Written By Delilah
Dec. 11, 2018, 9:17 p.m.(2/27/1010 AR)
I may have waited for this selection of songs for years. Princess Sorrel does commendable justice to figures of the distant past and living memory alike, weaving together beauty and truth in a heart-rending display of talent.
Written By Delilah
Dec. 8, 2018, 12:29 a.m.(2/19/1010 AR)
The only problem with yearning for the impossible...
What to do if you obtain it.
What to do if you obtain it.
Written By Delilah
Dec. 7, 2018, 8:50 a.m.(2/18/1010 AR)
I look forward to the breaking of the cold season as much as anyone. Yet is there not a delight to the bite to the air, the clarity of the early morning? I walk the streets of Arx at the first breaking hour of dawn, finding few stirring themselves. Hoar frost rimes the windowpanes, smoke curling into the air from countless chimneys.
There is a beauty to this, the austerity found glorious and beautiful in its way. Of course, I say that dressed in good woollen clothes, wrapped up in a thick cloak. Many driven out of the Gray Forest do not have such a benefit available to them. However much we indulge in these moments of boundless grace, we ought to remember not all Arvians are so fortunate.
There is a beauty to this, the austerity found glorious and beautiful in its way. Of course, I say that dressed in good woollen clothes, wrapped up in a thick cloak. Many driven out of the Gray Forest do not have such a benefit available to them. However much we indulge in these moments of boundless grace, we ought to remember not all Arvians are so fortunate.
Written By Delilah
Dec. 5, 2018, 11:58 a.m.(2/13/1010 AR)
The second part for the stage play I toyed with over the summer penned itself rather effortlessly, to be quite honest. It has been a time since I entertained myself with its plot given I am utterly incapable at this sort of thing, overshadowed utterly by the excitement of Prince NIklas' innovative designs that will invariably bring society to its knees in delight, or Princess Sorrel's beautiful turns of phrase.
All the same, let it be held in the public sphere. I have naught to lose. This goes as my counterpart to the Song of the Silk Artisans. I shall have to refine something for the spinners, for the clack of spinning wheels or the harsh cut and thrust of the silk marketplace in some decadent imaginary city -- in the Crownlands surely -- ought to be comparable to the most rousing debates.
*-*-*-*
The Bodice-Rippers: A Symposium
A face, praised for beauty divine,
May bring courtiers to folly,
When rich jewels and slim arms entwine,
Boldly daring as Triscali.
A ream of seasilk long and bright,
Draped whisper thin over a lithe frame
Eager appraisals they invite
Fashion dominates the great game.
Embroidered coats wreath sharpened sense,
Silk diplomacy peers applaud,
Aeterna speaks a rousing defense
Leaving courtly Arvians awed.
Umbra advances grave causes,
An honour woven in rare gems
Passing models bring harsh pauses
Prestige rippling from their silk hems.
Joy brightens ambitious faces,
Whenever princesses meet,
Fortunes of society tilt
On flashing a new shiny treat.
Happy the head with a coronet,
A stutter of gems unmeaning
Armed to contend with any threat,
Our ladies engage, silks streaming!
Commoners aren't left in the shade
With weighty matters to cover,
Trouble waylaid by clothes displayed
Makes a great envoy and lover.
All the same, let it be held in the public sphere. I have naught to lose. This goes as my counterpart to the Song of the Silk Artisans. I shall have to refine something for the spinners, for the clack of spinning wheels or the harsh cut and thrust of the silk marketplace in some decadent imaginary city -- in the Crownlands surely -- ought to be comparable to the most rousing debates.
*-*-*-*
The Bodice-Rippers: A Symposium
A face, praised for beauty divine,
May bring courtiers to folly,
When rich jewels and slim arms entwine,
Boldly daring as Triscali.
A ream of seasilk long and bright,
Draped whisper thin over a lithe frame
Eager appraisals they invite
Fashion dominates the great game.
