Written By Wylla
March 16, 2023, 8:45 p.m.(6/16/1019 AR)
Denica has made me whole again, she and Savio both.
When I lost my painting hand, I won't confess to the depth of despair I fell to. In truth, when I hit the bottom of the chasm, I was surprised at how quickly I pushed back towards the surface of my joy. It was hard, sinking isn't as easy as they say it is, and yet there was a cradling to my grief, a softness that was painful; it buried, it enveloped. It was kind in its brutal consumption of everything joyful in me.
I have a new hand now, carved beautifully in ivory by Denica, facillitated by Savio and the Dominus. A tree has been carved in its surface, and it continues on my skin by the grace of a skilled marquist.
I am more than I was but lesser too; I understand my limitations even as I break free of them.
I haven't words enough ...
I haven't words enough.
When I lost my painting hand, I won't confess to the depth of despair I fell to. In truth, when I hit the bottom of the chasm, I was surprised at how quickly I pushed back towards the surface of my joy. It was hard, sinking isn't as easy as they say it is, and yet there was a cradling to my grief, a softness that was painful; it buried, it enveloped. It was kind in its brutal consumption of everything joyful in me.
I have a new hand now, carved beautifully in ivory by Denica, facillitated by Savio and the Dominus. A tree has been carved in its surface, and it continues on my skin by the grace of a skilled marquist.
I am more than I was but lesser too; I understand my limitations even as I break free of them.
I haven't words enough ...
I haven't words enough.
Written By Wylla
Aug. 13, 2022, 12:22 a.m.(3/10/1018 AR)
So much lost. The people, the innocents. Citizens unarmed, artisans and merchants. A city of peaceful ambitions and joy. So much lost.
We'll find our way back. Joy is a choice in times like these. Though I've ... the steps, they are harder to find, I'll find them.
I'll find them.
We'll find our way back. Joy is a choice in times like these. Though I've ... the steps, they are harder to find, I'll find them.
I'll find them.
Written By Wylla
April 30, 2022, 11:54 p.m.(7/23/1017 AR)
A loftier creature would never stoop so low as to grip the sullied hand of a dying man nor kiss his fingertips while he bled in the dirt. she should not have cradled his skull of matted hair to her lap, nor brushed his eyes clear of the tears that gathered there. To say his name was sin enough and to know it intimately, every curve of every syllable over her tongue, was mortal. Truly, there was no more humble a creature than the woman who’s head was bowed over, arms wound about him who bled on her thighs, mud in her skirts, heart breaking under a merciless sun and a battlefield that ached with crows.
But it was her voice that edged his ears, caught his pain and set it loose. Her tears became the rain, her hair the silken sheets of their shared bed, and her scent permeating the air of a bower eternal.
Hmm? Oh. I'm not sure, scholar. It was just a dream.
But it was her voice that edged his ears, caught his pain and set it loose. Her tears became the rain, her hair the silken sheets of their shared bed, and her scent permeating the air of a bower eternal.
Hmm? Oh. I'm not sure, scholar. It was just a dream.
Written By Wylla
Feb. 22, 2022, 7:03 p.m.(3/1/1017 AR)
Dreams of chains, bending and unbending, shattered and mending.
Memories of a hammer, strong fingers wrapping around my own so I don't drop it (again).
I need to paint.
Memories of a hammer, strong fingers wrapping around my own so I don't drop it (again).
I need to paint.
Written By Wylla
Jan. 20, 2022, 2:49 p.m.(12/18/1016 AR)
I dreamt of Joscelin again, and not a pleasant dream. I wonder if my worry for her is all in my head, or if it's the order I worry about, by extension, the Compact. The city. So much in the world is unsettled, and not in the way of a pleasant mystery. There are images in my dreams that tease at more, but like a woman peering through frosted glass and fog, I can't see it.
Written By Wylla
Jan. 20, 2022, 2:46 p.m.(12/18/1016 AR)
There is a mushroom called 'chicken-of-the-woods'. It's delicious and uncommon enough that to find one is to celebrate.
[Little drawings of mushrooms along the edges of the page. No other writing.]
[Little drawings of mushrooms along the edges of the page. No other writing.]
Written By Wylla
Jan. 18, 2022, 10:04 p.m.(12/15/1016 AR)
These flowers are several weeks out of water and still as dew and soft as the day they were given to me. I find myself both in awe and mildly alarmed; these things aren't meant to last.
Several times a week, I will paint a mural on the old bits of wall slab left behind from older versions of the temple. I will take all day to do it, the designs always different. Sometimes it's someone I know, someone I wish to know, or random patterns that inspire me. When I'm finished, I take my large, trusty hammer, and shatter the mural into pieces. Sometimes I will keep a small piece for my garden, sometimes it gets pounded into bits.
