Written By Duarte
Feb. 1, 2024, 5:27 p.m.(9/1/1021 AR)
Journal
And this concludes my memoir, for the remainder of my life will be told not by me but by history. My purpose here was to recount my rise from lowborn orphan to nobility. Now that story is told.
But an epilogue - however vague.
The Gods showed me two paths and bade me to choose one. I did not. Ever I remain, balanced on a blade's edge, for it is only there I feel comfortable.
The Gods said I barely believed in them, and it is not true. I do believe in them but perhaps not in the way they would prefer to be believed in.
Choice is paramount but it is not a one-off. We constantly choose, and some times choose not to choose.
The Gods were born of choice, and so were their reflections. They continue to be fed by choice. Our choices. Choice is the gift and magic of humanity and through it we build or destroy, and we empower Gods or Devils.
The Gods are not my masters, nor their archfiends. Each are my tools. Tools with which I craft the path I walk. Each choice made makes either of them more, or less. And the aggregate choices of humanity may make them very powerful indeed, or as innocuous as autumn mist.
Is one good and is one evil? I have served Vellichor by walking with Veil. Thrax served Gild by acting with Legion. Gloria is often honored through a path wrought with much Despair. Stasis brings Change. And once change is acceptably achieved, how many will then desire Stasis?
The true evil is that which wants to end this Dream. Did you look to see who stood beside you to fight it, and take note? We all draw it together with our different hands.
Some of us small, some of us large in impact - but we all paint it.
And whether your brush is wide or thin, all I ask is that you paint at all.
And this concludes my memoir, for the remainder of my life will be told not by me but by history. My purpose here was to recount my rise from lowborn orphan to nobility. Now that story is told.
But an epilogue - however vague.
The Gods showed me two paths and bade me to choose one. I did not. Ever I remain, balanced on a blade's edge, for it is only there I feel comfortable.
The Gods said I barely believed in them, and it is not true. I do believe in them but perhaps not in the way they would prefer to be believed in.
Choice is paramount but it is not a one-off. We constantly choose, and some times choose not to choose.
The Gods were born of choice, and so were their reflections. They continue to be fed by choice. Our choices. Choice is the gift and magic of humanity and through it we build or destroy, and we empower Gods or Devils.
The Gods are not my masters, nor their archfiends. Each are my tools. Tools with which I craft the path I walk. Each choice made makes either of them more, or less. And the aggregate choices of humanity may make them very powerful indeed, or as innocuous as autumn mist.
Is one good and is one evil? I have served Vellichor by walking with Veil. Thrax served Gild by acting with Legion. Gloria is often honored through a path wrought with much Despair. Stasis brings Change. And once change is acceptably achieved, how many will then desire Stasis?
The true evil is that which wants to end this Dream. Did you look to see who stood beside you to fight it, and take note? We all draw it together with our different hands.
Some of us small, some of us large in impact - but we all paint it.
And whether your brush is wide or thin, all I ask is that you paint at all.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 28, 2024, 5:05 a.m.(8/20/1021 AR)
Journal
I have no recollection of how my ire and rage was suppressed in that moment, nor of the journey home. All I know is I was somehow subdued (I mean, it's not /hard/) and that they quickly reclaimed the lost journal, abandoned the shardhaven, and we came home.
What we recovered were some of the lost pages of Scholar Wilhelm's journal on blight. And it was uncertain hope, but it at least gave us a path.
The text discussed the manner in which Corruption could find its way to the heart of others without them knowing. The effects of it before it might outwardly present itself, as it had on our bodies and in the affliction of our minds. BUT! There was a remedy - a glimpse of one - possible, and attainable. Of course, from a scholar, it was rooted in Faith. Thirteen days and thirteen nights, thirteen gifts of value, one to each of the Gods. Thirteen offerings of action, cleansing what has been sullied, and thirteen cleansings in ritual baths before each of the Gods in turn.
And so, as my studies with Rinel had long since been complete, and I found much time in my absence from public life to study on my own bat, I went forth and as the archers say 'gave it a shot'.
I spent thirteen days and thirteen nights in each of the shrines, offering gifts at each vigil, and reflecting upon how Corruption took root in my heart. I made offerings of action and did the ritual baths. And at the culmination of this, I partook in a Cleansing Ritual that was fad at the time - taught to me and Petal by Lady Olivia - a ritual done to cleanse the primum of the poison Azazel by way of Shreve had spread.
Mine was performed in the Shrine of the Sentinel, on the thirteenth hour of the thirteenth day. It was my final offering of action - this cleansing of the primum - but the motivation was a cleansing of myself.
To Limerance, I burnt a stack of letters I had saved from Lianne, and prayed that my steadfastness to her was perceived by the Gods, if not recognized by her herself. To Vellichor, I burned a dossier I had compiled on Legate Bianca for reasons unimportant now and needn't be written - but I longed for her friendship and was regretful. To Gild, I burned an old beloved hat that I used to wear as a commoner messenger boy. I prayed she would see my charity and how I have used my newfound station for charitable ends. To Tehom, I burned a slice of the very vines that were embedded in my flesh. It wasn't a sacrifice, but a reflection of one. To Aion, I burned a slip of paper upon which I wrote "the future". Mirari was there with me when I did it.
With each sacrifice, I began to feel stronger. I began to breathe easier. For the first time in years now, I began to feel better. I felt regret for my smug, callous ways. My courting of scandal. Stronger, better, cleaner - I stood taller.
As the ritual came to a close but the flames continued to burn hot, the shrine suddenly darkened. I heard a voice. And the voice was spake unto me. And the voice was loud, and magnificent and resounding. And it said, "You stand balanced on a knife's point. Cleansed of Blight by the Gods you hardly believe in. Oathed to those who serve the Darkness."
The room disappeared and I was floating in blackness, wobbling upon that very point. Before me were two paths: one strewn with rocks and hard going, difficulties and enemies I may not survive, but in the air there was a rainbow - bright, beautiful and perfect. The other path was one of ease. I could feel the allure of wealth and glory in that path, with enemies and obstacles still, but also much adulation.
And the voice spoke again, "Choice is the greatest gift given to humanity. You must choose."
In a snap, I was back in the shrine. The fires had died out. But something was different. I felt along my arms and pulled at my shirt. The vines! They had gone! The flesh of my torso was pock-marked with the scars of their penetrating growth, but the growth itself was gone!
But somehow, I still felt them wrapping around my heart like impending doom. A constant reminder that I must choose.
I have no recollection of how my ire and rage was suppressed in that moment, nor of the journey home. All I know is I was somehow subdued (I mean, it's not /hard/) and that they quickly reclaimed the lost journal, abandoned the shardhaven, and we came home.
What we recovered were some of the lost pages of Scholar Wilhelm's journal on blight. And it was uncertain hope, but it at least gave us a path.
The text discussed the manner in which Corruption could find its way to the heart of others without them knowing. The effects of it before it might outwardly present itself, as it had on our bodies and in the affliction of our minds. BUT! There was a remedy - a glimpse of one - possible, and attainable. Of course, from a scholar, it was rooted in Faith. Thirteen days and thirteen nights, thirteen gifts of value, one to each of the Gods. Thirteen offerings of action, cleansing what has been sullied, and thirteen cleansings in ritual baths before each of the Gods in turn.
And so, as my studies with Rinel had long since been complete, and I found much time in my absence from public life to study on my own bat, I went forth and as the archers say 'gave it a shot'.
I spent thirteen days and thirteen nights in each of the shrines, offering gifts at each vigil, and reflecting upon how Corruption took root in my heart. I made offerings of action and did the ritual baths. And at the culmination of this, I partook in a Cleansing Ritual that was fad at the time - taught to me and Petal by Lady Olivia - a ritual done to cleanse the primum of the poison Azazel by way of Shreve had spread.
Mine was performed in the Shrine of the Sentinel, on the thirteenth hour of the thirteenth day. It was my final offering of action - this cleansing of the primum - but the motivation was a cleansing of myself.
To Limerance, I burnt a stack of letters I had saved from Lianne, and prayed that my steadfastness to her was perceived by the Gods, if not recognized by her herself. To Vellichor, I burned a dossier I had compiled on Legate Bianca for reasons unimportant now and needn't be written - but I longed for her friendship and was regretful. To Gild, I burned an old beloved hat that I used to wear as a commoner messenger boy. I prayed she would see my charity and how I have used my newfound station for charitable ends. To Tehom, I burned a slice of the very vines that were embedded in my flesh. It wasn't a sacrifice, but a reflection of one. To Aion, I burned a slip of paper upon which I wrote "the future". Mirari was there with me when I did it.
With each sacrifice, I began to feel stronger. I began to breathe easier. For the first time in years now, I began to feel better. I felt regret for my smug, callous ways. My courting of scandal. Stronger, better, cleaner - I stood taller.
As the ritual came to a close but the flames continued to burn hot, the shrine suddenly darkened. I heard a voice. And the voice was spake unto me. And the voice was loud, and magnificent and resounding. And it said, "You stand balanced on a knife's point. Cleansed of Blight by the Gods you hardly believe in. Oathed to those who serve the Darkness."
The room disappeared and I was floating in blackness, wobbling upon that very point. Before me were two paths: one strewn with rocks and hard going, difficulties and enemies I may not survive, but in the air there was a rainbow - bright, beautiful and perfect. The other path was one of ease. I could feel the allure of wealth and glory in that path, with enemies and obstacles still, but also much adulation.
And the voice spoke again, "Choice is the greatest gift given to humanity. You must choose."
In a snap, I was back in the shrine. The fires had died out. But something was different. I felt along my arms and pulled at my shirt. The vines! They had gone! The flesh of my torso was pock-marked with the scars of their penetrating growth, but the growth itself was gone!
But somehow, I still felt them wrapping around my heart like impending doom. A constant reminder that I must choose.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 26, 2024, 5:58 a.m.(8/16/1021 AR)
Journal
It was several days' ride to the place mentioned on the map. Luis Igniseri attended myself, Rinel, Lady Olivia Ashford, and Violet. Olivia, Violet and myself, of course, covered our blighted flesh for the journey. We had grown quite used to it. And we had grown used to the rations of broth and tea concoctions for sustenance, as well.
North of Greenhaven was a ruined temple. A young shardhaven, by my estimation, but familiar to me from my vision in the Shrine of Vellichor nearly three years prior. We were nearly two years since our affliction took root - literally - in the pits of stomachs. A sense of dread suffused the land around the temple. The growth of nature about started to darken. Odors of forest shifted to the stench of a marsh. There was something hateful and parasitic about the trees and vines. It all looked lush, and yet fetid. I wanted to go back, but Rinel goaded me forward.
The door into the temple was rotted and decayed and held in place by the same blighted vines that seemed to line the forest floor itself.
Again, our instincts told us to pray. And so pray we did. And like last time, the mention of Petrichor sparked something within the land itself that shot anger into our hearts.
My companions, I must admit, were more steadfast than I. The searing hatred I could not stand and I sought to make Rinel stop. But she was relentless in her devotions, as were Luis, Olivia and Violet. Eventually, the prayer ceased and the grip of resentment lessened in my breast. But Rinel was stubborn in her insistence that I lurch forward - she rapped me with her cane. Several times. To impel me deeper into this ruined and blighted locale.
The voices came and they were deceitful and strong. They turned my ire against my party. There, in a once lovely antechamber that was now stranged by that same lush-yet-putrid overgrowth - Violet and Rinel once again began their canticles. And it broke me.
Sullen and full of hate, we moved to an abandoned storeroom where mold, mushrooms and rot grew in the walls. It smelt of decayed flesh of the half-eaten animal carcasses strewn across the floor. From there we came to a room of animal pens, clearly in some recent use as droppings were underfoot. A large raccoon appears and seemed to share a strange kinship with myself and Olivia - so, of course, I ordered Luis to kill it. It was an ill-fated ask as he split the rodent shard in half sending its innards in a collision course for my face. It took weeks to get the taste out of my mouth.
But soon enough, in an antechamber of warrens, Rinel was literally getting the taste out of her mouth. She had been our anchor - inexplicably resonating with Faith - up to the point she started retching and puking up blood in that very room. At once and immediately the hatred poured back into my heart and my mind, and Violet's as well. Somehow, it was stayed. It was stayed by devotions uttered to Petrichor. Words the shardhaven did not want to hear. It shook immensely - like Halfway House had done - and collapsed a wall to reveal a library. And then, I felt the touch again - as I had once before, years before. The presence of Vellichor. It pushed me to the wall where a faint outline indicated a stowage space. Pressing this, we unearthed several pages long hidden away by Azazel. Many of them rotted and crumbled to dust, but many remain in tact.
And nearly as suddenly as I was stricken by insight, I was plagued by hatred. Extreme and leeching, it festered in my very soul. The knowledge I sought became like a ward, and I was the demon. I backed away frightened and vengeful. "NO! Leave it alone!" I demanded of Violet. I drew my sword.
