Written By Cerdensulathara
June 6, 2019, 9:16 p.m.(3/26/1011 AR)
Future Readers, I imagine you in a massive gilded spire, one of many, filled with the accumulated white journals of centuries and centuries of Vellichor minded Scholars, Explorers, Peerage, and Royalty. Ages from now, as you look back on this world, you'll understand your pipes of singing water spraying colors and inspiring specific moods and mannerisms according to their placement and primary function as something we can scarce imagine. I predict such, but doubt I can do more than pray and hope our Compact is inclusive of all beings free of Will, and miracles of Artifice seem commonplace, though dedicated to good and well being of everyone, regardless of nation, kingdom, or race, as we have move beyond that. I hope. I pray.
Yet again, I have digressed. I was telling you about myself, wasn't I? Recalling my possum neighbors put in a somber mood, but I've returned, to finish explaining to who I am. F.R., the wilderness changed me. Solitude changed me. I did have less fits, but they still plague me. Without a society to fit into, or a role that was expected of and explained to me, I was free.
Many of you know the joy and power of being a free woman. Or man. Praise Skald eternally for giving me that power, it is not universal to all beings.
It was sacred, getting to chose then, what I wanted to do, and as a result of my actions, who I would be. I spoke as much as I could to the trees, animals, stones and sky. I was like a bird in my ceaseless chirping.
Time passed, and it was hard to say how long. I had crafted a small hut that blended in well to the hill, if I do say so myself. I had a collection of stones from all around the Grey, and a fire pit to cook my food in and blacken the tips of my javelins. It was the fire that attracted the notice of the people from the North.
They were not far away, about a days hike, maybe more. When raiders came through their village, they fled south, cutting through the forest on their way to some Compact shrine in search of refuge. They came across me and two of them managed to convince me staying would mean trouble, so I left with them.
The riders on horseback caught us anyway, and killed everyone with a weapon to fight, and took the rest of us as prisoners. Wr experienced cruelty unsurprising and commonplace to our situation, and it was a mercy when some days several Knights of Solace saved us. It was... Miraculous. Their gleaming armor and skilled swordsmanship, the surprising and novel kindness and respect we were given. I have heard some disparaging things here and there about some Knights, but this was not our case. I was saved, in so many ways.
That was when I was brought to Arx. I stayed a short time in the Unkindness until Sir Jayke Ferrier arranged for his cousin to adopt me. Apparently they were looking to tame a Savage, or had some sort of misguided charitable notion of adopting and adapting a Prodigal.
My initial arrival to the city was my first true understanding of Gild. I don't feel I've ever really experienced charity, fellowship, or the Majesty and Awe of being a part of a city. A real city. They say there are other real cities, this size or bigger than Arx, across the world. I will believe it when I see it.
My heart was inundated with well being from the charity of Sir Jayke. He convinced his cousin to 'finish' raising me, as he put it. The Ferriers, my Mother and Father in spirit if not blood, were kind and good people. I was a handful, I am sure. It had only been a day before the Grips had me rolling on their foyer floor, and an alchemist and healer was brought in. Apparently, my upbringing and diet led to I'm balanced humors. I do not pretend to understand the diagnosis. Abraham, my Father, got me doing chores early on. Feeding and exercising the horses, cleaning out stalls, brushing them and taking care of the tack. Mom had me taught all the 'proper ways of civilised folk', which did not include slicing open my palm and threatening to call dark agents or setting fire to my bed when I did not get my way.
God's, in retrospect, they were unreasonably patient. Twelve bless them.
Schooling and work gave stability to my life. I continued to visit the forest to merely run sometimes. I excelled in all things logical and rational. Some euphemisms and behaviors elude me, but I was so good at math and reading that I began tutoring others my age, more often than not, Prodigals. I was happy, I am happy. I am blessed to have the kind of origin story the hero of a novella would have. Stick that in your craw, completely average people who look down on me. I've eaten wolf....
I have digressed again. To summarize, I was given a loving family. I am their daughter. They are my real parents, the ones Aion dreamed of me having. My difficulties do not compare to my gifts, and that is as much as anyone can ask.
But, yes, F.R., if you are reading this, you already know that something is missing. Magic. I am a true Prodigal. I am the daughter of the butcher, the forest, and the husband, and one day, I will be seen as integral to this fight we face in my time, today. I feel it.
