Written By Denica
Aug. 2, 2017, 10:09 a.m.(12/12/1006 AR)
(Tucked between the pages of her journal, and sprayed with a fixative to keep the colors from smudging - is a chalk pastel drawing of the Crimson Square's dueling grounds. The colors have been inversed. Any grass is now shaded in rusty auburn red and burnt umber, smudged out to look overgrown, each blade of grass appears to be overly long fingers that reach toward the center of the Square. The sky is a sickly shade of goldenrod mixed with yellow ochre, and the greyed out clouds are likewise pulled out thin - as though starved. The rest is all shadows: black, grey, and various hues of blue are layered over to suggest shapes hiding in those shadows that cannot be recognized. In the center of the dueling grounds where the shadows are light as smoke, there are the overlapping swirl and slither of serpents tied into one complicated knot.)
Written By Denica
Aug. 1, 2017, 5:55 p.m.(12/11/1006 AR)
Did you hear about those ocean puns that were taking over the Journals? No? They were Abyssmal.
Written By Denica
Aug. 1, 2017, 11:13 a.m.(12/11/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Edward
"I handle my sword quite well thank you. It is just so big it sometimes gets in the way."
(Accompanied is a graphite sketch of a lighthouse with the wreckage of a ship at its base.)
(Accompanied is a graphite sketch of a lighthouse with the wreckage of a ship at its base.)
Written By Denica
Aug. 1, 2017, 11:12 a.m.(12/11/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Ian
"Why? Is that something you think you're likely to do?"
(Beneath this - a study of analogous colors in various shades of blue. Seemingly searching for the right color.)
(Beneath this - a study of analogous colors in various shades of blue. Seemingly searching for the right color.)
Written By Denica
July 31, 2017, 2:08 p.m.(12/9/1006 AR)
(A sketch of the Shrine of Mangata from a certain angle, at a certain point of day. Every shadow hides a stylized wave, a grasping hand or the clean shape of a gull's wing.)
It's the heaviest breaker that thunders ashore, turbulence that smooths the sand clean. Only a salt kiss remains of the drowned arm that reaches from the ebbing current, the bloat - the humid scent of the bodies of men that remain. The ocean doesn't - never has, never will - care. The energies form, the waves tremble fish to hooks and sink ships with equal indifference. We are the ones that step up to rolling seas, allow the saltwater to drift toward our feet. We cast ours prayers like nets.
We muse, we ponder, we implore -- take us back, tender Mother.
We cling, we hold. Your castaways. We fear, we love, we repent. The briny spray dries upon our cheeks like tears, but we never cry. Perhaps we ought.
We wait before we retreat into silence.
It's the heaviest breaker that thunders ashore, turbulence that smooths the sand clean. Only a salt kiss remains of the drowned arm that reaches from the ebbing current, the bloat - the humid scent of the bodies of men that remain. The ocean doesn't - never has, never will - care. The energies form, the waves tremble fish to hooks and sink ships with equal indifference. We are the ones that step up to rolling seas, allow the saltwater to drift toward our feet. We cast ours prayers like nets.
We muse, we ponder, we implore -- take us back, tender Mother.
We cling, we hold. Your castaways. We fear, we love, we repent. The briny spray dries upon our cheeks like tears, but we never cry. Perhaps we ought.
We wait before we retreat into silence.
Written By Denica
July 30, 2017, 6:09 p.m.(12/7/1006 AR)
(More abstract, spare sketches. A couple of lines here and there create the elegant curve of a waterfowl neck.)
A bevy, a bank, a gathering of swans. Perhaps a parliament of owls. They make no sound when they fly. They land - they watch - they judge with golden coins for eyes.
Eventually someone will need to be paid.
(Two drops of ink spatter, drop, and stare like open and unblinking eyes.)
Written By Denica
July 30, 2017, 5 p.m.(12/7/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Merek
Met Merek Black in his shop while I was making a through exploration of shops this afternoon. Formally, he introduced himself as: Merek Black, Officer of the Iron Guard, Disciple of Vellichor and Scholar of his name, Liason of the Gold Order of the Dragon, Servant to House Fidante, and Merchant of the Guild. Which I am committing to paper for all of eternity because he seemed very grounded - and very busy. He works in metal, paints, scuplts, sketches, alchemates and brews and mixes.
