Written By Duarte
Jan. 11, 2024, 5:08 a.m.(7/14/1021 AR)
Journal
We had half a map and it is all that we had. Lady Olivia Ashford, Lady Tessa Moore, Sir Jordan Ober (of House Ashford), Violet Marjawn (now Baroness Violet Farwatch), Sister Astraea Valardin, and me. Much went into the planning for our venture to Halfway House, but much was not enough.
Wandering the woods to which the map took us, the shardhaven's taunts began well before the location was in our sights. The map itself seemed to laugh at us as it withheld its final destination when under scrutiny. We had to view it with half a gaze to get anywhere. It was terribly annoying, if punny. All about us the shadows themselves seemed to twist and grin menacingly for our approach. We were all too welcome guests to a night that would be fraught with terror.
Everything about the Halfway House was half. It was half decrepit and half new construction. It was half open, and half closed in doors and window. Ominous music played on a loop, but only to half the song. The only full completion of a thing on the premises was a grave just outside the building. In hindsight, an all too obvious thing to have dug up. We missed it entirely.
The smell of fresh popcorn permeated the air as we considered our first moves. It was well determined much ahead of time that we would not /enter/ the Halfway House. We decided our best course of action would be to walk a perimeter and - as you might imagine - that proved to be impossible because we could only get as far as half way around it. We walked to no end and had no choice but to double back along a tall stone wall covered in lush, beautiful vines and half-bloomed flowers with a glorious scent.
We began our prayers. Prayers to Petrichor, for we knew the nature of corruption here was that of his dark reflection. And the prayers stung the keep like a rapier piercing the flesh of a giant. The vines began to twist and come alive. They came for me and Jordan. Quickly, Violet and he fought them off, but it was the least of our concerns. For so as quickly, I became afflicted with a violent hunger. The ground began to shake as if rebelling against the prayer. The wall crumbled to reveal a garden of beautiful flowers, greenery, and lovely, supple berries. The aching of gnawing hunger was unsatiable for Sir Jordan and I, as we stuffed our faces with what rations Lady Olivia had carried. But the reveal of the garden, and its tender fruit, was all too obvious a trap.
But one by one, the shardhaven took its hold on us. Not with twisted monsters and physical threat. It attacked us at our minds and our wits. Lady Tessa was hungry and insatiable for curiosity. She broke from the group and went around to enter the house at the door. Violet became inexplicably and painfully ill, retching and nauseated. Sir Jordan and I were hungry - so, so very hungry. Only Lady Olivia was without ailment and her continued prayer alleviated our senses, somewhat, for a small while.
Inexplicably, Sir Jordan was pegged in the back of his head by a piece of popcorn. But no one was around who could've possibly thrown it.
We could only half-return from halfway around the house. It was terribly frustrating. And, eventually, the shardhaven warped its way to Lady Olivia's mind as well, and Violet's. They became hungry. And suddenly, that obvious trap of the garden seemed like a mercy. The Halfway House was our salvation! Not our doom. All we had to do was hack through those horrible vines - and how readily they yielded as we sought after, in a righteous cause, the garden and its array of plump, juicy springtime berries.
We fell upon the bushes and devoured them until we were full - staining our lips and fingers. And just as we were on the brink of gluttony, the vines snapped us up and threw us out.
And this piece of the story just ended? That was the easy part.
We had half a map and it is all that we had. Lady Olivia Ashford, Lady Tessa Moore, Sir Jordan Ober (of House Ashford), Violet Marjawn (now Baroness Violet Farwatch), Sister Astraea Valardin, and me. Much went into the planning for our venture to Halfway House, but much was not enough.
Wandering the woods to which the map took us, the shardhaven's taunts began well before the location was in our sights. The map itself seemed to laugh at us as it withheld its final destination when under scrutiny. We had to view it with half a gaze to get anywhere. It was terribly annoying, if punny. All about us the shadows themselves seemed to twist and grin menacingly for our approach. We were all too welcome guests to a night that would be fraught with terror.
Everything about the Halfway House was half. It was half decrepit and half new construction. It was half open, and half closed in doors and window. Ominous music played on a loop, but only to half the song. The only full completion of a thing on the premises was a grave just outside the building. In hindsight, an all too obvious thing to have dug up. We missed it entirely.
The smell of fresh popcorn permeated the air as we considered our first moves. It was well determined much ahead of time that we would not /enter/ the Halfway House. We decided our best course of action would be to walk a perimeter and - as you might imagine - that proved to be impossible because we could only get as far as half way around it. We walked to no end and had no choice but to double back along a tall stone wall covered in lush, beautiful vines and half-bloomed flowers with a glorious scent.