I know I am to play a powerful, important part, even if, presently, I am not sure what it is. Though I am researching Artifice, this may not be where my skill lies. Will I be a spellsinger? A blood Magician? A speaker for the woods and manipulater of plants? I feel my calling lies in Vellichor. In Understanding. In teaching, maybe. You know better than I, F.R. Hopefully, I have helped make your world better. That is what I earnestly pray for.
Continued soon. If you find this parchment in fragments, as happens, refer to my autobiography. Surely, I will eventually write one.
Yet again, I have digressed. I was telling you about myself, wasn't I? Recalling my possum neighbors put in a somber mood, but I've returned, to finish explaining to who I am. F.R., the wilderness changed me. Solitude changed me. I did have less fits, but they still plague me. Without a society to fit into, or a role that was expected of and explained to me, I was free.
Many of you know the joy and power of being a free woman. Or man. Praise Skald eternally for giving me that power, it is not universal to all beings.
It was sacred, getting to chose then, what I wanted to do, and as a result of my actions, who I would be. I spoke as much as I could to the trees, animals, stones and sky. I was like a bird in my ceaseless chirping.
Time passed, and it was hard to say how long. I had crafted a small hut that blended in well to the hill, if I do say so myself. I had a collection of stones from all around the Grey, and a fire pit to cook my food in and blacken the tips of my javelins. It was the fire that attracted the notice of the people from the North.
They were not far away, about a days hike, maybe more. When raiders came through their village, they fled south, cutting through the forest on their way to some Compact shrine in search of refuge. They came across me and two of them managed to convince me staying would mean trouble, so I left with them.
The riders on horseback caught us anyway, and killed everyone with a weapon to fight, and took the rest of us as prisoners. Wr experienced cruelty unsurprising and commonplace to our situation, and it was a mercy when some days several Knights of Solace saved us. It was... Miraculous. Their gleaming armor and skilled swordsmanship, the surprising and novel kindness and respect we were given. I have heard some disparaging things here and there about some Knights, but this was not our case. I was saved, in so many ways.
That was when I was brought to Arx. I stayed a short time in the Unkindness until Sir Jayke Ferrier arranged for his cousin to adopt me. Apparently they were looking to tame a Savage, or had some sort of misguided charitable notion of adopting and adapting a Prodigal.
My initial arrival to the city was my first true understanding of Gild. I don't feel I've ever really experienced charity, fellowship, or the Majesty and Awe of being a part of a city. A real city. They say there are other real cities, this size or bigger than Arx, across the world. I will believe it when I see it.
My heart was inundated with well being from the charity of Sir Jayke. He convinced his cousin to 'finish' raising me, as he put it. The Ferriers, my Mother and Father in spirit if not blood, were kind and good people. I was a handful, I am sure. It had only been a day before the Grips had me rolling on their foyer floor, and an alchemist and healer was brought in. Apparently, my upbringing and diet led to I'm balanced humors. I do not pretend to understand the diagnosis. Abraham, my Father, got me doing chores early on. Feeding and exercising the horses, cleaning out stalls, brushing them and taking care of the tack. Mom had me taught all the 'proper ways of civilised folk', which did not include slicing open my palm and threatening to call dark agents or setting fire to my bed when I did not get my way.
God's, in retrospect, they were unreasonably patient. Twelve bless them.
Schooling and work gave stability to my life. I continued to visit the forest to merely run sometimes. I excelled in all things logical and rational. Some euphemisms and behaviors elude me, but I was so good at math and reading that I began tutoring others my age, more often than not, Prodigals. I was happy, I am happy. I am blessed to have the kind of origin story the hero of a novella would have. Stick that in your craw, completely average people who look down on me. I've eaten wolf....
I have digressed again. To summarize, I was given a loving family. I am their daughter. They are my real parents, the ones Aion dreamed of me having. My difficulties do not compare to my gifts, and that is as much as anyone can ask.
But, yes, F.R., if you are reading this, you already know that something is missing. Magic. I am a true Prodigal. I am the daughter of the butcher, the forest, and the husband, and one day, I will be seen as integral to this fight we face in my time, today. I feel it.
I know I am to play a powerful, important part, even if, presently, I am not sure what it is. Though I am researching Artifice, this may not be where my skill lies. Will I be a spellsinger? A blood Magician? A speaker for the woods and manipulater of plants? I feel my calling lies in Vellichor. In Understanding. In teaching, maybe. You know better than I, F.R. Hopefully, I have helped make your world better. That is what I earnestly pray for.
Continued soon. If you find this parchment in fragments, as happens, refer to my autobiography. Surely, I will eventually write one.