All while offering affable conversation, I am pleased to report.
All while offering affable conversation, I am pleased to report.
Written By Denica
July 30, 2017, 2:42 p.m.(12/7/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Fatima
Fatima, dearest cos', please - please don't scream. I think that it might startle the House thralls if you shriek bloody murder at my reappearance. Besides that, I am trying to improve my skulk. It will ruin my practice of sneaking unnoticed down hallways and in doorways if you give away the game.
As though there was a game that I was playing - there isn't. It was grief that held me in, still breathing, and walled me up. It was the love of family that chipped at the stone and brought me back. Thank you for that, always.
Now. There should be a game, shouldn't there? A grand game of hide-and-go-seek.
As though there was a game that I was playing - there isn't. It was grief that held me in, still breathing, and walled me up. It was the love of family that chipped at the stone and brought me back. Thank you for that, always.
Now. There should be a game, shouldn't there? A grand game of hide-and-go-seek.
Written By Denica
July 30, 2017, 2:28 p.m.(12/7/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Dagon
The Names Change, Not the Brother.
Written By Denica
July 30, 2017, 2:18 p.m.(12/7/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Donella
Standing Beside, Not Hiding Behind.
Written By Denica
July 30, 2017, 1:23 p.m.(12/7/1006 AR)
(A few elegant and spare lines on the accompanying page offer the abstract shape of a sleek fox.)
The winter will arrive as we are asleep and dreaming, the snow will arrive like a fox in that dream - white itself, white like the fox, white like the gaping grin. The fox will not be alone, it will be heralded by frozen water and the high and delicate sounds of a flute. The sound will shatter the fragile air into a million slivers, fragments of glass, of diamond, of ice that will frost over everything. It will remind us that winter is the cruelest season, the loneliest -- but, oh, how it will sugar those truths even as it catches at our ankles and reels us in.
Of what I wrote here - the riddle, the dream - sheltered from the wind as much as possible with the quill of my pen sharp like the beak of a hawk, I opened it. I closed it. Taken the words from my mind and seen them to paper. Unable to make sense of it, but unable to put it back where it came from.
Already the dream disappears, deftly, like a white fox against white snow. The lines grow smaller, the paw prints vanish beneath a gust of Northern wind, and in them hide more secrets.
Written By Denica
May 15, 2017, 4:42 a.m.(6/18/1006 AR)
Relationship Note on Fortunato
Fortunato, a Lower Burroughs princeling if there ever was. In another life I was his patron; now, he asks if I am in need. Like a sodden stray cat, I need the warmth of company, and milk - for my tea.
He speaks about as straight as I do, which is to say not at all, though he's a thoughtful sort; a ruminator. He bears his demons on his sleeve, and I suspect he is haunted by far more than what he's yet shared. And so it's rather a delight sharing words with the man.
'Tis such a funny thing, too, when his mouth goes a bit more to one side than the other in a smile. Like it's about to fall straight off.
He speaks about as straight as I do, which is to say not at all, though he's a thoughtful sort; a ruminator. He bears his demons on his sleeve, and I suspect he is haunted by far more than what he's yet shared. And so it's rather a delight sharing words with the man.
'Tis such a funny thing, too, when his mouth goes a bit more to one side than the other in a smile. Like it's about to fall straight off.
Written By Denica
March 19, 2017, 12:30 a.m.(2/13/1006 AR)
At first, seeing her seeing me struck a chord of anger. The longer I walked away the more I was certain there would be a time where I must pause and let her address me. Her boots crunched in the snow as she arrived at my flank, and then I was under her cloak, pressed to her chest; all about her was warmth, a cocoon to draw me out. Her hair had a scent so very familiar. My fingers greedily grasping at her was familiar, too: an echo of memory. In that warmth I recalled my heart from its long sleep, and with it came all of its burdens. The crushing weight of foreboding. The ache of loneliness. The desire for succor.
I wanted little more than to command her to take me away. And yet, here I remain, chasing black visions. If I read them right, Oblivion lies near.
Is it not more wise to meet it at the sides of those loved, than alone? It is a burden of my hope that I think that it isn't inevitable. Thus, I remain.
Jayus, you are my heart and eyes: guide me.
I wanted little more than to command her to take me away. And yet, here I remain, chasing black visions. If I read them right, Oblivion lies near.