Embroidered coats wreath sharpened sense,
Silk diplomacy peers applaud,
Aeterna speaks a rousing defense
Leaving courtly Arvians awed.
Umbra advances grave causes,
An honour woven in rare gems
Passing models bring harsh pauses
Prestige rippling from their silk hems.
Joy brightens ambitious faces,
Whenever princesses meet,
Fortunes of society tilt
On flashing a new shiny treat.
Happy the head with a coronet,
A stutter of gems unmeaning
Armed to contend with any threat,
Our ladies engage, silks streaming!
Commoners aren't left in the shade
With weighty matters to cover,
Trouble waylaid by clothes displayed
Makes a great envoy and lover.
Written By Delilah
Dec. 2, 2018, 10:59 p.m.(2/8/1010 AR)
I thought all creativity perished under the snow. The chance encounter with a bit of inspiration remains rare and far between, dashing among my fingertips and taking flight out the door.
I say this in the dazzling light of my cousins' and sisters' brilliant execution of the art fair last eve. Laid low by this miserable ague -- albeit nothing serious -- I can speak to the brilliant ideas and the outstanding craftsmanship. Missing out on the singing contest strikes me hardest of all, though. I really would like to have heard the performances. Sometimes borrowing the spark from another fire ignites our own.
Yet, if I have any consolation, it lies in the pen and a sudden turn of verse that becomes something marvelously satisfactory.
I say this in the dazzling light of my cousins' and sisters' brilliant execution of the art fair last eve. Laid low by this miserable ague -- albeit nothing serious -- I can speak to the brilliant ideas and the outstanding craftsmanship. Missing out on the singing contest strikes me hardest of all, though. I really would like to have heard the performances. Sometimes borrowing the spark from another fire ignites our own.
Yet, if I have any consolation, it lies in the pen and a sudden turn of verse that becomes something marvelously satisfactory.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 30, 2018, 7:55 a.m.(2/3/1010 AR)
Relationship Note on Appolonia
Such brilliant facets are why you are an incomparable jewel.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 27, 2018, 6:01 p.m.(1/26/1010 AR)
Chopping, stabbing, and piercing seem to be the popular activities of the hour. I wonder what that presages. Does violence beget a taste for more skill, or amplify where we are lacking?
Written By Delilah
Nov. 25, 2018, 4:11 p.m.(1/22/1010 AR)
My nails are bitten somewhat bloody, the ink supplies run out, and the callouses gone soft these past few weeks hardened right back up. My skin is chafed and chapped from the cold. These boots are a blessing, and I once again silently thank Lady Monique for enabling me to enjoy the winter better than I have.
Stacks of books completed are set to the side. Countless folios copied await attention and indexed.
Now I think it's time to go on an adventure.
Stacks of books completed are set to the side. Countless folios copied await attention and indexed.
Now I think it's time to go on an adventure.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 23, 2018, 11:11 p.m.(1/18/1010 AR)
Relationship Note on Juniper
I do not deserve the praise heaped on me by Juniper Whisper, when she is so often the source of inspiration. If I am to be given credit for the products of my creativity, scant as it may be, then let it be because she opened the door for me to daydream and sketch a quill across countless pieces of parchment. I feel satisfied by the outcome of that creation, though.
May whomever wears it find it pleasing and a celebration for Aion's work.
May whomever wears it find it pleasing and a celebration for Aion's work.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 23, 2018, 11:10 p.m.(1/18/1010 AR)
Relationship Note on Marian
Few can tell a tale so evocative as yours, and still come away with a powerful lesson out of it. Thank you for sharing this, as a testimony for your experiences.
Bending the knee to the Compact, and how the Abandoned come to their decisions, is a uniquely personal decision and we would be mistaken to assume all motivations are the same.