Written By Cerdensulathara
May 27, 2019, 5:30 a.m.(3/5/1011 AR)
I have discovered so much, and yet so very little. Allow me to set my place and time, the tone of my days, for you, future readers.
I have been tasked with learning and then writing about The Discipline of Artifice. Someone has disrespected the dossiers of the S.O.E., and I timidly hope that it was not me. I won't ask, out of fear.
The discipline of Artifice has been a Wonder, a joy, and a pain to study. Bridges invisible that ten paces aloft bring you into the next continent boggle the mind. Brass's metal heart ticking or plinking away in defiance of the Queen of Ending terrifies me with it's potential and actual misuse. The artifacts I have learned about may seem like ... God's above and sweet mercy, what did I almost write? The dangers of streaming consciousness writing have never presented itself before...
I have digressed. The artifacts I've discovered written about seem like a child's fancy, but I have also seen a newborn bird fly, a Grey Wolf leap, and a hard, hard and broken man forgive. Everyday miracles put magic toys to shame. I have been tasked with writing about Artifice, and I shall, but as a seeker of Knowledge, and a humbled teacher, I am few things if not thorough.
So here you find me, F.R., having spent weeks with my face in a book, breaking fast only to hunt and play with my friend and sibling Abbie. People like him more than me, you know. I don't blame them. I do too.
I will soon move onto to the next phase of my task, which involves others. I do not look forward to it. I am not someone who knows themselves. In fact, F.R., it occurs to me you know little about me as well. A part of my larger mission begs me to alleviate this, and here, in the Whites, is a fine place to do so.
I was born Cerdensulathara Hogsbutcher. My father was a rich man. Not in the sense that those of Arx consider rich, with material wealth, or actual power to move armies, but instead as a necessary and highly important piece of the puzzle that was Rivermuth, my home. He killed the pigs. Our little village partially revolved around pigs, for their leather, their meat, but more importantly the ritual slaughter of them, every New Moon. I cannot claim to fully understand our ways, their ways, rather, but I remember the motions, and paid lip service as best I could, considering my position.
Sickness, tragedy, imbalanced humors and lack of trade, all these things and more we're attributed to Unseen forces that governed all aspects of our lives, moving us like pieces on a Stones board. We feared them, respected them, paid them tribute. Then came the New Moon, when we would select choice pigs, several of the best, and fattest, and healthiest, and drive them into a special pen. Hours and hours were spent yelling and chanting at them, swirling our fire sticks at them and whipping them with lashes, herding them round and round. Our herblady would feed them some mysterious mixture of plants, insects, and fungus beforehand, and near the culmination of the Event, they would be left squealing and dazed, writhing on the ground and unable to stand, trembling with what was no doubt pure fear and confusion. Their belief, ours truly, at the time, was this was when the Unseen would enter them.
My father would say, 'Now they're in the grips'. And he would butcher them on the flat stone outcrop that we used soley for this sacred purpose. And then eat their cooked flesh. It was to make us stronger than the forces around us. More potent, virile, smarter, luckier, and all such manner of good things.
I have eaten more than my share of pork in life, and early on lost the taste for it.
I was a shame and disgrace to my father. My constant questioning of things did not help, but the source of Rivermuth's distaste for me began with my fits. I did not like the pigs being hurt. I did not like the men who stole losing hands. I did not like Birch branch whippings, being told to be quiet, or not having an equal portion of supper, being the youngest. So I rebelled the only way a small, young child knew how. I screamed and cried and kicked and pouted. I you are curious, I am still skilled at such tactics, but try others first, of course.
Then came the Grips. I cannot recall what age I was, I merely remember it was Summer, and a New Moon came around again. Watching passively while the pigs we're driven into a fervor, I smelled rain, or something like upturned earth, and felt chill for a moment. My next recollection was a crowd around me, shocked and scared. No, excuse me, it was weak to be scared in our culture, so that emotion was hidden like it always is, with anger and hate. They were angry at me. I had fallen under a spell reserved only for pigs pre-digestion, and I being the Hogsbutcher's daughter, no one knew what to make of this.
The Herblady decided the Unseen wanted more than pigs in their Grip, because these beings craved willpower, and human flesh to animate, and a role in the Seen world. I am surprised cannabilism was off the table. Instead, I became ostracized from my family, housed in the back shed, and a grand experiment for the Herblady. Her various remedies still wake me up at night. Scarred into my skin is a roadmap of her failed methods. Her thinking was, if the Unseen wanted in me, pain would drive them out. Then it was pinesap. Then fresh slugs. Then this, that, whatever straw she could grasp at, because while she was experimenting, I was still rebelling, and convulsing. And Rivermuth's certainty in their ways was tested. Better to skip the question than fail the test, it was recommended I be killed, or exiled.