Perhaps it's silly of me to embrace the nature of impermanence, but there are so many precious moments that are mine alone for the fleeting nature of time. Mine, and perhaps a few others.
They are beautiful, these flowers. The blue aster is my favorite.
I think I'll stop stressing about how strange it is that they are still fresh, and instead enjoy them while I have them; soon, they will be ready for pressing, and I will have frail echoes of their beauty as a reminder for the sweet moments they were mine.
Several times a week, I will paint a mural on the old bits of wall slab left behind from older versions of the temple. I will take all day to do it, the designs always different. Sometimes it's someone I know, someone I wish to know, or random patterns that inspire me. When I'm finished, I take my large, trusty hammer, and shatter the mural into pieces. Sometimes I will keep a small piece for my garden, sometimes it gets pounded into bits.
Perhaps it's silly of me to embrace the nature of impermanence, but there are so many precious moments that are mine alone for the fleeting nature of time. Mine, and perhaps a few others.
They are beautiful, these flowers. The blue aster is my favorite.
I think I'll stop stressing about how strange it is that they are still fresh, and instead enjoy them while I have them; soon, they will be ready for pressing, and I will have frail echoes of their beauty as a reminder for the sweet moments they were mine.
Written By Wylla
Jan. 14, 2022, 9:34 a.m.(12/6/1016 AR)
[Not an entry, but a watercolor of grays and ochres and softer yellows, the impression of a forest on an autumn morning, a glade protected by sleeping trees, foliage tucked away for winter; scattered about are yellow/green dollops of color, suggestions of mushrooms perhaps, and the starburst blue of aster. The latter is laughable; it's too late in the season for aster to bloom, and far too cold.]
Written By Wylla
July 11, 2021, 8:35 p.m.(10/25/1015 AR)
I dreamt of her again. She was singing a sad song and smiling. How many of us do that? Sing songs with sad stories, smiling at the pleasure of singing, without thought to the one who first wrote the words? So old, some of these lullabies and limericks, with tales of woe and despair. Why do we sing them?
"Sad songs help the aches when you grieve," my mother told me once. "There are poems set to music of loved ones dying in each others arms, and still they lift the ache when I hear them, more when I sing them. I weep and I sing and I remember your Mama Juna and miss her, oh so much. But after, the ache is less, the memories of her closer, and I can smile again."
I paint today in shades of gold and blue, scholar; melancholy moment with a warm future before us.
Yes. Links in a long chain, pulling us forward.
"Sad songs help the aches when you grieve," my mother told me once. "There are poems set to music of loved ones dying in each others arms, and still they lift the ache when I hear them, more when I sing them. I weep and I sing and I remember your Mama Juna and miss her, oh so much. But after, the ache is less, the memories of her closer, and I can smile again."
I paint today in shades of gold and blue, scholar; melancholy moment with a warm future before us.
Yes. Links in a long chain, pulling us forward.
Written By Wylla
May 16, 2021, 6:21 p.m.(6/25/1015 AR)
I dreamt she was in city, and then heard it was true. How strange that I have not seen her and yet I feel her footsteps and hear her laughter, only to round a corner and see no one there. Is it because I am unworthy? Or is it because while I do not need her as others in the city might, I am still gifted with evidence of her presence, tickling the edges of my perception?
That I don't feel anything but joy speaks to the latter, even if my mortal worries fray over the former.
That I don't feel anything but joy speaks to the latter, even if my mortal worries fray over the former.
Written By Wylla
Dec. 4, 2020, 10:16 a.m.(7/4/1014 AR)
Creation in its purest form honors Jayus. To make joy and beauty and purpose, expression of self, ideas, moments in time; this honors Jayus, the Prince of Stories.
I know the Cathedral's destruction broke the hearts of many, from commoner to noble, and to see the city come together, to hear stories of artisans giving generously of their time and talents and materials, of nobles harnessing their own unique abilities to organize charities ...
It heartens me and makes me proud. The act of giving self-lessly, charity and donation, to create with the purpose of giving it to someone else, a gift of your work, your pain, your materials ... Not everyone can wield a hammer or carve a beam or hew stone with the skill it takes to rebuild the Cathedral, but pouring your time and efforts into organizing an event, or giving what coin you can, or creating a piece of art to auction for the cause, or telling others of all or any to spread the word, these are all steps to reclaiming what we lost.
And I know we lost much art as well, items of great meaning and beauty, rendered to ash and slag. But from the destruction comes creation, new seeds of inspiration to bloom in the fertile grounds of imagination, to create more in the memory of what was lost.
Arx. I am so very proud of you.
