Written By Darrow
Dec. 17, 2017, 10:57 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Do I even know who I am, or was, or will be?
Written By Darrow
Dec. 17, 2017, 10:56 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
The fleet actions in the Stormward March were a success.
Now, to focus on the encroachment closer to home.
Now, to focus on the encroachment closer to home.
Written By Magpie
Dec. 17, 2017, 10:54 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Maelstrom. Who knew it could be so exciting?!
Time to go drink myself to a stupor as is proper for the loss of a long-time friend and reliable crew member. We'll miss you, Dean.
Time to go drink myself to a stupor as is proper for the loss of a long-time friend and reliable crew member. We'll miss you, Dean.
Written By Torian
Dec. 17, 2017, 10:28 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Acacia
Saw Acacia again. Her gear is in need of mending but I'll take a look at it. Got a lot of stories to catch up on I reckon.
Written By Esoka
Dec. 17, 2017, 10:22 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
There are more serious things to write about to Vellichor, but I will also write about my dress.
Princess Reese prepared gifts for all of us involved in the Gray Forest campaign, and mine was a silk dress made by the tailor Caprice. It's not the sort of thing I normally wear (I think Calaudrin Estardes will laugh at me because I yelled a lot at him about silk once), but, as I look at it, it suits me very well. The azure blues shift and flow like the waters of the rivers of my home, and the fit is perfect. I don't think I could fight in it. Unlike Lady Joslyn, I trip when I try to hit things in skirts. But it will be beautiful for non-hitting occasions. This was a kind gift and nothing I expected, and I shall treasure it as a reminder of both the hard-fought campaign and the beauties at the end of it.
Princess Reese prepared gifts for all of us involved in the Gray Forest campaign, and mine was a silk dress made by the tailor Caprice. It's not the sort of thing I normally wear (I think Calaudrin Estardes will laugh at me because I yelled a lot at him about silk once), but, as I look at it, it suits me very well. The azure blues shift and flow like the waters of the rivers of my home, and the fit is perfect. I don't think I could fight in it. Unlike Lady Joslyn, I trip when I try to hit things in skirts. But it will be beautiful for non-hitting occasions. This was a kind gift and nothing I expected, and I shall treasure it as a reminder of both the hard-fought campaign and the beauties at the end of it.
Written By Tikva
Dec. 17, 2017, 10:01 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Monique
Very much looking forward to the fantastic party that we will be putting on with Lady Monique and Lord Corban. Everything about this will be _splendid_.
(And yes, I'm afraid I am quite expert at making loud high-pitched noises. I'd say sorry, but I'm not sorry.)
(And yes, I'm afraid I am quite expert at making loud high-pitched noises. I'd say sorry, but I'm not sorry.)
Written By Alexis
Dec. 17, 2017, 9:44 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
I received a beautiful painting from Princess Reese - apparently painted by Princess Denica Thrax. A thank you for my efforts in the Gray Forest campaign. I was pleased to partake and offer up a gift of my own to a woman very much deserving. The Rose of Stonewood knows her name.
I've hung Princess Denica's painting in my store, because - well. It is a grand piece of art, and even if it feels a bit odd to have a stylised reminder of that time I got knocked into a tree, it''s still... Well. She deserves to have people see her masterful strokes.
I'm only sorry I missed the ceremony. Damn fever.
Thank you, Princess Reese.
Thank you, Princess Denica
I've hung Princess Denica's painting in my store, because - well. It is a grand piece of art, and even if it feels a bit odd to have a stylised reminder of that time I got knocked into a tree, it''s still... Well. She deserves to have people see her masterful strokes.
I'm only sorry I missed the ceremony. Damn fever.
Thank you, Princess Reese.
Thank you, Princess Denica
Written By Thesarin
Dec. 17, 2017, 9:43 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Summer's well and ended. Seasons turn, and the world moves.
Since the spring, some ten thousand Prodigals in from the Grey Forests are sworn to Riven, and more from the Mourning Isles, through the worthy work of my wife and Countess. My oldest is close to her twelfth winter; a few years until she's a woman grown. Things aren't how they were. Which is always the way.
For myself, this summer just ended saw me speared, cut, battered, mauled by a bear and set on fire. And sad fact is that's not so much a change.