Mercy of the Gods, it did not come to that, per se. Instead, we were raided by the warriors from the Hills. I saw many people die, including one of my brothers, and two of my sisters. My father was still fighting next to our burning hut when my mother secreted me and my older brother and sister, those left, away.
It was three days journey from the mouth of the river to the village in the Gray. Was it a village? The three houses in the Grey. Three houses and a small half-shed. We were accepted, the Hill warriors were well known. Until the Grips came upon me. My mother did the right thing. When faced with three children suffering exile, or just one, she packed me a small bag of cured pork and a skin of water, and left me out in the woods. It was not love, merely mercy, for she threatened to kill me if I returned.
I threw the pork in the bushes, and started walking.
Winter was on me quick, and in a hurry to show me it's full and unshielded face. I had spent some time in the woods, and gotten used to climbing trees in such a way that the onset of the Grips' could not shake me out. A belt is a mutilpurpose tool for the clever child. How old was I? I can't really tell you. As a pet pain, my birthday was not a celebration but a reminder of failure and shame for my superstitious family. I had my blood, but I doubt I will ever really 'fill out'. My adopted mother used that term a lot, but I am jumping ahead.
I survived the first and mildest winter, and I ate what the animals ate. I vomited a lot, then less, then none at all as I discerned a pattern. Animals with hair are a lot alike, it seemed, where birds in all their freedom could weather some fruits and insects better than I. I turned the terrifying and unknown bumps in the night slowly into recognizable sounds. I had possums as neighbors, two trees down, nestled in the roots of their big oak. I watched from spring to autumn as their offspring grew to be almost full size. I learned quickly that when you spot a running deer, you hide, and quick. Petrichor was father, mother, friend and guardian, but also a hard, stern teacher.
I eat meat. I once balked at animals being hurt, and yes, cruelty was unnecessary, respect should be given, but in my journey as a tree-dwelling teen, I had eaten mostly worms, berries, sparse fruits, and cooked the occasional scavenged corpse. When the Winter of Winters, as it was for me, came and snowed everything in, all of these things fled from my grasp. Bark was a terrible meal, and too much pine straw made me puke again, leaving me hungrier than ever.
To shorten this story, I will say I miss my possum neighbors. I mourn them far more than my own family, and if ever I am attributed with some great deed or accomplishment, let them too be known as those who sustained me, and kept Cerdensulathara from perishing early.
My hand hurts, and Abbie wants my attention, so I will send this by messenger to be recorded and finish my take again soon.
Give thanks for those beings, our equals in many ways, who have gotten you this far with their sacrifice, and if you have a pet, go hug them. They speak, if not Arvani, and listen, if not obviously.
I have been tasked with learning and then writing about The Discipline of Artifice. Someone has disrespected the dossiers of the S.O.E., and I timidly hope that it was not me. I won't ask, out of fear.
The discipline of Artifice has been a Wonder, a joy, and a pain to study. Bridges invisible that ten paces aloft bring you into the next continent boggle the mind. Brass's metal heart ticking or plinking away in defiance of the Queen of Ending terrifies me with it's potential and actual misuse. The artifacts I have learned about may seem like ... God's above and sweet mercy, what did I almost write? The dangers of streaming consciousness writing have never presented itself before...
I have digressed. The artifacts I've discovered written about seem like a child's fancy, but I have also seen a newborn bird fly, a Grey Wolf leap, and a hard, hard and broken man forgive. Everyday miracles put magic toys to shame. I have been tasked with writing about Artifice, and I shall, but as a seeker of Knowledge, and a humbled teacher, I am few things if not thorough.
So here you find me, F.R., having spent weeks with my face in a book, breaking fast only to hunt and play with my friend and sibling Abbie. People like him more than me, you know. I don't blame them. I do too.
I will soon move onto to the next phase of my task, which involves others. I do not look forward to it. I am not someone who knows themselves. In fact, F.R., it occurs to me you know little about me as well. A part of my larger mission begs me to alleviate this, and here, in the Whites, is a fine place to do so.