I know the Cathedral's destruction broke the hearts of many, from commoner to noble, and to see the city come together, to hear stories of artisans giving generously of their time and talents and materials, of nobles harnessing their own unique abilities to organize charities ...
It heartens me and makes me proud. The act of giving self-lessly, charity and donation, to create with the purpose of giving it to someone else, a gift of your work, your pain, your materials ... Not everyone can wield a hammer or carve a beam or hew stone with the skill it takes to rebuild the Cathedral, but pouring your time and efforts into organizing an event, or giving what coin you can, or creating a piece of art to auction for the cause, or telling others of all or any to spread the word, these are all steps to reclaiming what we lost.
And I know we lost much art as well, items of great meaning and beauty, rendered to ash and slag. But from the destruction comes creation, new seeds of inspiration to bloom in the fertile grounds of imagination, to create more in the memory of what was lost.
Arx. I am so very proud of you.
Written By Wylla
Nov. 12, 2020, 12:55 a.m.(5/15/1014 AR)
A voice has gone silent. The grief-
Even so, while despair edges my heart and my vision, the sweet fingers of anguish curl around my heart and promise to cradle this sorrow-
It's a trick.
I will remember the lively discourse, the disagreements, the rare smile, the moments of calm. I will remember and celebrate the tumultuous act of LIFE that was our Dominus.
But for now ... I weep.
And regret.
Even so, while despair edges my heart and my vision, the sweet fingers of anguish curl around my heart and promise to cradle this sorrow-
It's a trick.
I will remember the lively discourse, the disagreements, the rare smile, the moments of calm. I will remember and celebrate the tumultuous act of LIFE that was our Dominus.
But for now ... I weep.
And regret.
Written By Wylla
Oct. 19, 2020, 1:16 p.m.(3/24/1014 AR)
While I do appreciate the building and rebuilding of the Shrine, it behooves me to keep a chest to myself that I can move with my valuables at the place. Well, those things valuable to my office, I suppose. I can't think of the last time, if ever, there was an office attached to the Shrine, but there is the marking of an old door way and a garden that isn't a garden, traced with stones for a foundation that hasn't been built upon in ages. So! I think I'm going to build a room, a studio, that will be destroyed and rebuilt with the Shrine as the rest of it is. I'm assured it won't take long at all, with all the materials laid about and ready for use.
An angled roof, perhaps? Many, many windows-
[The rest of the page looks like schematics for a room, but maybe a building? Also a wall with many, many things dangling off it-]
An angled roof, perhaps? Many, many windows-
[The rest of the page looks like schematics for a room, but maybe a building? Also a wall with many, many things dangling off it-]
Written By Wylla
Oct. 17, 2020, 5:33 p.m.(3/20/1014 AR)
It's been a long journey. I'm fed and bathed and ready for bed and still my mind spins with the things I've seen.
Long roads and rivers that wind, an ocean that stretched out forever. A coast and a path and the pull of divine, the eyes of someone I recognized.
I Dreamed of a face, someone I knew. She Inspired and smiled and I knew I was safe.
In my dream there was tea, because, there is always tea. And we spoke of things to come. I told her of the world and she told me of hers, and we mused over topics dear to us.
She touched me and it was like lightning, a shock to my soul! Bright and sudden and it came to me:
A voice, and it said, "Listen to the people; the praise of Jayus is not always in those that toil in shop and shelter. Sometimes it is in the strangest of places He inspires devotees, and we must not forget them either!
"The soul can flourish, the heart can grow without ever holding a brush. You can build without hammers, carve without stone, and leave an impression on generations without sewing a single stitch.
"Songs to be written, poetry to write, there are plays to create and perform; there are dances to sway, graces to beguile, and other ways we can't comprehend.
"Make a home for those who create from the heart, with only memory to mark what they've made, stories and songs, actors who know their lines by heart, painters who paint only for themselves."
Her voice in my ear, I woke with a jolt, still on the ship that anchored by a shore I didn't know. The journey was real, the scent of her too, so perhaps there is real wisdom to be learned from Dreams?
Long roads and rivers that wind, an ocean that stretched out forever. A coast and a path and the pull of divine, the eyes of someone I recognized.
I Dreamed of a face, someone I knew. She Inspired and smiled and I knew I was safe.
In my dream there was tea, because, there is always tea. And we spoke of things to come. I told her of the world and she told me of hers, and we mused over topics dear to us.
She touched me and it was like lightning, a shock to my soul! Bright and sudden and it came to me:
A voice, and it said, "Listen to the people; the praise of Jayus is not always in those that toil in shop and shelter. Sometimes it is in the strangest of places He inspires devotees, and we must not forget them either!
"The soul can flourish, the heart can grow without ever holding a brush. You can build without hammers, carve without stone, and leave an impression on generations without sewing a single stitch.
