Written By Fortunato
June 19, 2017, midnight(9/5/1006 AR)
Crows and ravens are close cousins, rather like the, hm, upper boroughs might be considered the class cousins of the lower boroughs. My family does happen to own property in both places. Why! We're liminal! Middle and lower class at the same time.
Ravens are creatures of greater reserve. They live and travel in pairs. While crows, bless them, are a grandly social group, flocking and squawking and enjoying a broad company and perhaps this all fits some larger, human stereotype as well.
I have no idea what anyone is really talking about, though. I usually don't. I just wanted to talk about birds.
Ravens are creatures of greater reserve. They live and travel in pairs. While crows, bless them, are a grandly social group, flocking and squawking and enjoying a broad company and perhaps this all fits some larger, human stereotype as well.
I have no idea what anyone is really talking about, though. I usually don't. I just wanted to talk about birds.
Written By Fortunato
June 17, 2017, 10:23 a.m.(9/2/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Narciso
Would've liked to know him better. Pleasure listening to him talk, pleasure listening to him spin mazes, figuring, no, hm, knowing there was something at the center. Long paths are wonderful when you don't know the destination. Would that he'd gotten a longer one this life.
Written By Fortunato
June 4, 2017, 8:44 p.m.(8/4/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Juliet
I don't know what to say.
She told me, before she went to meet Brand, that she could try to be the woman who refused to die. None of us quite manage that kind of endurance. Standing just as long as you must is enough, in the end. Live long enough, you'll meet a battle you can't win. Guess you try to win enough to be a legend, and, gods, Juliet wanted to be a legend.
Can't really blame her. She was grasping and greedy and vain, curious, bright, and brave. You are who you are. Reflection demands you know yourself, and I know I'm no better. Certainly more afraid.
She deserved better. Anyone would. Gods.
She told me, before she went to meet Brand, that she could try to be the woman who refused to die. None of us quite manage that kind of endurance. Standing just as long as you must is enough, in the end. Live long enough, you'll meet a battle you can't win. Guess you try to win enough to be a legend, and, gods, Juliet wanted to be a legend.
Can't really blame her. She was grasping and greedy and vain, curious, bright, and brave. You are who you are. Reflection demands you know yourself, and I know I'm no better. Certainly more afraid.
She deserved better. Anyone would. Gods.
Written By Fortunato
May 30, 2017, 1:26 p.m.(7/21/1006 AR)
It's human nature to care about a few things passionately, some shit a little bit, and most none at all. You think I care about who's marrying who most of the time?
Just recognize people got reasons for caring about the stuff that matters to them. We're all a little strange to each other. We don't get any less strange with indifference by fiat.
Just recognize people got reasons for caring about the stuff that matters to them. We're all a little strange to each other. We don't get any less strange with indifference by fiat.
Written By Fortunato
May 30, 2017, 12:45 p.m.(7/21/1006 AR)
The average anybody won't give two shits about what you care about.
You should still talk about, paint about, agitate about whatever you fucking care about.
You should still talk about, paint about, agitate about whatever you fucking care about.
Written By Fortunato
May 30, 2017, 12:41 p.m.(7/21/1006 AR)
People only care about what they care about.
We all know this. If I lose a painting in a fire, I don't expect your average anyone to care two silvers. If a cute party event reminds me of my mother's death, I don't expect the average anyone to care two silvers. Would excuse myself even so. Wouldn't see any fun in it.
I have never been a slave. If I had been a slave, I still would not expect the average anyone to care two silvers about what reminds me of what. People only care about what they care about. A ruined shirt is a tragedy if it happens to you. A ruined shirt, an insult is worth a duel if it happens to you. If it happens to someone else, well, they're being ridiculous, aren't they? Any sensitivity you don't share, any echo you've never seen is ridiculous.
People only care about what they care about. Anything else is an imposition. Friends make the effort to understand. People who feel less happily, purely remote from the issue make an effort to understand.
Otherwise. Otherwise. Any sensitivity you don't share is oversensivity, and it will never matter what it is. Ever.
