Written By Lianne
Jan. 10, 2024, 7:49 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
Transcribed from my Blacks by my own hand, with a note that this was a relatively minor demon:
(8/7/1005 AR)
All I could see was blackness.
It came in through my eyes. My ears, nose, mouth, but also my eyes, blotting out all light, leaving me in darkness. As if the allegorical darkness which I had denied had risen up just to tell me that it is real, that it is not mere metaphor, that there is no other word for this evil but what it is: Darkness.
For all the weight of that word, I must try to document this clearly, to articulate what I witnessed. Here, first, for myself and for Vellichor and for Tehom who sees what darkness is left in me. Later, for my beloved duchess. Perhaps, then, after review, for a few fellow scholars.
What I witnessed was a black, ominous cloud barreling toward myself and the admiral. Cassius had alerted me, shouting from upstairs, and I reached for my holy water. I was unable to wield it effectively, to create a barrier which might have prohibited its movement. I did, however, see how it reshaped itself to avoid what I was able to spill, which only made the gaps I left behind all the more evident. As it rushed toward my face, I then tried, in vain, to guard myself against its trespass, but the mist was too fine. It got in.
It was wet and oppressive and slick like oil. I could barely breathe for how it contaminated every inhalation without ever being expelled. It could not have been more than a minute, and yet it felt so much longer. While within me, heavy and wrong and inescapably black, I could feel it taking from me, this... pulling from within my very being.
I remember very clearly what it felt like to be stripped of all that awfulness, to feel it forced from me as I was pushed past the barrier which had been drawn around us. I felt clean. For an instant, I felt perfectly pure, that imperfection washed away by Mangata herself. And then I hit the ground. Cassius had erected a circle of holy water, Felix then pushed up through it, trapping the mirrorborn in its mist-form, too fine to defy the holy wall which bound it. Once it took to a more solid form, it was able to push through, the blessed water eating away at its ruined and fluid flesh, but it was also once more able to be struck. And vulnerable to combustion, at which point it crumbled into oil and ash and mirror shards, of which I have collected a few.
I will want later to record the others' experiences, what they witnessed, but this evidence is my own.
I feel pitted still, as if all of my innards have been weathered and worn by what was within me. I know this is not the case, that I am well and whole, yet that metaphor feels so real, as if I have been scarred in ways the rest of Arvum will never see. No. Perhaps if I think of it as wounds, injuries, it will heal. To call it a scar is to bear it forever, to be marked by the mirrorborn. This, like any other wound, will heal.
Any further exposition would detract from the purpose of this journal.
(8/7/1005 AR)
All I could see was blackness.
It came in through my eyes. My ears, nose, mouth, but also my eyes, blotting out all light, leaving me in darkness. As if the allegorical darkness which I had denied had risen up just to tell me that it is real, that it is not mere metaphor, that there is no other word for this evil but what it is: Darkness.
For all the weight of that word, I must try to document this clearly, to articulate what I witnessed. Here, first, for myself and for Vellichor and for Tehom who sees what darkness is left in me. Later, for my beloved duchess. Perhaps, then, after review, for a few fellow scholars.
What I witnessed was a black, ominous cloud barreling toward myself and the admiral. Cassius had alerted me, shouting from upstairs, and I reached for my holy water. I was unable to wield it effectively, to create a barrier which might have prohibited its movement. I did, however, see how it reshaped itself to avoid what I was able to spill, which only made the gaps I left behind all the more evident. As it rushed toward my face, I then tried, in vain, to guard myself against its trespass, but the mist was too fine. It got in.
It was wet and oppressive and slick like oil. I could barely breathe for how it contaminated every inhalation without ever being expelled. It could not have been more than a minute, and yet it felt so much longer. While within me, heavy and wrong and inescapably black, I could feel it taking from me, this... pulling from within my very being.
