Written By Viviana
July 5, 2025, 2:21 p.m.(10/4/1024 AR)
My hair has started to thread with silver --
what a troubling revelation.
what a troubling revelation.
Written By Avita
Feb. 9, 2025, 10:20 p.m.(11/21/1023 AR)
Dearest Diary,
Have I ever told you that you're very unfortunate to look at?
Oh, don't give me that look.
It's not helping your case.
Have I ever told you that you're very unfortunate to look at?
Oh, don't give me that look.
It's not helping your case.
Written By Avita
Feb. 5, 2025, 1:17 p.m.(11/12/1023 AR)
Dearest Diary,
Did you know that the moon is simply a reflection of the sun's light?
The moon is a mirror, darling, desperately trying to capture the radiance of the sun that rises before, after, always.
If the moon is a tyrant of inevitabilities, of the ebb and flow of tides and time, is that a fragment of the sun's influence ... or a direct opposition of the freedom she represents in that mirror?
Curious.
Did you know that the moon is simply a reflection of the sun's light?
The moon is a mirror, darling, desperately trying to capture the radiance of the sun that rises before, after, always.
If the moon is a tyrant of inevitabilities, of the ebb and flow of tides and time, is that a fragment of the sun's influence ... or a direct opposition of the freedom she represents in that mirror?
Curious.
Written By Avita
Feb. 5, 2025, 12:03 p.m.(11/12/1023 AR)
Dearest Diary,
Have you ever wondered how the constellations are formed?
I wonder often if the tales we tell of their tapestry is our vain attempt at giving a reason for what we see in them, or if the story is written by the deeds of those that ascend into the eternal glory of that dazzling display.
Chicken, egg, egg, chicken.
But, if the constellations are formed in the wake of some heroic or villainous deed, or misdeed, how grand must one be to be painted there amidst the greatest legends.
I wonder what my stars will represent, when the time comes.
Have you ever wondered how the constellations are formed?
I wonder often if the tales we tell of their tapestry is our vain attempt at giving a reason for what we see in them, or if the story is written by the deeds of those that ascend into the eternal glory of that dazzling display.
Chicken, egg, egg, chicken.
But, if the constellations are formed in the wake of some heroic or villainous deed, or misdeed, how grand must one be to be painted there amidst the greatest legends.
I wonder what my stars will represent, when the time comes.
Written By Sen'azala
Nov. 24, 2024, 11:50 p.m.(6/7/1023 AR)
It's been nearly two years since I tore out the Horned God's throat and crushed his skull between my hands, and only a little longer since the whole world, the Dream itself, changed forever.
I've fought countless monsters since all my monsters were destroyed, both alone and with friends, or strangers. There are so many evil things to hunt. Shards. Demons. Often people. People don't need powerful monsters to make them powerful monsters, and there's a lot of ugly opportunity for human monsters in this new world. Even so, it took me a while to realize what I'd lost, what felt wrong and unnerving.
I'm not afraid in the same way I used to be. My fear is gone, replaced with a lesser fear, muted and often distant. A lot of people would consider that a good thing, would think it's a gift or a blessing, or a sign of bravery, but I don't like it at all. I worry it will make me reckless, or stupid. It hasn't, so far, but I worry. I fear my lack of fear, something which looks extremely stupid when I write it out, but is still true.
It's hard to look at frightening things the same way once you've looked into the non-existent eyes of the Kindly Voices. Once you've seen the end of the world twice. Seen the stars flee, gods devoured. Millions dead or missing or eaten. Once you've broken the world, and desperately tried to hold the pieces together long enough for something new to come of it. Friends and enemies are gone, remembered in stone, in journals, in letters etched into walls or skulls placed in Death's shrine. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see what I saw in Wolf's, the countless mirror shards of every possibility of every hopeless and horrible ending for everyone and everything, but when I open my eyes again, I see only the possibility where we survived.
Was it like this for the people who survived the first Reckoning? Did they find themselves in a world where nothing could measure up to what used to scare them?
I burned the two raven feathers for the last time. I don't need feathers to remember grief anymore. My parents are at peace, and their murderer is dead. The third feather, I'll keep, because the third is for hope. One hope. Until I know for sure...but even if I know for sure. Even if. Maybe I'll wear one forever, no matter how many I need to burn. That feels right to me.
The world is open. There are so many figurative and literal fires to put out on Arvum I could spend several more lifetimes only doing that, but I might see Nefer'khat again, or set foot in Cardia. I might find the ruin of the Undying Empire, and see who can still be helped. I might...but I won't stay.
Not forever.
When House Venandi came to Arvum a thousand years ago, chasing revenge, I doubt they knew that they would never return home. That they would remain here until 'here' was home. That, in the end, they would be a people of Arvum, and not Nefer'khat, and that their oath would outlast the wishes of the man they swore it to.
I'm home. And no matter how far I go, or for how long, I intend to come back here. Back to this continent. This once-and-future forest. This timeless castle next to an ancient city I used to hate. I'll always come back to Yesterday, where all my monsters are memories and there's nothing more to fear.
Though the skies may darken and the will of men may fail, I will never stop hunting the darkness.
I've fought countless monsters since all my monsters were destroyed, both alone and with friends, or strangers. There are so many evil things to hunt. Shards. Demons. Often people. People don't need powerful monsters to make them powerful monsters, and there's a lot of ugly opportunity for human monsters in this new world. Even so, it took me a while to realize what I'd lost, what felt wrong and unnerving.
