Written By Viviana
July 8, 2024, 6:21 p.m.(8/9/1022 AR)
Climbing onto the stone ramparts, I feel the cool, rough texture beneath my fingertips and breathe in the warm air tinged with salt. The view reveals the northeastern walls of the city under a brilliant blue sky. I hear my whispers through the battlements, accompanied by the distant call of a bird of prey - a hawk, of some sort - and the rhythmic echo of my footsteps. Leaning against a parapet, I feel the sun warm my face, soaking in the moment's peace.
-- it's almost *too* peaceful.
-- it's almost *too* peaceful.
Written By Avita
June 30, 2024, 8:17 p.m.(7/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
Do you believe that the sun can be split in two?
Would it be more feasable for there to be two suns?
I wonder, would they chase one another, or would they come together to shine all the brighter as one?
I would posit that there should be a rivalry between two such celestial bodies -- but, the sun can have no rival.
The sun will not be ignored.
The sun will not surrender.
The Sun ... does not compete.
Certainly, she has a reflection -- that pale moon, pining away for the vibrance it can only wanly mirror, borrowing of the sun's radiance until she breaks the horizon once more.
Slowly, that reflection turns away, unable to cope with its jealousy, and the light fades; its back is turned, and its face grows dark, until it is forgotten ... until it grows cold -- too cold -- and must turn back to beg the Sun's forgiveness.
Of course, the Sun is generous.
The Sun forgives.
In Her mercy there is light.
There is hope.
Do you believe that the sun can be split in two?
Would it be more feasable for there to be two suns?
I wonder, would they chase one another, or would they come together to shine all the brighter as one?
I would posit that there should be a rivalry between two such celestial bodies -- but, the sun can have no rival.
The sun will not be ignored.
The sun will not surrender.
The Sun ... does not compete.
Certainly, she has a reflection -- that pale moon, pining away for the vibrance it can only wanly mirror, borrowing of the sun's radiance until she breaks the horizon once more.
Slowly, that reflection turns away, unable to cope with its jealousy, and the light fades; its back is turned, and its face grows dark, until it is forgotten ... until it grows cold -- too cold -- and must turn back to beg the Sun's forgiveness.
Of course, the Sun is generous.
The Sun forgives.
In Her mercy there is light.
There is hope.
Written By Avita
June 30, 2024, 8:06 p.m.(7/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I have recently had a conversation with dear Francis, and he asked a curious question of me.
Bold, of course, but you know what they say about Fortune and her favours, mm?
He asked me if the shadows existed because of the light, or if the light shone because of the backdrop of shadows.
It begs the question: Which came first?
Questions, actually, for they are in the multitudes by now as I sit and I ponder the meaning behind either, and how literal we have decided to be on this little thought-journey we find ourselves on.
Can one exist without the other?
Are they two separate things, or merely two sides of one and the same?
Is it a battle betwixt them, or is it a dance?
Is it as the tide, in ebb and flow that is at once gentle and terrible in equal measure?
Or is it the storm itself?
Does the lightning burn away the darkness on its heavenssent riot to the ground that waits below before the gloom and mire of those bitter, darkened clouds? Or, does it exist beyond, made bolder for the brooding roil that lurks like a shadow darkening the doorway?
Ah, this world...
... There is such magic in even the most mundane...
I have recently had a conversation with dear Francis, and he asked a curious question of me.
Bold, of course, but you know what they say about Fortune and her favours, mm?
He asked me if the shadows existed because of the light, or if the light shone because of the backdrop of shadows.
It begs the question: Which came first?
Questions, actually, for they are in the multitudes by now as I sit and I ponder the meaning behind either, and how literal we have decided to be on this little thought-journey we find ourselves on.
Can one exist without the other?
Are they two separate things, or merely two sides of one and the same?
Is it a battle betwixt them, or is it a dance?
Is it as the tide, in ebb and flow that is at once gentle and terrible in equal measure?
Or is it the storm itself?