Bending the knee to the Compact, and how the Abandoned come to their decisions, is a uniquely personal decision and we would be mistaken to assume all motivations are the same.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 20, 2018, 2:20 p.m.(1/11/1010 AR)
I should consider it concerning when my primary assistant believes the icon for proper behaviour is Princess Sabella. I have no chance in the Dream to match her ladylike refinement, and that just plain isn't good enough for Scribble. Woe!
Written By Delilah
Nov. 19, 2018, 4:14 p.m.(1/10/1010 AR)
Six hundred dead. Six hundred Knights taken to the Wheel in the ultimate defense for the Lodge and, with it, the city.
It sings of a tale told long ago of another set of Knights who raised their swords against impossible odds. Each and every stroke they took against the enemy weakened the opposing hordes massed to slaughter the vulnerable, the unarmed, the helpless. Yet they stood. They stood knowing their deaths would be reckoned in that hour, that what they faced so greatly outnumbered each individual man and woman. What courage would it take to stare into the maw of an unspeakable horror, one whose craft and make hearken to an ancient, primeval age captured only in the ripples of ink on the page and the deepest tidings of the soul?
I cannot fathom what kind of mettle they possessed to hold the line. To raise their shield against the blistering heat and then their sword arm against the abject terror crashing down upon them, heavy and potent as any cavalry charge heard thundering across the plain. No wall held back the foe they faced, no wall could. Nothing but their commitment, their vows, their promise to one another and themselves held them fast.
You cannot sing of the bravery of any sacrifice without countenancing the human cost. The very real consequence of asking a man to stand against a forest fire raging in front of him is tremendous. Ask a woman to hold the line against a great wave sweeping down the shore. Tell them to hold true against the uncanny forces of shadow and terror wound out from the deepest corners of the world. How would most of us fare? Not well, I imagine.
Yet they did. They held and fought with their last breaths. They raised their failing limbs and fought a little longer. When their peers fell, gutted or burnt or crumpled, they took another swing or made another shot. They took another opportunity in hopes it might swing the balance to our favour, away from abject loss.
They wound spells of steel and silver, of hope and heartache, into something as potent as any spell in a bard's tale. They wove courage and training into a thick fabric that would put steelsilk and alaricite to shame. All that, one by one, even as the threads frayed and lives gave out.
One by one they stitched together the Compact then.
Six hundred did it again at the Lodge. In the same spirit they raised their blades, shields, and bows. They set their spears. They rode in valiant triumph and against the wall of uncertain outcomes, fear, and despair. In the trees, warriors unnumbered have proven themselves, tried by the worst of the moment.
Remember who we all are. Know that flame was never extinguished and stands in the outstretched hand. It burns in the weary eyes meeting a Mercy's gaze, and in the flashing edge of training swords.
Thank you, for those who gave all they could. It seems wrong that I sit here to write when another gave their life in place of those who could not. I will never wield a sword the way that a fallen knight or a veteran of the Lodge can. It's not about equivalency, but I digress.
Remember.
That was their gift and a legacy that will live on.
Remember always.
It sings of a tale told long ago of another set of Knights who raised their swords against impossible odds. Each and every stroke they took against the enemy weakened the opposing hordes massed to slaughter the vulnerable, the unarmed, the helpless. Yet they stood. They stood knowing their deaths would be reckoned in that hour, that what they faced so greatly outnumbered each individual man and woman. What courage would it take to stare into the maw of an unspeakable horror, one whose craft and make hearken to an ancient, primeval age captured only in the ripples of ink on the page and the deepest tidings of the soul?
I cannot fathom what kind of mettle they possessed to hold the line. To raise their shield against the blistering heat and then their sword arm against the abject terror crashing down upon them, heavy and potent as any cavalry charge heard thundering across the plain. No wall held back the foe they faced, no wall could. Nothing but their commitment, their vows, their promise to one another and themselves held them fast.
