Written By Samithel
July 3, 2019, 2:49 a.m.(5/23/1011 AR)
Somewhere in the unknown expanses of the Night sea, there once stood an island of trees. A great forest spanned almost its entirety, but for the villages in the beaches under the sunrise, and the tunnels in the mountains beneath the sunset.
These two groups of people would often fight, because the mountain people had all the metals, and the sand people had the easiest access to food. The unfortunate case of this island was that only the people and its trees lived there. These trees had leaves but no flowers; branches but no fruit.
One day, the chieftain of the Sunrise Tribe, realizing his was a losing battle--they only held their advantage so long as they held the easiest root to the sea, and metal weapons and armor would eventually outdo that through conquest-decided he would bring an end to the Sunset Tribe once and for all. He turned to their greatest source of power, and sought a way to use it against his enemies. The Sunrise Tribe found nowhere to turn but the sea.
And in time, under the distant noses of the Sunset Tribe, they decided the best way to slay their life-long nemeses was to give them what they wanted.
Something great and indescribable happened that day, when sea swept across the land like wind. And when the sun rose, the island was nowhere to be seen. All its people drowned. Only the trees, deep beneath the waters, survived.
IN this way it was for many, many years. Even when the trees were uprooted and smashed to pieces by the current, they remained as wood. And when they wash up on the beach…today we call them driftwood.
But there is a stranger mystery yet; another secret to the trees. Driftwood has its reflection: those fragments lost at sea--buried in the ocean floor, or lodged in rocks. These pieces transformed, hardened, and blackened, to arrive beneath our shores as a material both wood and stone.
Stand in Arx today; travel to the temples of the gods. There is one that looms rather than stands, its polished walls seemingly carved of black stone, the time of its construction forever lost to us. But what if it is more? After all, there is a small fragment of that island which was buried in mistakes surviving on Arvum, and--perhaps--surviving wherever land meets the water.
These two groups of people would often fight, because the mountain people had all the metals, and the sand people had the easiest access to food. The unfortunate case of this island was that only the people and its trees lived there. These trees had leaves but no flowers; branches but no fruit.
One day, the chieftain of the Sunrise Tribe, realizing his was a losing battle--they only held their advantage so long as they held the easiest root to the sea, and metal weapons and armor would eventually outdo that through conquest-decided he would bring an end to the Sunset Tribe once and for all. He turned to their greatest source of power, and sought a way to use it against his enemies. The Sunrise Tribe found nowhere to turn but the sea.
And in time, under the distant noses of the Sunset Tribe, they decided the best way to slay their life-long nemeses was to give them what they wanted.
Something great and indescribable happened that day, when sea swept across the land like wind. And when the sun rose, the island was nowhere to be seen. All its people drowned. Only the trees, deep beneath the waters, survived.
IN this way it was for many, many years. Even when the trees were uprooted and smashed to pieces by the current, they remained as wood. And when they wash up on the beach…today we call them driftwood.
But there is a stranger mystery yet; another secret to the trees. Driftwood has its reflection: those fragments lost at sea--buried in the ocean floor, or lodged in rocks. These pieces transformed, hardened, and blackened, to arrive beneath our shores as a material both wood and stone.
Stand in Arx today; travel to the temples of the gods. There is one that looms rather than stands, its polished walls seemingly carved of black stone, the time of its construction forever lost to us. But what if it is more? After all, there is a small fragment of that island which was buried in mistakes surviving on Arvum, and--perhaps--surviving wherever land meets the water.
Written By Samithel
July 1, 2019, 1:11 a.m.(5/19/1011 AR)
It was a warm spring day; surprisingly warm, especially with so many in the lecture hall at the academy. And of course, strangely turbulent skies. There were some emissaries from Cardia in the Vellichorian Academy--a praetor named Marcus of house Sulla and his…complement, Petraea of house Livy. She may have called herself a tribune? There were many strange names which I could not put to paper for lack of understanding of the language. It is enough to raise an epoch of questions. More practically, why did Marcus allow Petraea to accompany him?
There was some conversation of a small argument regarding her attendance, but it is clear they do not see eye to eye in many issues, and yet there she stood, answering questions along side him. Petraea is either poor with her masks or far better at this noble dance than he. It is almost as if she is the true diplomat, and he some kind of warlord.
Certainly his misuse of the word rabble did not win any favors with the nobles. Could he not tell how little they cared about his wish to keep Jad-airal off Arvum? Surely he could tell some questions were specifically searching for weaknesses, otherwise he would not have been so vague. Why is Arvum neutral ground, and why would they break it to destroy a house Darkwater?