I'm not afraid in the same way I used to be. My fear is gone, replaced with a lesser fear, muted and often distant. A lot of people would consider that a good thing, would think it's a gift or a blessing, or a sign of bravery, but I don't like it at all. I worry it will make me reckless, or stupid. It hasn't, so far, but I worry. I fear my lack of fear, something which looks extremely stupid when I write it out, but is still true.
It's hard to look at frightening things the same way once you've looked into the non-existent eyes of the Kindly Voices. Once you've seen the end of the world twice. Seen the stars flee, gods devoured. Millions dead or missing or eaten. Once you've broken the world, and desperately tried to hold the pieces together long enough for something new to come of it. Friends and enemies are gone, remembered in stone, in journals, in letters etched into walls or skulls placed in Death's shrine. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see what I saw in Wolf's, the countless mirror shards of every possibility of every hopeless and horrible ending for everyone and everything, but when I open my eyes again, I see only the possibility where we survived.
Was it like this for the people who survived the first Reckoning? Did they find themselves in a world where nothing could measure up to what used to scare them?
I burned the two raven feathers for the last time. I don't need feathers to remember grief anymore. My parents are at peace, and their murderer is dead. The third feather, I'll keep, because the third is for hope. One hope. Until I know for sure...but even if I know for sure. Even if. Maybe I'll wear one forever, no matter how many I need to burn. That feels right to me.
The world is open. There are so many figurative and literal fires to put out on Arvum I could spend several more lifetimes only doing that, but I might see Nefer'khat again, or set foot in Cardia. I might find the ruin of the Undying Empire, and see who can still be helped. I might...but I won't stay.
Not forever.
When House Venandi came to Arvum a thousand years ago, chasing revenge, I doubt they knew that they would never return home. That they would remain here until 'here' was home. That, in the end, they would be a people of Arvum, and not Nefer'khat, and that their oath would outlast the wishes of the man they swore it to.
I'm home. And no matter how far I go, or for how long, I intend to come back here. Back to this continent. This once-and-future forest. This timeless castle next to an ancient city I used to hate. I'll always come back to Yesterday, where all my monsters are memories and there's nothing more to fear.
Though the skies may darken and the will of men may fail, I will never stop hunting the darkness.
Written By Sen'azala
Nov. 24, 2024, 9:41 p.m.(6/7/1023 AR)
Mashti is gone. She went quietly, peacefully, and I was there with her. It's...such a strange thing, to lose someone to age. It doesn't hurt any less, or leave a smaller hole, but it feels more...complete? Complete. No hate, no vengeance, just grief. If I'm angry, it's at time. We should have had more. It was only fair to have more, with how many years were lost between us. Nothing's fair about life, though, and if that's all to be angry at, then it's a strange relief of sorts. I can mourn. No complications.
She never told me what she wanted done with her ashes, but I planned to take her back to the Everwinter. Back home, if I could. I'd intended to ride as far as was reasonable to ask a horse to go, then take the rest on foot. Copper's kids had other ideas, however.
I've seen so much of the ruin and destruction left behind by Azazel's forces, but it's another thing entirely to see it from the air, to see the bones of dead cities and entire forests and fields crushed, burned, or worse. There are not enough people left alive to mourn all the people who are not. But we saw other places. Even with all of the Eater's horrors, there are large swathes of the wild that are entirely untouched. Parts of Arvum unscarred. Slim comfort. But it's there.
It took some time to find Mashti's home; they'd traveled further north than I thought they would. In hindsight I'm not sure it would have been possible to find the Wolfkin from the ground. The sky was full of color when we landed - coincidence, but it was perfect all the same - and we found a good wind to carry Mashti's ashes away. I didn't approach the camp. I've said my goodbyes, and I'm sure, now, that I won't go looking for them again.
Still, I'm sure I saw Shara at the edge of the fires, looking up the hill as I howled. As Grandmother howled. As a chorus of wolves sang my second mother to the Wheel. I'm sure she was still looking when I turned, when we flew away. I won't ever know what she was thinking.
Or, maybe I already do. Maybe she was thinking the same things that I was, maybe she was thinking about a time we could have gone one way, but I chose to go the other. Maybe she was thinking about how she'd been right, and so had I.
She never told me what she wanted done with her ashes, but I planned to take her back to the Everwinter. Back home, if I could. I'd intended to ride as far as was reasonable to ask a horse to go, then take the rest on foot. Copper's kids had other ideas, however.
I've seen so much of the ruin and destruction left behind by Azazel's forces, but it's another thing entirely to see it from the air, to see the bones of dead cities and entire forests and fields crushed, burned, or worse. There are not enough people left alive to mourn all the people who are not. But we saw other places. Even with all of the Eater's horrors, there are large swathes of the wild that are entirely untouched. Parts of Arvum unscarred. Slim comfort. But it's there.
It took some time to find Mashti's home; they'd traveled further north than I thought they would. In hindsight I'm not sure it would have been possible to find the Wolfkin from the ground. The sky was full of color when we landed - coincidence, but it was perfect all the same - and we found a good wind to carry Mashti's ashes away. I didn't approach the camp. I've said my goodbyes, and I'm sure, now, that I won't go looking for them again.
Still, I'm sure I saw Shara at the edge of the fires, looking up the hill as I howled. As Grandmother howled. As a chorus of wolves sang my second mother to the Wheel. I'm sure she was still looking when I turned, when we flew away. I won't ever know what she was thinking.
Or, maybe I already do. Maybe she was thinking the same things that I was, maybe she was thinking about a time we could have gone one way, but I chose to go the other. Maybe she was thinking about how she'd been right, and so had I.
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.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.