You cannot sing of the bravery of any sacrifice without countenancing the human cost. The very real consequence of asking a man to stand against a forest fire raging in front of him is tremendous. Ask a woman to hold the line against a great wave sweeping down the shore. Tell them to hold true against the uncanny forces of shadow and terror wound out from the deepest corners of the world. How would most of us fare? Not well, I imagine.
Yet they did. They held and fought with their last breaths. They raised their failing limbs and fought a little longer. When their peers fell, gutted or burnt or crumpled, they took another swing or made another shot. They took another opportunity in hopes it might swing the balance to our favour, away from abject loss.
They wound spells of steel and silver, of hope and heartache, into something as potent as any spell in a bard's tale. They wove courage and training into a thick fabric that would put steelsilk and alaricite to shame. All that, one by one, even as the threads frayed and lives gave out.
One by one they stitched together the Compact then.
Six hundred did it again at the Lodge. In the same spirit they raised their blades, shields, and bows. They set their spears. They rode in valiant triumph and against the wall of uncertain outcomes, fear, and despair. In the trees, warriors unnumbered have proven themselves, tried by the worst of the moment.
Remember who we all are. Know that flame was never extinguished and stands in the outstretched hand. It burns in the weary eyes meeting a Mercy's gaze, and in the flashing edge of training swords.
Thank you, for those who gave all they could. It seems wrong that I sit here to write when another gave their life in place of those who could not. I will never wield a sword the way that a fallen knight or a veteran of the Lodge can. It's not about equivalency, but I digress.
Remember.
That was their gift and a legacy that will live on.
Remember always.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 16, 2018, 5 p.m.(1/3/1010 AR)
If I could go back to the night we met,
When the night was hushed and the streets were wet,
I'd replay when we danced for stars above,
And I learned what it means to be in love.
Together we found the secret of life,
Wisdom ablaze in your dusky eyes.
I know you like the sun knows the sky,
You give me wings and teach me to fly.
Adrift in the vastness of the world,
I'll lie back to watch the cosmos twirl.
Feeling my way without your guiding light,
I invoke your name in a prayer to the night.
1010
When the night was hushed and the streets were wet,
I'd replay when we danced for stars above,
And I learned what it means to be in love.
Together we found the secret of life,
Wisdom ablaze in your dusky eyes.
I know you like the sun knows the sky,
You give me wings and teach me to fly.
Adrift in the vastness of the world,
I'll lie back to watch the cosmos twirl.
Feeling my way without your guiding light,
I invoke your name in a prayer to the night.
1010
Written By Delilah
Nov. 14, 2018, 1:34 p.m.(12/27/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Cybele
I am not ready to write this and I am not certain that I shall ever be. Writing implies a certain permanence absent in the spoken word. The wind may snatch the syllables from my mouth, conveying them far away but diminished in their strength within the stretch of meters and seconds.
A written word conveys preservation against the brunt of cruel time that erodes many things. Who among us can really say what the wind remembers and the sea recalls but Mangata? Yet in every loop of ink I engrave memory and perception that will withstand the diminishing of the years piled up against them. An odd sentiment, for the person I write of has a different legacy and a different place on the Wheel.
Cybele was one of the first people I encountered in Arx, one of the first lasting friendships I made back when no one much knew about me -- and many would look on the family name with raised eyebrows, regardless of the achievements of my relations. They looked deeper into a person and found something perhaps not immediately seen by others. There was never a sense of hubris or haughty judgment. Cybele watched the world through such a sense of serenity and purpose, a knowledge of what roots sank deep into the world and what was needful at the time. I am saddened our paths diverged more often than not in recent months, though I could always trust in wisdom badly sought being found upon my friend's lips, in a smile, in a kind gesture.
We are the poorer for the loss, and yet so much enriched. The presence of Cybele and Bashira in the new Grove is something that will inspire coming generations, new shaman and devotees of Petrichor who hear the story of their grand gestures and the lives they lived. I can say I knew Cybele, and shared much. I can say that such a sacrifice for others -- loving, strong, brave, and utterly certain -- fits in every way with the character I came to know.