Does the lightning burn away the darkness on its heavenssent riot to the ground that waits below before the gloom and mire of those bitter, darkened clouds? Or, does it exist beyond, made bolder for the brooding roil that lurks like a shadow darkening the doorway?
Ah, this world...
... There is such magic in even the most mundane...
Written By Avita
June 30, 2024, 7:32 p.m.(7/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
Have you ever seen the world as a tapestry?
Imagined every thread that interweaves to create the image we know as the truth before our eyes, and mapped every stitch that joins one concept to another in that intricate web we have woven with every breath we take, every step we make, every word we say, and -- perhaps more pointedly -- all the ones we choose not to commit to the cosmic memory of this greatest of mysteries?
Imagined each colour, and named each something new?
Dreamt in hues we cannot see, unknown and impossible, ancient, faded yet new and vibrant?
I find myself often wondering of what others see ... and how pale it must be in comparison to the grand vision before me.
Have you ever seen the world as a tapestry?
Imagined every thread that interweaves to create the image we know as the truth before our eyes, and mapped every stitch that joins one concept to another in that intricate web we have woven with every breath we take, every step we make, every word we say, and -- perhaps more pointedly -- all the ones we choose not to commit to the cosmic memory of this greatest of mysteries?
Imagined each colour, and named each something new?
Dreamt in hues we cannot see, unknown and impossible, ancient, faded yet new and vibrant?
I find myself often wondering of what others see ... and how pale it must be in comparison to the grand vision before me.
Written By Ravana
June 30, 2024, 6:55 a.m.(7/20/1022 AR)
Relationship Note on Ember
Icy blue is a blinding hue, even in the most mundane of circumstances. To ensure this entry remains safely within the Whites, I shall refrain from divulging the particulars of current circumstances. Suffice it to say, they are anything but mundane, and the Countess is living a life so dazzling, so extravagantly brilliant, that her charms leave me breathless.
Seriously, I may hyperventilate to death while choking back laughter.
Seriously, I may hyperventilate to death while choking back laughter.
Written By Ravana
June 30, 2024, 6:43 a.m.(7/20/1022 AR)
Relationship Note on Viviana
Bold, daring, beautiful, and utterly mad - these are but a few of the many facets of my dear confidant and companion. I could wax poetic about her many charms for an eternity, but such a litany would only pale in comparison to even the reflection of the living legend herself.
To be counted among Viviana's friends is to be touched by fortune's own hand. Her loyalty is fierce, her generosity boundless, and her cunning unparalleled. Yet, woe betide those who find themselves on the wrong side of her mercurial mischief - they're fucked. Poetically, of course.
Her name is both a blessing and a curse, and to know her is to dance on the edge of a knife, thrilling and perilous in equal measure. Just how I like it, obviously.
To be counted among Viviana's friends is to be touched by fortune's own hand. Her loyalty is fierce, her generosity boundless, and her cunning unparalleled. Yet, woe betide those who find themselves on the wrong side of her mercurial mischief - they're fucked. Poetically, of course.
Her name is both a blessing and a curse, and to know her is to dance on the edge of a knife, thrilling and perilous in equal measure. Just how I like it, obviously.
Written By Ravana
June 30, 2024, 6:33 a.m.(7/20/1022 AR)
Today, my footsteps echoed through the hallowed halls of a grand library, a fortress of knowledge guarded by vigilant sentinels. I shall not name it here, but perhaps in the Black. The sharp eyes of those guards nearly stymied my visit, but they were no match for my companions' wits and charms. The book I didn't know I sought until it sought me now rests in my possession, as should all things I like, naturally.
I discovered secrets that defy belief in this library, not from books, but from the mouths of companions peculiar. Ghosts, it seems, can sire offspring, did you know? Neither did I. And now, dear reader, we both do. And as for dresses, I'll have you know that their deceptive elegance belies their utter uselessness in secondary endeavors. For example, I've learned the hard way that they make for appalling book carriers.
