Written By Sydney
Jan. 3, 2024, 12:07 p.m.(6/26/1021 AR)
I can scarcely recognize the world around me, of late. So often I prayed for change, so often I gnashed my teeth at the stagnation of it all. Arvum is awash now in events that can no longer be easily denied, and to that end I do believe I got my wish, in a twisted sort of way.
My family, such as it is, is forever changed.
My name, such as it is, is forever changed.
This Dream, such as it is, is forever changed.
At times, I find myself wishing that I could go back to before this all was so, but to do that would be to deny all the good that has come as well. Change is never a quantifiable thing - what was good for me may have been disastrous for others. What was gutting to me may have set off a series of events that bring joy to an unknowable amount of people. Knowing that this is true, of course, doesn't mean that I'm always able to accept this. There will always be nights when, staring into the darkness, I'll wonder what it was all for. There will be despair, and there will be tears. My heart is not so hardened yet that I am utterly numb to self-doubt.
Strength is accepting those realities by daylight, and moving forward. Even a single step.
Time is in motion, after all, even if one chooses to stand still.
My family, such as it is, is forever changed.
My name, such as it is, is forever changed.
This Dream, such as it is, is forever changed.
At times, I find myself wishing that I could go back to before this all was so, but to do that would be to deny all the good that has come as well. Change is never a quantifiable thing - what was good for me may have been disastrous for others. What was gutting to me may have set off a series of events that bring joy to an unknowable amount of people. Knowing that this is true, of course, doesn't mean that I'm always able to accept this. There will always be nights when, staring into the darkness, I'll wonder what it was all for. There will be despair, and there will be tears. My heart is not so hardened yet that I am utterly numb to self-doubt.
Strength is accepting those realities by daylight, and moving forward. Even a single step.
Time is in motion, after all, even if one chooses to stand still.
Written By Sydney
Nov. 23, 2023, 10:49 a.m.(3/28/1021 AR)
Some days just aren't much for wandering far from bed. I found myself leafing through old entries in my journals, marveling at the fact that it was my hand that penned them. My younger self was such a different woman - jaded, downtrodden, but still searching for silver linings - and so very young. There's a fearless intimacy with which she draws her pen across the paper, self-assured.
Things were difficult for her, and she sure as shit didn't make it easier for herself most of the time, but I can't help look back and envy how freely she could put pen to paper. How freely she trusted, how quickly she decided who and what was right for her. There was a beauty to her that I wish that she'd realized at the time, and she need not have fretted about some of the things that plagued her quite so hard.
I don't regret the woman she became. It was necessary. Her metamorphosis was as inevitable as anyone's, but I do look back and yearn for the freedom of her existence, even with all the burdens she bore. Her strengths worn like armor, and her insecurities squirreled away where no one could see them, not even herself.
I pity her. I admire her. I miss her. And if given the choice, I'd slowly choke her from existence all over again. For if she knew what I know, what else would she be but me?
Forward. Straight through. It's how she lived. It's how I live.
We won't throw any more fights, Sydney Waterfall, and I hope that pleases you.
Things were difficult for her, and she sure as shit didn't make it easier for herself most of the time, but I can't help look back and envy how freely she could put pen to paper. How freely she trusted, how quickly she decided who and what was right for her. There was a beauty to her that I wish that she'd realized at the time, and she need not have fretted about some of the things that plagued her quite so hard.
I don't regret the woman she became. It was necessary. Her metamorphosis was as inevitable as anyone's, but I do look back and yearn for the freedom of her existence, even with all the burdens she bore. Her strengths worn like armor, and her insecurities squirreled away where no one could see them, not even herself.
I pity her. I admire her. I miss her. And if given the choice, I'd slowly choke her from existence all over again. For if she knew what I know, what else would she be but me?
Forward. Straight through. It's how she lived. It's how I live.
We won't throw any more fights, Sydney Waterfall, and I hope that pleases you.
Written By Sydney
Nov. 7, 2023, 12:08 p.m.(2/24/1021 AR)
We like to believe that diplomacy, that change, that philanthropy is something that must be learned. Studied. In many cases, that's true.