Is it not more wise to meet it at the sides of those loved, than alone? It is a burden of my hope that I think that it isn't inevitable. Thus, I remain.
Jayus, you are my heart and eyes: guide me.
Written By Denica
March 5, 2017, 1:09 p.m.(1/14/1006 AR)
What is it, this discordant hum that plies at my ears?
'Tis the rushing horde's advance, an echo through the years.
The grounds a-tremble as 'round Arc they near,
And the King's eyes, they have yet to clear.
'Tis the rushing horde's advance, an echo through the years.
The grounds a-tremble as 'round Arc they near,
And the King's eyes, they have yet to clear.
Written By Denica
Jan. 28, 2017, 2:57 a.m.(10/12/1005 AR)
Everything hinges on every moment. I can feel time ticking on as I lay in bed. I've snuffed the lamp countless times, only to stare at the black ceiling of my bed's canopy. I wish I were staring at true stars, not the bits of beads that approximate them.
I wish I were far from here. But I don't want to be anywhere but here.
These paradoxes are cyclical, and I feel I cannot escape them, not tonight. For if I sleep, I mightn't again wake. Is that from the madness of a depleted mind, or is that paranoia well reasoned?
I need the cold air upon my face, icy salt water, piercing wind. But I can't so much as leave my covers.
Please, whomever is listening: let me sleep, won't you?
I wish I were far from here. But I don't want to be anywhere but here.
These paradoxes are cyclical, and I feel I cannot escape them, not tonight. For if I sleep, I mightn't again wake. Is that from the madness of a depleted mind, or is that paranoia well reasoned?
I need the cold air upon my face, icy salt water, piercing wind. But I can't so much as leave my covers.
Please, whomever is listening: let me sleep, won't you?
Written By Denica
Jan. 23, 2017, 2:45 p.m.(9/27/1005 AR)
In what hue of heart does one long to turn their backs upon the world of men? My faith is committed to the gods, and increasingly less in mankind in whole. Which masks harbor demons, either by make of the Abyss or our own earthly forge? Is this how one's heart becomes brittle, spending too much of it on withering hope and politics?
I long to shake up this feeling in me, tear it right out. I shall peel off my silks and revel tonight, let feeling burn bright in my breast and liquor burn sharp upon my tongue. I shall have my fun, gods willing.
Written By Denica
Jan. 22, 2017, 4:25 p.m.(9/24/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Donella
Hers is not a shadow that drowns and obscures; it is one that has risen tall to blanket me, protect me in its cloak. When I see her tiring from all of the weight upon her, I feel my love grow fierce in my chest, but I never doubt. There is no one person I admire more than my sister.
Written By Denica
Jan. 22, 2017, 4:14 p.m.(9/24/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Margot
It was an awkward embrace, but I felt it; there was a sisterly compassion shared, there. It's a nightmare, what's happened to our families, how that's come to shape the entireity of our persons, both of us. Despite so much darkness in Arvum, in Arx, our home, I have never felt so unified and strong with my beloved people.
Written By Denica
Jan. 22, 2017, 4:11 p.m.(9/24/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Darren
It was the first I'd met him, and I struggled worse than usual with keeping the dialogue appropriate for our stations. But the jests kept spilling from my lips, and he was good of nature. One might say he asked for it. Someone I wouldn't mind trading quips with, and while he insisted it wasn't a misuse of his time, I can't imagine he doesn't have a thousand actually important things to tend to. I am not, in the least, envious.
Written By Denica
Jan. 15, 2017, 9:42 p.m.(9/4/1005 AR)
A drawing accompanies the loose, looping script of the following page. It is of a dangling noose.
Princess Useless' become Princess Usefuls, my princely cousin said, when they are wed. I daresay I dread it as much as he seems to, but I am not eager, given this second Reckoning befalling all of Arvum. A union is a powerful tool for healing political divides, as it should have been for Thrax and Grayson. I daren't ask, lest it prompt a response I don't want to hear quite yet, but I wonder if this was not grandfather's plan for me. I have not been mistakenly released upon Arx.
My best course for delay is to be Princess Useful before shrugging me off on another house. If I can be her, then perhaps I can weather the coming storm with my family.
I have a dreadful lot of work to do.
A Tepid Princess Denica of Thrax
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.