I remember very clearly what it felt like to be stripped of all that awfulness, to feel it forced from me as I was pushed past the barrier which had been drawn around us. I felt clean. For an instant, I felt perfectly pure, that imperfection washed away by Mangata herself. And then I hit the ground. Cassius had erected a circle of holy water, Felix then pushed up through it, trapping the mirrorborn in its mist-form, too fine to defy the holy wall which bound it. Once it took to a more solid form, it was able to push through, the blessed water eating away at its ruined and fluid flesh, but it was also once more able to be struck. And vulnerable to combustion, at which point it crumbled into oil and ash and mirror shards, of which I have collected a few.
I will want later to record the others' experiences, what they witnessed, but this evidence is my own.
I feel pitted still, as if all of my innards have been weathered and worn by what was within me. I know this is not the case, that I am well and whole, yet that metaphor feels so real, as if I have been scarred in ways the rest of Arvum will never see. No. Perhaps if I think of it as wounds, injuries, it will heal. To call it a scar is to bear it forever, to be marked by the mirrorborn. This, like any other wound, will heal.
Any further exposition would detract from the purpose of this journal.
Written By Gwenna
Jan. 10, 2024, 7:13 p.m.(7/13/1021 AR)
There are few in the Compact who have not heard the tales of Queen Valeria Redrain in the time of the Reckoning, and certainly not a soul in the Northlands. Fewer records survived about her sister Elira. Elira the warrior, Elira the strategist, Elira the steadfast. Valeria's little sister who offered sanctuary in Farhaven to others as the North became more and more deadly, and Elira who held the territory around Farhaven against demonic forces. Elira, who held Farhaven for ten long years as Valeria and the others fought through the White Legions in hopes of freeing the city. The gates never fell.
I am not sure if history might be repeating itself or if the paths before us are coincidence. I know where I must be and what we must do for the Northlands and Arx. There is no way to know what will prove successful or foolish until the histories are ready to be written. All we can really know is that we will make our stand and fight.
To the Last.
I am not sure if history might be repeating itself or if the paths before us are coincidence. I know where I must be and what we must do for the Northlands and Arx. There is no way to know what will prove successful or foolish until the histories are ready to be written. All we can really know is that we will make our stand and fight.
To the Last.
Written By Aconite
Jan. 10, 2024, 3:08 p.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
Worshipping requires action. It does not need belief or attachment to be practiced.
Devotion is similar to worship, but requires no action because it comes from the soul.
Devotion is similar to worship, but requires no action because it comes from the soul.
Written By Aelgar
Jan. 10, 2024, 12:50 p.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
A new initiative in the Archives has arisen and I am to catalog many long-neglected documents in the lower levels of the building. This is a happy day as who knows what fascinating knowledge might be found in those old pages? I hope to raise the most interesting ones up to the ground floor for copying and further review. The Archives are built to discourage moisture and vermin, but it will also be a pleasure to check the various niches and corners to ensure all is safe down there. This is a long overdue project.
Written By Medeia
Jan. 10, 2024, 11:50 a.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
Lord Emilio Saik
I commit his name to the whites, so that some shred of him can be remembered. He existed. None of us remember him. I beg of you to remember him anyway.
He was Estaban's twin. He was my older brother. Estaban could remember him, knew that he was a member of the Inquisition, knew that Azazel had killed him.
I don't know if Emilio was a good brother, carrying me on his back through the vineyards while laughing. I dont know if Emilio tormented me, dipping my hair in ink. Maybe he was both - people are so rarely ever just one thing. Maybe his favorite color was blue, the specific shade of blue that comes to far reaches of the sky when the sun is about to dip below the horizon. Maybe he loved to dance in the dining room to songs he made up about dinner. I don't know. You don't know. Remember him anyway!
Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik was born to Lady Giovanna and Lord Aaron Saik. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik swam off the Saikland beaches as a child - surely he did, we all did. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik once had dirt under his fingernails. Whatever it is, so long as it is likely truth, tell someone. Write it down, even if it is just to say in your journals that I am crazy to insist that Lord Emilio Saik was real.