We all know this. If I lose a painting in a fire, I don't expect your average anyone to care two silvers. If a cute party event reminds me of my mother's death, I don't expect the average anyone to care two silvers. Would excuse myself even so. Wouldn't see any fun in it.
I have never been a slave. If I had been a slave, I still would not expect the average anyone to care two silvers about what reminds me of what. People only care about what they care about. A ruined shirt is a tragedy if it happens to you. A ruined shirt, an insult is worth a duel if it happens to you. If it happens to someone else, well, they're being ridiculous, aren't they? Any sensitivity you don't share, any echo you've never seen is ridiculous.
People only care about what they care about. Anything else is an imposition. Friends make the effort to understand. People who feel less happily, purely remote from the issue make an effort to understand.
Otherwise. Otherwise. Any sensitivity you don't share is oversensivity, and it will never matter what it is. Ever.
Written By Fortunato
May 21, 2017, 11:29 a.m.(7/3/1006 AR)
Prince Mason's interpretation of the auction, which I did participate in, caused me to reflect on the event. Yes, I know it was all in fun and the kind of fun we do every so often. It was not an unusual event which is why folk leap to defend it as harmless. And it is harmless, no one could, would, should blame Charlaine or Larissa for hosting such a thing.
But isn't it also worthwhile to step back and wonder why we have an auction as a game? Can we step back and be sure that it was /intended/ to be mockery? Because I wasn't thinking of the horrors of slavery and laughing away the dark. That wasn't really what the event was about - it's just a thing we do to raise charitable funds. And I don't understand telling a man who grew up around an especially dire iteration of slavery that a friendly echo shouldn't upset him.
Think we can recognize no harm was meant and also recognize some of our games might have troubling roots. That's all.
But isn't it also worthwhile to step back and wonder why we have an auction as a game? Can we step back and be sure that it was /intended/ to be mockery? Because I wasn't thinking of the horrors of slavery and laughing away the dark. That wasn't really what the event was about - it's just a thing we do to raise charitable funds. And I don't understand telling a man who grew up around an especially dire iteration of slavery that a friendly echo shouldn't upset him.
Think we can recognize no harm was meant and also recognize some of our games might have troubling roots. That's all.
Written By Fortunato
May 14, 2017, 11:19 p.m.(6/18/1006 AR)
Sketches. These again.
A rain of masks, each off-white and bowed out, slightly distorted as if by thousand pinpoint winds.
The triad of circles for the Faith, repeated three times, each with different colors. Yellow, white, orange. Blue, green, red. Black, silver, brown.
Cats tumble off a bed in an uneven troupe, landing in a carpet of words, every high stem of letter loose and malleable as thread.
A wolf's skull, a furred red thread. Bunch of randomish lines, trailing off into nowhere, daydream doodles without subject.
A rain of masks, each off-white and bowed out, slightly distorted as if by thousand pinpoint winds.
The triad of circles for the Faith, repeated three times, each with different colors. Yellow, white, orange. Blue, green, red. Black, silver, brown.
Cats tumble off a bed in an uneven troupe, landing in a carpet of words, every high stem of letter loose and malleable as thread.
A wolf's skull, a furred red thread. Bunch of randomish lines, trailing off into nowhere, daydream doodles without subject.
Written By Fortunato
May 10, 2017, 11:36 a.m.(6/9/1006 AR)
Sometimes, to accept change means to stop trying so hard to change.
Written By Fortunato
May 7, 2017, 10:15 p.m.(6/4/1006 AR)
- For this week, create large painting of Lower Boroughs struggle, incorporating live subjects as well. Excluding myself. Self-portraits are stupid.
- Begin an actual Rite of Jayus. For the first time. In my life.
- Begin designs for (three) masks, my first.
- For the week after, for the week after, actually stock my shop, the shop that was once my mother's and that I have terribly neglected.
- For the week after, go through the hoary pile of requests, free or no, mine or others', that I have not fulfilled.
- The siege is over. Time to live as if we are, in fact, alive.