But sometimes, it is a matter of reading the situation and stating common sense in a succinct and clear way that can cause people to open their eyes, their hearts, or their coin purses. I'm heartened by the response you've received, and hope that more comes. If we Arx is to be the beacon of Arvum, its people should not live in poverty and squalor.
That should be for cities who get it wrong. When we thrive as a populace, we prosper as a populace.
But sometimes, it is a matter of reading the situation and stating common sense in a succinct and clear way that can cause people to open their eyes, their hearts, or their coin purses. I'm heartened by the response you've received, and hope that more comes. If we Arx is to be the beacon of Arvum, its people should not live in poverty and squalor.
That should be for cities who get it wrong. When we thrive as a populace, we prosper as a populace.
Written By Sydney
Oct. 27, 2023, 3:27 p.m.(2/2/1021 AR)
I pen a new chapter entire, looking fondly upon the last, and knowing it has ended.
I am not yet grown, for is my belief that no one ever is. We simply continue to grow, to blossom.
Nourished by warm conversations, by evening strolls, by warm blankets and delicious pies.
By sudden rainstorms, beating against the rooftops, by the silence of snow that piles up in blankets, and the rink-a-tink of each snowflake as each one finds its place.
By the sound of the ocean, beating against the shore in rhythmic tumbles and scrapes. The sound of the leaves rustling in the trees on an autumn afternoon, the crunch of dried maples underfoot. The wind in our hair, a lover's touch and comfort.
Through adversity, through pain. Through deception, through absence, and through loss.
We all grow, just a little bit better, just a little bit more broken, just a little bit stronger, just a little weaker, and there's beauty in that.
Grow until you can grow no more. It is only upon Death's embrace that we can truly say we were an adult.
For there is so room for us yet, child, time for us yet.
And we must grow.
I am not yet grown, for is my belief that no one ever is. We simply continue to grow, to blossom.
Nourished by warm conversations, by evening strolls, by warm blankets and delicious pies.
By sudden rainstorms, beating against the rooftops, by the silence of snow that piles up in blankets, and the rink-a-tink of each snowflake as each one finds its place.
By the sound of the ocean, beating against the shore in rhythmic tumbles and scrapes. The sound of the leaves rustling in the trees on an autumn afternoon, the crunch of dried maples underfoot. The wind in our hair, a lover's touch and comfort.
Through adversity, through pain. Through deception, through absence, and through loss.
We all grow, just a little bit better, just a little bit more broken, just a little bit stronger, just a little weaker, and there's beauty in that.
Grow until you can grow no more. It is only upon Death's embrace that we can truly say we were an adult.
For there is so room for us yet, child, time for us yet.
And we must grow.
Written By Sydney
Oct. 27, 2023, 3:20 p.m.(2/2/1021 AR)
I find solace in the snow, in these burned out lands.
I find solace in the company of friends, marveling that I can still enjoy life.
I find solace in my newfound resolve, a purpose that I hope my enemies will come to regret planting inside of me.
I find solace in the company of friends, marveling that I can still enjoy life.
I find solace in my newfound resolve, a purpose that I hope my enemies will come to regret planting inside of me.
Written By Sydney
Oct. 15, 2023, 11:19 p.m.(1/7/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Petraea
Petraea Livy.
Most did not know her face, only her reputation. Many will remember her with suspicion. She was, after all, the Tribune of Cardia. Some will remember her as uncompromising woman of ambition, ready and willing to use every tool in her arsenal if the ends justified the means, and they would not be wrong. That was all a part of her, but it was not what defined her - and I will not pretend I knew her half so well as I would have preferred. I know only what I saw, what I lived, and what I will always remember.
I remember a woman who could spin an intricate, nuanced web or become flash, flame and fury on the field of battle, but stumble when confronted with kindness. The sort of woman who wouldn't know what to do with herself if you hugged her, but who cared with a quiet ferocity that even she didn't seem to recognize. Her actions always spoke more than she ever knew, ever guided for the sake of the future, for the sake of family, even those who have long since passed.
I remember how she cared for a scrawny whip of a girl and made sure she was fed, clothed, and always had a safe place to rest. Plucked her up from a life scrabbling for coppers, shivering towards a cold death in some godsforsaken back alley in the parts of the Lowers that few would ever care to visit. She was clumsy. Awkward. She often struggled with how and when to show her love, but she kept her promises. She kept that girl safe, warm, and never wanting for a meal ever again. How she saved her life, time and time again, whether or not she knew it. That was the sort of woman Petraea was.
