Written By Serafine
March 25, 2017, 11:01 p.m.(2/26/1006 AR)
I've been so busy these past days. I feel like I've done nothing but move and swing and cut and kiss and eat and maybe a nap and off I go again.
When I stop moving, when I've checked on every beloved kin I have and even the ones I hate, when they are safe or avenged or defended, when I can breathe and hide in that pale neck and smell her hair and look into those beautiful clear eyes...
When I stop moving, when I've checked on every beloved kin I have and even the ones I hate, when they are safe or avenged or defended, when I can breathe and hide in that pale neck and smell her hair and look into those beautiful clear eyes...
Written By Serafine
March 21, 2017, 4:56 p.m.(2/18/1006 AR)
To the person or persons that applauded after I retired to my tent with company ...
You're welcome.
Also I hope I don't get court-martialed for that.
You're welcome.
Also I hope I don't get court-martialed for that.
Written By Serafine
March 20, 2017, 9:58 p.m.(2/16/1006 AR)
It seems to me if a sexual accoutrement is used inappropriately, be it timing or without common sense in general, it should be the person held accountable for misusing it would be the one who is using it on themselves, not the thoughtful, considerate person who not only put it somewhere it could be appreciated but also -with- the lubricant to use it safely.
I'd like to think most everyone in a war camp would be an adult and if an adult decides to use a holy tribal fertility symbol (or whatever it was) unprepared and without proper knowledge of use, the adult in question is to blame, not this mystical spirit of erotic pleasure who gifted it.
Just my two silver on the subject.
I'd like to think most everyone in a war camp would be an adult and if an adult decides to use a holy tribal fertility symbol (or whatever it was) unprepared and without proper knowledge of use, the adult in question is to blame, not this mystical spirit of erotic pleasure who gifted it.
Just my two silver on the subject.
Written By Serafine
March 20, 2017, 1:50 p.m.(2/16/1006 AR)
I always kiss her like its the last chance I'll have. I touch her like she's a gift that I might be worthy of. I hold her like a hawk latching to the stone bower that is her home. I love her ...
...gods.
I love her like the moss loves to rocks, the sea the shore, the rains that come to the steppes every year to bring about the flowers and new life. I love her.
So there is no farewell between us. She can take care of herself and she's with people that can fight at her side or protect her if she falls. I can hope for no better, and where I go there's a measure of stealth my plate-wearing darlin' is incapable. At least, this is what I tell myself and anyone else that might ask why I don't fight at the side of my beloved's.
The truth is, I would worry my hair white knowing she was near, knowing that I had to focus on kill big bads but that it might be too strange or bizarre for her. I know better, I do, but I can't stop the worry. She is good at adapting, she takes the flows and the hits with curses but she keeps going forward. She flees when it's practical to stay alive, she stays when she knows she can handle what's coming.
I know I will still worry. I know I'll steal one of her linen under-armor tunics and wear it against my skin, under the layers of clothing and protective leathers I'll have on me. I'll take her scent with me, I'll think of her every spare moment I have. And I will have no regrets in not saying goodbye because I will see her again.
And if I kiss her with more force and passion then, if I ignore protocols and etiquette and let her scoop me off to her bed or closet or whatever, well. I'm sure it's allowed.
I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine.
Please, my magpie. Fight well, fight hard, and come back mostly in one piece.
I love you.
...gods.
I love her like the moss loves to rocks, the sea the shore, the rains that come to the steppes every year to bring about the flowers and new life. I love her.
So there is no farewell between us. She can take care of herself and she's with people that can fight at her side or protect her if she falls. I can hope for no better, and where I go there's a measure of stealth my plate-wearing darlin' is incapable. At least, this is what I tell myself and anyone else that might ask why I don't fight at the side of my beloved's.
The truth is, I would worry my hair white knowing she was near, knowing that I had to focus on kill big bads but that it might be too strange or bizarre for her. I know better, I do, but I can't stop the worry. She is good at adapting, she takes the flows and the hits with curses but she keeps going forward. She flees when it's practical to stay alive, she stays when she knows she can handle what's coming.