We began our prayers. Prayers to Petrichor, for we knew the nature of corruption here was that of his dark reflection. And the prayers stung the keep like a rapier piercing the flesh of a giant. The vines began to twist and come alive. They came for me and Jordan. Quickly, Violet and he fought them off, but it was the least of our concerns. For so as quickly, I became afflicted with a violent hunger. The ground began to shake as if rebelling against the prayer. The wall crumbled to reveal a garden of beautiful flowers, greenery, and lovely, supple berries. The aching of gnawing hunger was unsatiable for Sir Jordan and I, as we stuffed our faces with what rations Lady Olivia had carried. But the reveal of the garden, and its tender fruit, was all too obvious a trap.
But one by one, the shardhaven took its hold on us. Not with twisted monsters and physical threat. It attacked us at our minds and our wits. Lady Tessa was hungry and insatiable for curiosity. She broke from the group and went around to enter the house at the door. Violet became inexplicably and painfully ill, retching and nauseated. Sir Jordan and I were hungry - so, so very hungry. Only Lady Olivia was without ailment and her continued prayer alleviated our senses, somewhat, for a small while.
Inexplicably, Sir Jordan was pegged in the back of his head by a piece of popcorn. But no one was around who could've possibly thrown it.
We could only half-return from halfway around the house. It was terribly frustrating. And, eventually, the shardhaven warped its way to Lady Olivia's mind as well, and Violet's. They became hungry. And suddenly, that obvious trap of the garden seemed like a mercy. The Halfway House was our salvation! Not our doom. All we had to do was hack through those horrible vines - and how readily they yielded as we sought after, in a righteous cause, the garden and its array of plump, juicy springtime berries.
We fell upon the bushes and devoured them until we were full - staining our lips and fingers. And just as we were on the brink of gluttony, the vines snapped us up and threw us out.
And this piece of the story just ended? That was the easy part.
Written By Mattheu
Jan. 11, 2024, 1:28 a.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Jeffeth
there was a scarf, hair bells, and cookies.
It was a good roll withing the mud. laughter and friendship was found
It was a good roll withing the mud. laughter and friendship was found
Written By Lianne
Jan. 10, 2024, 11:08 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Apollo
We worship those we think, rightly or otherwise, above ourselves, such as Gods, heroes, parents. It is an act of reverence.
We may demonstrate devotion to our equals, to whoever we feel merits it. It is not a passive thing. It is an act of consistent care.
We may demonstrate devotion to our equals, to whoever we feel merits it. It is not a passive thing. It is an act of consistent care.
Written By Lianne
Jan. 10, 2024, 11:02 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Valerius
Transcribed from my Blacks by my own hand:
(7/6/1008 AR)
He was crying when he told me he loves me, that he has never felt so comfortable with anyone in his entire life, that he didn't want to return to a life without me. I cried, too. With relief, with joy, with ache and worry for the burden he must carry in being close to me.
I love him, too. I sometimes find myself thinking of ways I might bend my world to better fit him in it.
I don't think anyone would imagine he's where I would put my heart, my time, all my attention. I would argue that they don't know either of us very well. He is honest, always. He is made of light and laughter and bravery. He is not without fear, but I have yet to see him shy away from either responsibility or challenge, no matter how he might say he avoids the former. He loves deeply. He answers all my questions, even when they make him uncomfortable. He lets me see him. And I think he, too, sees me, even if he doesn't always understand.
I woke beside him this morning after a night of crying and confessions. I woke with his skin beneath my fingers, and I can't remember the last time I felt such peace.
This will not be easy, but I have no doubt that it will be worth it, if only for moments like those.
(7/6/1008 AR)
He was crying when he told me he loves me, that he has never felt so comfortable with anyone in his entire life, that he didn't want to return to a life without me. I cried, too. With relief, with joy, with ache and worry for the burden he must carry in being close to me.
I love him, too. I sometimes find myself thinking of ways I might bend my world to better fit him in it.
I don't think anyone would imagine he's where I would put my heart, my time, all my attention. I would argue that they don't know either of us very well. He is honest, always. He is made of light and laughter and bravery. He is not without fear, but I have yet to see him shy away from either responsibility or challenge, no matter how he might say he avoids the former. He loves deeply. He answers all my questions, even when they make him uncomfortable. He lets me see him. And I think he, too, sees me, even if he doesn't always understand.