Be you well, friend, and the spirits rejoice that you have touched so many.
A written word conveys preservation against the brunt of cruel time that erodes many things. Who among us can really say what the wind remembers and the sea recalls but Mangata? Yet in every loop of ink I engrave memory and perception that will withstand the diminishing of the years piled up against them. An odd sentiment, for the person I write of has a different legacy and a different place on the Wheel.
Cybele was one of the first people I encountered in Arx, one of the first lasting friendships I made back when no one much knew about me -- and many would look on the family name with raised eyebrows, regardless of the achievements of my relations. They looked deeper into a person and found something perhaps not immediately seen by others. There was never a sense of hubris or haughty judgment. Cybele watched the world through such a sense of serenity and purpose, a knowledge of what roots sank deep into the world and what was needful at the time. I am saddened our paths diverged more often than not in recent months, though I could always trust in wisdom badly sought being found upon my friend's lips, in a smile, in a kind gesture.
We are the poorer for the loss, and yet so much enriched. The presence of Cybele and Bashira in the new Grove is something that will inspire coming generations, new shaman and devotees of Petrichor who hear the story of their grand gestures and the lives they lived. I can say I knew Cybele, and shared much. I can say that such a sacrifice for others -- loving, strong, brave, and utterly certain -- fits in every way with the character I came to know.
Be you well, friend, and the spirits rejoice that you have touched so many.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 13, 2018, 1:15 p.m.(12/25/1009 AR)
The cool regard of ancient eyes blind to power,
Turn away, affixed upon a distant pewter shore,
When fortune felled me in the darkest hour,
Your shadow passed and I saw no more.
You are my soul's home and my heart's abode,
The moon's pale lamp glowing above the lonely road.
Turn away, affixed upon a distant pewter shore,
When fortune felled me in the darkest hour,
Your shadow passed and I saw no more.
You are my soul's home and my heart's abode,
The moon's pale lamp glowing above the lonely road.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 13, 2018, 1:08 p.m.(12/25/1009 AR)
Oh!
Gone from me in eternal night,
Fallen star of light,
Risen too fast, set too soon,
From dashed hopes, a future path hewn,
I safeguard your memory yet.
Those beloved bright motes I could not save,
Torn from us, hearts fierce and brave,
Though monuments and spirits shall rise,
I lament the high cost of our prize,
And I cannot forget.
Gone from me in eternal night,
Fallen star of light,
Risen too fast, set too soon,
From dashed hopes, a future path hewn,
I safeguard your memory yet.
Those beloved bright motes I could not save,
Torn from us, hearts fierce and brave,
Though monuments and spirits shall rise,
I lament the high cost of our prize,
And I cannot forget.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 12, 2018, 9:03 a.m.(12/23/1009 AR)
White for tears,
Black for life,
Blue for tears,
Red for strife.
Who knew the theatre had its own colour palette? It probably doesn't. But I like to think it can still be inspired.
Black for life,
Blue for tears,
Red for strife.
Who knew the theatre had its own colour palette? It probably doesn't. But I like to think it can still be inspired.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 10, 2018, 11:53 p.m.(12/20/1009 AR)
The oddest of things transpired tonight. I walked over the bridge, headed upo nmy way, and people halted in their path to murmur affectionate words and nod as though I was someone.
Clearly they've mistaken me for someone else.
Clearly they've mistaken me for someone else.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 10, 2018, 3:59 p.m.(12/19/1009 AR)
Being taken with a cold is truly miserable. I think I'll stay put for the next day or two. I need no physician to tell me that rest is the best medicine for such weariness.
Written By Delilah
Nov. 9, 2018, 12:02 p.m.(12/17/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Ophelia
Just when I thought it was impossible to like someone even more for their lovely qualities, she has to go and impress on me further unknown facets lit by the fire of her soul.
A remarkable figure to call a friend.
A remarkable figure to call a friend.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.