Since the spring, some ten thousand Prodigals in from the Grey Forests are sworn to Riven, and more from the Mourning Isles, through the worthy work of my wife and Countess. My oldest is close to her twelfth winter; a few years until she's a woman grown. Things aren't how they were. Which is always the way.
For myself, this summer just ended saw me speared, cut, battered, mauled by a bear and set on fire. And sad fact is that's not so much a change.
Written By Alexis
Dec. 17, 2017, 9:41 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Being bedridden is no fun. Especially with the amount of things I've got to do still. But even I can't argue when I'm told I have a fever and my head feels heavy. I probably needed the rest.
Written By Alexis
Dec. 17, 2017, 9:40 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
I've finally gone to the step I've threatened so long, and hired a steward to help me keep track of the paperwork involved with the Gold Order. Mistress Miriam is kind and gentle, and polite, and so far has been able to help me with the work I've set before me. I'm very grateful to her.
Written By Tila
Dec. 17, 2017, 9:03 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
As one still acclimating to the current political situation in Arx, I would praise Marquessa Freja for calling the Redrain fealty together to meet and share current projects. These are dangerous times in which we live, and there's much hard work to do, but I'm confident willing hands and sensible heads will come together to do it.
Written By Percephon
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:25 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
* Citron, peppermint, lemon, eucalyptus, basil, clove, thyme, lemongrass, geranium, and lavender.
* Cedar, citronella, eucalyptus, tea tree, lemongrass, lavender, orange, and pine.
* Rose geranium, juniper, rosewood, thyme, grapefruit, and oregano.
* Cedar, citronella, eucalyptus, tea tree, lemongrass, lavender, orange, and pine.
* Rose geranium, juniper, rosewood, thyme, grapefruit, and oregano.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:24 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
The Artist and His Love
One day, an artist fell in love.
The object of his adoration had broad shoulders and golden skin. His nose was straight and long, and his eyes were the clear grey-blue of the sea during a storm. His mouth was full and wide and prone to smiles that revealed the brilliant white of perfect teeth. His hands had wide palms and long, graceful fingers that were skilled and dextrous.
He was beautiful.
The artist decided that he must capture and immortalize the beauty of his love. He attempted to paint him, but found that his love's angles never seemed quite right. The shadows never fell as they should.
The years went on, and the artist and his love were happy together. Every painting that the artist attempted of him, his love would praise, humbly declaring it far more beautiful than the subject. Yet the artist found each painting wanting. Inadequate. Imperfect.
In later years, he began to attempt sculptures. He molded clay in his hands until it formed the shape of his love, until the clay face's nose was straight and long, its mouth full and wide, its fingers graceful. His love modeled patiently for every piece until it was done, and then declared it to be far more beautiful than he.
Each and every painting and sculpture the artist attempted of his love, he destroyed. Imperfect.
As the years passed, the artist began to feel a rising sense of dread and anxiety. He could begin to see his love age, change, grow. He was unable to appreciate the way the subtle wrinkles at his mouth were the product of his many smiles; he could only see his diminishing time to perfectly capture the image of his beloved.
And so one day the artist asked his love to model for him one last time. He took clay and began to mold it to his love's feet, covering his skin with the perfect detail only possible with his model underneath his hands. He molded clay to his love's calves, covering the graceful lines of muscles, and then his thighs. He covered his love's hips and the firm muscle of his rear, and he lovingly molded clay around the perfection of his phallus. He sculpted his love's torso, carving each abdominal, and then his back. He shaped his broad shoulders, and then his arms, and then his hands, and then each graceful finger.
His love looked at him and smiled, his body held fixed in this perfect sculpture of himself. The artist carefully molded his neck, his ears, the sharp line of his jaw. He shaped his high forehead and strong brow. He crafted each curl and strand of hair.
"How long do I have to stand until the sculpture is done?" the beloved asked the artist.
"Forever," the artist said. And then he molded his love's eyes, and his straight nose, and his full mouth.
When he was finished, he stepped back to survey his work. And finally he could feel his heart at peace, for it was perfect.
One day, an artist fell in love.
