Written By Edda
March 26, 2017, 9:23 p.m.(2/28/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Thesarin
My liege and a man I am proud to call friend. Ever since before knee hit ground he had my respect, and when he put his people first by taking the Riven name it made that regard for him even greater. He looks after his own, and honors his word.
Written By Edda
March 26, 2017, 6:47 p.m.(2/28/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Samantha
The Marquessa has been a boon to the people under her fledgling watch, from those who have been part of the Compact for generations, all the way to those who have just bent the knee. While part of my heart feels for those tribes who made that choice-- as it is never easy-- I know that every single one of them will find themselves under the wings of a fair and just phoenix.
Written By Edda
March 19, 2017, 10:44 p.m.(2/14/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Esoka
The old bloodlines of the Wood may be as tangled as vines and as tall as trees, but I know that somewhere in that grove of sires, Esoka is one of those ivies that tangles with mine. I've known her for a long time, and she is a bold, familiar presence in even the oddest of places. She's earned my loyalty time and again.
Written By Edda
March 19, 2017, 7:29 p.m.(2/14/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Tikva
The family of the Twainfort would not be the same without her-- a kind friend as well as a gracious lady, even if she did choose to marry into a tangle of Prodigals like us. They chose each other wisely, even so. The little lord Tiber is a breath of fresh air, same as his mother's smile.
Written By Edda
March 19, 2017, 4:07 p.m.(2/14/1006 AR)
We persist in life, and in death, and until the time we come back again, just to start over. Persisting. It's a perfect sort of word, isn't it?
Our spirit persists one world to the next.
Though I think some of us prefer the forms we have now. Enough to fight for them.
Our spirit persists one world to the next.
Though I think some of us prefer the forms we have now. Enough to fight for them.
Written By Edda
March 12, 2017, 8:02 p.m.(1/28/1006 AR)
Every one of them has a place in the world-- though perhaps not in the same ways as they do to others. Where life ends a new one begins, at least when it comes to lives outside of the Compact. Willpower is Nature's way of making us survive-- watching through us as our life's wheel turns from one spoke to another.
Choice of will, the cycle of life and death, and the dreaming head of the Great Spirit who put sparks in our hearts and stars in our eyes.
I can clearly see how they have slipped from the minds of those in Arvum so easily, knowledge gone and burned, when even their Highest must turn around and say "Yes, they are here, all the same." But for some of us they were always there, without names nor spaces but inhabiting the faces and shapes of ourselves and the world nonetheless.
For some it may be like finding a long lost parent, but for others it is the casting away of shade from a figure you've seen in your wake for years before.
That we have been given the opportunity to learn, even in this hour, is just as important as those sturdy walls.
Choice of will, the cycle of life and death, and the dreaming head of the Great Spirit who put sparks in our hearts and stars in our eyes.
I can clearly see how they have slipped from the minds of those in Arvum so easily, knowledge gone and burned, when even their Highest must turn around and say "Yes, they are here, all the same." But for some of us they were always there, without names nor spaces but inhabiting the faces and shapes of ourselves and the world nonetheless.
For some it may be like finding a long lost parent, but for others it is the casting away of shade from a figure you've seen in your wake for years before.
That we have been given the opportunity to learn, even in this hour, is just as important as those sturdy walls.
Written By Edda
March 12, 2017, 7:42 p.m.(1/28/1006 AR)
I have not had a dream like that for a long time.
I also have not been awoken like that in a long time--
--only to find out that I was not alone in doing so, no less.
I can still feel the muscle threading from my bones, and those words that still rattle in my ears. For a moment I had felt safe in the stifle of trees, only to see the world wither away in front of me. I know for certain now that nothing is sacred to whatever is coming here.
Nothing is sacred, and everything is wrong.
But at least someone has their eyes upward, don't they?
I also have not been awoken like that in a long time--
--only to find out that I was not alone in doing so, no less.
I can still feel the muscle threading from my bones, and those words that still rattle in my ears. For a moment I had felt safe in the stifle of trees, only to see the world wither away in front of me. I know for certain now that nothing is sacred to whatever is coming here.
Nothing is sacred, and everything is wrong.
But at least someone has their eyes upward, don't they?
Written By Edda
March 9, 2017, 7:36 p.m.(1/22/1006 AR)
I try not to put much down. Now where people could find it. But you know, sometimes it becomes a necessary evil.
It's not ours to have, is it?
It is beautiful. It would be moreso if its skin had not been sheared free to be replaced with a relief. But whoever did it clearly lacked parchment or stone-- and since coming from my first homes I've learned that records are something that create us as we go. We would be fewer without words. Without pictures. More than one thing can become a necessary evil over time. The culling of a spirit such as that one must have brought a toll-- but perhaps it still lives on in the emotions and heart poured into the sculpting on its flesh. The spirits of its causation bleeding into the story it has to tell to us now. I have seen art in the trees before, but never like this.
It must have some value to us, though. To have gotten it here. To have put it where we might see it. To have it where we might bring it home to see.
He wasn't wrong. Moving it past siege lines and trappings. It's here now. Nothing past that now, except 'why'.
It doesn't stop the shiver, though. That prickle when I was near it. Like gooseflesh but deeper, almost. Maybe I'm just anxious for this fight, closer by the day and watching some go on as if it will be over soon.
It's not ours to have, is it?
It is beautiful. It would be moreso if its skin had not been sheared free to be replaced with a relief. But whoever did it clearly lacked parchment or stone-- and since coming from my first homes I've learned that records are something that create us as we go. We would be fewer without words. Without pictures. More than one thing can become a necessary evil over time. The culling of a spirit such as that one must have brought a toll-- but perhaps it still lives on in the emotions and heart poured into the sculpting on its flesh. The spirits of its causation bleeding into the story it has to tell to us now. I have seen art in the trees before, but never like this.
It must have some value to us, though. To have gotten it here. To have put it where we might see it. To have it where we might bring it home to see.
He wasn't wrong. Moving it past siege lines and trappings. It's here now. Nothing past that now, except 'why'.
It doesn't stop the shiver, though. That prickle when I was near it. Like gooseflesh but deeper, almost. Maybe I'm just anxious for this fight, closer by the day and watching some go on as if it will be over soon.
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