I remember just how much she sacrificed, what she left undone, what she meant to those she left behind to carry on after her. She left this world with an unequivocal act of heroism, something that has ever been second nature to her. So many times, she threw her life into peril to help those who may never know she ever lifted a finger. That she would never suffer past atrocities like Bastion and Artshall to happen again. She helped the armies of Arx win the day on the field of battle time and time again, until her last breath.
She burned brighter than any flame, lived a bold life, without compromise. Her long shadow was a place of safety for those who loved her, and a thing to be feared by those unseen threats in the darkness, keeping them exactly where they belonged. She held back the tides, and gave us all the gift of time, hoping that we would be strong enough to meet it when it arrived.
She trusted that we would live - and I hope to prove her that her trust was not misplaced. We live in a time where nothing feels certain, and it's altogether too easy to fall to sorrow, to be a prisoner to doubt. We must all face the things that are to come not with terror, but as she would. With fire in our hearts and fangs bared, even when the odds feel insurmountable.
Live. Fiercely. Brightly.
Look ever toward the horizon. Extend a hand to those you can lift up. Protect those that you care for. Do not shy away from doing what needs to be done. This is the Dream that Petraea gave her life to protect - and it is worth fighting for, always.
I will remember. Forever.
Most did not know her face, only her reputation. Many will remember her with suspicion. She was, after all, the Tribune of Cardia. Some will remember her as uncompromising woman of ambition, ready and willing to use every tool in her arsenal if the ends justified the means, and they would not be wrong. That was all a part of her, but it was not what defined her - and I will not pretend I knew her half so well as I would have preferred. I know only what I saw, what I lived, and what I will always remember.
I remember a woman who could spin an intricate, nuanced web or become flash, flame and fury on the field of battle, but stumble when confronted with kindness. The sort of woman who wouldn't know what to do with herself if you hugged her, but who cared with a quiet ferocity that even she didn't seem to recognize. Her actions always spoke more than she ever knew, ever guided for the sake of the future, for the sake of family, even those who have long since passed.
I remember how she cared for a scrawny whip of a girl and made sure she was fed, clothed, and always had a safe place to rest. Plucked her up from a life scrabbling for coppers, shivering towards a cold death in some godsforsaken back alley in the parts of the Lowers that few would ever care to visit. She was clumsy. Awkward. She often struggled with how and when to show her love, but she kept her promises. She kept that girl safe, warm, and never wanting for a meal ever again. How she saved her life, time and time again, whether or not she knew it. That was the sort of woman Petraea was.
I remember just how much she sacrificed, what she left undone, what she meant to those she left behind to carry on after her. She left this world with an unequivocal act of heroism, something that has ever been second nature to her. So many times, she threw her life into peril to help those who may never know she ever lifted a finger. That she would never suffer past atrocities like Bastion and Artshall to happen again. She helped the armies of Arx win the day on the field of battle time and time again, until her last breath.
She burned brighter than any flame, lived a bold life, without compromise. Her long shadow was a place of safety for those who loved her, and a thing to be feared by those unseen threats in the darkness, keeping them exactly where they belonged. She held back the tides, and gave us all the gift of time, hoping that we would be strong enough to meet it when it arrived.
She trusted that we would live - and I hope to prove her that her trust was not misplaced. We live in a time where nothing feels certain, and it's altogether too easy to fall to sorrow, to be a prisoner to doubt. We must all face the things that are to come not with terror, but as she would. With fire in our hearts and fangs bared, even when the odds feel insurmountable.
Live. Fiercely. Brightly.
Look ever toward the horizon. Extend a hand to those you can lift up. Protect those that you care for. Do not shy away from doing what needs to be done. This is the Dream that Petraea gave her life to protect - and it is worth fighting for, always.
I will remember. Forever.
Written By Sydney
Oct. 11, 2023, 6:12 p.m.(12/27/1020 AR)
I feel as though I've had just as many nights where I've marveled at how peculiar the weather or the sky is as I've had days where I've marveled at how mundane the weather or the sky is. It's difficult to even say 'these are strange times' when so much of my life has been a strange time.