I - me, Duarte Amadeo - drew my sword against Violet Farwatch. And then a taunted Olivia withs its blade. "Leave it be," I ordered in as fierce a way I could become. I even waggled it at Luis. And then, I touched it to Rinel's bad leg and threatened to amputate it on the spot - promising to finish the job the highway men that took her beloved Wynna had begun.
It was several days' ride to the place mentioned on the map. Luis Igniseri attended myself, Rinel, Lady Olivia Ashford, and Violet. Olivia, Violet and myself, of course, covered our blighted flesh for the journey. We had grown quite used to it. And we had grown used to the rations of broth and tea concoctions for sustenance, as well.
North of Greenhaven was a ruined temple. A young shardhaven, by my estimation, but familiar to me from my vision in the Shrine of Vellichor nearly three years prior. We were nearly two years since our affliction took root - literally - in the pits of stomachs. A sense of dread suffused the land around the temple. The growth of nature about started to darken. Odors of forest shifted to the stench of a marsh. There was something hateful and parasitic about the trees and vines. It all looked lush, and yet fetid. I wanted to go back, but Rinel goaded me forward.
The door into the temple was rotted and decayed and held in place by the same blighted vines that seemed to line the forest floor itself.
Again, our instincts told us to pray. And so pray we did. And like last time, the mention of Petrichor sparked something within the land itself that shot anger into our hearts.
My companions, I must admit, were more steadfast than I. The searing hatred I could not stand and I sought to make Rinel stop. But she was relentless in her devotions, as were Luis, Olivia and Violet. Eventually, the prayer ceased and the grip of resentment lessened in my breast. But Rinel was stubborn in her insistence that I lurch forward - she rapped me with her cane. Several times. To impel me deeper into this ruined and blighted locale.
The voices came and they were deceitful and strong. They turned my ire against my party. There, in a once lovely antechamber that was now stranged by that same lush-yet-putrid overgrowth - Violet and Rinel once again began their canticles. And it broke me.
Sullen and full of hate, we moved to an abandoned storeroom where mold, mushrooms and rot grew in the walls. It smelt of decayed flesh of the half-eaten animal carcasses strewn across the floor. From there we came to a room of animal pens, clearly in some recent use as droppings were underfoot. A large raccoon appears and seemed to share a strange kinship with myself and Olivia - so, of course, I ordered Luis to kill it. It was an ill-fated ask as he split the rodent shard in half sending its innards in a collision course for my face. It took weeks to get the taste out of my mouth.
But soon enough, in an antechamber of warrens, Rinel was literally getting the taste out of her mouth. She had been our anchor - inexplicably resonating with Faith - up to the point she started retching and puking up blood in that very room. At once and immediately the hatred poured back into my heart and my mind, and Violet's as well. Somehow, it was stayed. It was stayed by devotions uttered to Petrichor. Words the shardhaven did not want to hear. It shook immensely - like Halfway House had done - and collapsed a wall to reveal a library. And then, I felt the touch again - as I had once before, years before. The presence of Vellichor. It pushed me to the wall where a faint outline indicated a stowage space. Pressing this, we unearthed several pages long hidden away by Azazel. Many of them rotted and crumbled to dust, but many remain in tact.
And nearly as suddenly as I was stricken by insight, I was plagued by hatred. Extreme and leeching, it festered in my very soul. The knowledge I sought became like a ward, and I was the demon. I backed away frightened and vengeful. "NO! Leave it alone!" I demanded of Violet. I drew my sword.
I - me, Duarte Amadeo - drew my sword against Violet Farwatch. And then a taunted Olivia withs its blade. "Leave it be," I ordered in as fierce a way I could become. I even waggled it at Luis. And then, I touched it to Rinel's bad leg and threatened to amputate it on the spot - promising to finish the job the highway men that took her beloved Wynna had begun.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 26, 2024, 5:21 a.m.(8/16/1021 AR)
Journal
As she told it - she awoke with a start to loud and sudden thumping. It was the beating of her heart pounding like it might leap from her chest. But what it was doing was urging her from bed, out her front door, and into midnight streets bathed in silver.
Rinel strolled from her Upper Boroughs abode, through the outrage, and toward the City Center in her sleeping gown and hat. She put on slippers as an afterthought before her heart pushed her through the door into the night, impelled toward the Great Library of Vellichor. And though she strolled this path hundreds of times, the taste of fear lingered on her tongue. For her path wasn't merely to the library, but down the stairwell. Was he still asleep? Was that a toothy grin she saw in the darkness? These doubts and more assailed her mind while her body only knew to do one thing - yield to the insistence of her heart's pounding.
The silence of the hallway was oppressive. She daren't speak. She barely dared breathe. Walking with a purpose that eluded her, she found herself impelled to a table piled high with books in various states of disarray. One, in particular, beckoned her.
She awoke, in bed, as if none of it happened. Yet, she clung to her bosom the very journal she took from the table in her dream. A Scholar Wilhelm's Journal. In it were his laments of an assignment to Sanctum, and then North past Greenhaven. He was to go witness a cleansing - and he was none to pleased. Pages of ravings against the Archlector tasking him to do such a thing. There was a time we would only receive such snippets, and so the context cannot be placed entirely. But the nature of Wilhelm's doubt hinged on a fear of turning into that which we fight - and that fear resonates with me today.
I found Rinel the next afternoon sitting amongst clutter in her cottage house. The journal, of course she shared. But the peculiar thing was a map.
As she told it - she awoke with a start to loud and sudden thumping. It was the beating of her heart pounding like it might leap from her chest. But what it was doing was urging her from bed, out her front door, and into midnight streets bathed in silver.
Rinel strolled from her Upper Boroughs abode, through the outrage, and toward the City Center in her sleeping gown and hat. She put on slippers as an afterthought before her heart pushed her through the door into the night, impelled toward the Great Library of Vellichor. And though she strolled this path hundreds of times, the taste of fear lingered on her tongue. For her path wasn't merely to the library, but down the stairwell. Was he still asleep? Was that a toothy grin she saw in the darkness? These doubts and more assailed her mind while her body only knew to do one thing - yield to the insistence of her heart's pounding.
The silence of the hallway was oppressive. She daren't speak. She barely dared breathe. Walking with a purpose that eluded her, she found herself impelled to a table piled high with books in various states of disarray. One, in particular, beckoned her.
She awoke, in bed, as if none of it happened. Yet, she clung to her bosom the very journal she took from the table in her dream. A Scholar Wilhelm's Journal. In it were his laments of an assignment to Sanctum, and then North past Greenhaven. He was to go witness a cleansing - and he was none to pleased. Pages of ravings against the Archlector tasking him to do such a thing. There was a time we would only receive such snippets, and so the context cannot be placed entirely. But the nature of Wilhelm's doubt hinged on a fear of turning into that which we fight - and that fear resonates with me today.
I found Rinel the next afternoon sitting amongst clutter in her cottage house. The journal, of course she shared. But the peculiar thing was a map.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 20, 2024, 4:01 a.m.(8/4/1021 AR)
Journal
Halfway down the stairs. The dream always began halfway down the stairs - a transition between up and down. Halfway down and I'm stuck. All of us are stuck: Tessa, Olivia, Violet, and me. It's so close I feel we are dreaming the same dream together. Am I really interacting with them? Or is it just fevered imagination?
Somewhere, a song wafts on a light breeze. It presents itself in an eerie fashion like a funereal march. It makes us shiver, but also yearn. It makes us want to give up. All we have to do is reach the bottom of this descent and the hunger will stop. We will be at peace.
The Halfway House called to us. It called to us in our dreams. Even in waking moments, Tessa would talk about it with a glaze in her eyes. And I felt it too. It could all be so simple. To return. To embrace corruption. To dine on the feast that waits for us in the garden.
The compulsion was powerful. An undeniable tug upon my wits urged me to return.
It had been a year - a year, at least. This new dream was just a dream - or so I thought. One of the many I had and was having. But it was persistent. Very persistent. Encouraging, even.
One day I awoke to itching. My shoulders and arms - they itched. I sat up and when I went to scratch...oh, I can't bring myself to write it.
I must write it.
Tearing through my skin, sprouting forth like wildflowers find a way in the gravel road, were black, corrupted vines. They had broken through my flesh and were embedded in my arms and shoulders. They were alive, growing, and threatened to wrap me entire. If only I could describe how the world swirled around me in a sense of motionless panic...if for no other reason than so it wouldn't come across as blase. I must've stayed in bed three days, terror-stricken, before I was able to muster enough sense to get out of bed. I found I could hide them in my clothes, somewhat, but for how long?
It was these corrupted tendrils twining around my flesh that drove me to my first long bout of solitude - for no other reason than I had become a sort of a shard, or - I imagine - the beginnings of one. But they were merely a cosmetic nuisance - frightening as they were. The real terror? It was knowing that this corruption would spread. That it would encase my body in full and once done, would compel me to march back to the Halfway House and give myself to the Corrupted Mother.
Time was running out.
Halfway down the stairs. The dream always began halfway down the stairs - a transition between up and down. Halfway down and I'm stuck. All of us are stuck: Tessa, Olivia, Violet, and me. It's so close I feel we are dreaming the same dream together. Am I really interacting with them? Or is it just fevered imagination?
Somewhere, a song wafts on a light breeze. It presents itself in an eerie fashion like a funereal march. It makes us shiver, but also yearn. It makes us want to give up. All we have to do is reach the bottom of this descent and the hunger will stop. We will be at peace.
The Halfway House called to us. It called to us in our dreams. Even in waking moments, Tessa would talk about it with a glaze in her eyes. And I felt it too. It could all be so simple. To return. To embrace corruption. To dine on the feast that waits for us in the garden.
The compulsion was powerful. An undeniable tug upon my wits urged me to return.
It had been a year - a year, at least. This new dream was just a dream - or so I thought. One of the many I had and was having. But it was persistent. Very persistent. Encouraging, even.
One day I awoke to itching. My shoulders and arms - they itched. I sat up and when I went to scratch...oh, I can't bring myself to write it.
I must write it.
Tearing through my skin, sprouting forth like wildflowers find a way in the gravel road, were black, corrupted vines. They had broken through my flesh and were embedded in my arms and shoulders. They were alive, growing, and threatened to wrap me entire. If only I could describe how the world swirled around me in a sense of motionless panic...if for no other reason than so it wouldn't come across as blase. I must've stayed in bed three days, terror-stricken, before I was able to muster enough sense to get out of bed. I found I could hide them in my clothes, somewhat, but for how long?
It was these corrupted tendrils twining around my flesh that drove me to my first long bout of solitude - for no other reason than I had become a sort of a shard, or - I imagine - the beginnings of one. But they were merely a cosmetic nuisance - frightening as they were. The real terror? It was knowing that this corruption would spread. That it would encase my body in full and once done, would compel me to march back to the Halfway House and give myself to the Corrupted Mother.
Time was running out.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 19, 2024, 5:03 a.m.(8/2/1021 AR)
Journal
Defeated and dismayed, we left the Halfway House for Arx without a single thing to show for it. The loss of appetite made sense for the humiliation of it all - though months of planning preceded our venture, we found ourselves entirely unprepared.
I would say it took some days, perhaps a week, before the realization stuck. I had not been eating. I was not only not hungry, I was full and sated. And then, the hunger came, sharp and painful, I was starved. And yet, I could not bring myself to eat. It took everything I had to will myself to a meal. Every scent of food and every bite made me feel like retching. It was as if I were stuffing down a fifth course of entree, and yet I starved. It was a pain so twisting I almost envied Sir Jordan Ober being spared the brunt of it when he fell defending Duke Harlan Ashford not but soon after returning to the city.
I was able to find some minor relief - very minor - in concoctions of nutrient-steeped tea prepared by Lady Ray Laveer. For some months it would be the only thing I 'ate'.
But then the nightmares began. Always the same. Hungry - so hungry - I found myself back in that beautifully crafted garden surrounded by rich, plump berries. I found myself eating them but my hunger would not slake. Frantic, as if soon to die of starvation, I find myself feasting on bread and meats, an assortment of cheese, fruits and vegetables. Yet, still, I am unfulfilled. I only grow more hungry.
And I can feel it in my belly. Something evil stirring in the pit of my stomach. A parasitic thing growing and embedding itself through my gut and into my brain. I found myself in these dreams yearning for the Halfway House. Wishing myself to return to the garden and lay in it. To stay there at rest until the berries I'm sure have taken root in my stomach sprout and grow out of me and feast on my flesh to give them life and strengthen their growth. I wished to join the rest of the vines in the garden, and to give the last of my life to feed that corruption growing within me. Every time I closed my eyes I would see it.
Through these days of endless torment of unsatisfiable hunger and wretched dream, I yet fought to keep up appearances. I grew gaunt and weary, yet somehow was capable. I took on Rinel Tern - a scholar I had met at the Ambassador - as my protege. I had never been much of a religious mind beyond accepting at its word the little dogma I had been fed. But Rinel was a wealth of information and I enjoyed her lessons - even if we disagreed quite vehemently about what those lessons /meant/. The conclusions she would draw left me perplexed, but for the knowledge itself, I was grateful.