- Begin an actual Rite of Jayus. For the first time. In my life.
- Begin designs for (three) masks, my first.
- For the week after, for the week after, actually stock my shop, the shop that was once my mother's and that I have terribly neglected.
- For the week after, go through the hoary pile of requests, free or no, mine or others', that I have not fulfilled.
- The siege is over. Time to live as if we are, in fact, alive.
Written By Fortunato
May 7, 2017, 4:56 p.m.(6/4/1006 AR)
Sketches.
An army of the dead. The high-domed, polished skulls of the skeletons interspersed with the lank-haired, deep-eyed rot of the zombies. The skeletons standing in ready, straight-backed columns, the zombies in restless, semi-controlled lurch, one in particular drifting from the main horde.
The army in clash, skeletons hewing at corrupted shavs, zombies crawled on top of Bringers. There are living names hastily written in margins, quick, indistinct posture sketches by each. Tristan, Orathy, Torian, Magpie, Asher, Aureth, Orazio, Orathy, Ferrando, Leta, Serafine.
Sketch of a zombie, who might be the stray from the first sketch, devouring a Bringer. It's scuffed out and unpleasant and the perspective is up quite close indeed.
The last sketch is more of the same, clashing and clawing, dead versus dead or dead enough, but has been hastily pasted together from ripped halves, and is blood- and mud-stained.
An army of the dead. The high-domed, polished skulls of the skeletons interspersed with the lank-haired, deep-eyed rot of the zombies. The skeletons standing in ready, straight-backed columns, the zombies in restless, semi-controlled lurch, one in particular drifting from the main horde.
The army in clash, skeletons hewing at corrupted shavs, zombies crawled on top of Bringers. There are living names hastily written in margins, quick, indistinct posture sketches by each. Tristan, Orathy, Torian, Magpie, Asher, Aureth, Orazio, Orathy, Ferrando, Leta, Serafine.
Sketch of a zombie, who might be the stray from the first sketch, devouring a Bringer. It's scuffed out and unpleasant and the perspective is up quite close indeed.
The last sketch is more of the same, clashing and clawing, dead versus dead or dead enough, but has been hastily pasted together from ripped halves, and is blood- and mud-stained.
Written By Fortunato
April 30, 2017, 9:08 p.m.(5/16/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Aureth
My brother swore himself to the Queen. Today he adds vows to the Faith as a whole concept. As an institution. A priest formally and before the Compact.
I mark this as a record. I would say 'in a sense, this changes nothing', but life is change, and my brother has transformed in the past year. He is still Aureth, narrative is continuity, his rage and his curiosity are constants, but his purpose is discovered. He's bright with purpose.
And this is wonderful.
I remember the tarot cards turned to ash. I know how you don't use them any more and I never finished the new set. Tapped out at about-- a third of the needed paintings? They're up above the shop, long dry, a metaphor toward understanding and sight that you no longer need. I'm glad to have them, though. Maybe for a wall, sometimes. Nostalgia, a glance back without weight.
You're more than you ever imagined, than I ever imagined, brother, and I thought I was rather thinking you up. More fool me.
I love you, Aureth. May the Queen and all the Pantheon watch over you, but not sweep you home any time soon. Please stay safe.
I mark this as a record. I would say 'in a sense, this changes nothing', but life is change, and my brother has transformed in the past year. He is still Aureth, narrative is continuity, his rage and his curiosity are constants, but his purpose is discovered. He's bright with purpose.
And this is wonderful.
I remember the tarot cards turned to ash. I know how you don't use them any more and I never finished the new set. Tapped out at about-- a third of the needed paintings? They're up above the shop, long dry, a metaphor toward understanding and sight that you no longer need. I'm glad to have them, though. Maybe for a wall, sometimes. Nostalgia, a glance back without weight.
You're more than you ever imagined, than I ever imagined, brother, and I thought I was rather thinking you up. More fool me.
I love you, Aureth. May the Queen and all the Pantheon watch over you, but not sweep you home any time soon. Please stay safe.