I was born Cerdensulathara Hogsbutcher. My father was a rich man. Not in the sense that those of Arx consider rich, with material wealth, or actual power to move armies, but instead as a necessary and highly important piece of the puzzle that was Rivermuth, my home. He killed the pigs. Our little village partially revolved around pigs, for their leather, their meat, but more importantly the ritual slaughter of them, every New Moon. I cannot claim to fully understand our ways, their ways, rather, but I remember the motions, and paid lip service as best I could, considering my position.
Sickness, tragedy, imbalanced humors and lack of trade, all these things and more we're attributed to Unseen forces that governed all aspects of our lives, moving us like pieces on a Stones board. We feared them, respected them, paid them tribute. Then came the New Moon, when we would select choice pigs, several of the best, and fattest, and healthiest, and drive them into a special pen. Hours and hours were spent yelling and chanting at them, swirling our fire sticks at them and whipping them with lashes, herding them round and round. Our herblady would feed them some mysterious mixture of plants, insects, and fungus beforehand, and near the culmination of the Event, they would be left squealing and dazed, writhing on the ground and unable to stand, trembling with what was no doubt pure fear and confusion. Their belief, ours truly, at the time, was this was when the Unseen would enter them.
My father would say, 'Now they're in the grips'. And he would butcher them on the flat stone outcrop that we used soley for this sacred purpose. And then eat their cooked flesh. It was to make us stronger than the forces around us. More potent, virile, smarter, luckier, and all such manner of good things.
I have eaten more than my share of pork in life, and early on lost the taste for it.
I was a shame and disgrace to my father. My constant questioning of things did not help, but the source of Rivermuth's distaste for me began with my fits. I did not like the pigs being hurt. I did not like the men who stole losing hands. I did not like Birch branch whippings, being told to be quiet, or not having an equal portion of supper, being the youngest. So I rebelled the only way a small, young child knew how. I screamed and cried and kicked and pouted. I you are curious, I am still skilled at such tactics, but try others first, of course.
Then came the Grips. I cannot recall what age I was, I merely remember it was Summer, and a New Moon came around again. Watching passively while the pigs we're driven into a fervor, I smelled rain, or something like upturned earth, and felt chill for a moment. My next recollection was a crowd around me, shocked and scared. No, excuse me, it was weak to be scared in our culture, so that emotion was hidden like it always is, with anger and hate. They were angry at me. I had fallen under a spell reserved only for pigs pre-digestion, and I being the Hogsbutcher's daughter, no one knew what to make of this.
The Herblady decided the Unseen wanted more than pigs in their Grip, because these beings craved willpower, and human flesh to animate, and a role in the Seen world. I am surprised cannabilism was off the table. Instead, I became ostracized from my family, housed in the back shed, and a grand experiment for the Herblady. Her various remedies still wake me up at night. Scarred into my skin is a roadmap of her failed methods. Her thinking was, if the Unseen wanted in me, pain would drive them out. Then it was pinesap. Then fresh slugs. Then this, that, whatever straw she could grasp at, because while she was experimenting, I was still rebelling, and convulsing. And Rivermuth's certainty in their ways was tested. Better to skip the question than fail the test, it was recommended I be killed, or exiled.
Mercy of the Gods, it did not come to that, per se. Instead, we were raided by the warriors from the Hills. I saw many people die, including one of my brothers, and two of my sisters. My father was still fighting next to our burning hut when my mother secreted me and my older brother and sister, those left, away.
It was three days journey from the mouth of the river to the village in the Gray. Was it a village? The three houses in the Grey. Three houses and a small half-shed. We were accepted, the Hill warriors were well known. Until the Grips came upon me. My mother did the right thing. When faced with three children suffering exile, or just one, she packed me a small bag of cured pork and a skin of water, and left me out in the woods. It was not love, merely mercy, for she threatened to kill me if I returned.
I threw the pork in the bushes, and started walking.
Winter was on me quick, and in a hurry to show me it's full and unshielded face. I had spent some time in the woods, and gotten used to climbing trees in such a way that the onset of the Grips' could not shake me out. A belt is a mutilpurpose tool for the clever child. How old was I? I can't really tell you. As a pet pain, my birthday was not a celebration but a reminder of failure and shame for my superstitious family. I had my blood, but I doubt I will ever really 'fill out'. My adopted mother used that term a lot, but I am jumping ahead.