The object of his adoration had broad shoulders and golden skin. His nose was straight and long, and his eyes were the clear grey-blue of the sea during a storm. His mouth was full and wide and prone to smiles that revealed the brilliant white of perfect teeth. His hands had wide palms and long, graceful fingers that were skilled and dextrous.
He was beautiful.
The artist decided that he must capture and immortalize the beauty of his love. He attempted to paint him, but found that his love's angles never seemed quite right. The shadows never fell as they should.
The years went on, and the artist and his love were happy together. Every painting that the artist attempted of him, his love would praise, humbly declaring it far more beautiful than the subject. Yet the artist found each painting wanting. Inadequate. Imperfect.
In later years, he began to attempt sculptures. He molded clay in his hands until it formed the shape of his love, until the clay face's nose was straight and long, its mouth full and wide, its fingers graceful. His love modeled patiently for every piece until it was done, and then declared it to be far more beautiful than he.
Each and every painting and sculpture the artist attempted of his love, he destroyed. Imperfect.
As the years passed, the artist began to feel a rising sense of dread and anxiety. He could begin to see his love age, change, grow. He was unable to appreciate the way the subtle wrinkles at his mouth were the product of his many smiles; he could only see his diminishing time to perfectly capture the image of his beloved.
And so one day the artist asked his love to model for him one last time. He took clay and began to mold it to his love's feet, covering his skin with the perfect detail only possible with his model underneath his hands. He molded clay to his love's calves, covering the graceful lines of muscles, and then his thighs. He covered his love's hips and the firm muscle of his rear, and he lovingly molded clay around the perfection of his phallus. He sculpted his love's torso, carving each abdominal, and then his back. He shaped his broad shoulders, and then his arms, and then his hands, and then each graceful finger.
His love looked at him and smiled, his body held fixed in this perfect sculpture of himself. The artist carefully molded his neck, his ears, the sharp line of his jaw. He shaped his high forehead and strong brow. He crafted each curl and strand of hair.
"How long do I have to stand until the sculpture is done?" the beloved asked the artist.
"Forever," the artist said. And then he molded his love's eyes, and his straight nose, and his full mouth.
When he was finished, he stepped back to survey his work. And finally he could feel his heart at peace, for it was perfect.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:22 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
A Boy and His Spider: A Bedtime Story
There once was a little boy who wanted to know everything. He was insatiably curious. From the moment he was born, he seemed to want to know every detail of the world around him. As he grew into a child, he did not shy from the darkness, but searched incessantly for what hid in the shadows.
One day, when he was still young, he went into the forest near his family's home to find what lurked there. The woods were thick, and the moonlight could not pierce the heavy canopy overhead. The forest was so still and so quiet, the little boy's steps seemed to echo in the dark air.
It was not long until the Queen of Spiders lowered from her silken web in the canopy to greet the boy.
"Why do you come here?" she asked him. "The woods are dark and no place for human children. I might eat you, if I were feeling peckish."
"I want to know what's in the darkness," the boy replied.
"Monsters are in the darkness," the Spider Queen told him, clicking her terrible mandibles. "It is what the darkness is for, little one."
The boy considered her words. "What else is in the darkness?" he asked her.
"Many things," she replied, "but only monsters are allowed to know. Do you want to be a monster, little one?"
The boy thought some more. He did not find the idea of being a monster particularly appealing, but he very much wished to know the other things in the darkness. "Is there something else I could do?" he finally asked her.
The Spider Queen was silent as she considered the question, apart from the scratch of her two front feet rubbing together. "Come here, little one," she said, and then she took him in her many legs, and then she wove him into a cocoon. It was warm and cramped, but he found he didn't mind it terribly much, and soon enough he fell asleep.
He awoke sometime later to the sound of the cocoon being opened. The Spider Queen was there, her many eyes glinting in the dark. "Now you will see through all of the darkness, little one," she promised.
The little boy returned home, and he began to see things. Everything that walked in the dark that no one else could see. As he grew older, he began to hear a whisper in his mind. It taught him how to see through the darkness, how to approach the creatures who lurked there, how to speak to them and learn their secrets.
Soon the boy became a man, the whisper his companion still. The man grew wise and learned in all matters of dark knowledge, for nothing could remain hidden from him. But one day, he began to feeling a scratching inside his head.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
As the years went on, the scratching grew louder. "What is that scratching?" he asked the whisper in his head.