For the better part of a year I managed a life in this way. The hunger with its paradoxical absence of appetite, the dreams - all the same - became ultimately regarded as permanent handicaps. I found myself attending the shrines more and more as I kept up my study in the Faith. I took up philanthropy and did what I could to balance this constant aching for corruption with defiance in acts of piety. I was certain things would stay this way until my last breath, and I made peace with it.
But as usual, I was wrong.
Defeated and dismayed, we left the Halfway House for Arx without a single thing to show for it. The loss of appetite made sense for the humiliation of it all - though months of planning preceded our venture, we found ourselves entirely unprepared.
I would say it took some days, perhaps a week, before the realization stuck. I had not been eating. I was not only not hungry, I was full and sated. And then, the hunger came, sharp and painful, I was starved. And yet, I could not bring myself to eat. It took everything I had to will myself to a meal. Every scent of food and every bite made me feel like retching. It was as if I were stuffing down a fifth course of entree, and yet I starved. It was a pain so twisting I almost envied Sir Jordan Ober being spared the brunt of it when he fell defending Duke Harlan Ashford not but soon after returning to the city.
I was able to find some minor relief - very minor - in concoctions of nutrient-steeped tea prepared by Lady Ray Laveer. For some months it would be the only thing I 'ate'.
But then the nightmares began. Always the same. Hungry - so hungry - I found myself back in that beautifully crafted garden surrounded by rich, plump berries. I found myself eating them but my hunger would not slake. Frantic, as if soon to die of starvation, I find myself feasting on bread and meats, an assortment of cheese, fruits and vegetables. Yet, still, I am unfulfilled. I only grow more hungry.
And I can feel it in my belly. Something evil stirring in the pit of my stomach. A parasitic thing growing and embedding itself through my gut and into my brain. I found myself in these dreams yearning for the Halfway House. Wishing myself to return to the garden and lay in it. To stay there at rest until the berries I'm sure have taken root in my stomach sprout and grow out of me and feast on my flesh to give them life and strengthen their growth. I wished to join the rest of the vines in the garden, and to give the last of my life to feed that corruption growing within me. Every time I closed my eyes I would see it.
Through these days of endless torment of unsatisfiable hunger and wretched dream, I yet fought to keep up appearances. I grew gaunt and weary, yet somehow was capable. I took on Rinel Tern - a scholar I had met at the Ambassador - as my protege. I had never been much of a religious mind beyond accepting at its word the little dogma I had been fed. But Rinel was a wealth of information and I enjoyed her lessons - even if we disagreed quite vehemently about what those lessons /meant/. The conclusions she would draw left me perplexed, but for the knowledge itself, I was grateful.
For the better part of a year I managed a life in this way. The hunger with its paradoxical absence of appetite, the dreams - all the same - became ultimately regarded as permanent handicaps. I found myself attending the shrines more and more as I kept up my study in the Faith. I took up philanthropy and did what I could to balance this constant aching for corruption with defiance in acts of piety. I was certain things would stay this way until my last breath, and I made peace with it.
But as usual, I was wrong.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 12, 2024, 4:24 a.m.(7/16/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Rinel
I won't soon or ever forget the night I met the Oathlands scholar - the loveliest of scholars, as I would come to call her (much to her dismay).
It was at the Ambassador. She came into a bar with a stubborn refusal to drink anything but non-alcoholic cider. The selection made me cringe to my core. She was there, bright-eyed and naive, yammering on about some form of lichen she was intent on studying to some pointless end.
Of course, we toyed with her. She was eccentric and prideful, sanctimonious and stubborn. But she was abundantly optimistic with a sense of wonder and almost an endearing hopefulness - traits that would fade from my lovely, dear Rinel in time until she was less than a shell of the person I met that night.
Several at the bar took to merrymaking and in doing so began to chant a Valardin folk tune. Rinel joined in and it wasn't long before they hoisted her upon their shoulders and carried her around the Ambassador as if she were a banner. The bright smile on her face then, I would never see again after that night.
Rinel's time in Arx was fraught with confrontation and haughty insistence. For these, she alone was to blame. I nearly killed her myself, once. And though I tried to speak sense to her, in the end, even I had to turn my back on her.
But lest you think this is written to run her down, I shall dispatch promptly with the notion. For this is a hero's story. While it might take some time to reveal the arc of her redemption and bring an explanation to the enduring gratitude that I will hold for her, everlasting, I may as well just spoil the punchline: Rinel Tern saved me.
Your experiences may vary.
It was at the Ambassador. She came into a bar with a stubborn refusal to drink anything but non-alcoholic cider. The selection made me cringe to my core. She was there, bright-eyed and naive, yammering on about some form of lichen she was intent on studying to some pointless end.
Of course, we toyed with her. She was eccentric and prideful, sanctimonious and stubborn. But she was abundantly optimistic with a sense of wonder and almost an endearing hopefulness - traits that would fade from my lovely, dear Rinel in time until she was less than a shell of the person I met that night.
Several at the bar took to merrymaking and in doing so began to chant a Valardin folk tune. Rinel joined in and it wasn't long before they hoisted her upon their shoulders and carried her around the Ambassador as if she were a banner. The bright smile on her face then, I would never see again after that night.
Rinel's time in Arx was fraught with confrontation and haughty insistence. For these, she alone was to blame. I nearly killed her myself, once. And though I tried to speak sense to her, in the end, even I had to turn my back on her.
But lest you think this is written to run her down, I shall dispatch promptly with the notion. For this is a hero's story. While it might take some time to reveal the arc of her redemption and bring an explanation to the enduring gratitude that I will hold for her, everlasting, I may as well just spoil the punchline: Rinel Tern saved me.
Your experiences may vary.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 11, 2024, 6:24 a.m.(7/14/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Ennettia
Journal
In the months leading up to my venture to Halfway House, I found myself fallen for the lady, Ennettia Igniseri, born to House Saik. I met her in the Velenosan Ward on a springtime day picnicing on a yellow blanket beneath the warm, cloudless sky. Her eyes were a brilliant hazel that seemed half asleep to the world for the strain of keeping them open would be much too efforty an endeavor. Her skin an olive compexion that reminded me of home. Her hair a deep, dark brown visible beneath the sun but in other settings it was a lovely black. But it wasn't her figure or form that was captivating. It was how she moved - or didn't move much. Her grace was defined by effortlessness, except hers was not a practiced perfection. It was effortlessness in its raw form - truly, no effort, whatsoever. I'm not being poetic.
Ennettia is the most honest person I have ever met, and I endlessly adored her for it. She was determined to revel in life's simplicities and anything just out of reach was a reach too far and she could skip it. She would not skimp on luxury. Her very being demanded service to her indolence. My gods was she charming.
She never walked, she drifted. She never sat, she lazed. She never laid down, she would sort of fall into the furniture and drape over it. I would toy with her languid proclivities. When we would drink together, I would place her cup just a finger's nail out of reach - knowing it would be too far. Or I would present it to her lips, to save her the strength of holding the glass herself.
She was not without depth. And her life was not easy as it seemed. I trust in her way she did work for the lifestyle she came to enjoy, and once attained with a sufficient degree of opulence, she was content to soak in it forever. And her life was not without its tragedy. Born of Saik, she married to Igniseri and bore a son. Though the marriage was political in its nature, like so many she grew a fondness for her husband and was tragically widowed. She was a kind and patient mother, but also knew there was a reason nannies and tutors were on hire and gladly let them to their work. Her mind was sharp. Her wit could cut a man to size with words carelessly offered to the wind without so much of a turn of the head lest her comfort be impacted. She enjoyed puzzles, and was great with numbers, and was studious. I suspect, anything she could do whilst reclined with a bowl of fruit nearby - or better yet - offered to her mouth by a servant - was a thing in which she excelled. And you always knew where you stood with Ennettia, for it would be just too much work to play pretend. But it would also be too much work to loathe - she seemed to get along with most. Like anyone, she had her limits and when I explored these her warnings would be sharp and I would relent, for I loved her.
She attained to herself a contentment and complacency that any might envy. Her joy in life once acquired was simple. She was easy to be around. A person who required only not to be bored, there was no need for masks or shadows or flamboyance. She liked to talk. And she liked her comforts. Ennettia was an end out of grasp. And if I had to do it again, I would sacrifice everything that came after to return to that comfort found in the luxury of languorous simplicity.
In the months leading up to my venture to Halfway House, I found myself fallen for the lady, Ennettia Igniseri, born to House Saik. I met her in the Velenosan Ward on a springtime day picnicing on a yellow blanket beneath the warm, cloudless sky. Her eyes were a brilliant hazel that seemed half asleep to the world for the strain of keeping them open would be much too efforty an endeavor. Her skin an olive compexion that reminded me of home. Her hair a deep, dark brown visible beneath the sun but in other settings it was a lovely black. But it wasn't her figure or form that was captivating. It was how she moved - or didn't move much. Her grace was defined by effortlessness, except hers was not a practiced perfection. It was effortlessness in its raw form - truly, no effort, whatsoever. I'm not being poetic.
Ennettia is the most honest person I have ever met, and I endlessly adored her for it. She was determined to revel in life's simplicities and anything just out of reach was a reach too far and she could skip it. She would not skimp on luxury. Her very being demanded service to her indolence. My gods was she charming.
She never walked, she drifted. She never sat, she lazed. She never laid down, she would sort of fall into the furniture and drape over it. I would toy with her languid proclivities. When we would drink together, I would place her cup just a finger's nail out of reach - knowing it would be too far. Or I would present it to her lips, to save her the strength of holding the glass herself.
She was not without depth. And her life was not easy as it seemed. I trust in her way she did work for the lifestyle she came to enjoy, and once attained with a sufficient degree of opulence, she was content to soak in it forever. And her life was not without its tragedy. Born of Saik, she married to Igniseri and bore a son. Though the marriage was political in its nature, like so many she grew a fondness for her husband and was tragically widowed. She was a kind and patient mother, but also knew there was a reason nannies and tutors were on hire and gladly let them to their work. Her mind was sharp. Her wit could cut a man to size with words carelessly offered to the wind without so much of a turn of the head lest her comfort be impacted. She enjoyed puzzles, and was great with numbers, and was studious. I suspect, anything she could do whilst reclined with a bowl of fruit nearby - or better yet - offered to her mouth by a servant - was a thing in which she excelled. And you always knew where you stood with Ennettia, for it would be just too much work to play pretend. But it would also be too much work to loathe - she seemed to get along with most. Like anyone, she had her limits and when I explored these her warnings would be sharp and I would relent, for I loved her.
She attained to herself a contentment and complacency that any might envy. Her joy in life once acquired was simple. She was easy to be around. A person who required only not to be bored, there was no need for masks or shadows or flamboyance. She liked to talk. And she liked her comforts. Ennettia was an end out of grasp. And if I had to do it again, I would sacrifice everything that came after to return to that comfort found in the luxury of languorous simplicity.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 11, 2024, 5:08 a.m.(7/14/1021 AR)
Journal
We had half a map and it is all that we had. Lady Olivia Ashford, Lady Tessa Moore, Sir Jordan Ober (of House Ashford), Violet Marjawn (now Baroness Violet Farwatch), Sister Astraea Valardin, and me. Much went into the planning for our venture to Halfway House, but much was not enough.
Wandering the woods to which the map took us, the shardhaven's taunts began well before the location was in our sights. The map itself seemed to laugh at us as it withheld its final destination when under scrutiny. We had to view it with half a gaze to get anywhere. It was terribly annoying, if punny. All about us the shadows themselves seemed to twist and grin menacingly for our approach. We were all too welcome guests to a night that would be fraught with terror.
Everything about the Halfway House was half. It was half decrepit and half new construction. It was half open, and half closed in doors and window. Ominous music played on a loop, but only to half the song. The only full completion of a thing on the premises was a grave just outside the building. In hindsight, an all too obvious thing to have dug up. We missed it entirely.
The smell of fresh popcorn permeated the air as we considered our first moves. It was well determined much ahead of time that we would not /enter/ the Halfway House. We decided our best course of action would be to walk a perimeter and - as you might imagine - that proved to be impossible because we could only get as far as half way around it. We walked to no end and had no choice but to double back along a tall stone wall covered in lush, beautiful vines and half-bloomed flowers with a glorious scent.
We began our prayers. Prayers to Petrichor, for we knew the nature of corruption here was that of his dark reflection. And the prayers stung the keep like a rapier piercing the flesh of a giant. The vines began to twist and come alive. They came for me and Jordan. Quickly, Violet and he fought them off, but it was the least of our concerns. For so as quickly, I became afflicted with a violent hunger. The ground began to shake as if rebelling against the prayer. The wall crumbled to reveal a garden of beautiful flowers, greenery, and lovely, supple berries. The aching of gnawing hunger was unsatiable for Sir Jordan and I, as we stuffed our faces with what rations Lady Olivia had carried. But the reveal of the garden, and its tender fruit, was all too obvious a trap.
