Written By Lilia
Aug. 12, 2019, 11:40 a.m.(8/20/1011 AR)
Relationship Note on Arn
You were uncomfortable with peace.
You clanked around the Tower in your armor, warhammer never further away than your little dog, growling at people about everything from the weather to their fixation on white fights, but you were the one spoiling for a fight. You thought people were humoring you, unwilling to just let them respect you. You thought your time had come and gone, that you were useless, an old relic set aside to make room for younger men.
Nothing made you happy. Every best effort was just barely good enough. Reports were too long, details not specific enough, summers were too hot, rain was too wet. Everyone disappointed you. Especially us. Tobias, Ansel, Simone, Evelyn, Dulcinea, me; we tried so many different things to win your approval, to finally feel like we were good enough, measuring up to whatever invisible standard you'd hoped we would achieve. Invisible, not impossible, but otherwise the same. I know you didn't hate us, but even now I don't know if you ever really loved any of us, or if that part of you left with Mother.
When the Grim Duke died, I thought you were furious at him for dying first; when Count Steelhart and his family were killed, I thought you were righteously angry because they had all been slaughtered. Now I think the only thing you were mad about was being the last one left, about the possibility of dying at home, in your bed, surrounded by grandchildren.
I wanted to believe you would live forever, that you were too hard to die, with steel for bones and rubicund for flesh.
Instead, you went to High Hill with no fear of death, with no prayer on your lips for more time to live. You went out to seek justice for Steelhart, grieving them in your way, with violence. And you died there, in another catastrophic loss of life that might've been worse had anyone else been leading that column.
Now you are gone, and everything is different although nothing has changed.
I hope we do not disappoint you anymore.
You clanked around the Tower in your armor, warhammer never further away than your little dog, growling at people about everything from the weather to their fixation on white fights, but you were the one spoiling for a fight. You thought people were humoring you, unwilling to just let them respect you. You thought your time had come and gone, that you were useless, an old relic set aside to make room for younger men.
Nothing made you happy. Every best effort was just barely good enough. Reports were too long, details not specific enough, summers were too hot, rain was too wet. Everyone disappointed you. Especially us. Tobias, Ansel, Simone, Evelyn, Dulcinea, me; we tried so many different things to win your approval, to finally feel like we were good enough, measuring up to whatever invisible standard you'd hoped we would achieve. Invisible, not impossible, but otherwise the same. I know you didn't hate us, but even now I don't know if you ever really loved any of us, or if that part of you left with Mother.
When the Grim Duke died, I thought you were furious at him for dying first; when Count Steelhart and his family were killed, I thought you were righteously angry because they had all been slaughtered. Now I think the only thing you were mad about was being the last one left, about the possibility of dying at home, in your bed, surrounded by grandchildren.
I wanted to believe you would live forever, that you were too hard to die, with steel for bones and rubicund for flesh.
Instead, you went to High Hill with no fear of death, with no prayer on your lips for more time to live. You went out to seek justice for Steelhart, grieving them in your way, with violence. And you died there, in another catastrophic loss of life that might've been worse had anyone else been leading that column.
Now you are gone, and everything is different although nothing has changed.
I hope we do not disappoint you anymore.
Written By Lilia
May 8, 2019, 4:44 p.m.(1/24/1011 AR)
Has it stopped snowing at all this year?
No, Scholar, I'm asking you if
Nevermind. The question stands.
No, Scholar, I'm asking you if
Nevermind. The question stands.
Written By Lilia
Dec. 11, 2018, 1:18 p.m.(2/26/1010 AR)
I spent an awfully long time in the rea`ding room today. A d`isturbingly long portion of thi`s involved st`aring at a `particular page, wondering if a `particular blank sp`ot was a deliberate des`ign choice, evidence of tampering, or just careless`ness on the part of the scribe.
I spen`t almost as much time solving a r`iddle I found tucked away betwee`n some pa`ges.
I spen`t almost as much time solving a r`iddle I found tucked away betwee`n some pa`ges.
Written By Lilia
Nov. 26, 2018, 1:01 p.m.(1/23/1010 AR)
After far too long an absence from the Arvum Philosophical Society, I seized upon the opportunity to attend the Feast of Dissension. It was a joy to attend. The hostess was dazzling, the guests brilliant, the arguments on both sides of the table quite compelling. I am honored to have decisively settled the relative equality of the dessert realms of cake and pie, aside from those few stubborn hold outs who are unabashed in their biases toward the former, who can be forgiven for this single-minded adherence to taste and tradition.
It leaves more pie for the rest of us.
It leaves more pie for the rest of us.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.