"It is very small," the whisper replied.
More years passed, and the man grew used to the constant headaches throbbing in his mind. The scratching never ended. He still unearthed secrets, but it was harder now. The scratching was so loud, and his head hurt so much.
"How can I stop the scratching?" he begged the whisper after years of enduring.
"Let me out," the whisper said.
The man began to search for spells or incantations, rites or rituals, anything to remove the scratching from his mind.
"Let me out," the whisper said. "Let me out."
Years passed. Eventually the man could not find any secrets at all. He could not think. He could not breathe. Until one day he took a rock and cracked open his head.
It hurt, but not as much as the scratching.
His skin peeled away, and then his bone, and then the Spider Queen's son unwrapped his legs from the man's brain. He skittered out into the light after a lifetime in the dark.
"Why would you hurt me?" the man cried. "I did nothing to harm you."
The Spider Queen's son looked at him with infinite eyes. "I am a monster," he said. "You did not wish to be, and so you were eaten. There are only two options."
The man died, as most do when dealing with monsters. The spider slipped back into the shadows, and then he was gone.
There once was a little boy who wanted to know everything. He was insatiably curious. From the moment he was born, he seemed to want to know every detail of the world around him. As he grew into a child, he did not shy from the darkness, but searched incessantly for what hid in the shadows.
One day, when he was still young, he went into the forest near his family's home to find what lurked there. The woods were thick, and the moonlight could not pierce the heavy canopy overhead. The forest was so still and so quiet, the little boy's steps seemed to echo in the dark air.
It was not long until the Queen of Spiders lowered from her silken web in the canopy to greet the boy.
"Why do you come here?" she asked him. "The woods are dark and no place for human children. I might eat you, if I were feeling peckish."
"I want to know what's in the darkness," the boy replied.
"Monsters are in the darkness," the Spider Queen told him, clicking her terrible mandibles. "It is what the darkness is for, little one."
The boy considered her words. "What else is in the darkness?" he asked her.
"Many things," she replied, "but only monsters are allowed to know. Do you want to be a monster, little one?"
The boy thought some more. He did not find the idea of being a monster particularly appealing, but he very much wished to know the other things in the darkness. "Is there something else I could do?" he finally asked her.
The Spider Queen was silent as she considered the question, apart from the scratch of her two front feet rubbing together. "Come here, little one," she said, and then she took him in her many legs, and then she wove him into a cocoon. It was warm and cramped, but he found he didn't mind it terribly much, and soon enough he fell asleep.
He awoke sometime later to the sound of the cocoon being opened. The Spider Queen was there, her many eyes glinting in the dark. "Now you will see through all of the darkness, little one," she promised.
The little boy returned home, and he began to see things. Everything that walked in the dark that no one else could see. As he grew older, he began to hear a whisper in his mind. It taught him how to see through the darkness, how to approach the creatures who lurked there, how to speak to them and learn their secrets.
Soon the boy became a man, the whisper his companion still. The man grew wise and learned in all matters of dark knowledge, for nothing could remain hidden from him. But one day, he began to feeling a scratching inside his head.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
As the years went on, the scratching grew louder. "What is that scratching?" he asked the whisper in his head.
"It is very small," the whisper replied.
More years passed, and the man grew used to the constant headaches throbbing in his mind. The scratching never ended. He still unearthed secrets, but it was harder now. The scratching was so loud, and his head hurt so much.
"How can I stop the scratching?" he begged the whisper after years of enduring.
"Let me out," the whisper said.
The man began to search for spells or incantations, rites or rituals, anything to remove the scratching from his mind.
"Let me out," the whisper said. "Let me out."
Years passed. Eventually the man could not find any secrets at all. He could not think. He could not breathe. Until one day he took a rock and cracked open his head.
It hurt, but not as much as the scratching.
His skin peeled away, and then his bone, and then the Spider Queen's son unwrapped his legs from the man's brain. He skittered out into the light after a lifetime in the dark.
"Why would you hurt me?" the man cried. "I did nothing to harm you."
The Spider Queen's son looked at him with infinite eyes. "I am a monster," he said. "You did not wish to be, and so you were eaten. There are only two options."