But one by one, the shardhaven took its hold on us. Not with twisted monsters and physical threat. It attacked us at our minds and our wits. Lady Tessa was hungry and insatiable for curiosity. She broke from the group and went around to enter the house at the door. Violet became inexplicably and painfully ill, retching and nauseated. Sir Jordan and I were hungry - so, so very hungry. Only Lady Olivia was without ailment and her continued prayer alleviated our senses, somewhat, for a small while.
Inexplicably, Sir Jordan was pegged in the back of his head by a piece of popcorn. But no one was around who could've possibly thrown it.
We could only half-return from halfway around the house. It was terribly frustrating. And, eventually, the shardhaven warped its way to Lady Olivia's mind as well, and Violet's. They became hungry. And suddenly, that obvious trap of the garden seemed like a mercy. The Halfway House was our salvation! Not our doom. All we had to do was hack through those horrible vines - and how readily they yielded as we sought after, in a righteous cause, the garden and its array of plump, juicy springtime berries.
We fell upon the bushes and devoured them until we were full - staining our lips and fingers. And just as we were on the brink of gluttony, the vines snapped us up and threw us out.
And this piece of the story just ended? That was the easy part.
We had half a map and it is all that we had. Lady Olivia Ashford, Lady Tessa Moore, Sir Jordan Ober (of House Ashford), Violet Marjawn (now Baroness Violet Farwatch), Sister Astraea Valardin, and me. Much went into the planning for our venture to Halfway House, but much was not enough.
Wandering the woods to which the map took us, the shardhaven's taunts began well before the location was in our sights. The map itself seemed to laugh at us as it withheld its final destination when under scrutiny. We had to view it with half a gaze to get anywhere. It was terribly annoying, if punny. All about us the shadows themselves seemed to twist and grin menacingly for our approach. We were all too welcome guests to a night that would be fraught with terror.
Everything about the Halfway House was half. It was half decrepit and half new construction. It was half open, and half closed in doors and window. Ominous music played on a loop, but only to half the song. The only full completion of a thing on the premises was a grave just outside the building. In hindsight, an all too obvious thing to have dug up. We missed it entirely.
The smell of fresh popcorn permeated the air as we considered our first moves. It was well determined much ahead of time that we would not /enter/ the Halfway House. We decided our best course of action would be to walk a perimeter and - as you might imagine - that proved to be impossible because we could only get as far as half way around it. We walked to no end and had no choice but to double back along a tall stone wall covered in lush, beautiful vines and half-bloomed flowers with a glorious scent.
We began our prayers. Prayers to Petrichor, for we knew the nature of corruption here was that of his dark reflection. And the prayers stung the keep like a rapier piercing the flesh of a giant. The vines began to twist and come alive. They came for me and Jordan. Quickly, Violet and he fought them off, but it was the least of our concerns. For so as quickly, I became afflicted with a violent hunger. The ground began to shake as if rebelling against the prayer. The wall crumbled to reveal a garden of beautiful flowers, greenery, and lovely, supple berries. The aching of gnawing hunger was unsatiable for Sir Jordan and I, as we stuffed our faces with what rations Lady Olivia had carried. But the reveal of the garden, and its tender fruit, was all too obvious a trap.
But one by one, the shardhaven took its hold on us. Not with twisted monsters and physical threat. It attacked us at our minds and our wits. Lady Tessa was hungry and insatiable for curiosity. She broke from the group and went around to enter the house at the door. Violet became inexplicably and painfully ill, retching and nauseated. Sir Jordan and I were hungry - so, so very hungry. Only Lady Olivia was without ailment and her continued prayer alleviated our senses, somewhat, for a small while.
Inexplicably, Sir Jordan was pegged in the back of his head by a piece of popcorn. But no one was around who could've possibly thrown it.
We could only half-return from halfway around the house. It was terribly frustrating. And, eventually, the shardhaven warped its way to Lady Olivia's mind as well, and Violet's. They became hungry. And suddenly, that obvious trap of the garden seemed like a mercy. The Halfway House was our salvation! Not our doom. All we had to do was hack through those horrible vines - and how readily they yielded as we sought after, in a righteous cause, the garden and its array of plump, juicy springtime berries.
We fell upon the bushes and devoured them until we were full - staining our lips and fingers. And just as we were on the brink of gluttony, the vines snapped us up and threw us out.
And this piece of the story just ended? That was the easy part.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 2, 2024, 6:57 a.m.(6/24/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Oliver
Journal
Today I break the sequence of my narrative lest I forget and am remiss to immortalize to the white journals the deep appreciation I have for his talents and spirit.
Some months after the grand opening of Casino Crossroads, I commissioned Oliver Arterius, husband of Guildmaster Joscelin Arterius, to create two fine sculptures for the property.
Each was to stand as a shining symbol to the Gods they represented.
The first, a sculpture of wood, vellum, glass, ribbon and silk - 10 feet tall - depicting the sigil of Vellichor, our God of history and wisdom.
The second was of limestone, gold flaked, diamond dust and glitter - standing an impressive seven feet in height - the symbol of our Goddess of charity and civilization, Gild.
Both works stood upon the casino grounds for some years before I donated each to the Faith of the Pantheon, to stand in the shrines of the Gods they meant to honor. Indeed, the shrines are a more fitting home for these masterworks.
Oliver Arterius was a good man. He was a genius. Charitable and gregarious. His history and story of exiting thralldom to become a master in his chosen field and crafting a life that was truly his is one to be read and studied for inspiration. An unbroken spirit was he. To this day, I assert - most likely - remains unbroken.
And so, lest these are lost to time, I record them here in some detail.
*** Detailed sketches of Oliver Arterius's sculptures follow ***
a brilliantly shining sculpture of the sigil of Gild
,~xxXxx~,~xxxXxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxOxAxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxXxxx~,~xxXxx~,
Made from a base of hard and durable limestone, this
sculpture stands an impressive seven feet in height, a
reverent representation of the sigil of the Goddess Gild. The
sculpture is of two coins formed independently of one another.
The first coin is short and stout, the limestone painted a
stunning gold, the paints soaking through the textured stone
so that the colour is bright and full of depth. All around
the round edge of the coin is a trail of crushed gold-tinted
gemstones, giving the coin a natural glitter with or
without a source of light. The golden coin leans against a
taller, wider coin painted with several thick coats of silver.
Much like the gold coin, the rounded edges are rolled in
glistening diamond dust that casts a glistening luster across
the coin, bringing out the metallic colour of the paint.
Darker gray paint is used to create huge block lettering
along the backside of the silver coin:
IN CELEBRATION OF
PROSPERITY & CHARITY
,~xxXxx~,~xxxXxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxOxAxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxXxxx~,~xxXxx~,
an impressively large sculpture of the sigil of Vellichor
,~xxXxx~,~xxxXxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxOxAxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxXxxx~,~xxXxx~,
Made from strong and sturdy oak, this sculpture is impressive
in both width and height; at its tallest point, the sigil
rises to nearly ten feet. Masterfully carved into the shape
of a large tome, the wood has been weathered to give the book
an ancient, rippling sort of appearance. The tome lies open,
with actual thickly layered vellum spread upon the wood and
then overlayed with thin, clear glass for protection. Across
the vellum is inked writing in bold, blocky letters:
MAY WISDOM NOT GIVE WAY TO GREED
Laying above the words is an intricately carved feather
quill with a sharp point, delicately painted a rich and
vibrant crimson. Great time and attention to detail has been
taken to bring realism to the quill, the feathers subtly worn
to suggest use. Just beyond the tome are two raised
scrolls which bring true height to the sculpture, the wood
painted a yellowish cream to suggest age. The scrolls are
crossed and wrapped in thick ribbons sewn from navy blue
silk, the ribbon ends worn and frayed.
,~xxXxx~,~xxxXxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxOxAxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxXxxx~,~xxXxx~,
Today I break the sequence of my narrative lest I forget and am remiss to immortalize to the white journals the deep appreciation I have for his talents and spirit.
Some months after the grand opening of Casino Crossroads, I commissioned Oliver Arterius, husband of Guildmaster Joscelin Arterius, to create two fine sculptures for the property.
Each was to stand as a shining symbol to the Gods they represented.
The first, a sculpture of wood, vellum, glass, ribbon and silk - 10 feet tall - depicting the sigil of Vellichor, our God of history and wisdom.
The second was of limestone, gold flaked, diamond dust and glitter - standing an impressive seven feet in height - the symbol of our Goddess of charity and civilization, Gild.
Both works stood upon the casino grounds for some years before I donated each to the Faith of the Pantheon, to stand in the shrines of the Gods they meant to honor. Indeed, the shrines are a more fitting home for these masterworks.
Oliver Arterius was a good man. He was a genius. Charitable and gregarious. His history and story of exiting thralldom to become a master in his chosen field and crafting a life that was truly his is one to be read and studied for inspiration. An unbroken spirit was he. To this day, I assert - most likely - remains unbroken.
And so, lest these are lost to time, I record them here in some detail.
*** Detailed sketches of Oliver Arterius's sculptures follow ***
a brilliantly shining sculpture of the sigil of Gild
,~xxXxx~,~xxxXxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxOxAxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxXxxx~,~xxXxx~,
Made from a base of hard and durable limestone, this
sculpture stands an impressive seven feet in height, a
reverent representation of the sigil of the Goddess Gild. The
sculpture is of two coins formed independently of one another.
The first coin is short and stout, the limestone painted a
stunning gold, the paints soaking through the textured stone
so that the colour is bright and full of depth. All around
the round edge of the coin is a trail of crushed gold-tinted
gemstones, giving the coin a natural glitter with or
without a source of light. The golden coin leans against a
taller, wider coin painted with several thick coats of silver.
Much like the gold coin, the rounded edges are rolled in
glistening diamond dust that casts a glistening luster across
the coin, bringing out the metallic colour of the paint.
Darker gray paint is used to create huge block lettering
along the backside of the silver coin:
IN CELEBRATION OF
PROSPERITY & CHARITY
,~xxXxx~,~xxxXxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxOxAxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxXxxx~,~xxXxx~,
an impressively large sculpture of the sigil of Vellichor
,~xxXxx~,~xxxXxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxOxAxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxXxxx~,~xxXxx~,
Made from strong and sturdy oak, this sculpture is impressive
in both width and height; at its tallest point, the sigil
rises to nearly ten feet. Masterfully carved into the shape
of a large tome, the wood has been weathered to give the book
an ancient, rippling sort of appearance. The tome lies open,
with actual thickly layered vellum spread upon the wood and
then overlayed with thin, clear glass for protection. Across
the vellum is inked writing in bold, blocky letters:
MAY WISDOM NOT GIVE WAY TO GREED
Laying above the words is an intricately carved feather
quill with a sharp point, delicately painted a rich and
vibrant crimson. Great time and attention to detail has been
taken to bring realism to the quill, the feathers subtly worn
to suggest use. Just beyond the tome are two raised
scrolls which bring true height to the sculpture, the wood
painted a yellowish cream to suggest age. The scrolls are
crossed and wrapped in thick ribbons sewn from navy blue
silk, the ribbon ends worn and frayed.
,~xxXxx~,~xxxXxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxOxAxx~,~xxXXxx~,~xxXxxx~,~xxXxx~,
Written By Duarte
Jan. 1, 2024, 4:54 p.m.(6/23/1021 AR)
*Adhered to this page is a well loved scrap of paper stamped with the symbol of the Faith of the Pantheon*
Vellichor, in your enlightened name I, Bianca, pray:
Enlarge Duarte Amedeo's understanding of this world; Let him see it.
Steady him when he stands before the unknown; Let him know it.
Edify his mind, his heart, his wits; Let him remember it.
May he bend his knee and receive your truth;
Open his ears and receive your counsel;
Open his eyes and receive your words.
May he open his heart and receive your wisdom.
I beseech you, Vellichor, protect him with your insight.
Vellichor, in your enlightened name I, Bianca, pray:
Enlarge Duarte Amedeo's understanding of this world; Let him see it.
Steady him when he stands before the unknown; Let him know it.
Edify his mind, his heart, his wits; Let him remember it.
May he bend his knee and receive your truth;
Open his ears and receive your counsel;
Open his eyes and receive your words.
May he open his heart and receive your wisdom.
I beseech you, Vellichor, protect him with your insight.
Written By Duarte
Jan. 1, 2024, 6:29 a.m.(6/22/1021 AR)
Journal
How the Compact's forces repelled the Gyre from Setarco is a history well known, but not mine to tell. I hope that more stories from that bloody skirmish find their way to the White Journals in the coming weeks and months, as I know the superstitions that kept those stories from being heard are fading fast.