I know I will still worry. I know I'll steal one of her linen under-armor tunics and wear it against my skin, under the layers of clothing and protective leathers I'll have on me. I'll take her scent with me, I'll think of her every spare moment I have. And I will have no regrets in not saying goodbye because I will see her again.
And if I kiss her with more force and passion then, if I ignore protocols and etiquette and let her scoop me off to her bed or closet or whatever, well. I'm sure it's allowed.
I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine.
Please, my magpie. Fight well, fight hard, and come back mostly in one piece.
I love you.
Written By Serafine
March 15, 2017, 2:38 a.m.(2/5/1006 AR)
Dire circumstances. A war on the horizon. An army of soldiers more monster than human.
And still, we must not forget ourselves.
Many of us write as a way to give offering to the gods, a piece of ourselves immortalized by scholars and the Faith. We write about our fears and our prayers, hopes for the battles to come and the fights we must step forward to meet whether we want to or not. Gird our loins, sharpen our blades, bring our comrades and our beasts of war; we -fight-.
And yet.
I see pockets of humanity. Moments preserved that last no more than a heartbeat, the flap of a butterfly's wing, the few strumming notes of a song.
Land and power and money hold nothing to these precious seconds of our lives, strung together like beads on a necklace.
I saw an Iron Guard, off duty, take a bite of a pastry sold from a cart. A stolen moment between protective authority and proud baker. The icing dribbled clean from the stubbled chin of the guard, the proprietor a grinning, beaming woman with silver hair and a face full of wrinkles, a little boy wrapped in furs at her side, clinging to her cloak in the cold.
I didn't see fear or sorrow. I saw three people in a moment, joy in all of them, the little boy with round brown eyes gazing at the armored guard, the woman, coins in her hand, watching as the same man lost himself to the bliss of her baking.
Simple. Small. A minute or two, a simple pleasure that lit the corner of the street. Only I bore witness.
These moments are everywhere, they are precious because it reminds me that, mistake of birth having placed us where it might in this world, we are all the same. We breath and laugh and eat and shit and fuck and love and fight. We sing, whether we're good at it or not, we hug the people we care for the most, we howl and rage at those that anger us and do us wrong.
So this fleshy exterior we march around in, these ribbons on bones and guts, it's deceptive. This isn't what we fight for.
We fight for the moments of joy we've had, the rich sorrows and the singing light, and for the ones yet to come. The kiss of a loved one, the bitter fight in a family, the raging grief we pay for loving so deeply.
Not all of it is sweet. Much of it is bitter. And I say, savor all of it, and fight for more to come.
Fight for the chances and the time to experience more before we discard these clumsy vehicles of skin and carrying onward beyond.
Or take a page from Lord Commander Silas' book, and fight for chocolate.
And still, we must not forget ourselves.
Many of us write as a way to give offering to the gods, a piece of ourselves immortalized by scholars and the Faith. We write about our fears and our prayers, hopes for the battles to come and the fights we must step forward to meet whether we want to or not. Gird our loins, sharpen our blades, bring our comrades and our beasts of war; we -fight-.
And yet.
I see pockets of humanity. Moments preserved that last no more than a heartbeat, the flap of a butterfly's wing, the few strumming notes of a song.
Land and power and money hold nothing to these precious seconds of our lives, strung together like beads on a necklace.
I saw an Iron Guard, off duty, take a bite of a pastry sold from a cart. A stolen moment between protective authority and proud baker. The icing dribbled clean from the stubbled chin of the guard, the proprietor a grinning, beaming woman with silver hair and a face full of wrinkles, a little boy wrapped in furs at her side, clinging to her cloak in the cold.
I didn't see fear or sorrow. I saw three people in a moment, joy in all of them, the little boy with round brown eyes gazing at the armored guard, the woman, coins in her hand, watching as the same man lost himself to the bliss of her baking.
Simple. Small. A minute or two, a simple pleasure that lit the corner of the street. Only I bore witness.