I survived the first and mildest winter, and I ate what the animals ate. I vomited a lot, then less, then none at all as I discerned a pattern. Animals with hair are a lot alike, it seemed, where birds in all their freedom could weather some fruits and insects better than I. I turned the terrifying and unknown bumps in the night slowly into recognizable sounds. I had possums as neighbors, two trees down, nestled in the roots of their big oak. I watched from spring to autumn as their offspring grew to be almost full size. I learned quickly that when you spot a running deer, you hide, and quick. Petrichor was father, mother, friend and guardian, but also a hard, stern teacher.
I eat meat. I once balked at animals being hurt, and yes, cruelty was unnecessary, respect should be given, but in my journey as a tree-dwelling teen, I had eaten mostly worms, berries, sparse fruits, and cooked the occasional scavenged corpse. When the Winter of Winters, as it was for me, came and snowed everything in, all of these things fled from my grasp. Bark was a terrible meal, and too much pine straw made me puke again, leaving me hungrier than ever.
To shorten this story, I will say I miss my possum neighbors. I mourn them far more than my own family, and if ever I am attributed with some great deed or accomplishment, let them too be known as those who sustained me, and kept Cerdensulathara from perishing early.
My hand hurts, and Abbie wants my attention, so I will send this by messenger to be recorded and finish my take again soon.
Give thanks for those beings, our equals in many ways, who have gotten you this far with their sacrifice, and if you have a pet, go hug them. They speak, if not Arvani, and listen, if not obviously.
Written By Cerdensulathara
Feb. 17, 2019, 11:20 a.m.(8/4/1010 AR)
Apparently expense reports are not a thing in the whites, I checked. I even ran across someone famous' journals, and noticed a slew of recent replies to another journal entry by someone else. I spent about four hours tracking down all the participants of a conversation. Perhaps another hour debating whether or not they were all in the same confessional or had servants doing the running I was doing. Ultimately I realized I don't care. I don't care about Thrax thrall children or matters of foreign affairs. Not enough to keep myself informed on the opinions of noteworthy citizens. It was rather exhausting.
The Scholar here won't doodle a picture of a horse for me. That's upsetting. What if future students wish to know what my house looked when I finally purchase it?
(Editor's note: She can draw it herself.)
Oh I can? That's acceptable.
Relevant news in my life... I have gained a patron. Her name is Celeste Velenosa, and she is a Lady. I did not get the Grips in front of her, for which I'm thankful, and we had an interesting conversation, mostly about myself. I have been teaching more and more affluent members of the Peerage, and reading mostly history books. It occurred to me that when you are looking back at this, you won't have a real interpretation of who I am without my upbringing. For instance, I know who Sally is. Research a man named Gunther in these journals, someone from the Lowers, some sort of fist throwing romantic. I know his late wife's name, but not much about her. If I ever meet him, I will implore him to let us have the privilege of knowing her too.
Is that crass? Well it could be, you don't know how people will respond to simple pleasures for information. I am unimpressed and uninspired by the lack of format and ultimately depth of my current journals.
It's nice talking to someone who isn't compelled to respond, though. For instance, I was told by a disciple of Jayus that she received a vision from Jayus after creating a personal, meaningful work of art, and then meditating for a long time. I wanted one of these visions, how grand that would be. The only thing I could think of creating was a stuffed unicorn plushie using real human teeth sewn in so it would smile distinctly. It has been weeks, and I cannot get that image out of my head. I see it everywhere I look, now. A fancy dress? All I need is to resew it, dye it white, however tailors do that, and find some stuffing and a horn. A nice man smiles at me? He has all of his teeth, a perfect mouth for my unicorn. It is upsetting. I am going back to absinthe instead of rum, soon...
Unless you think this is a sign Jayus wants me to make this thing? Your silence is likely wise. I don't regret asking you.
Future Scholars, when your artificed peacock is turning these pages for you, remember I was just a normal person, with normal problems, just like you. Anyone can rise to the heights I will, with determination, dedication, hard work, and all of the correct circumstances.
The Scholar here won't doodle a picture of a horse for me. That's upsetting. What if future students wish to know what my house looked when I finally purchase it?
(Editor's note: She can draw it herself.)
Oh I can? That's acceptable.
Relevant news in my life... I have gained a patron. Her name is Celeste Velenosa, and she is a Lady. I did not get the Grips in front of her, for which I'm thankful, and we had an interesting conversation, mostly about myself. I have been teaching more and more affluent members of the Peerage, and reading mostly history books. It occurred to me that when you are looking back at this, you won't have a real interpretation of who I am without my upbringing. For instance, I know who Sally is. Research a man named Gunther in these journals, someone from the Lowers, some sort of fist throwing romantic. I know his late wife's name, but not much about her. If I ever meet him, I will implore him to let us have the privilege of knowing her too.