But there are a few, such as Count Vano Clearlake, Lord Kaldur Seliki (now known and departed as Duke-consort Kaldur Crovane), Prince Luca Grayson nee Velenosa (now departed), and the one who once called herself "Shard" (though I don't think she does anymore) wrote of it some, and these stories can be looked up.
I left Setarco relieved for the safety of my home and weeping for Stormwall (Duchess Ann Crovane, now Lady Ann Rivenshari, born Princess Ann Redrain, was a dear friend of mine at the time and had much sorrowful news).
I traveled back to Arx from Bravura, for I had taken the road across Setara to meet with Orland on matters of ministration before sailing back to the capital.
The Casino Crossroads was, by this time, complete with its construction - to whom I must thank Mirari Corsetina who led the effort. It was time to open!
The Grand Opening was a resounding success. Yes, it was a dazzling spectacle of risk, fortune, and indulgence. But for me, it was more than an entertainment venture. Crossroads was my enigmatic response to the haunting presence that loomed after me. The connection between my tormentor and Crossroads has remained my secret - a cryptic puzzle left for the astute or the mad. And history will dictate which I am.
Orathy Culler, my protege, held the keys and managed the casino with a keen eye. Crossroads thrived as a beacon of escapism in the uncertain tides of the Outrage. Yet for all its glitz and glamour, I could not shake the persistent shadow looming over me and I needed something to set my mind to.
It was fortuitous that a voice from the past emerged. Prince Laric Grayson, elevated to Master of Questions for his role in unseating Shreve, requested help. His task to me was to investigate the origin and history of a herald of the abyss - one we now know as, and openly refer to as, Orichalcum.
It was a welcome diversion, but the investigation twisted into paths unseen. True, I did uncover some, but nothing world-shattering or unknown. But it wasn't long after that my path of study drew me into lore concerning exorcism and locales known as 'shardhavens' - places where corruption has taken deep root and abyssal monsters are free to hatch and grow. One shardhaven in particular, known simply as 'halfway house', was of recurring mention in my research.
The more I tried to veer my findings in the direction of Orichalcum, the more they veered back to the halfway house as if guided by some unseen hand. Knowledge would fall into my lap, unsolicited yet strangely fitting. But it wasn't aligned to the task I was setting upon and the frustration mounted to no end.
My service to Shreve, my ascent to nobility, my return to an indifferent Arx, my growing distance to Lianne - it all contributed to a sense of disconnection. The near-death experience with the Eater of Stories, and the erasure of crucial memories compounded my despondency. And now, the failure to unearth truly useful information for Prince Laric drove me to despair.
In desperation, I did a thing I had never done - or even considered. I sought solace in an unlikely place - the Shrine of Vellichor - at the urging of then Legate Orazio.
Kneeling in the benches clutching a scrap of paper penned by Archscholar Bianca, I began a long prayer and held vigil. I simply let my mind wander without expectation. It seemed feeble - like an attempt to grasp at straws - but in my dejection, I clung to it.
As I prayed, my thoughts meandered through the maze of my past. The choices and the intrigue, the winding paths that had defined me. I wondered if Vellichor would indeed enlighten something within me, provide truth and counsel. Would he protect me with his insight? It was a faint, flickering hope.
Yet, there, in the quiet of the shrine, something stirred within me.
Unbidden, my mind wandered back to the halfway house. The vision of it took hold - vivid and indescribable. The absurdity of it was palpable. The stray thought, "What would such a house even look like?" gave way to a profound picture. I could see it: covered in vines, mold, and creeping things. It was blight itself that had claimed it and festered over its very essence.
But then, I saw more. A library overrun by worms with cherished books devoured and gone. A tree that once was beautiful with life was now twisted into a grotesque and terrifying form. There was a hill, barren and silent where nothing grew and no sound would ring.
With each passing second the visions multiplied. I saw not just one, but many shardhavens. Each of them was unique in its desolation. Each harbored secrets and knowledge lost and corrupted. They were prisons of forgotten lore beckoning the brave to seek what had been lost within their forsaken walls.
There goes a saying, 'Ten Thousand Shardhavens'. And in that surreal moment, I could swear I saw them all. It was an overwhelming cascade of images and sensation. Could I describe them now? No. But like a dream lost to time, I would know them if I saw them. And though I knew each one needed cleansing, what was required was a search for what had been lost.
As slow as it came, so it receded. I found myself still in the shrine and clutching my paper. I was changed with an experience that had imprinted itself on my soul with a new, daunting purpose. I knew the future that lay before me would be inextricably intertwined with these perilous places.
I rose from my vigil a very religious man.
How the Compact's forces repelled the Gyre from Setarco is a history well known, but not mine to tell. I hope that more stories from that bloody skirmish find their way to the White Journals in the coming weeks and months, as I know the superstitions that kept those stories from being heard are fading fast.
But there are a few, such as Count Vano Clearlake, Lord Kaldur Seliki (now known and departed as Duke-consort Kaldur Crovane), Prince Luca Grayson nee Velenosa (now departed), and the one who once called herself "Shard" (though I don't think she does anymore) wrote of it some, and these stories can be looked up.
I left Setarco relieved for the safety of my home and weeping for Stormwall (Duchess Ann Crovane, now Lady Ann Rivenshari, born Princess Ann Redrain, was a dear friend of mine at the time and had much sorrowful news).
I traveled back to Arx from Bravura, for I had taken the road across Setara to meet with Orland on matters of ministration before sailing back to the capital.
The Casino Crossroads was, by this time, complete with its construction - to whom I must thank Mirari Corsetina who led the effort. It was time to open!
The Grand Opening was a resounding success. Yes, it was a dazzling spectacle of risk, fortune, and indulgence. But for me, it was more than an entertainment venture. Crossroads was my enigmatic response to the haunting presence that loomed after me. The connection between my tormentor and Crossroads has remained my secret - a cryptic puzzle left for the astute or the mad. And history will dictate which I am.
Orathy Culler, my protege, held the keys and managed the casino with a keen eye. Crossroads thrived as a beacon of escapism in the uncertain tides of the Outrage. Yet for all its glitz and glamour, I could not shake the persistent shadow looming over me and I needed something to set my mind to.
It was fortuitous that a voice from the past emerged. Prince Laric Grayson, elevated to Master of Questions for his role in unseating Shreve, requested help. His task to me was to investigate the origin and history of a herald of the abyss - one we now know as, and openly refer to as, Orichalcum.
It was a welcome diversion, but the investigation twisted into paths unseen. True, I did uncover some, but nothing world-shattering or unknown. But it wasn't long after that my path of study drew me into lore concerning exorcism and locales known as 'shardhavens' - places where corruption has taken deep root and abyssal monsters are free to hatch and grow. One shardhaven in particular, known simply as 'halfway house', was of recurring mention in my research.
The more I tried to veer my findings in the direction of Orichalcum, the more they veered back to the halfway house as if guided by some unseen hand. Knowledge would fall into my lap, unsolicited yet strangely fitting. But it wasn't aligned to the task I was setting upon and the frustration mounted to no end.
My service to Shreve, my ascent to nobility, my return to an indifferent Arx, my growing distance to Lianne - it all contributed to a sense of disconnection. The near-death experience with the Eater of Stories, and the erasure of crucial memories compounded my despondency. And now, the failure to unearth truly useful information for Prince Laric drove me to despair.
In desperation, I did a thing I had never done - or even considered. I sought solace in an unlikely place - the Shrine of Vellichor - at the urging of then Legate Orazio.
Kneeling in the benches clutching a scrap of paper penned by Archscholar Bianca, I began a long prayer and held vigil. I simply let my mind wander without expectation. It seemed feeble - like an attempt to grasp at straws - but in my dejection, I clung to it.
As I prayed, my thoughts meandered through the maze of my past. The choices and the intrigue, the winding paths that had defined me. I wondered if Vellichor would indeed enlighten something within me, provide truth and counsel. Would he protect me with his insight? It was a faint, flickering hope.
Yet, there, in the quiet of the shrine, something stirred within me.
Unbidden, my mind wandered back to the halfway house. The vision of it took hold - vivid and indescribable. The absurdity of it was palpable. The stray thought, "What would such a house even look like?" gave way to a profound picture. I could see it: covered in vines, mold, and creeping things. It was blight itself that had claimed it and festered over its very essence.
But then, I saw more. A library overrun by worms with cherished books devoured and gone. A tree that once was beautiful with life was now twisted into a grotesque and terrifying form. There was a hill, barren and silent where nothing grew and no sound would ring.
With each passing second the visions multiplied. I saw not just one, but many shardhavens. Each of them was unique in its desolation. Each harbored secrets and knowledge lost and corrupted. They were prisons of forgotten lore beckoning the brave to seek what had been lost within their forsaken walls.
There goes a saying, 'Ten Thousand Shardhavens'. And in that surreal moment, I could swear I saw them all. It was an overwhelming cascade of images and sensation. Could I describe them now? No. But like a dream lost to time, I would know them if I saw them. And though I knew each one needed cleansing, what was required was a search for what had been lost.
As slow as it came, so it receded. I found myself still in the shrine and clutching my paper. I was changed with an experience that had imprinted itself on my soul with a new, daunting purpose. I knew the future that lay before me would be inextricably intertwined with these perilous places.
I rose from my vigil a very religious man.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 26, 2023, 4:16 a.m.(6/10/1021 AR)
Journal
The aftermath of the dream left me in a state not unlike madness. My room became like a prison through weeks of terror-laden wakefulness and tormented sleep. It was my first foray into self-imposed exile as I stood a vigil against what seemed like watchful shadows.
Visitors came and went. Mirari Corsetina and Orathy Culler the most frequent among them. But it was Mirari whose words and insights carried pieces of a vastly larger puzzle. Pieces that, when I started putting them together, began to offer me a glimpse into what it was that pursued me.
In the maelstrom of sleepless nights and fevered days, I began to work out a plan. I would open a casino. It would be a haven in the boroughs of distraction and escape. A place where stories would be spun and fortunes made and lost in the turn of a card or the roll of the dice. And if you, dear reader, find no connection between my troubles and this venture, then I'll allow you to wonder. For me, it was a needed lifeline.
As I wrestled with sanity in those troubling days, a threat was looming off the shores of Setarco. The Gyre was coming. And I desperately needed to get out of Arx - for a time, at least.
I packed a few belongings and set my sights Southward. I was looking to make myself useful. Useful in a way I knew how to be. I needed something all-consuming to stave off this insidious gnawing: counter-espionage.
Arriving home, Setarco and Nilanza's shipping lanes were a mess. People were frantic, and leaving, as fear settled upon the cities for word of the Gyre's forces drawing ever near. Yet, there was an influx of prodigals who had been displaced by the Gyre's wrath. But they weren't fleeing, they were staying; keeping mostly to themselves as they snatched up jobs left behind by the skittish natives. This rallied suspicion. Not only did their silence speak volumes, but if they intended to get away from the Gyre, why run directly into his path?
I made my observations and took my notes.
As the Gyre drew near, I was joined by Prince Alistair Velenosa and Princess Saoirse Velenosa, to root out agents of the Gyre and infiltration. By all accounts, we did the job well.
And I was there when the Gyre landed off the shore and battle ensued. While I'm not much for swinging a sword myself, I was there - pacing the corridors of Pravus Manor and drinking until I was numb with the rest of the unbattle-tested. And the reports coming in were far too detailed to have been embellished.
The aftermath of the dream left me in a state not unlike madness. My room became like a prison through weeks of terror-laden wakefulness and tormented sleep. It was my first foray into self-imposed exile as I stood a vigil against what seemed like watchful shadows.
Visitors came and went. Mirari Corsetina and Orathy Culler the most frequent among them. But it was Mirari whose words and insights carried pieces of a vastly larger puzzle. Pieces that, when I started putting them together, began to offer me a glimpse into what it was that pursued me.
In the maelstrom of sleepless nights and fevered days, I began to work out a plan. I would open a casino. It would be a haven in the boroughs of distraction and escape. A place where stories would be spun and fortunes made and lost in the turn of a card or the roll of the dice. And if you, dear reader, find no connection between my troubles and this venture, then I'll allow you to wonder. For me, it was a needed lifeline.
As I wrestled with sanity in those troubling days, a threat was looming off the shores of Setarco. The Gyre was coming. And I desperately needed to get out of Arx - for a time, at least.
I packed a few belongings and set my sights Southward. I was looking to make myself useful. Useful in a way I knew how to be. I needed something all-consuming to stave off this insidious gnawing: counter-espionage.
Arriving home, Setarco and Nilanza's shipping lanes were a mess. People were frantic, and leaving, as fear settled upon the cities for word of the Gyre's forces drawing ever near. Yet, there was an influx of prodigals who had been displaced by the Gyre's wrath. But they weren't fleeing, they were staying; keeping mostly to themselves as they snatched up jobs left behind by the skittish natives. This rallied suspicion. Not only did their silence speak volumes, but if they intended to get away from the Gyre, why run directly into his path?
I made my observations and took my notes.