I woke beside him this morning after a night of crying and confessions. I woke with his skin beneath my fingers, and I can't remember the last time I felt such peace.
This will not be easy, but I have no doubt that it will be worth it, if only for moments like those.
Written By Fortunato
Jan. 10, 2024, 8:57 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
I think that we will make it. I hope we will make it. I would like the Dream to persist. I would not like the Eater to end it. What a miserable end that would be.
I must grieve, though. I must grieve, and grieve, and grieve at so many lost. Countless lost. Peoples and settlements and nations. Gone. I think we will make it. I think we will preserve the seed of Arvum to regrow in another season. I think, perhaps, the world will not utterly end.
But the loss is incalculable. All I wanted, all I have wanted, was to prevent this. Do you remember the empty pages raining on Arx? Do you remember the terrible visions of his depredations? I wanted it to stop. I wanted the common folk, the every day folk, the people that perhaps have little weight on either the Dream or on society, I wanted them to live. I'm just from the Lowers myself.
I think we will preserve a seed to regrow in another season. I think we will come together with unlikely allies. I think perhaps we will be able to perform a great working with help. Or we will have a way or another way. I have this hope. But the loss is incalculable. The world will not be the same world and for a long time Arvum will be barren. Arx a faint shoot in a land of desolation. Spring will come. But I have not prevented this winter. Should I survive this end, I do not think I can stay. I will walk the ruined roads and remember the loss.
I must grieve, though. I must grieve, and grieve, and grieve at so many lost. Countless lost. Peoples and settlements and nations. Gone. I think we will make it. I think we will preserve the seed of Arvum to regrow in another season. I think, perhaps, the world will not utterly end.
But the loss is incalculable. All I wanted, all I have wanted, was to prevent this. Do you remember the empty pages raining on Arx? Do you remember the terrible visions of his depredations? I wanted it to stop. I wanted the common folk, the every day folk, the people that perhaps have little weight on either the Dream or on society, I wanted them to live. I'm just from the Lowers myself.
I think we will preserve a seed to regrow in another season. I think we will come together with unlikely allies. I think perhaps we will be able to perform a great working with help. Or we will have a way or another way. I have this hope. But the loss is incalculable. The world will not be the same world and for a long time Arvum will be barren. Arx a faint shoot in a land of desolation. Spring will come. But I have not prevented this winter. Should I survive this end, I do not think I can stay. I will walk the ruined roads and remember the loss.
Written By Lianne
Jan. 10, 2024, 7:49 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
Transcribed from my Blacks by my own hand, with a note that this was a relatively minor demon:
(8/7/1005 AR)
All I could see was blackness.
It came in through my eyes. My ears, nose, mouth, but also my eyes, blotting out all light, leaving me in darkness. As if the allegorical darkness which I had denied had risen up just to tell me that it is real, that it is not mere metaphor, that there is no other word for this evil but what it is: Darkness.
For all the weight of that word, I must try to document this clearly, to articulate what I witnessed. Here, first, for myself and for Vellichor and for Tehom who sees what darkness is left in me. Later, for my beloved duchess. Perhaps, then, after review, for a few fellow scholars.
What I witnessed was a black, ominous cloud barreling toward myself and the admiral. Cassius had alerted me, shouting from upstairs, and I reached for my holy water. I was unable to wield it effectively, to create a barrier which might have prohibited its movement. I did, however, see how it reshaped itself to avoid what I was able to spill, which only made the gaps I left behind all the more evident. As it rushed toward my face, I then tried, in vain, to guard myself against its trespass, but the mist was too fine. It got in.
It was wet and oppressive and slick like oil. I could barely breathe for how it contaminated every inhalation without ever being expelled. It could not have been more than a minute, and yet it felt so much longer. While within me, heavy and wrong and inescapably black, I could feel it taking from me, this... pulling from within my very being.
I remember very clearly what it felt like to be stripped of all that awfulness, to feel it forced from me as I was pushed past the barrier which had been drawn around us. I felt clean. For an instant, I felt perfectly pure, that imperfection washed away by Mangata herself. And then I hit the ground. Cassius had erected a circle of holy water, Felix then pushed up through it, trapping the mirrorborn in its mist-form, too fine to defy the holy wall which bound it. Once it took to a more solid form, it was able to push through, the blessed water eating away at its ruined and fluid flesh, but it was also once more able to be struck. And vulnerable to combustion, at which point it crumbled into oil and ash and mirror shards, of which I have collected a few.