These are, quite simply, the times we live in.
We can wail and gnash our teeth about it, or we can square our shoulders and face them head on. On second thought, I don't mind a bit of both. Square your shoulders, /and/ gnash your teeth.
A well-timed bite has always been quite an effective thing, in my experience.
These are, quite simply, the times we live in.
We can wail and gnash our teeth about it, or we can square our shoulders and face them head on. On second thought, I don't mind a bit of both. Square your shoulders, /and/ gnash your teeth.
A well-timed bite has always been quite an effective thing, in my experience.
Written By Sydney
Oct. 10, 2023, 1:20 p.m.(12/24/1020 AR)
Had a lovely outing at the Murder of Crows. Can't say that the stew has improved with time, but whatever's in it - and I always prefer not to know - it never ceases to bring nostalgia with it. The cheapest bowl in the Burroughs.
Remembering where you came from is an important part of guiding the trajectory of your life.
I remember where I came from.
It's a relief to have clarity, after all this time. Nothing's changed, really, only that my mind's made up. It's surprising how much comfort it is to have a clear path forward. Once you know the path, you can start preparing for it, and set out walking. Far better than blindly walking in circles.
I know where I want to go. Time to walk.
Remembering where you came from is an important part of guiding the trajectory of your life.
I remember where I came from.
It's a relief to have clarity, after all this time. Nothing's changed, really, only that my mind's made up. It's surprising how much comfort it is to have a clear path forward. Once you know the path, you can start preparing for it, and set out walking. Far better than blindly walking in circles.
I know where I want to go. Time to walk.
Written By Sydney
March 10, 2023, 2 p.m.(6/3/1019 AR)
To any who have worked the land, who have raised crops from fallow to field, the beauty of this act is self-evident.
Bringing forth something from nothing, praying for rain, praying for the soil to yield a good harvest, praying that pests will find other fields, praying a late or early frost doesn't ruin your yield, praying that those once rare fiery moons are a sign of abundance.
There are always years where yields are low. Where crops fall to insects or blight, but the most painful loss stems from those who destroy with indiscriminate carelessness.
To those who take pride in reaving, in destroying, to ruining that which people grew, cultivated, built, and cherished, and can say so with a smile on their face, I'll happily offer to give you fewer teeth to smile with.
Your pride is hollow, your words are empty, and your spirit barren as the fields and villages you leave in your wake.
Boast as you will, but boast far from me.
Bringing forth something from nothing, praying for rain, praying for the soil to yield a good harvest, praying that pests will find other fields, praying a late or early frost doesn't ruin your yield, praying that those once rare fiery moons are a sign of abundance.
There are always years where yields are low. Where crops fall to insects or blight, but the most painful loss stems from those who destroy with indiscriminate carelessness.
To those who take pride in reaving, in destroying, to ruining that which people grew, cultivated, built, and cherished, and can say so with a smile on their face, I'll happily offer to give you fewer teeth to smile with.
Your pride is hollow, your words are empty, and your spirit barren as the fields and villages you leave in your wake.
Boast as you will, but boast far from me.
Written By Sydney
Oct. 4, 2022, 12:18 p.m.(7/2/1018 AR)
The friction of distance when traveling throughout the city has grown considerably.
I am, as ever, heartened that it appears to be unanimously agreed that traffic in and out of the wards of most of the great houses are of no risk whatsoever to the city. One can only imagine how condescending it might be if there were checkpoints along Honor Walk North, Thrax Row North, the Low Bridge, The Sovereign Bridge, Lyceum Way South, and Grayson Path West.
I'm glad we've avoided such condescension and kept security where it is most clearly needed, and so equitably applied.
I am, as ever, heartened that it appears to be unanimously agreed that traffic in and out of the wards of most of the great houses are of no risk whatsoever to the city. One can only imagine how condescending it might be if there were checkpoints along Honor Walk North, Thrax Row North, the Low Bridge, The Sovereign Bridge, Lyceum Way South, and Grayson Path West.
I'm glad we've avoided such condescension and kept security where it is most clearly needed, and so equitably applied.