I discovered secrets that defy belief in this library, not from books, but from the mouths of companions peculiar. Ghosts, it seems, can sire offspring, did you know? Neither did I. And now, dear reader, we both do. And as for dresses, I'll have you know that their deceptive elegance belies their utter uselessness in secondary endeavors. For example, I've learned the hard way that they make for appalling book carriers.
Written By Avita
June 23, 2024, 10:56 p.m.(7/7/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
One last thing ... until the next final word.
If our world were to plunge into deepest darkness, consumed by the stubborn eclipse ... what then should happen when the sun, set so long ago, should finally rise again?
Would it be as the basking warmth of the newly broken dawn we had longed for?
... Or would the whole world be blind once more?
One last thing ... until the next final word.
If our world were to plunge into deepest darkness, consumed by the stubborn eclipse ... what then should happen when the sun, set so long ago, should finally rise again?
Would it be as the basking warmth of the newly broken dawn we had longed for?
... Or would the whole world be blind once more?
Written By Avita
June 23, 2024, 10:53 p.m.(7/7/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I have found myself gazing up at the stars atimes, wondering of their purpose.
The sun is necessary for life to be maintained...
The moon, like the tides, brings purpose and light to the darkness...
But, the stars... ?
Perhaps they are there so that we might navigate this world ... when the sun sets, and turns away from her mirror.
I have found myself gazing up at the stars atimes, wondering of their purpose.
The sun is necessary for life to be maintained...
The moon, like the tides, brings purpose and light to the darkness...
But, the stars... ?
Perhaps they are there so that we might navigate this world ... when the sun sets, and turns away from her mirror.
Written By Avita
June 23, 2024, 10:49 p.m.(7/7/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
Have you ever looked to the horizon expecting to see the dawn's breaking ... and seen only blackness?
The whole world insists that the sun has risen and dances its way across the sky, and only you seem capable of seeing past the lie.
Would this make you mad, or ... simply awake?
Have you ever looked to the horizon expecting to see the dawn's breaking ... and seen only blackness?
The whole world insists that the sun has risen and dances its way across the sky, and only you seem capable of seeing past the lie.
Would this make you mad, or ... simply awake?
Written By Viviana
June 23, 2024, 7:01 a.m.(7/6/1022 AR)
[ from the entirely too disorganized shipboard notes from V. Whisper, cavalier, corsair, and yes -- courtier: ]
speaking with the Crimson Countess is not for the weak of heart.
speaking with the Crimson Countess is not for the weak of heart.
Written By Avita
June 16, 2024, 3:10 p.m.(6/20/1022 AR)
Dearest Diary,
You know, I do believe Francis is growing on me.
Like a fungus.
... or a tumour.
Either way, his fronding has improved dramatically since we began, and he has kept the heat from dewing my impeccable skin with a stirring sort of dedication that I had not anticipated -- though, I did expect it.
Hence my disappointment.
His storytelling, however...
That ... still needs work.
You know, I do believe Francis is growing on me.
Like a fungus.
... or a tumour.
Either way, his fronding has improved dramatically since we began, and he has kept the heat from dewing my impeccable skin with a stirring sort of dedication that I had not anticipated -- though, I did expect it.
Hence my disappointment.
His storytelling, however...
That ... still needs work.
Written By Avita
June 16, 2024, 3:06 p.m.(6/20/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
You know, I really don't see what all the fuss is about.
All I want to do is /speak/ to him.
Someone must pay for the indignities I've suffered on my diplomatic forray, and I doubt some Senator has what it would take to appease me by this juncture.
Ugh, the way they look at me, as though I were mad.
I'm not mad, darlings.
I'm livid.
You know, I really don't see what all the fuss is about.
All I want to do is /speak/ to him.
Someone must pay for the indignities I've suffered on my diplomatic forray, and I doubt some Senator has what it would take to appease me by this juncture.
Ugh, the way they look at me, as though I were mad.
I'm not mad, darlings.
I'm livid.
Written By Avita
June 16, 2024, 3:02 p.m.(6/20/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
They made me walk.