I will want later to record the others' experiences, what they witnessed, but this evidence is my own.
I feel pitted still, as if all of my innards have been weathered and worn by what was within me. I know this is not the case, that I am well and whole, yet that metaphor feels so real, as if I have been scarred in ways the rest of Arvum will never see. No. Perhaps if I think of it as wounds, injuries, it will heal. To call it a scar is to bear it forever, to be marked by the mirrorborn. This, like any other wound, will heal.
Any further exposition would detract from the purpose of this journal.
(8/7/1005 AR)
All I could see was blackness.
It came in through my eyes. My ears, nose, mouth, but also my eyes, blotting out all light, leaving me in darkness. As if the allegorical darkness which I had denied had risen up just to tell me that it is real, that it is not mere metaphor, that there is no other word for this evil but what it is: Darkness.
For all the weight of that word, I must try to document this clearly, to articulate what I witnessed. Here, first, for myself and for Vellichor and for Tehom who sees what darkness is left in me. Later, for my beloved duchess. Perhaps, then, after review, for a few fellow scholars.
What I witnessed was a black, ominous cloud barreling toward myself and the admiral. Cassius had alerted me, shouting from upstairs, and I reached for my holy water. I was unable to wield it effectively, to create a barrier which might have prohibited its movement. I did, however, see how it reshaped itself to avoid what I was able to spill, which only made the gaps I left behind all the more evident. As it rushed toward my face, I then tried, in vain, to guard myself against its trespass, but the mist was too fine. It got in.
It was wet and oppressive and slick like oil. I could barely breathe for how it contaminated every inhalation without ever being expelled. It could not have been more than a minute, and yet it felt so much longer. While within me, heavy and wrong and inescapably black, I could feel it taking from me, this... pulling from within my very being.
I remember very clearly what it felt like to be stripped of all that awfulness, to feel it forced from me as I was pushed past the barrier which had been drawn around us. I felt clean. For an instant, I felt perfectly pure, that imperfection washed away by Mangata herself. And then I hit the ground. Cassius had erected a circle of holy water, Felix then pushed up through it, trapping the mirrorborn in its mist-form, too fine to defy the holy wall which bound it. Once it took to a more solid form, it was able to push through, the blessed water eating away at its ruined and fluid flesh, but it was also once more able to be struck. And vulnerable to combustion, at which point it crumbled into oil and ash and mirror shards, of which I have collected a few.
I will want later to record the others' experiences, what they witnessed, but this evidence is my own.
I feel pitted still, as if all of my innards have been weathered and worn by what was within me. I know this is not the case, that I am well and whole, yet that metaphor feels so real, as if I have been scarred in ways the rest of Arvum will never see. No. Perhaps if I think of it as wounds, injuries, it will heal. To call it a scar is to bear it forever, to be marked by the mirrorborn. This, like any other wound, will heal.
Any further exposition would detract from the purpose of this journal.
Written By Gwenna
Jan. 10, 2024, 7:13 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
There are few in the Compact who have not heard the tales of Queen Valeria Redrain in the time of the Reckoning, and certainly not a soul in the Northlands. Fewer records survived about her sister Elira. Elira the warrior, Elira the strategist, Elira the steadfast. Valeria's little sister who offered sanctuary in Farhaven to others as the North became more and more deadly, and Elira who held the territory around Farhaven against demonic forces. Elira, who held Farhaven for ten long years as Valeria and the others fought through the White Legions in hopes of freeing the city. The gates never fell.
I am not sure if history might be repeating itself or if the paths before us are coincidence. I know where I must be and what we must do for the Northlands and Arx. There is no way to know what will prove successful or foolish until the histories are ready to be written. All we can really know is that we will make our stand and fight.
To the Last.
I am not sure if history might be repeating itself or if the paths before us are coincidence. I know where I must be and what we must do for the Northlands and Arx. There is no way to know what will prove successful or foolish until the histories are ready to be written. All we can really know is that we will make our stand and fight.
To the Last.
Written By Aconite
Jan. 10, 2024, 3:08 p.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
Worshipping requires action. It does not need belief or attachment to be practiced.
Devotion is similar to worship, but requires no action because it comes from the soul.
Devotion is similar to worship, but requires no action because it comes from the soul.