As the Gyre drew near, I was joined by Prince Alistair Velenosa and Princess Saoirse Velenosa, to root out agents of the Gyre and infiltration. By all accounts, we did the job well.
And I was there when the Gyre landed off the shore and battle ensued. While I'm not much for swinging a sword myself, I was there - pacing the corridors of Pravus Manor and drinking until I was numb with the rest of the unbattle-tested. And the reports coming in were far too detailed to have been embellished.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 20, 2023, 5:31 a.m.(5/26/1021 AR)
The light casts a shadow! An outline of you.
Its darkened hue a more fitting image of your soul,
unlike the lightened facade of your make-up which provides just a shield of gossamer before your tortured gaze.
And I dreamt of you!
A vision of perfection that could never be attained.
With every daring grasp you floated further into a dreary distance - a sticky dark that would never end
Evil? No.
To be evil is to attend, and you are ever absent.
A true mystery of a woman who finds comfort and mirth in solitude.
Whose only love is the macabre tales of a world in which you play no role.
To know you - fully - is to attain a loneliness that cannot be described.
And to hold a foolish desire that can never be fulfilled.
And still, I yield, and wait.
For the contrast of your soul against mine brings me the most powerful gift the gods have given to men:
hope.
Its darkened hue a more fitting image of your soul,
unlike the lightened facade of your make-up which provides just a shield of gossamer before your tortured gaze.
And I dreamt of you!
A vision of perfection that could never be attained.
With every daring grasp you floated further into a dreary distance - a sticky dark that would never end
Evil? No.
To be evil is to attend, and you are ever absent.
A true mystery of a woman who finds comfort and mirth in solitude.
Whose only love is the macabre tales of a world in which you play no role.
To know you - fully - is to attain a loneliness that cannot be described.
And to hold a foolish desire that can never be fulfilled.
And still, I yield, and wait.
For the contrast of your soul against mine brings me the most powerful gift the gods have given to men:
hope.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 20, 2023, 5 a.m.(5/26/1021 AR)
Journal
I never met Costas again after that night at the cemetery and for good reasons. The first of which, put simply, was I didn't need to. If my time serving in Setarco had taught me anything, it was that assessment was everything. The Lyceum holds no dearth of scandal, but none do scandal quite like Pravus. And the thing to know about scandal is that it is rarely, if ever, what is on the surface. It is a mirage, or it is a smokescreen. The thing not to do about it is to confront it head-on. Rather, the thing to do is step around it. And a man like Costas is easy to step around.
And in the way a sweater unravels when you pull a loose thread, so did his machinations. Except - it was a very tiny sweater. It followed a narrative all too common: a scorned lover using political strife as a canvas for revenge. Propelled by the ruins of a romance within House Pravus, Costas pursued a vendetta leveraging his lofty position in House Malvici to pit Duchess Calypso against Belladonna. His overindulgence in this one-sided feud became apparent when I noticed he had positioned one of his closest intelligence men close to a cousin of the Duchess.
Mercurial in tone and brooding, with emotions sewn into the sleeves of his shirt - the important thing to find about such a man is where his affections lie. And then you don't get close to the man, you get close to his heart.
Writ large, this was the ploy: in open-air public with open seating - there was no question about whom I was meeting and the apparent nature of my meetings. I wasn't even subtle about it. I like to think I drove him mad by simply shmoozing, but the truth is I did nothing to the man. I asked after him not, I watched him not, I conspired against him not. I merely met and spoke with people I found he would rather I not meet or speak with.
And sure as the day is long, Costas brought about his own downfall - swift and self-inflicted. Trapped in a love triangle with two disparate lovers, his actions led to an irrecoverable blunder -- the murder of a heretic named Esra who he slayed with the Malvici heirloom sword. This act marked his exit from his position, the political stage, and public life.
But by then my attention was already drawn to a more enigmatic and unsetting presence - the Eater of Stories. It was a mystery that would shake the very foundations of my reality as I closed in on the identity of this foe and it would change the course of my life for a decade.
The investigation, at first, seemed a path like any other I had walked. But the further I delved the more I felt the sense of "eyes on". (You know what that feels like. Everyone does.) But here it crept into my bones, this insidious feeling. An oppressive sensation of being watched - being scrutinized. I seemed shadowed by mysterious persons leaving me with a constant sense of unease and a looming, all-consuming dread.
It was in this process that I met Orathy Culler - an unexpected ally. A man of the Lower Boroughs, yet sworn to House Pravus, he was a well of information and streetwise savvy. Hired once for a simple task, his presence in matters of interest became ubiquitous. Orland by now had left for Bravura to manage affairs. I had Orathy in his stead.
My nights grew restless and sleep evaded me for days on end. And then came the "dream" - an odyssey of such vivid terror that it left me questioning the boundaries of nightmare and reality. I entered a labyrinth with undulating floors and impossible geometry. Before me were doorways stretching to a distant horizon - never-ending. In this infinite space, I felt closed in. Then mouths began to open. The lines of the walls, floorboards, and door frames became horribly twisted maws of sharpened teeth. They laughed and mocked me in discordant unison, chastising me for drawing its attention and challenging me to say its name. Was it a threat, or an invitation? To this day I don't know.
I did whatever I could to free my mind from this haunting terror. I confided the dream and revelations to Orathy and in many ways, his rough exterior and straightforward manner became a grounding force in the increasingly bizarre turn my life had taken. My interactions with Lianne remained sparse and strained. The unspoken chasm between us only widened by the thing that now pursued me. We became like passing strangers in shared halls.
Something was not right in this city and it seemed everyone with whom I spoke knew of it except for me. As if for me there was a grand secret being kept for my own good, I felt like a child.
But even as a child, I was always good at finding secrets.
I never met Costas again after that night at the cemetery and for good reasons. The first of which, put simply, was I didn't need to. If my time serving in Setarco had taught me anything, it was that assessment was everything. The Lyceum holds no dearth of scandal, but none do scandal quite like Pravus. And the thing to know about scandal is that it is rarely, if ever, what is on the surface. It is a mirage, or it is a smokescreen. The thing not to do about it is to confront it head-on. Rather, the thing to do is step around it. And a man like Costas is easy to step around.
And in the way a sweater unravels when you pull a loose thread, so did his machinations. Except - it was a very tiny sweater. It followed a narrative all too common: a scorned lover using political strife as a canvas for revenge. Propelled by the ruins of a romance within House Pravus, Costas pursued a vendetta leveraging his lofty position in House Malvici to pit Duchess Calypso against Belladonna. His overindulgence in this one-sided feud became apparent when I noticed he had positioned one of his closest intelligence men close to a cousin of the Duchess.
Mercurial in tone and brooding, with emotions sewn into the sleeves of his shirt - the important thing to find about such a man is where his affections lie. And then you don't get close to the man, you get close to his heart.
Writ large, this was the ploy: in open-air public with open seating - there was no question about whom I was meeting and the apparent nature of my meetings. I wasn't even subtle about it. I like to think I drove him mad by simply shmoozing, but the truth is I did nothing to the man. I asked after him not, I watched him not, I conspired against him not. I merely met and spoke with people I found he would rather I not meet or speak with.
And sure as the day is long, Costas brought about his own downfall - swift and self-inflicted. Trapped in a love triangle with two disparate lovers, his actions led to an irrecoverable blunder -- the murder of a heretic named Esra who he slayed with the Malvici heirloom sword. This act marked his exit from his position, the political stage, and public life.
But by then my attention was already drawn to a more enigmatic and unsetting presence - the Eater of Stories. It was a mystery that would shake the very foundations of my reality as I closed in on the identity of this foe and it would change the course of my life for a decade.
The investigation, at first, seemed a path like any other I had walked. But the further I delved the more I felt the sense of "eyes on". (You know what that feels like. Everyone does.) But here it crept into my bones, this insidious feeling. An oppressive sensation of being watched - being scrutinized. I seemed shadowed by mysterious persons leaving me with a constant sense of unease and a looming, all-consuming dread.
It was in this process that I met Orathy Culler - an unexpected ally. A man of the Lower Boroughs, yet sworn to House Pravus, he was a well of information and streetwise savvy. Hired once for a simple task, his presence in matters of interest became ubiquitous. Orland by now had left for Bravura to manage affairs. I had Orathy in his stead.
My nights grew restless and sleep evaded me for days on end. And then came the "dream" - an odyssey of such vivid terror that it left me questioning the boundaries of nightmare and reality. I entered a labyrinth with undulating floors and impossible geometry. Before me were doorways stretching to a distant horizon - never-ending. In this infinite space, I felt closed in. Then mouths began to open. The lines of the walls, floorboards, and door frames became horribly twisted maws of sharpened teeth. They laughed and mocked me in discordant unison, chastising me for drawing its attention and challenging me to say its name. Was it a threat, or an invitation? To this day I don't know.
I did whatever I could to free my mind from this haunting terror. I confided the dream and revelations to Orathy and in many ways, his rough exterior and straightforward manner became a grounding force in the increasingly bizarre turn my life had taken. My interactions with Lianne remained sparse and strained. The unspoken chasm between us only widened by the thing that now pursued me. We became like passing strangers in shared halls.
Something was not right in this city and it seemed everyone with whom I spoke knew of it except for me. As if for me there was a grand secret being kept for my own good, I felt like a child.
But even as a child, I was always good at finding secrets.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 19, 2023, 4:42 a.m.(5/24/1021 AR)
Journal
My return to Arx was without welcome and fanfare. The echoes of my former life had already begun to reverberate through the silence of my new existence. Whereas the wards and boroughs were once familiar pathways for clandestine endeavors, they were now unrecognizable. Adorned with the title 'Count', I found myself adrift in these streets with an unsettling uncertainty. I was met with cynicism and scorn in places I was once known and welcome. I was navigating through unspoken expectations.
I found my days consumed by idle wanderings and an array of meaningless social events. I threw parties, playing the part of emissary for my new holdings, yet I grappled with a sudden emptiness in the absence of being of use in the capacity to which I had grown accustomed. The thrill of intrigue that had once fueled my existence had diminished to a mere flicker.
My encounters with Lianne, now Countess of the March of Nilanza, once marked by ease and intimacy, were now formal and restrained. She held something back, a hidden concern or secret, and I refrained from pressing further.
Duchess Belladonna was silent and inaccessible.
My days passed in a blur of whiskey-hazed frivolity. It was a stark contrast to the meticulous plotting and maneuvering of my former self. But unbeknownst to me, in a period where all seemed dislocated and vapid, the threads of my life were weaving to a pivotal juncture.
In this altered world, a subtle yet disquieting change was palpable. Costas Voducce, then Sword of Southport now slain, watched me with eyes that conveyed more than a casual interest. I had met him once, in my former life. Once, when I delivered an innocuous message in his presence. Such could not have set the stage for the way I found he observed me now in a local shop, approaching like a man with a vendetta, and as cordial as an adder. Poorly veiled threats wrapped in gratuitous ambiguity - whatever he was playing, he was not suited for it. Rather, the man was a hammer-to-nail sort. But now his words hinted at a game with stakes ostensibly political in nature, but with an emotion that veered into the personal.
Amidst burgeoning turmoil there was yet a beacon of stability. It was in the form of Bianca, Archlector of Vellichor. Though our friendship was warm and fond, there was a distance there. It was as if our subtle flirtations were not meant to foster closeness but were rather like little flags that served to mark territories too close to tread. And yet, it was a respite from my newfound isolation.
One day, on the beach, I confided in her something inconsequential but of great curiosity to her. She rewarded me with a bit of purpose. She had some rumors adrift in her discipleship that spoke of a peculiar connection concerning so-called Eater of Stories. Little did I know that accepting this task would mark a turning point in my life.
There was Bianca, and there was Costas. I recall him one night stalking me into the Lower Boroughs. I still ventured there at the time to seek some semblance of the familiar. He caught up with me at the cemetery. It was an encounter that resonated with ominous undertones. His insinuation that my every move was being scrutinized for motives that I myself hadn't grasped left me perplexed, but curious.
What was he up to?
My return to Arx was without welcome and fanfare. The echoes of my former life had already begun to reverberate through the silence of my new existence. Whereas the wards and boroughs were once familiar pathways for clandestine endeavors, they were now unrecognizable. Adorned with the title 'Count', I found myself adrift in these streets with an unsettling uncertainty. I was met with cynicism and scorn in places I was once known and welcome. I was navigating through unspoken expectations.
I found my days consumed by idle wanderings and an array of meaningless social events. I threw parties, playing the part of emissary for my new holdings, yet I grappled with a sudden emptiness in the absence of being of use in the capacity to which I had grown accustomed. The thrill of intrigue that had once fueled my existence had diminished to a mere flicker.
My encounters with Lianne, now Countess of the March of Nilanza, once marked by ease and intimacy, were now formal and restrained. She held something back, a hidden concern or secret, and I refrained from pressing further.
Duchess Belladonna was silent and inaccessible.