/Walk/.
Fifteen miles, I'm certain of it, and all of it on ascending stairs!
Were I a lesser woman, I doubt I would have made it.
Yet, I rose from that staircase like a phoenix -- to NO APPLAUSE.
Disgraceful.
They made me walk.
/Walk/.
Fifteen miles, I'm certain of it, and all of it on ascending stairs!
Were I a lesser woman, I doubt I would have made it.
Yet, I rose from that staircase like a phoenix -- to NO APPLAUSE.
Disgraceful.
Written By Viviana
May 28, 2024, 1:14 p.m.(5/10/1022 AR)
In the sky there doesn't seem to be any limit -- just expanse, an endless exploration.
Now, the seas feel this way.
Solaris -- my newly minted vessel, hopefully, the new lead of a potential fleet that will follow. Being at sea is a blend of tranquility and thrill that's bound to the rhythms of nature. It's a feeling of losing one's self, a momentary escape from the ground-bound ties.
I imagine that flying feels the same.
Now, the seas feel this way.
Solaris -- my newly minted vessel, hopefully, the new lead of a potential fleet that will follow. Being at sea is a blend of tranquility and thrill that's bound to the rhythms of nature. It's a feeling of losing one's self, a momentary escape from the ground-bound ties.
I imagine that flying feels the same.
Written By Sen'azala
May 25, 2024, 7:40 p.m.(5/5/1022 AR)
Outside the walls used to be thick, old forest. I'm not sure how old, I'm not sure if the trees or the castle came first (or if the answer is even that linear). Helena destroyed a lot of it when she attacked the gates, the demons took care of the rest. Apart from burning corpses and cleaning up worse, I've let it stay a ruin. The wild reclaims its own eventually.
Sooner than I thought. Alongside several flavors of bristly, stubborn grass, wildflowers have peppered the entire broken field all around. I don't know the names for all of them, but there are a fair number of those copper flowers people were planting up and down the Great Road years back. My best guess is their seeds blew over from what used to be the Lodge of Petrichor.
I admit, I used to find them a little annoying, the same way I used to find the copper twists and scarves a little annoying. I couldn't tell you *why*, exactly. Maybe an instinctual need to be a contrary little shit. They're accidental memories now, growing on their own where they please over the bones of the dead forest and the bones of the dead monsters that thought they could devour the stories of the Castle of Yesterday. I like it. If I were a poet or a philosopher - or drunk - I'd make up some deeper symbolism for copper flowers torn from their origins and scattered to the wind to grow as they like in a new world and make some other contrary little shit rightfully irritable.
I have never in my life been interested in planting anything, but Mashti and I dug up a few different kinds of wildflowers and brought them inside the walls. I draw the line at making an actual garden. Fuck no. I'm just going to let the wild set down some roots in here too. I want to see what it does. The messier the better. The more variety, the better.
Sooner than I thought. Alongside several flavors of bristly, stubborn grass, wildflowers have peppered the entire broken field all around. I don't know the names for all of them, but there are a fair number of those copper flowers people were planting up and down the Great Road years back. My best guess is their seeds blew over from what used to be the Lodge of Petrichor.
I admit, I used to find them a little annoying, the same way I used to find the copper twists and scarves a little annoying. I couldn't tell you *why*, exactly. Maybe an instinctual need to be a contrary little shit. They're accidental memories now, growing on their own where they please over the bones of the dead forest and the bones of the dead monsters that thought they could devour the stories of the Castle of Yesterday. I like it. If I were a poet or a philosopher - or drunk - I'd make up some deeper symbolism for copper flowers torn from their origins and scattered to the wind to grow as they like in a new world and make some other contrary little shit rightfully irritable.
I have never in my life been interested in planting anything, but Mashti and I dug up a few different kinds of wildflowers and brought them inside the walls. I draw the line at making an actual garden. Fuck no. I'm just going to let the wild set down some roots in here too. I want to see what it does. The messier the better. The more variety, the better.