Written By Aelgar
Jan. 10, 2024, 12:50 p.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
A new initiative in the Archives has arisen and I am to catalog many long-neglected documents in the lower levels of the building. This is a happy day as who knows what fascinating knowledge might be found in those old pages? I hope to raise the most interesting ones up to the ground floor for copying and further review. The Archives are built to discourage moisture and vermin, but it will also be a pleasure to check the various niches and corners to ensure all is safe down there. This is a long overdue project.
Written By Medeia
Jan. 10, 2024, 11:50 a.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
Lord Emilio Saik
I commit his name to the whites, so that some shred of him can be remembered. He existed. None of us remember him. I beg of you to remember him anyway.
He was Estaban's twin. He was my older brother. Estaban could remember him, knew that he was a member of the Inquisition, knew that Azazel had killed him.
I don't know if Emilio was a good brother, carrying me on his back through the vineyards while laughing. I dont know if Emilio tormented me, dipping my hair in ink. Maybe he was both - people are so rarely ever just one thing. Maybe his favorite color was blue, the specific shade of blue that comes to far reaches of the sky when the sun is about to dip below the horizon. Maybe he loved to dance in the dining room to songs he made up about dinner. I don't know. You don't know. Remember him anyway!
Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik was born to Lady Giovanna and Lord Aaron Saik. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik swam off the Saikland beaches as a child - surely he did, we all did. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik once had dirt under his fingernails. Whatever it is, so long as it is likely truth, tell someone. Write it down, even if it is just to say in your journals that I am crazy to insist that Lord Emilio Saik was real.
He was. Remember him. Remember all of them.
I commit his name to the whites, so that some shred of him can be remembered. He existed. None of us remember him. I beg of you to remember him anyway.
He was Estaban's twin. He was my older brother. Estaban could remember him, knew that he was a member of the Inquisition, knew that Azazel had killed him.
I don't know if Emilio was a good brother, carrying me on his back through the vineyards while laughing. I dont know if Emilio tormented me, dipping my hair in ink. Maybe he was both - people are so rarely ever just one thing. Maybe his favorite color was blue, the specific shade of blue that comes to far reaches of the sky when the sun is about to dip below the horizon. Maybe he loved to dance in the dining room to songs he made up about dinner. I don't know. You don't know. Remember him anyway!
Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik was born to Lady Giovanna and Lord Aaron Saik. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik swam off the Saikland beaches as a child - surely he did, we all did. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik once had dirt under his fingernails. Whatever it is, so long as it is likely truth, tell someone. Write it down, even if it is just to say in your journals that I am crazy to insist that Lord Emilio Saik was real.
He was. Remember him. Remember all of them.
Written By Eirene
Jan. 10, 2024, 11:13 a.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
After all my work with the refugees, I wonder if I was kinder to have let them forget...
Written By Fatima
Jan. 10, 2024, 2:31 a.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
Day 3:
I found a coin that belongs to me, brought up from the depths of the sea. It was a coin I never knew was lost until it was found.
I swam with sharks, and came out of the water unscathed. I saw the armies of the Dune Emperor, driven into their waiting teeth.
My fleet is very small, and will not pose a threat to the Dune Emperor at all.
(Anyone who can see the Bay of Thrax, and any available docks and harbors, will know the third one is the lie. The waters are filled with ships, thousands of Eurusi, knights, mercenaries, sellsails and men-at-arms and more, readying to set sail.)
I found a coin that belongs to me, brought up from the depths of the sea. It was a coin I never knew was lost until it was found.
I swam with sharks, and came out of the water unscathed. I saw the armies of the Dune Emperor, driven into their waiting teeth.
My fleet is very small, and will not pose a threat to the Dune Emperor at all.
(Anyone who can see the Bay of Thrax, and any available docks and harbors, will know the third one is the lie. The waters are filled with ships, thousands of Eurusi, knights, mercenaries, sellsails and men-at-arms and more, readying to set sail.)
Written By Lys
Jan. 10, 2024, 1:27 a.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
[Black released to the public]
(1/8/1010 AR)
Willow. Valt. Willow. Valt. Names, supposedly, of my parents. Or at the very least the last known names of them. Two con artists trying to trick what they thought was a noble out of their savings, and ending up with a child with a con artist for their ploy... One rotten to the core, and the other an inveterate liar.
Jokes on me, I guess.
(1/8/1010 AR)
Willow. Valt. Willow. Valt. Names, supposedly, of my parents. Or at the very least the last known names of them. Two con artists trying to trick what they thought was a noble out of their savings, and ending up with a child with a con artist for their ploy... One rotten to the core, and the other an inveterate liar.
Jokes on me, I guess.