My days passed in a blur of whiskey-hazed frivolity. It was a stark contrast to the meticulous plotting and maneuvering of my former self. But unbeknownst to me, in a period where all seemed dislocated and vapid, the threads of my life were weaving to a pivotal juncture.
In this altered world, a subtle yet disquieting change was palpable. Costas Voducce, then Sword of Southport now slain, watched me with eyes that conveyed more than a casual interest. I had met him once, in my former life. Once, when I delivered an innocuous message in his presence. Such could not have set the stage for the way I found he observed me now in a local shop, approaching like a man with a vendetta, and as cordial as an adder. Poorly veiled threats wrapped in gratuitous ambiguity - whatever he was playing, he was not suited for it. Rather, the man was a hammer-to-nail sort. But now his words hinted at a game with stakes ostensibly political in nature, but with an emotion that veered into the personal.
Amidst burgeoning turmoil there was yet a beacon of stability. It was in the form of Bianca, Archlector of Vellichor. Though our friendship was warm and fond, there was a distance there. It was as if our subtle flirtations were not meant to foster closeness but were rather like little flags that served to mark territories too close to tread. And yet, it was a respite from my newfound isolation.
One day, on the beach, I confided in her something inconsequential but of great curiosity to her. She rewarded me with a bit of purpose. She had some rumors adrift in her discipleship that spoke of a peculiar connection concerning so-called Eater of Stories. Little did I know that accepting this task would mark a turning point in my life.
There was Bianca, and there was Costas. I recall him one night stalking me into the Lower Boroughs. I still ventured there at the time to seek some semblance of the familiar. He caught up with me at the cemetery. It was an encounter that resonated with ominous undertones. His insinuation that my every move was being scrutinized for motives that I myself hadn't grasped left me perplexed, but curious.
What was he up to?
Written By Duarte
Dec. 14, 2023, 5:41 a.m.(5/14/1021 AR)
Journal
As I tread upon the cobbled street of Bravura cloaked in dusk's shadow, the city before me unfolded like a canvas painted with the light and life of innovation.
No one knew the Count of Bravura wandered among them. I was just another soul under the night sky. I observed them silently, the people of Bravura - my people - to see how they navigated the tides of change that now lapped at their shore.
Bravura! With its symphony of crashing waves, the cries of street vendors, impromptu poetry slams, and spectral storytelling. It holds a beauty that is both full of life and haunting. A city whose body serves Jayus and Inspiration is its blood.
The vibrant life of Bravura stirred my past. I saw shades of Lianne in the faces of the city's erudite citizens - each one brimming with the same sort of fierce curiosity that she wields like a blade. Their laughter in candle-lit cafes, and their passionate debates spilling into the streets, all echoed an intellectual fervor that she brought to every hushed conversation. The people, with their artistry and brilliant minds, seemed not unlike those I grew up with in Setarco - a city also no stranger to change.
I could hear Belinha's teachings whisper through the thrum of Bravura's heartbeat. The impromptu gatherings and boisterous atmosphere of bards, performers and drink - verse and voice dancing in an unrehearsed cadence across the town square. It all reminded me of her lessons in grace and presence. There was a time when such displays would have been my playground, a stage where I could weave my whispers and fade before applause. How distant that now seemed. How quaint when projected against the backdrop of a role I never sought.
Amidst the beauty and creation lingered an undercurrent of uncertainty. As the new Count, I felt it my duty to understand this city beyond its picturesque facade. It was important to know the heartbeat of Bravura. I wanted to feel its rhythm. I wanted to breathe its air. I wanted to smoke haze with its painters and rub elbows with its inventors!
Instead, I pondered the circuitous route that led me there. From a boy with a clattering coin purse to a man with a title. I even struggle to grasp the journey. The sights and sounds of Bravura brought forth a reflection on all that transpired - the losses, the victories, and the unending game of shadows that had been, to now, my life.
The mantle of my new charge weighed heavily on me. Belladonna had positioned me on the frontlines of a different sort of battlefield. One not strewn with the corpses of war but with the casualties of politics and power. I wondered if my talents were equipped for this new arena. For I was clever enough to be a right hand - but a guiding hand? My place was never the center - always the periphery. For there I could appear when necessary and fade back into the ether in a trice.
I remember I gave myself months before the title hunters would emerge - those who would question Belladonna's choices and see the Count of Bravura as nothing more than a stepping stone in their own ambitions. I was sure they would come as sure as I was the tide comes. I would need to be ready to face them with someone by my side who could withstand the onslaught.
I had Orland.
But they never came.
My life's work had been in the background. I was a ghost in the halls of power - not its overseer. And in the eyes of many, my new title bore an invisible stain regarded with contempt reserved for the lowest of society.
My ascent was a path paved by loyalty - a road chosen for me by the actions of others. Each step, while my own, feels as though it was predestined by the intricate dance of fate and the machinations of those I have served. But loyalty held my focus and steadied my hand to accept. I accepted out of duty. A duty that now saw me walking the streets of my city, cloaked in anonymity, and pondering the path that lay before me.
As night fully embraced Bravura, I too embraced my new role with quiet resolve, but not a quieted mind.
I should have stayed there. But I returned to Arx.
As I tread upon the cobbled street of Bravura cloaked in dusk's shadow, the city before me unfolded like a canvas painted with the light and life of innovation.
No one knew the Count of Bravura wandered among them. I was just another soul under the night sky. I observed them silently, the people of Bravura - my people - to see how they navigated the tides of change that now lapped at their shore.
Bravura! With its symphony of crashing waves, the cries of street vendors, impromptu poetry slams, and spectral storytelling. It holds a beauty that is both full of life and haunting. A city whose body serves Jayus and Inspiration is its blood.
The vibrant life of Bravura stirred my past. I saw shades of Lianne in the faces of the city's erudite citizens - each one brimming with the same sort of fierce curiosity that she wields like a blade. Their laughter in candle-lit cafes, and their passionate debates spilling into the streets, all echoed an intellectual fervor that she brought to every hushed conversation. The people, with their artistry and brilliant minds, seemed not unlike those I grew up with in Setarco - a city also no stranger to change.
I could hear Belinha's teachings whisper through the thrum of Bravura's heartbeat. The impromptu gatherings and boisterous atmosphere of bards, performers and drink - verse and voice dancing in an unrehearsed cadence across the town square. It all reminded me of her lessons in grace and presence. There was a time when such displays would have been my playground, a stage where I could weave my whispers and fade before applause. How distant that now seemed. How quaint when projected against the backdrop of a role I never sought.
Amidst the beauty and creation lingered an undercurrent of uncertainty. As the new Count, I felt it my duty to understand this city beyond its picturesque facade. It was important to know the heartbeat of Bravura. I wanted to feel its rhythm. I wanted to breathe its air. I wanted to smoke haze with its painters and rub elbows with its inventors!
Instead, I pondered the circuitous route that led me there. From a boy with a clattering coin purse to a man with a title. I even struggle to grasp the journey. The sights and sounds of Bravura brought forth a reflection on all that transpired - the losses, the victories, and the unending game of shadows that had been, to now, my life.
The mantle of my new charge weighed heavily on me. Belladonna had positioned me on the frontlines of a different sort of battlefield. One not strewn with the corpses of war but with the casualties of politics and power. I wondered if my talents were equipped for this new arena. For I was clever enough to be a right hand - but a guiding hand? My place was never the center - always the periphery. For there I could appear when necessary and fade back into the ether in a trice.
I remember I gave myself months before the title hunters would emerge - those who would question Belladonna's choices and see the Count of Bravura as nothing more than a stepping stone in their own ambitions. I was sure they would come as sure as I was the tide comes. I would need to be ready to face them with someone by my side who could withstand the onslaught.
I had Orland.
But they never came.
My life's work had been in the background. I was a ghost in the halls of power - not its overseer. And in the eyes of many, my new title bore an invisible stain regarded with contempt reserved for the lowest of society.
My ascent was a path paved by loyalty - a road chosen for me by the actions of others. Each step, while my own, feels as though it was predestined by the intricate dance of fate and the machinations of those I have served. But loyalty held my focus and steadied my hand to accept. I accepted out of duty. A duty that now saw me walking the streets of my city, cloaked in anonymity, and pondering the path that lay before me.
As night fully embraced Bravura, I too embraced my new role with quiet resolve, but not a quieted mind.
I should have stayed there. But I returned to Arx.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 12, 2023, 8:42 p.m.(5/11/1021 AR)
Balance (a jingle)
Some like it salty,
Some like it hot
Some like it sweet,
And some like it naught.
Some like it salty,
Some like it hot
Some like it sweet,
And some like it naught.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 12, 2023, 4:39 a.m.(5/10/1021 AR)
Journal
Marco Argento was a ghost, but ghosts, I've found, leave echoes in their wake. These echoes resonated through the underbelly of Arx and carried whispers of a man who had become a mere specter of his former self - fleeing from the justice he so richly deserved.
My pursuit began not with a chase across the sea, but within the confines of Arx amidst a web of informants and clandestine meetings.
The city's murmurs pieced together a trail as elusive as mist. But one encounter stood out - a sailor whose love for rum was only matched by his love for stories. In these drunken ramblings, littered with tales of sea serpents and lost treasures, I found my first solid lead. In his inebriated state, he spoke of a ship that was notorious for its discretion and speed - a smuggler's boat of matching description, and its course set for Eswynd Rock.
Word was passed to Duchess Belladonna and she, in turn, exacted a straightforward extradition of the fugitive from House Tyde's newly minted prodigal vassal. Marco Argento was presented in chains and ferried to Setarco.
As Pravus forces readied for what was to be an inevitable confrontation, the groundwork was being laid in Nilanza march and its vassal territories. Lianne had long since been acting as Voice of the Stormborn and tending to the ministrations of Nilanza in the absence of Marco Argento, and his Marquis son gone hidden. Her keen intellect and strategic acumen in guiding Nilanza through this chaotic episode earned her the trusted ear of the march's nobles and commoners alike. Assisted by Lady Nicia Pravus, she used that goodwill to urge the people to cooperate. To lay down arms and to share information about the traitors - that they may be rooted out - and that she would ensure Nilanza's continued growth. Her influence was pivotal in maintaining the integrity of the march in the greater strategy of House Pravus.
Following Lianne's lead, my role switched from hunter to mediator. Sent to Bravura, I was to be a voice of persuasion and calm as an emissary of House Pravus. It was a delicate mix of diplomacy and subtle influence, aimed at ensuring a smooth transition of power and minimizing bloodshed. These efforts, flanked by an uncanny whisper campaign composed by Lady Juliana Pravus would pay off in spades.
The fall of House Argento played out like a grim ballet with well-orchestrated precision. Duchess Belladonna's words, declaring her vassal outlaw, was the opening act. She stripped House Argento and its traitorous vassals of their titles and their land. She confiscated their resources and their coffers. She gave them a week to surrender.
They didn't.
The Pravus naval forces, joined by House Thrax - much to the surprise of our adversaries - initiated a blockade on Nilanza and issued immediate demands for surrender.
The turmoil in Nilanza was great as our whisper campaign and bids for cooperation resonated through the populace. Had it not been for the naval presence on the waters, the city itself may have gone into full revolt.
Four-fifths of Argento's forces surrendered outright. Those who remained attempted to escape the blockade in a poorly coordinated effort with ships from Caina and Bravura. They were utterly crushed. Then, Nilanza was invaded.
Pravus met little resistance within the city's gates, but the loyalists who did go to battle were made quick, bloody examples of why you don't turn traitor against Pravus. Nearly all of House Argento was captured or killed. Among them, Salazar - Marco's son - the foolish Count of the March who died by the blade for helping his father escape retribution. He was hiding in Nilanza all along.
Marco Argento's end was as somber as it was just. His execution was a stark conclusion to this saga of betrayal and ambition gone awry. As the blade fell, so did the remnants of a house that had strayed too far from honor and loyalty.
Then the transition, well underway in secret, was ratified. Lianne Pravus was named Countess of the March of Nilanza. Lady Nicia Pravus, Countess of Caina, to head up House Inverno.
And I, Duarte Amadeo, cobbler's son orphaned by fate, found myself unexpectedly thrust into the role of Count of Bravura, stepping into the profound emptiness created by the downfall of Argento's most loyal vassal - House Malgetilega.
Marco Argento was a ghost, but ghosts, I've found, leave echoes in their wake. These echoes resonated through the underbelly of Arx and carried whispers of a man who had become a mere specter of his former self - fleeing from the justice he so richly deserved.
My pursuit began not with a chase across the sea, but within the confines of Arx amidst a web of informants and clandestine meetings.
The city's murmurs pieced together a trail as elusive as mist. But one encounter stood out - a sailor whose love for rum was only matched by his love for stories. In these drunken ramblings, littered with tales of sea serpents and lost treasures, I found my first solid lead. In his inebriated state, he spoke of a ship that was notorious for its discretion and speed - a smuggler's boat of matching description, and its course set for Eswynd Rock.
