, Rinel. Sadly we didn't get to speak much, but that's not the point of this little hinting into my relatively sullen existence. A man of the Inquisition had a brief exchange of words with the local nobility, and the disrespect given to him was beyond belief. The way they chewed and stomped on him as if he was nothing more than a mere squire brought me down to disbelief. Its saddening, in a way, to see a structurized organization disrespect to that degree. Hopefully I'll be able to meet the burnt man; the Inquisitor, how did she call him.. I can't recall, I can't bloody remember. You've got problems, Barik. What was it, Jared? Gareth? Hell. I'll ask her again next time I see her.
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