The man died, as most do when dealing with monsters. The spider slipped back into the shadows, and then he was gone.
Written By Bastien
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:16 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
When one door closes, you can often force open another if you're aggressive enough. Or just find a door more appreciative of your talents. Doors are fickle things.
Written By Belladonna
Dec. 17, 2017, 8:03 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
It is good to be busy again.
I could use another hand or twelve, though.
I could use another hand or twelve, though.
Written By Amarantha
Dec. 17, 2017, 7:59 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
Relationship Note on Astraea
My sister keeps volunteering us for things. While I love her enthusiasm for life and helping others, I'm not sure I'm cut out for this. The last time I held a sword was right before gifting it to my dearly departed husband.
And back then, I nearly dropped it on his foot.
And back then, I nearly dropped it on his foot.
Written By Cara
Dec. 17, 2017, 6:41 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
On Reincarnation
From time to time, I converse with someone who has some experience with reincarnation -- they themselves, perhaps, are an older soul reborn, or they know someone who is, or the like. One topic seems to consistently emerge in these discussion, and that is this:
How much of who we are comes from our past lives?
It is a worthy question, I think, and one with no clear answer, save for this -- we are each of us both old and new, the product of a life lived many times, but we are also each gifted with the ability to change.
A past life is not a predictor of the present one; it is as much a part of you as childhood memories, true, though oft forgotten, but it is not a determination of destiny. No matter the patterns of fate that we might fall into, our particular resonance in the reality of life repeating itself, we -- each of us -- have the capacity to choose.
This is our gift; we are not bound.
Someone who lived a life emperiled and desperate, who fell to dark choices, might be reborn and try again. They are not destined to fall each time.
Someone who lived a life of greatness and magnificent deeds are not doomed to repeat the past, pulled into battles over and over again. They have the choice to walk a different path.
This gift we are given by the Queen of Endings, may She always be remembered. This gift we are given by Skald, who is an okay guy (or so I hear). This gift we are given by Lagoma, the force of Change, and by Gild, and by Petrichor and Vellichor and all of the gods.
May those who have found that they have lives beyond the one they know hold this thought dear. They are not altered by the past, but simply informed by it, and their life is wholly their own to create.
From time to time, I converse with someone who has some experience with reincarnation -- they themselves, perhaps, are an older soul reborn, or they know someone who is, or the like. One topic seems to consistently emerge in these discussion, and that is this:
How much of who we are comes from our past lives?
It is a worthy question, I think, and one with no clear answer, save for this -- we are each of us both old and new, the product of a life lived many times, but we are also each gifted with the ability to change.
A past life is not a predictor of the present one; it is as much a part of you as childhood memories, true, though oft forgotten, but it is not a determination of destiny. No matter the patterns of fate that we might fall into, our particular resonance in the reality of life repeating itself, we -- each of us -- have the capacity to choose.
This is our gift; we are not bound.
Someone who lived a life emperiled and desperate, who fell to dark choices, might be reborn and try again. They are not destined to fall each time.
Someone who lived a life of greatness and magnificent deeds are not doomed to repeat the past, pulled into battles over and over again. They have the choice to walk a different path.
This gift we are given by the Queen of Endings, may She always be remembered. This gift we are given by Skald, who is an okay guy (or so I hear). This gift we are given by Lagoma, the force of Change, and by Gild, and by Petrichor and Vellichor and all of the gods.
May those who have found that they have lives beyond the one they know hold this thought dear. They are not altered by the past, but simply informed by it, and their life is wholly their own to create.
Written By Percephon
Dec. 17, 2017, 6:31 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
To celebrate the grand proclamation of Prince Edain -- Highlord of the Oathlands, Prince of Prince of Sanctum, the Baconbringer and amateur goatherd -- and Princess Consort Caelis Valardin, I will be returning to my leisurely pursuit of art in the form of stuffed animals and figures. Starting with a line of patchwork Timmons, the pygmy goat. Each Timmons will be lovingly and meticulously made by hand. The highest form of art that I can produce in order to honor the High Lord and his Princess Consort.
Written By Sameera
Dec. 17, 2017, 6:06 p.m.(10/16/1007 AR)
*sketches of various pieces of jewelry*
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.