"Songs to be written, poetry to write, there are plays to create and perform; there are dances to sway, graces to beguile, and other ways we can't comprehend.
"Make a home for those who create from the heart, with only memory to mark what they've made, stories and songs, actors who know their lines by heart, painters who paint only for themselves."
Her voice in my ear, I woke with a jolt, still on the ship that anchored by a shore I didn't know. The journey was real, the scent of her too, so perhaps there is real wisdom to be learned from Dreams?
Written By Wylla
Aug. 30, 2020, 11:06 a.m.(12/7/1013 AR)
It's wonderful to hear of all these new fabrics, alloys and materials being invented. It would seem many were inspired rather than defeated by the constriction of trade with our faraway neighbors and the other troubles that have turned the market on its head these last few months.
Should everything return to 'normal', I do hope that the creative impulse remains and items of such beauty continue to be crafted here in Arvum. Jayus bless all those involved in these endeavors.
Should everything return to 'normal', I do hope that the creative impulse remains and items of such beauty continue to be crafted here in Arvum. Jayus bless all those involved in these endeavors.
Written By Wylla
Aug. 23, 2020, 2:32 p.m.(11/22/1013 AR)
It's always a joy to sit down with others at the shrine and discuss things that are important to them, and help to assuage any of their doubts and clarify any confusion they might have. Of course, the topic of conversation is inevitably Jayus, but how could one ever tire of the Prince of Stories? I'm sure I would lose my voice before I ran out of words to say on that subject.
In Arx, I've met a wide variety of people of different rank, backgrounds and station from all across Arvum, which is one of the most interesting aspects of dwelling in this city. The opportunity to mix with, learn from and grow closer to others in relative peace and safety here is truly unique. This city is a gift, and I wish everyone would hold that idea in their hearts and remember it when there are misfortunes and frictions.
In Arx, I've met a wide variety of people of different rank, backgrounds and station from all across Arvum, which is one of the most interesting aspects of dwelling in this city. The opportunity to mix with, learn from and grow closer to others in relative peace and safety here is truly unique. This city is a gift, and I wish everyone would hold that idea in their hearts and remember it when there are misfortunes and frictions.
Written By Wylla
Aug. 8, 2020, 5:19 p.m.(10/20/1013 AR)
I continue to be impressed and sometimes amused by the replies I've received. Even with just the few words collected so far, I can feel the potential growing with each one.
Written By Wylla
July 26, 2020, 12:28 p.m.(9/22/1013 AR)
Inspiration struck and I followed it out of the city entirely. I suppose I'd grown rather used to travel and seeing new places and people every day. While Arx is grand, the vistas end at the towering walls while you're within the city, and that can be stifling, despite the great wealth ideas mixing among the people. Sometimes feeling the caress of a cool breeze off the Bay of Thrax, or hearing the rustling of leaves and the singing of birds in the Gray Forest is just what one needs to settle a creative spark in one's mind and fan it into a blaze.
Written By Wylla
July 12, 2020, 3:14 p.m.(8/22/1013 AR)
I'd almost forgotten how hot the summers are in Arx, and how blazing the sun. A cold wind from the north howling down from the mountains like those that blow in Whitehold would be a welcome relief, but the sea breeze off the Bay of Thrax has to suffice. It's pleasant to walk in the cool sand at dawn, and there's so many curious things to find washed ashore; seashells, driftwood, smooth stones and such. It's just a question of braving the weird creatures in their tidal pools and the lumpy piles of gooey seaweed.
My templar guards especially enjoy these excursions.
My templar guards especially enjoy these excursions.
Written By Wylla
July 11, 2020, 10:26 a.m.(8/19/1013 AR)
I have been spending many an hour in the Shrine of Jayus since my return to Arx, giving counsel and blessings to those who need either. Though it is a wonderful edifice, the time when it must be torn down and the building to begin anew is drawing ever closer.
I've watched the faithful contribute to its walls to the point they're very nearly finished in places. One is so high, in fact, that a kindly stone mason had to shore it up for it had begun to sag. I think this year, more care shall go to the foundation and frame of the shrine, it will have to be sturdy and strong to bear the many hopes and dreams of the people of Arvum.
I've also watched others paint their stones and add them to the pile, but soon those too shall all be cleared away. A new story must be written.
I've watched the faithful contribute to its walls to the point they're very nearly finished in places. One is so high, in fact, that a kindly stone mason had to shore it up for it had begun to sag. I think this year, more care shall go to the foundation and frame of the shrine, it will have to be sturdy and strong to bear the many hopes and dreams of the people of Arvum.
I've also watched others paint their stones and add them to the pile, but soon those too shall all be cleared away. A new story must be written.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.