Written By Lys
Jan. 10, 2024, 1:10 a.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
I dreamt one last time of my king of stone; once more at his feet, under his unfeeling Stygian gaze. My fingers bloodied at his granite throne, my lips bloodied from begging, my throat raw from screaming. But he was still unmoved… I was not.
I stood from before him and on shaky feet walked away, I did not look back. I will not look back.
Mae would tell me that all things end and to rejoice in the ending for it brings a new beginning.
I stood from before him and on shaky feet walked away, I did not look back. I will not look back.
Mae would tell me that all things end and to rejoice in the ending for it brings a new beginning.
Written By Aconite
Jan. 9, 2024, 10:44 p.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
I see a path now. All that my House has done for me seemed to be impossible to give back..
Now I see a way.
Now I see a way.
Written By Giada
Jan. 9, 2024, 10:33 p.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
He's back!
Written By Lianne
Jan. 9, 2024, 5:25 p.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Apollo
Transcribed from my Blacks by my own hand:
(8/23/1014 AR)
It felt, for a moment, as if he wished to use me as a weapon against himself. The cut would've hurt us both, though him more grievously, I imagine. Guilt is a terrible thing.
I wonder, though, if I already am, without trying. There's a shape to his pain that I can't fully see. It's easy to imagine it's a matter of language; I never understand the fullness of what he communicates, and I've come to accept this. This feels different, like I can't see it because I'm a part of it, my perspective limited. When I look at it like that, I can trace the pain back to the beginning. Every step along the way. What a burr and burden I've been.
Not only that, I know. And yet...
(8/23/1014 AR)
It felt, for a moment, as if he wished to use me as a weapon against himself. The cut would've hurt us both, though him more grievously, I imagine. Guilt is a terrible thing.
I wonder, though, if I already am, without trying. There's a shape to his pain that I can't fully see. It's easy to imagine it's a matter of language; I never understand the fullness of what he communicates, and I've come to accept this. This feels different, like I can't see it because I'm a part of it, my perspective limited. When I look at it like that, I can trace the pain back to the beginning. Every step along the way. What a burr and burden I've been.
Not only that, I know. And yet...
Written By Lianne
Jan. 9, 2024, 5:24 p.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Aleksei
Transcribed from my Blacks by my own hand:
(10/2/1007 AR)
Of all the things which have brought me joy this week, it is the peace which Aleksei and I have found which makes me happiest. I do not expect that it will last; there is too much inherent tension in our opposing positions on so very many things, no matter how much we might agree on others. I will, however, enjoy this armistice for as long as it lasts. I rather like being able to think of him as a friend again.
I believe it was seeing another misunderstand my intentions that leant him some empathy, that reminded him I am not so cold and cruel as I can sometimes seem when I am pursuing understanding so doggedly. It was a matter of perspective, being on the outside of the conversation, an observer rather than participant.
He does seem tired, though. Increasingly. Each new struggle wears him away a little more. I want to ask if he feels the weight of his chains.
I also want to not lose this friendship while I have it.
(10/2/1007 AR)
Of all the things which have brought me joy this week, it is the peace which Aleksei and I have found which makes me happiest. I do not expect that it will last; there is too much inherent tension in our opposing positions on so very many things, no matter how much we might agree on others. I will, however, enjoy this armistice for as long as it lasts. I rather like being able to think of him as a friend again.
I believe it was seeing another misunderstand my intentions that leant him some empathy, that reminded him I am not so cold and cruel as I can sometimes seem when I am pursuing understanding so doggedly. It was a matter of perspective, being on the outside of the conversation, an observer rather than participant.
He does seem tired, though. Increasingly. Each new struggle wears him away a little more. I want to ask if he feels the weight of his chains.
I also want to not lose this friendship while I have it.
Written By Fatima
Jan. 9, 2024, 5:01 p.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
Day 2:
Sharks have fins AND wings. They swim among the clouds, and are your friends.
I once saw a man heroically pull a child out of Darkwater. It was a miracle to behold.
I saw a woman hurl herself willingly into that same water in order to help protect the world, though few would know it.
Sharks have fins AND wings. They swim among the clouds, and are your friends.
I once saw a man heroically pull a child out of Darkwater. It was a miracle to behold.
I saw a woman hurl herself willingly into that same water in order to help protect the world, though few would know it.
Written By Apollo
Jan. 9, 2024, 2:36 p.m.(7/10/1021 AR)
What do worship and devotion mean to you? How do they differ?
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.