Written By Sydney
Sept. 30, 2022, 4:54 p.m.(6/23/1018 AR)
I've now lost track of the amount of times I've tweaked my nose over the years. At least this time it was simply from an overeager trainee rather than someone with malicious intent. Never gets any easier to be glowering at oneself with a fresh crook in the nose, nor to sit up at night propped upright to avoid swallowing too much of my own blood.
It will ease, I know, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant in the here and now.
It's a wonder I can still breathe out of the damn thing at this point.
It will ease, I know, but that doesn't make it any more pleasant in the here and now.
It's a wonder I can still breathe out of the damn thing at this point.
Written By Sydney
Aug. 24, 2022, 1:14 p.m.(4/5/1018 AR)
Relationship Note on Raven
No truth is truly immutable within this Dream.
But every change has a cost, and some are merely too steep to pay.
But every change has a cost, and some are merely too steep to pay.
Written By Sydney
Aug. 13, 2022, 12:45 a.m.(3/10/1018 AR)
I write, because I cannot find a comfortable position to rest in. Have you ever been covered in so many stings that you can't lay down without pain? It's actually less fatiguing to stand, as long as I do so very still. I'll eventually need to sleep. At least I've already got one eye shut, until the swelling lessens.
I've no idea how I'm to manage that.
Painfully, I suppose.
I've no idea how I'm to manage that.
Painfully, I suppose.
Written By Sydney
July 10, 2022, 6:50 p.m.(12/25/1017 AR)
When you feel a sting in your coinpurse when costs rise, know that there are those that feel an ache in their stomach or a chill in their home, or the inability to choose between paying their debtors and watching their family go without. Recall that there are more things at stake than the cost of arms, armor, jewelry, fine clothing, and luxuries. Those with means, be kind to those without, especially if costs continue to rise.
A small kindness can be the difference between living and dying when you're dancing a knife's edge.
A small kindness can be the difference between living and dying when you're dancing a knife's edge.
Written By Sydney
July 1, 2022, 11:30 a.m.(12/6/1017 AR)
My swings between blind optimism and utter disillusionment are unlikely to be the death of me.
The drinking it inspires might.
The drinking it inspires might.
Written By Sydney
June 4, 2022, 12:21 p.m.(10/8/1017 AR)
I've lapsed in writing in this journal as often as I once did. Perhaps I have less to say now than I once did, or perhaps I simply hold myself to a standard that I don't know how to achieve.
My mother taught me letters, and it is by her legacy that my handwriting holds this flourish that I am so frequently told ill suits my person. In spite of this, the one thing that she does not seem to have left me is any entries of her own - as such, I find myself imagining every sort of profundity that might have flown forth from her pen, and hold up my own to a standard that is as unreachable as it is intangible. Rest assured that I'm no fool. I know that my demeanor comes across quite differently when I have time to put my thoughts to paper, and I know that elegance is something that will never truly be associated with me. I have no interest in improving this facet of my behavior merely for the perceptions of the narrow-minded.
Shall I write again of the fruitlessness of war? Shall I write again of the improvements we might find within our own city before expanding out into the world? Shall I write forlornly of loves experienced, loves lost, and the passage of time?
Shall I play to what you, who read this, thinks of me, and stain the pages with whiskey and curses?
Seemingly not. I'll gaze inward, and find something of consequence to write the next time.
Something like She would have written.
I'm sure of it.
My mother taught me letters, and it is by her legacy that my handwriting holds this flourish that I am so frequently told ill suits my person. In spite of this, the one thing that she does not seem to have left me is any entries of her own - as such, I find myself imagining every sort of profundity that might have flown forth from her pen, and hold up my own to a standard that is as unreachable as it is intangible. Rest assured that I'm no fool. I know that my demeanor comes across quite differently when I have time to put my thoughts to paper, and I know that elegance is something that will never truly be associated with me. I have no interest in improving this facet of my behavior merely for the perceptions of the narrow-minded.
Shall I write again of the fruitlessness of war? Shall I write again of the improvements we might find within our own city before expanding out into the world? Shall I write forlornly of loves experienced, loves lost, and the passage of time?
Shall I play to what you, who read this, thinks of me, and stain the pages with whiskey and curses?
Seemingly not. I'll gaze inward, and find something of consequence to write the next time.
Something like She would have written.
I'm sure of it.