Is that crass? Well it could be, you don't know how people will respond to simple pleasures for information. I am unimpressed and uninspired by the lack of format and ultimately depth of my current journals.
It's nice talking to someone who isn't compelled to respond, though. For instance, I was told by a disciple of Jayus that she received a vision from Jayus after creating a personal, meaningful work of art, and then meditating for a long time. I wanted one of these visions, how grand that would be. The only thing I could think of creating was a stuffed unicorn plushie using real human teeth sewn in so it would smile distinctly. It has been weeks, and I cannot get that image out of my head. I see it everywhere I look, now. A fancy dress? All I need is to resew it, dye it white, however tailors do that, and find some stuffing and a horn. A nice man smiles at me? He has all of his teeth, a perfect mouth for my unicorn. It is upsetting. I am going back to absinthe instead of rum, soon...
Unless you think this is a sign Jayus wants me to make this thing? Your silence is likely wise. I don't regret asking you.
Future Scholars, when your artificed peacock is turning these pages for you, remember I was just a normal person, with normal problems, just like you. Anyone can rise to the heights I will, with determination, dedication, hard work, and all of the correct circumstances.
Written By Cerdensulathara
Feb. 5, 2019, 3:15 a.m.(7/7/1010 AR)
Three billion and some odd silver for all thralldom debts to be paid in full and structure and stability maintained.
One figure offering esoteric teachings of the Arts, unusual but powerful weapons (or weapon forging, rather).
I believe these gifts from Brass should be given solely House Thrax (and all houses freeing their thralls for it, in equal proportion of loss).
This will be best. The fifth of the Compact will lose, and then gain. Thralls will be freed. Are will be armed.
Make no mistake, this is not an offer of help AND a request. This is a demand that conditions be met in exchange for goods and teaching.
This is my limited, flawed understanding. This is my opinion. I see no reason to elaborate more on this topic in the Journals, unless my personal opinion changes.
In other news, I have had some requests to teach, and I have had the pleasure of teaching a Lord Zaffria about the care, feeding, and mentality of horses. I was grateful for the write given in exchange. A large burden as been lifted from my shoulders.
I have read about the battle of Pride Hall, the Weight of Wisdom, A Harlequin's treatise on dogs, birds, studied Gray Wolves, Elk, and birds. The list I maintain of books I've read grows longer, but I still wish to venture out, with a group, explore and risk and chance. I'm so eager to join the Society of Explorers that I even petitioned the Scholars for acceptance. I hear it's even more dangerous.
One figure offering esoteric teachings of the Arts, unusual but powerful weapons (or weapon forging, rather).
I believe these gifts from Brass should be given solely House Thrax (and all houses freeing their thralls for it, in equal proportion of loss).
This will be best. The fifth of the Compact will lose, and then gain. Thralls will be freed. Are will be armed.
Make no mistake, this is not an offer of help AND a request. This is a demand that conditions be met in exchange for goods and teaching.
This is my limited, flawed understanding. This is my opinion. I see no reason to elaborate more on this topic in the Journals, unless my personal opinion changes.
In other news, I have had some requests to teach, and I have had the pleasure of teaching a Lord Zaffria about the care, feeding, and mentality of horses. I was grateful for the write given in exchange. A large burden as been lifted from my shoulders.
I have read about the battle of Pride Hall, the Weight of Wisdom, A Harlequin's treatise on dogs, birds, studied Gray Wolves, Elk, and birds. The list I maintain of books I've read grows longer, but I still wish to venture out, with a group, explore and risk and chance. I'm so eager to join the Society of Explorers that I even petitioned the Scholars for acceptance. I hear it's even more dangerous.
Written By Cerdensulathara
Feb. 3, 2019, 5:17 a.m.(7/3/1010 AR)
(Editor's note: I tried explaining that the spirit of these journals are not conducive to expense reports. She was very insistent that this was not true.)
6/25-7/3/1010 A.R.
Rent- Paid by my father.
Three lbs. of beef- 25 s
Writing tools- 25 s
Paint pigments - 100s
Coffee + absinthe -300s
Six inch blade - 200s
I would like to pay my own rent soon. I feel my adopted parents would be honored to know that they raised and taught me how to both survive and contribute to society. I met some potential clients this week. One Count of Amadeo thought it would be amusing, I assmue, to set me at task to teaching Rinel Tern common sense. This is my life. I do not consider it a joke. I suppose, it's only natural for someone to do so. Infinite perspectives, and such. At least I know who one of them is, now. As a gift from our Gods, I did meet Rinel Tern.