Still, it was nice to witness moments of humanity--they do not care for their losses, and Marcus finds sentimental value in his Sundyr sword. There seems to be a title associated with it. Would it make him Marcus of house Sulla, Sword of the Black Spire? He is almost surely not the lord in the skylord relationship. They like adding the word sky to nearly anything. Maybe there is a story there, too, particularly considering those things which they do not feel beholden to.
There was some conversation of a small argument regarding her attendance, but it is clear they do not see eye to eye in many issues, and yet there she stood, answering questions along side him. Petraea is either poor with her masks or far better at this noble dance than he. It is almost as if she is the true diplomat, and he some kind of warlord.
Certainly his misuse of the word rabble did not win any favors with the nobles. Could he not tell how little they cared about his wish to keep Jad-airal off Arvum? Surely he could tell some questions were specifically searching for weaknesses, otherwise he would not have been so vague. Why is Arvum neutral ground, and why would they break it to destroy a house Darkwater?
Still, it was nice to witness moments of humanity--they do not care for their losses, and Marcus finds sentimental value in his Sundyr sword. There seems to be a title associated with it. Would it make him Marcus of house Sulla, Sword of the Black Spire? He is almost surely not the lord in the skylord relationship. They like adding the word sky to nearly anything. Maybe there is a story there, too, particularly considering those things which they do not feel beholden to.
Written By Samithel
June 29, 2019, 8:16 a.m.(5/15/1011 AR)
There was a saying where I am from; we said storms are the limbs of the sky. Sometimes, if you looked carefully and at the right moment, you might see the land reaching back. In that instant, the world shines brighter than the sun--this is lightning.
It is the fate of earth and sky
To court with sun and tree;
Through driving rain and piercing spire;
On wings, on hooved feet
Though bound their love is sweet…
Traditionally the verse is left unfinished.
It is the fate of earth and sky
To court with sun and tree;
Through driving rain and piercing spire;
On wings, on hooved feet
Though bound their love is sweet…
Traditionally the verse is left unfinished.
Written By Samithel
June 28, 2019, 4:21 p.m.(5/14/1011 AR)
Each star a song:
Every song a long,
Long road
This is a first entry. Surely some write these as soon as they can hold a quill. Parchment-caged music; to whom do I sing? Were this a gathering around the campfire, what sits across from me? It brings to mind a song, and though inking it feels…incomplete, that seems the truth for most journals.
Stranger oh familiar one, take a log with me.
Let me hear your story, joys and miseries.
Tell me of the animals, the way the winter sings.
How the summer whispers, when the autumn springs.
Why in this world our eyes are mirrors;
Shape a dream with me.
Of when the days and nights were clearer;
Share a dream with me.
Shape a dream with me.
Speaker oh you silent one, share your eyes with me
Show me something awful; something rare and free.
What color are the whisper, the lights between the leaves.
What shades the sunlight shadows oh so beautifully.
Well in this world our eyes are mirrors;
Shape a dream with me.
Of when the days and nights were clearer;
Share a dream with me.
Shape a dream with me.
Creature oh forgotten one, sing a song with me.
Sing me of time’s own blood, your loss and victory.
The taste of rain, a nightmare’s bane, the starlight that you drink.
What you see through ancient bars when we dare to blink.
Oh in this world our eyes are mirrors;
Shape a dream with me.
Of when the days and nights were clearer;
Share a dream with me.
Shape a dream with me.
Dream a dream with me.
Every song a long,
Long road
This is a first entry. Surely some write these as soon as they can hold a quill. Parchment-caged music; to whom do I sing? Were this a gathering around the campfire, what sits across from me? It brings to mind a song, and though inking it feels…incomplete, that seems the truth for most journals.
Stranger oh familiar one, take a log with me.
Let me hear your story, joys and miseries.
Tell me of the animals, the way the winter sings.
How the summer whispers, when the autumn springs.
Why in this world our eyes are mirrors;
Shape a dream with me.
Of when the days and nights were clearer;
Share a dream with me.
Shape a dream with me.
Speaker oh you silent one, share your eyes with me
Show me something awful; something rare and free.
What color are the whisper, the lights between the leaves.
What shades the sunlight shadows oh so beautifully.
Well in this world our eyes are mirrors;
Shape a dream with me.
Of when the days and nights were clearer;
Share a dream with me.
Shape a dream with me.
Creature oh forgotten one, sing a song with me.
Sing me of time’s own blood, your loss and victory.
The taste of rain, a nightmare’s bane, the starlight that you drink.
What you see through ancient bars when we dare to blink.
Oh in this world our eyes are mirrors;
Shape a dream with me.
Of when the days and nights were clearer;
Share a dream with me.
Shape a dream with me.
Dream a dream with me.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.