Written By Fortunato
April 29, 2017, 11:38 p.m.(5/14/1006 AR)
A colored sketch.
A room, walled with shadows. Floor's rimmed about with uneven piles of metal-flecked ash. Within the ashen circle, a pile of books, at first glance, disordered, at second glance, a subtle pattern to the stacks, if one bleeds into the next. At the very top of the tallest stack, an open book, thick-paged, the words indistinct. On the open pages, a candle, its candelabrum blue-painted wood, its flame and corona both soft-edged and kind, strangely safe, as if you could knock it over and it'd be incapable of singeing vellum, let alone turning it to ash.
Despite the presence of the candle, the books themselves, bound and solid, seem to be what's truly keeping the shadow and ash at bay, if, with the exception of the bright-open book, their glow is almost too faint to see.
A room, walled with shadows. Floor's rimmed about with uneven piles of metal-flecked ash. Within the ashen circle, a pile of books, at first glance, disordered, at second glance, a subtle pattern to the stacks, if one bleeds into the next. At the very top of the tallest stack, an open book, thick-paged, the words indistinct. On the open pages, a candle, its candelabrum blue-painted wood, its flame and corona both soft-edged and kind, strangely safe, as if you could knock it over and it'd be incapable of singeing vellum, let alone turning it to ash.
Despite the presence of the candle, the books themselves, bound and solid, seem to be what's truly keeping the shadow and ash at bay, if, with the exception of the bright-open book, their glow is almost too faint to see.
Written By Fortunato
April 23, 2017, 7:13 p.m.(5/1/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Armel
Armel's the rock, the iron that somehow stays in place after each blow. He's a man of grave honor and . . . can I say enviable endurance? Is endurance ever enviable? Admirable, certainly.
Being able to weather more often means that you do weather more. Armel's weathered, but he's more than that. His words are few, but well chosen, his images, while new and crude, have an intensity and honesty to them that can't be taught. In all this tragedy and horror, been glad to get to know him a little bit.
Being able to weather more often means that you do weather more. Armel's weathered, but he's more than that. His words are few, but well chosen, his images, while new and crude, have an intensity and honesty to them that can't be taught. In all this tragedy and horror, been glad to get to know him a little bit.
Written By Fortunato
April 16, 2017, 11:07 p.m.(4/14/1006 AR)
Sketches. About a fourth of them scribbled out. Unhelpfully. Blotches on a scrap of mosaic-ed floor. Cracked window, or mirror. Shading ambiguous. Burning huts, soot-stained woman, man, child fleeing, smoke trailing from their battered-singed clothing. A closed door with a shattered latch. Shapeless shadow drifting across still water. A cat clinging to the back of a dog, a rat clinging to the back of the cat, balance, precarious. Faceless man with white flag raised.
Near the bottom. Sun over sudden jut of peak. Bright ramparts hit by literalized, outlined sunlight. Helm left on the wall edge, bright with sunlight, sunlight. A sketched out flame. Wind-tousled leaves. A man with his arm in a sling places stones in a decayed road.
Near the bottom. Sun over sudden jut of peak. Bright ramparts hit by literalized, outlined sunlight. Helm left on the wall edge, bright with sunlight, sunlight. A sketched out flame. Wind-tousled leaves. A man with his arm in a sling places stones in a decayed road.
Written By Fortunato
April 14, 2017, 11:37 a.m.(4/9/1006 AR)
All right.
You sleep, you wake up, you realize you've been frantically treading water for days. Shame associated with this. You forget how to swim, your only thought moment to moment is how not to quite drown. Keep moving, keep breathing.
Shame associated with this, but shame is a trap. Weights on your legs. Paths toward the undertow. No. Find driftwood, find mooring. Center. Move on. Unshackle. Move on. Change a little bit each time. Try to keep the summed shift upward.
Fires in the dark, stars in the bleak. Every moment we have is dear. Take a deep breath, find your center. Bodies accumulate. Do not forget the preciousness of life. Find your deepest strength and forward.