I see a sliver of myself in her image. That is pleasant. She is now my best friend. It is a low bar, but she has surpassed Lady Olivia Ashford. The latter claims that bears are full of hate and malice. I have never seen an animal hate. I have the luxury, we almost all have the luxury of having our food slaughtered for us. How many would starve, if they had to sling the blade into flesh, separate muscle from bone. Spit the corpse.
Strand one in the wilderness, shuck them of their clothes, starve them. Soon, their will to live, their inner spirit, will be so ferocious as to appear like hate and malice. I understand this, and I do not judge. We humans are different. -A- human is animal. Wild, beautiful, fierce. Humanity is an organism until itself. It has arms, heads, feet, eyes. In the same way a beehive is it's own unique organism, separate from the bee, so too is humanity a being separate from itself. I see the struggle between the two, as well. A push and pull of ego and spirit, greed and grace, hate and love.
I often feel a different being altogether.
Noises become too loud. The flow of traffic an ocular behomoth. The mingled smells of the market an assault. The dance of social Grace's an affront to logic.
I do not judge, though. I am the minority. The stone does not judge the stream, despite how it wears upon it. I digress, I'm sorry, Master, Scholar. I am not accustomed to these journals. Allow me to right this track.
Lady Olivia has suggested I become her protege. She seems beloved. We have differences, and similarities. The gods put her in my path... Is this not the formula for great growth? I believe it is, considering my goals.
Would you pick up a black one now? I have records to make that I don't wish to affect my current trajectory.
6/25-7/3/1010 A.R.
Rent- Paid by my father.
Three lbs. of beef- 25 s
Writing tools- 25 s
Paint pigments - 100s
Coffee + absinthe -300s
Six inch blade - 200s
I would like to pay my own rent soon. I feel my adopted parents would be honored to know that they raised and taught me how to both survive and contribute to society. I met some potential clients this week. One Count of Amadeo thought it would be amusing, I assmue, to set me at task to teaching Rinel Tern common sense. This is my life. I do not consider it a joke. I suppose, it's only natural for someone to do so. Infinite perspectives, and such. At least I know who one of them is, now. As a gift from our Gods, I did meet Rinel Tern.
I see a sliver of myself in her image. That is pleasant. She is now my best friend. It is a low bar, but she has surpassed Lady Olivia Ashford. The latter claims that bears are full of hate and malice. I have never seen an animal hate. I have the luxury, we almost all have the luxury of having our food slaughtered for us. How many would starve, if they had to sling the blade into flesh, separate muscle from bone. Spit the corpse.
Strand one in the wilderness, shuck them of their clothes, starve them. Soon, their will to live, their inner spirit, will be so ferocious as to appear like hate and malice. I understand this, and I do not judge. We humans are different. -A- human is animal. Wild, beautiful, fierce. Humanity is an organism until itself. It has arms, heads, feet, eyes. In the same way a beehive is it's own unique organism, separate from the bee, so too is humanity a being separate from itself. I see the struggle between the two, as well. A push and pull of ego and spirit, greed and grace, hate and love.
I often feel a different being altogether.
Noises become too loud. The flow of traffic an ocular behomoth. The mingled smells of the market an assault. The dance of social Grace's an affront to logic.
I do not judge, though. I am the minority. The stone does not judge the stream, despite how it wears upon it. I digress, I'm sorry, Master, Scholar. I am not accustomed to these journals. Allow me to right this track.
Lady Olivia has suggested I become her protege. She seems beloved. We have differences, and similarities. The gods put her in my path... Is this not the formula for great growth? I believe it is, considering my goals.
Would you pick up a black one now? I have records to make that I don't wish to affect my current trajectory.
Written By Cerdensulathara
Jan. 31, 2019, 11:37 p.m.(6/27/1010 AR)
Relationship Note on Rinel
This, this is my best friend.
Written By Cerdensulathara
Jan. 31, 2019, 9:18 p.m.(6/26/1010 AR)
Relationship Note on Olivia
She is an acquaintance at best.
Written By Cerdensulathara
Jan. 30, 2019, 2:27 a.m.(6/23/1010 AR)
Relationship Note on Olivia
Chance ran her into me. She seems to understand people, and is charitable
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.