Written By Avita
May 19, 2024, 7:04 p.m.(4/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I'm not certain if my current adventure is /exciting/ so much as it is ... different than what came before?
Oh, it's still early, I know, and I'm giving it every chance it deserves to become something that does more than gently arch my brow, I promise.
I suppose I was simply expecting something more _dramatic_, darling, something spectacular, something ...
... worthy of my appearance.
Worthy of my interest.
Of my oh so valuable time, and even costlier attentions.
I'm not certain if my current adventure is /exciting/ so much as it is ... different than what came before?
Oh, it's still early, I know, and I'm giving it every chance it deserves to become something that does more than gently arch my brow, I promise.
I suppose I was simply expecting something more _dramatic_, darling, something spectacular, something ...
... worthy of my appearance.
Worthy of my interest.
Of my oh so valuable time, and even costlier attentions.
Written By Viviana
May 12, 2024, 8:17 p.m.(4/7/1022 AR)
I refuse to be bound by expectations. One day, I will be a Queenmaker.
Perhaps even more than this --
Perhaps even more than this --
Written By Avita
May 12, 2024, 7:40 p.m.(4/7/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
I've decided I should do some remodelling in Ischia.
Oh, don't you worry, her beauty shall persist.
It's more that I require more ... majesty.
More flare.
More /drama/.
I'll have to see what I can do about that.
Prepare the stage for me, darling.
... oh, you don't work for me, do you?
Hm.
Even still.
I've decided I should do some remodelling in Ischia.
Oh, don't you worry, her beauty shall persist.
It's more that I require more ... majesty.
More flare.
More /drama/.
I'll have to see what I can do about that.
Prepare the stage for me, darling.
... oh, you don't work for me, do you?
Hm.
Even still.
Written By Avita
May 5, 2024, 9:51 p.m.(3/21/1022 AR)
Dear Diary,
They say that scent is the sense most directly linked to memory.
If that's so, why are there no legends or grand ballads about the smell of our heroes?
No hymns of the aroma of humble beginnings, nor the banquet of life itself, which I so often glut myself upon.
Instead, we have grand retellings of the sight of terrible flames, of the sensation of blood cooling and pulling on our skin, or the brutality of war as it is observed, bodies strewn and scattered like sheaves of hay in the manger of meager existances.
Not mine, of course.
I am the sun, after all.
We have stories that speak of songs that echo through the very fabric of truth itself, that move us, that tug at the heartstrings until they snap and the dams of our composure break and fill the seas with our bitter tears, changing our world forevermore.
We spin stories about the feeling of a lover's skin beneath our fingertips, or the pain of an entirely different sort of breaking, legends of great beasts and beastly men alike and the fear they inspire.
Now, don't get me wrong, darling, I am a grand fan of the drift of cologne dancing in the shadows, avid in my avarice when the feast arrives and is placed upon my table.
But, the most poignant, the most keen amongst my memories?
Hardly.
They say that scent is the sense most directly linked to memory.
If that's so, why are there no legends or grand ballads about the smell of our heroes?
No hymns of the aroma of humble beginnings, nor the banquet of life itself, which I so often glut myself upon.
Instead, we have grand retellings of the sight of terrible flames, of the sensation of blood cooling and pulling on our skin, or the brutality of war as it is observed, bodies strewn and scattered like sheaves of hay in the manger of meager existances.
Not mine, of course.
I am the sun, after all.
We have stories that speak of songs that echo through the very fabric of truth itself, that move us, that tug at the heartstrings until they snap and the dams of our composure break and fill the seas with our bitter tears, changing our world forevermore.
We spin stories about the feeling of a lover's skin beneath our fingertips, or the pain of an entirely different sort of breaking, legends of great beasts and beastly men alike and the fear they inspire.
Now, don't get me wrong, darling, I am a grand fan of the drift of cologne dancing in the shadows, avid in my avarice when the feast arrives and is placed upon my table.
But, the most poignant, the most keen amongst my memories?
Hardly.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.