These moments are everywhere, they are precious because it reminds me that, mistake of birth having placed us where it might in this world, we are all the same. We breath and laugh and eat and shit and fuck and love and fight. We sing, whether we're good at it or not, we hug the people we care for the most, we howl and rage at those that anger us and do us wrong.
So this fleshy exterior we march around in, these ribbons on bones and guts, it's deceptive. This isn't what we fight for.
We fight for the moments of joy we've had, the rich sorrows and the singing light, and for the ones yet to come. The kiss of a loved one, the bitter fight in a family, the raging grief we pay for loving so deeply.
Not all of it is sweet. Much of it is bitter. And I say, savor all of it, and fight for more to come.
Fight for the chances and the time to experience more before we discard these clumsy vehicles of skin and carrying onward beyond.
Or take a page from Lord Commander Silas' book, and fight for chocolate.
Written By Serafine
March 14, 2017, 5:14 p.m.(2/4/1006 AR)
Seriously, just let me borrow your family heirloom demon-killing sword. I promise to bring it back and/or provide funding to retrieve it from my decaying body. I'll even pay in advance!
Anyone?
Anyone?
Written By Serafine
March 14, 2017, 4:42 p.m.(2/4/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Sparte
After a long night of patrols through the lowers, I took a chance at the Training Center to get a relaxing spar in. Thankfully, Sparte was there and he was happy to accommodate me.
The man has improved greatly. Faster, he met me point for point, dealt me some serious blows that drove me to my knees and even then, gave me a moment, of his own accord, to catch my breath.
Made no difference. In the end, we were well matched and he finally got me. It was a great fight. Wow!
The man has improved greatly. Faster, he met me point for point, dealt me some serious blows that drove me to my knees and even then, gave me a moment, of his own accord, to catch my breath.
Made no difference. In the end, we were well matched and he finally got me. It was a great fight. Wow!
Written By Serafine
March 9, 2017, 9:09 p.m.(1/22/1006 AR)
Dear Diary,
Today, I made my sister blush. She also got married.
I made Legate Orazio -laugh-. Like a real person and everything.
I stunned Talen into silence for a whole heartbeat.
I made Leta drag me out of the Shrine of Limerance to save the others from my very appropriate questions.
Also, I wore a dress Esera would have liked.
It was a good day.
Today, I made my sister blush. She also got married.
I made Legate Orazio -laugh-. Like a real person and everything.
I stunned Talen into silence for a whole heartbeat.
I made Leta drag me out of the Shrine of Limerance to save the others from my very appropriate questions.
Also, I wore a dress Esera would have liked.
It was a good day.
Written By Serafine
March 8, 2017, 11:46 a.m.(1/20/1006 AR)
I can't unsee what I have seen. And I can't stop weeping. Like a stone statue cursed to be a fountain with eyes that can't shut, and can only seep tears so old they've no salt left.
I will serve my House and my family, and while we may have been successful in our endeavors, this feels like no victory.
Maybe that is the way of release and mercy, though, to feel satisfaction in fatal acts of kindness. We lost, but we did not fail.
I will serve my House and my family, and while we may have been successful in our endeavors, this feels like no victory.
Maybe that is the way of release and mercy, though, to feel satisfaction in fatal acts of kindness. We lost, but we did not fail.
Written By Serafine
March 3, 2017, 3:39 p.m.(1/10/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Talen
The nettle was entirely your idea, brother-mine. I was content to just cut at each other until the other one shrieked 'Uncle!' but no, no you had to go and smear your strange sadism (...or is it masochism?) all over the traditional duel.
I'm still quite pleased with your ability to handle the pain, and I will horde this favor until the most opportune time.
I'm still quite pleased with your ability to handle the pain, and I will horde this favor until the most opportune time.
Written By Serafine
March 2, 2017, 8:50 p.m.(1/8/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Talen
Honestly, I didn't expect to win. The last time I fought Talen, the fucker blind-sided me and I was on my ass in three rounds.