Written By Sydney
May 31, 2022, 7:03 p.m.(10/1/1017 AR)
When war is all you know, war is all you ever will know.
I long for the days when I was a child, and such matters seemed far outside of my ken, an intangible specter looming just out of view that made the prices of feed and produce fluctuate, that snatched away the fathers and mothers of children I met in the Lower Boroughs.
When I was young, at least, it all felt like it was done with meaning and purpose, by adults who quite simply knew better than I how the world worked, and what course of action to take.
...I'm still young, it could be argued, but no longer young enough to not see the futility of all of this. In the absence of a common foe, we create one in eachother. Shards, even in the /presence/ of a common foe that we know not how to strike, we create one we can reach.
What utter foolishness.
I long for the days when I was a child, and such matters seemed far outside of my ken, an intangible specter looming just out of view that made the prices of feed and produce fluctuate, that snatched away the fathers and mothers of children I met in the Lower Boroughs.
When I was young, at least, it all felt like it was done with meaning and purpose, by adults who quite simply knew better than I how the world worked, and what course of action to take.
...I'm still young, it could be argued, but no longer young enough to not see the futility of all of this. In the absence of a common foe, we create one in eachother. Shards, even in the /presence/ of a common foe that we know not how to strike, we create one we can reach.
What utter foolishness.
Written By Sydney
May 2, 2022, 6:27 p.m.(7/27/1017 AR)
Someone told me once that loss aches less with age, time, and experience.
I reject this. Those who spew such prattle are merely referring to their ability to wall off their hearts over time, until they feel less, less, then nothing at all. A cold comfort to give to anyone who is in any stage of grief. Assurances that future losses will hurt me less does nothing for the wounds I'm living through /now/, and while it may be true for them, I doubt very much it shall be the case for me.
I don't think myself better than anyone who has this advice to give, only cut from a different cloth. I will keep my nerves exposed, and let each cut I accumulate hurt me as it deserves to hurt me. I will not close the door to my heart, and I will not allow tears to go unshed where they're deserved.
There will always be a part of me that will question if this could have been different.
From that ache comes growth.
I reject this. Those who spew such prattle are merely referring to their ability to wall off their hearts over time, until they feel less, less, then nothing at all. A cold comfort to give to anyone who is in any stage of grief. Assurances that future losses will hurt me less does nothing for the wounds I'm living through /now/, and while it may be true for them, I doubt very much it shall be the case for me.
I don't think myself better than anyone who has this advice to give, only cut from a different cloth. I will keep my nerves exposed, and let each cut I accumulate hurt me as it deserves to hurt me. I will not close the door to my heart, and I will not allow tears to go unshed where they're deserved.
There will always be a part of me that will question if this could have been different.
From that ache comes growth.
Written By Sydney
Jan. 2, 2022, 11:52 a.m.(11/10/1016 AR)
It's a bittersweet moment, reaching the last page of a journal. Knowing that you've filled it with everything you can for months or years but its time has come regardless, and it's time to wish it well and have it take its place on the shelf.
Fondly remembered on occasion, but distant now from your routine.
That's how it is, I suppose. I'm sentimental enough to miss it when it goes, but not so inextricably chained to it so as not to seek a new one, with room to fill more stories.
Fondly remembered on occasion, but distant now from your routine.
That's how it is, I suppose. I'm sentimental enough to miss it when it goes, but not so inextricably chained to it so as not to seek a new one, with room to fill more stories.
Written By Sydney
Dec. 25, 2021, 8:50 p.m.(10/23/1016 AR)
Relationship Note on Haakon
Shockingly, when engaged by hostile forces, the local populace doesn't tend to roll over and welcome their invaders with open arms.
There's no putting it back in the bottle now, but our reach overextends our grip in the Saffron Chain, and we're all the worse for it.
I wonder what history will make of razing our way through territory that we laid no claim to, all in order to puff out our chests and look impressive, only to be caught with our pants around our heels when true threats came knocking at our door.
There's no putting it back in the bottle now, but our reach overextends our grip in the Saffron Chain, and we're all the worse for it.
I wonder what history will make of razing our way through territory that we laid no claim to, all in order to puff out our chests and look impressive, only to be caught with our pants around our heels when true threats came knocking at our door.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.