We're here to live. We're here to persist.
You sleep, you wake up, you realize you've been frantically treading water for days. Shame associated with this. You forget how to swim, your only thought moment to moment is how not to quite drown. Keep moving, keep breathing.
Shame associated with this, but shame is a trap. Weights on your legs. Paths toward the undertow. No. Find driftwood, find mooring. Center. Move on. Unshackle. Move on. Change a little bit each time. Try to keep the summed shift upward.
Fires in the dark, stars in the bleak. Every moment we have is dear. Take a deep breath, find your center. Bodies accumulate. Do not forget the preciousness of life. Find your deepest strength and forward.
We're here to live. We're here to persist.
Written By Fortunato
April 9, 2017, 10:27 p.m.(3/28/1006 AR)
Painting. A sky of stars, no, not stars. Faint threaded legs emerge from the stars, eight for each.
Beneath the stars, Arx in jumble, a crowd of buildings and paths, towers and water-run gorges. The Cathedral is a glimmer of stone and stained glass ringed about by shrines, the bridges and gates exaggerated in size and shade.
Around Arx, woods sloping into ocean, ocean littered with compact, floating towns, at least more town than ship, squat buildings warmed by perilous floating bonfires. Ocean rises into mountain peak, which shades into clouds, clouds that circle about the high edge of Arx and descend back into the woods in a haze.
At the bottom right corner, in small letters, "We are here. We will persist. We will not do your work for you."
Beneath the stars, Arx in jumble, a crowd of buildings and paths, towers and water-run gorges. The Cathedral is a glimmer of stone and stained glass ringed about by shrines, the bridges and gates exaggerated in size and shade.
Around Arx, woods sloping into ocean, ocean littered with compact, floating towns, at least more town than ship, squat buildings warmed by perilous floating bonfires. Ocean rises into mountain peak, which shades into clouds, clouds that circle about the high edge of Arx and descend back into the woods in a haze.
At the bottom right corner, in small letters, "We are here. We will persist. We will not do your work for you."
Written By Fortunato
April 2, 2017, 11:18 p.m.(3/14/1006 AR)
Sketches. A view from the top of the walls. Far, far below, a splatter of dust. Brisk sketch of Magpie in a great coat, the folds of which nearly bury him. He fiddles with a dagger. A skull next to a mirror, mirrored. A flame next to a mirror, mirrored. An unseen shape in the rain, leaving space but no features. Window frame sculpted like twined dragons and long-tailed birds, beyond it, the stars. Little brown birds assembling a nest in the ashes of a campfire. Few more skull studies, scattered.
Written By Fortunato
March 30, 2017, 12:03 a.m.(3/7/1006 AR)
Metaphors are a key part of an artist's toolset. Nearly as key as paint and paintbrush.
That said.
You can repurpose any given image to mean anything, which is far more perilous for religion than for art. Some cycles we should want to break and others are an essential aspect of our existence. The sun rises, the sun sets, cycle. We're born, we age, we die. Cycle. Abyssal hordes mass outside the gates, also cycle. Not terribly excited by that cycle either.
Of course cycles look like wheels and wheels look like cycles and I will be fascinated, fascinated to explore the intersection points between Death and life and repetition and change and rebirth, but I will let my brother tease out every iteration of the Wheel as he understands it first.
That said.
You can repurpose any given image to mean anything, which is far more perilous for religion than for art. Some cycles we should want to break and others are an essential aspect of our existence. The sun rises, the sun sets, cycle. We're born, we age, we die. Cycle. Abyssal hordes mass outside the gates, also cycle. Not terribly excited by that cycle either.
Of course cycles look like wheels and wheels look like cycles and I will be fascinated, fascinated to explore the intersection points between Death and life and repetition and change and rebirth, but I will let my brother tease out every iteration of the Wheel as he understands it first.
Written By Fortunato
March 26, 2017, 11:47 p.m.(3/1/1006 AR)
Gods, life is so fragile. All of it.
But we're still here.
But we're still here.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.