But I am pleased to bring him into the family, as he deserves. The man is nothing if not loyal, and his devotion to my sister is near heretical. I can't approve of him more.
Also: You fuck with Talen, you're fucking with me, and I won't hesitate to stand at his side to defend our kin.
But I am pleased to bring him into the family, as he deserves. The man is nothing if not loyal, and his devotion to my sister is near heretical. I can't approve of him more.
Also: You fuck with Talen, you're fucking with me, and I won't hesitate to stand at his side to defend our kin.
Written By Serafine
Feb. 28, 2017, 11:47 p.m.(1/5/1006 AR)
I don't understand the motivation behind such slaughter and mayhem.
But I suppose even the blood nurtures the ground, the flowers that will come in the spring and the trees that grow around the bodies. Nothing is wasted.
Unless it's the Silence.
But I suppose even the blood nurtures the ground, the flowers that will come in the spring and the trees that grow around the bodies. Nothing is wasted.
Unless it's the Silence.
Written By Serafine
Feb. 28, 2017, 1:03 p.m.(1/4/1006 AR)
It's dangerous to make assumptions without in-depth research.
Written By Serafine
Feb. 27, 2017, 4:16 p.m.(1/2/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Talen
Oh, I'm going to, your highnASS.
This is going to be fun!
This is going to be fun!
Written By Serafine
Feb. 27, 2017, 11:20 a.m.(1/2/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Talen
I feel like Caith Nettle is excessive, though.
You might enjoy writhing in agony-
You might enjoy writhing in agony-
Written By Serafine
Feb. 27, 2017, 12:10 a.m.(1/1/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Talen
-the fuck you say? Caith Nettle?
That wasn't in our terms!
If you get to claim terms, I get to claim some as well!
No shoes, since you're too cowardly to duel me Luca-style.
Also, no one makes my sister do anything. If she wants to turn you into Dead Husband number Four, then she will. I'll try to give you a warning but that's the best I can do.
That wasn't in our terms!
If you get to claim terms, I get to claim some as well!
No shoes, since you're too cowardly to duel me Luca-style.
Also, no one makes my sister do anything. If she wants to turn you into Dead Husband number Four, then she will. I'll try to give you a warning but that's the best I can do.
Written By Serafine
Feb. 26, 2017, 10:43 p.m.(1/1/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Talen
It's about damn time, now I can stop pretending I don't know who my sister is besotted with. And! I have -more- reasons to tease and harass and generally poke at Talen.
I am delighted.
If you two spawn brats, I'll have you know I'm never leaving an open drink around -any- of them. Ever.
I am delighted.
If you two spawn brats, I'll have you know I'm never leaving an open drink around -any- of them. Ever.
Written By Serafine
Feb. 26, 2017, 1:56 p.m.(12/28/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Anze
[A note is tacked to Anze's journal:]
We know how to handle winter. It requires lots of blankets, hot tea, and at least one lover. And not leaving our nest of furs and comforters until the frost ceases to tease our windows.
We know how to handle winter. It requires lots of blankets, hot tea, and at least one lover. And not leaving our nest of furs and comforters until the frost ceases to tease our windows.
Written By Serafine
Feb. 18, 2017, 5:39 p.m.(12/12/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Ainsley
Tell me who I need to punch. I'll do it.
Written By Serafine
Feb. 18, 2017, 5:39 p.m.(12/12/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Silas
That the Lord Commander let me sign on is a sign of the times, though I'm certain he would tell me that I'm skilled and people in the lowers like me well enough. I will do what he asks of me and so far, I'm stunned that 'shut up' hasn't been in my daily orders.
He is stalwart, resilient. Someone we need as a Lord Commander of the Irons, with a great deal of common sense. The kind of person you want to work with and not against, whom compromise is his go-to weapon rather than his blade.
He is stalwart, resilient. Someone we need as a Lord Commander of the Irons, with a great deal of common sense. The kind of person you want to work with and not against, whom compromise is his go-to weapon rather than his blade.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.