Word was passed to Duchess Belladonna and she, in turn, exacted a straightforward extradition of the fugitive from House Tyde's newly minted prodigal vassal. Marco Argento was presented in chains and ferried to Setarco.
As Pravus forces readied for what was to be an inevitable confrontation, the groundwork was being laid in Nilanza march and its vassal territories. Lianne had long since been acting as Voice of the Stormborn and tending to the ministrations of Nilanza in the absence of Marco Argento, and his Marquis son gone hidden. Her keen intellect and strategic acumen in guiding Nilanza through this chaotic episode earned her the trusted ear of the march's nobles and commoners alike. Assisted by Lady Nicia Pravus, she used that goodwill to urge the people to cooperate. To lay down arms and to share information about the traitors - that they may be rooted out - and that she would ensure Nilanza's continued growth. Her influence was pivotal in maintaining the integrity of the march in the greater strategy of House Pravus.
Following Lianne's lead, my role switched from hunter to mediator. Sent to Bravura, I was to be a voice of persuasion and calm as an emissary of House Pravus. It was a delicate mix of diplomacy and subtle influence, aimed at ensuring a smooth transition of power and minimizing bloodshed. These efforts, flanked by an uncanny whisper campaign composed by Lady Juliana Pravus would pay off in spades.
The fall of House Argento played out like a grim ballet with well-orchestrated precision. Duchess Belladonna's words, declaring her vassal outlaw, was the opening act. She stripped House Argento and its traitorous vassals of their titles and their land. She confiscated their resources and their coffers. She gave them a week to surrender.
They didn't.
The Pravus naval forces, joined by House Thrax - much to the surprise of our adversaries - initiated a blockade on Nilanza and issued immediate demands for surrender.
The turmoil in Nilanza was great as our whisper campaign and bids for cooperation resonated through the populace. Had it not been for the naval presence on the waters, the city itself may have gone into full revolt.
Four-fifths of Argento's forces surrendered outright. Those who remained attempted to escape the blockade in a poorly coordinated effort with ships from Caina and Bravura. They were utterly crushed. Then, Nilanza was invaded.
Pravus met little resistance within the city's gates, but the loyalists who did go to battle were made quick, bloody examples of why you don't turn traitor against Pravus. Nearly all of House Argento was captured or killed. Among them, Salazar - Marco's son - the foolish Count of the March who died by the blade for helping his father escape retribution. He was hiding in Nilanza all along.
Marco Argento's end was as somber as it was just. His execution was a stark conclusion to this saga of betrayal and ambition gone awry. As the blade fell, so did the remnants of a house that had strayed too far from honor and loyalty.
Then the transition, well underway in secret, was ratified. Lianne Pravus was named Countess of the March of Nilanza. Lady Nicia Pravus, Countess of Caina, to head up House Inverno.
And I, Duarte Amadeo, cobbler's son orphaned by fate, found myself unexpectedly thrust into the role of Count of Bravura, stepping into the profound emptiness created by the downfall of Argento's most loyal vassal - House Malgetilega.
Written By Duarte
Dec. 11, 2023, 5:41 a.m.(5/8/1021 AR)
Journal
The trail of Marco Argento was as elusive as the shadows he seemed to merge into. It was a meticulous process to sift through rumors and gossip to locate the man. Of course, I was not alone in determining the route of the fugitive Marquis. Another man by the name of Orathy Culler (whom I would later come to meet) was also looking - using his own singular talents.
The breakthrough came with word that there was a fleeting sighting of Marco Argento at the Murder of Crows, speaking with men known to deal in smuggling. He then left the city on a smuggler's ship rumored to be departed to either the Saffron Chain or Darkwater Reach.
For all intents and purposes, Marco was a ghost. A traitor. A cretin of the lowest order. He sentenced his House to destruction, moved his family to Luciva, and then fled. And it was his heirs and those loyal to him who paid the ultimate price in the end.
Luciva is a small harbor on the southern side of Setara. It has been traditionally of little value to House Pravus, and this inattention has historically allowed for corsairs to set up shop. Duke Piero would purge them out every few years. In the wake of House Argento's treachery, however, a new settlement sprung to life in Luciva led by the Argento family, aware that their time was coming to an end.
There was work to do yet before House Pravus could move in. Preparations had to be precise and the plans were multi-faceted. Duchess Belladonna was indeed righteously vengeful, but she was not merciless or unjust. And it was important to not make moves on Nilanza without crafting a plan that would remove the risk of endangering the people of the march, keep their economy intact and secure a smooth transition to new leadership.
The pirates in Luciva, however, had to be confronted head-on.
Under the leadership of Duke Cassius Pravus (RIP), a contingent of us set out from Arx to Setara and the harbor town of Luciva. My injuries were still yet healed and in hindsight, it was a bit overly ambitious of me to attend. Indeed, the Duchess had made clear her preference for me to remain in Arx. At the last moment she bid I go.
It was the time of year when the seas get rough, and approaching Setara from the South made it all the worse. The sun was setting and our arrival to Luciva was to be completed just past nightfall.
I made myself as comfortable as I could on the ship. My injuries were wrapped and despite being none too pleased, Lianne had provided me with just these lovely concoctions that made my days manageable - despite the tragic (temporary) loss of my mustache.
Before setting upon the settlement, we held a brief meeting to discuss strategy. Lord Sebastian Pravus, Lady Nicia Pravus and Felix Meadson attended. We advised a scouting run and to use the cover of dark to find a way to get the jump and surprise our adversaries. The air was thick with tension as we each weighed the risks in balancing a strategy. Duke Cassius was of another mind - and his was the only mind that mattered. With his commanding presence, Cassius insisted on a direct assault - to strike hard and fast. And that's what you need to know about the late and beloved Duke Cassius.
The harbor of Luciva is naturally protected by a spur of high land. The terrain is sheer cliffs that climb right into the mountains and much of the land is uninhabitable. There's maybe a few square miles of room to navigate inward and we drove right toward it. (After a fitful night of thunderstorms which did very little for my comfort.)
As the land came into view, Duke Cassius gave the order to prepare rowboats and direct the ships to block the harbor. I ascended the mast and with a spyglass took an assessment of our target. The Argentos had built three seige weapons and were clearing their ship from port. Men in armor were directing the passengers to jump ship (or tossing them overboard - however you wish to view it) and those on land were fleeing further inland.
Cassius at this moment knew surrender would be no option. He ordered the ballista readied and barrelled us toward them - two ships behind us and three to block the harbor.
The trebuchents unloaded their first volley of rocks toward our ship. The seige weapon must've been severely aged, as the load made it only half the reach in our direction and the bucket flew with them - rendering their offensives inoperational against the oncoming fleet.
It was clear this battle would soon meet steel to steel and, as I was recently well reminded, I don't do steel on steel.
Reaching the port, Cassius led the charge of marines with cover from the boat-posted archers. The way I like to tell it, the sheer ferocity of this man sent a good 30% of our enemies on the retreat. The remaining Argento loyals were the foolish ones, and the untrained ones - dominated by folly rather than skill - our forces led by Cassius, Sebastian, Nicia and Felix made short work of them.
The dock was secured and we started sweeping buildings. The armored contingent of Argentos fled to caves in the mountains and we spent the next few days patching up wounded and interrogating prisoners and those who surrendered.
The Lucivia pirate operation was established by Argento siblings who had already begun to cut their losses and considered Nilanza lost. They sought to mine the caves and bought slaves to do so, using them as labor in the mines. The ships were being used to smuggle dust.
Once the village was secure, we began an assault on the caves. It was a short thing. I hung back in town and served as a medic and lookout. The Pravus forces took considerably more losses in the caves in pursuit of the Argento brothers. But with Cassius, Nicia, Sebastian and Felix at the fore, they routed them out. Among those to fall was Lunara Argento - the famed Blackheart and Sword of Bravura.
From my vantage point on the docks I spotted a ship attempting to come to port, but soon turning to flee upon sight of the Pravus navy boats. Taking quick action, it was chased down and confiscated, along with Amelia Argento - the last of the siblings.
Luciva had been retaken. Next would be Nilanza.
The trail of Marco Argento was as elusive as the shadows he seemed to merge into. It was a meticulous process to sift through rumors and gossip to locate the man. Of course, I was not alone in determining the route of the fugitive Marquis. Another man by the name of Orathy Culler (whom I would later come to meet) was also looking - using his own singular talents.
The breakthrough came with word that there was a fleeting sighting of Marco Argento at the Murder of Crows, speaking with men known to deal in smuggling. He then left the city on a smuggler's ship rumored to be departed to either the Saffron Chain or Darkwater Reach.
For all intents and purposes, Marco was a ghost. A traitor. A cretin of the lowest order. He sentenced his House to destruction, moved his family to Luciva, and then fled. And it was his heirs and those loyal to him who paid the ultimate price in the end.
Luciva is a small harbor on the southern side of Setara. It has been traditionally of little value to House Pravus, and this inattention has historically allowed for corsairs to set up shop. Duke Piero would purge them out every few years. In the wake of House Argento's treachery, however, a new settlement sprung to life in Luciva led by the Argento family, aware that their time was coming to an end.
There was work to do yet before House Pravus could move in. Preparations had to be precise and the plans were multi-faceted. Duchess Belladonna was indeed righteously vengeful, but she was not merciless or unjust. And it was important to not make moves on Nilanza without crafting a plan that would remove the risk of endangering the people of the march, keep their economy intact and secure a smooth transition to new leadership.
The pirates in Luciva, however, had to be confronted head-on.
Under the leadership of Duke Cassius Pravus (RIP), a contingent of us set out from Arx to Setara and the harbor town of Luciva. My injuries were still yet healed and in hindsight, it was a bit overly ambitious of me to attend. Indeed, the Duchess had made clear her preference for me to remain in Arx. At the last moment she bid I go.
It was the time of year when the seas get rough, and approaching Setara from the South made it all the worse. The sun was setting and our arrival to Luciva was to be completed just past nightfall.
I made myself as comfortable as I could on the ship. My injuries were wrapped and despite being none too pleased, Lianne had provided me with just these lovely concoctions that made my days manageable - despite the tragic (temporary) loss of my mustache.
Before setting upon the settlement, we held a brief meeting to discuss strategy. Lord Sebastian Pravus, Lady Nicia Pravus and Felix Meadson attended. We advised a scouting run and to use the cover of dark to find a way to get the jump and surprise our adversaries. The air was thick with tension as we each weighed the risks in balancing a strategy. Duke Cassius was of another mind - and his was the only mind that mattered. With his commanding presence, Cassius insisted on a direct assault - to strike hard and fast. And that's what you need to know about the late and beloved Duke Cassius.
The harbor of Luciva is naturally protected by a spur of high land. The terrain is sheer cliffs that climb right into the mountains and much of the land is uninhabitable. There's maybe a few square miles of room to navigate inward and we drove right toward it. (After a fitful night of thunderstorms which did very little for my comfort.)
As the land came into view, Duke Cassius gave the order to prepare rowboats and direct the ships to block the harbor. I ascended the mast and with a spyglass took an assessment of our target. The Argentos had built three seige weapons and were clearing their ship from port. Men in armor were directing the passengers to jump ship (or tossing them overboard - however you wish to view it) and those on land were fleeing further inland.
Cassius at this moment knew surrender would be no option. He ordered the ballista readied and barrelled us toward them - two ships behind us and three to block the harbor.
The trebuchents unloaded their first volley of rocks toward our ship. The seige weapon must've been severely aged, as the load made it only half the reach in our direction and the bucket flew with them - rendering their offensives inoperational against the oncoming fleet.
It was clear this battle would soon meet steel to steel and, as I was recently well reminded, I don't do steel on steel.
Reaching the port, Cassius led the charge of marines with cover from the boat-posted archers. The way I like to tell it, the sheer ferocity of this man sent a good 30% of our enemies on the retreat. The remaining Argento loyals were the foolish ones, and the untrained ones - dominated by folly rather than skill - our forces led by Cassius, Sebastian, Nicia and Felix made short work of them.
The dock was secured and we started sweeping buildings. The armored contingent of Argentos fled to caves in the mountains and we spent the next few days patching up wounded and interrogating prisoners and those who surrendered.
The Lucivia pirate operation was established by Argento siblings who had already begun to cut their losses and considered Nilanza lost. They sought to mine the caves and bought slaves to do so, using them as labor in the mines. The ships were being used to smuggle dust.
Once the village was secure, we began an assault on the caves. It was a short thing. I hung back in town and served as a medic and lookout. The Pravus forces took considerably more losses in the caves in pursuit of the Argento brothers. But with Cassius, Nicia, Sebastian and Felix at the fore, they routed them out. Among those to fall was Lunara Argento - the famed Blackheart and Sword of Bravura.
From my vantage point on the docks I spotted a ship attempting to come to port, but soon turning to flee upon sight of the Pravus navy boats. Taking quick action, it was chased down and confiscated, along with Amelia Argento - the last of the siblings.
Luciva had been retaken. Next would be Nilanza.
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