He was. Remember him. Remember all of them.
I commit his name to the whites, so that some shred of him can be remembered. He existed. None of us remember him. I beg of you to remember him anyway.
He was Estaban's twin. He was my older brother. Estaban could remember him, knew that he was a member of the Inquisition, knew that Azazel had killed him.
I don't know if Emilio was a good brother, carrying me on his back through the vineyards while laughing. I dont know if Emilio tormented me, dipping my hair in ink. Maybe he was both - people are so rarely ever just one thing. Maybe his favorite color was blue, the specific shade of blue that comes to far reaches of the sky when the sun is about to dip below the horizon. Maybe he loved to dance in the dining room to songs he made up about dinner. I don't know. You don't know. Remember him anyway!
Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik was born to Lady Giovanna and Lord Aaron Saik. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik swam off the Saikland beaches as a child - surely he did, we all did. Tell someone that Lord Emilio Saik once had dirt under his fingernails. Whatever it is, so long as it is likely truth, tell someone. Write it down, even if it is just to say in your journals that I am crazy to insist that Lord Emilio Saik was real.
He was. Remember him. Remember all of them.
Written By Eirene
Jan. 10, 2024, 11:13 a.m.(7/12/1021 AR)
After all my work with the refugees, I wonder if I was kinder to have let them forget...
Written By Fatima
Jan. 10, 2024, 2:31 a.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
Day 3:
I found a coin that belongs to me, brought up from the depths of the sea. It was a coin I never knew was lost until it was found.
I swam with sharks, and came out of the water unscathed. I saw the armies of the Dune Emperor, driven into their waiting teeth.
My fleet is very small, and will not pose a threat to the Dune Emperor at all.
(Anyone who can see the Bay of Thrax, and any available docks and harbors, will know the third one is the lie. The waters are filled with ships, thousands of Eurusi, knights, mercenaries, sellsails and men-at-arms and more, readying to set sail.)
I found a coin that belongs to me, brought up from the depths of the sea. It was a coin I never knew was lost until it was found.
I swam with sharks, and came out of the water unscathed. I saw the armies of the Dune Emperor, driven into their waiting teeth.
My fleet is very small, and will not pose a threat to the Dune Emperor at all.
(Anyone who can see the Bay of Thrax, and any available docks and harbors, will know the third one is the lie. The waters are filled with ships, thousands of Eurusi, knights, mercenaries, sellsails and men-at-arms and more, readying to set sail.)
Written By Lys
Jan. 10, 2024, 1:27 a.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
[Black released to the public]
(1/8/1010 AR)
Willow. Valt. Willow. Valt. Names, supposedly, of my parents. Or at the very least the last known names of them. Two con artists trying to trick what they thought was a noble out of their savings, and ending up with a child with a con artist for their ploy... One rotten to the core, and the other an inveterate liar.
Jokes on me, I guess.
(1/8/1010 AR)
Willow. Valt. Willow. Valt. Names, supposedly, of my parents. Or at the very least the last known names of them. Two con artists trying to trick what they thought was a noble out of their savings, and ending up with a child with a con artist for their ploy... One rotten to the core, and the other an inveterate liar.
Jokes on me, I guess.
Written By Lys
Jan. 10, 2024, 1:10 a.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
I dreamt one last time of my king of stone; once more at his feet, under his unfeeling Stygian gaze. My fingers bloodied at his granite throne, my lips bloodied from begging, my throat raw from screaming. But he was still unmoved… I was not.
I stood from before him and on shaky feet walked away, I did not look back. I will not look back.
Mae would tell me that all things end and to rejoice in the ending for it brings a new beginning.
I stood from before him and on shaky feet walked away, I did not look back. I will not look back.
Mae would tell me that all things end and to rejoice in the ending for it brings a new beginning.
Written By Aconite
Jan. 9, 2024, 10:44 p.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
I see a path now. All that my House has done for me seemed to be impossible to give back..
Now I see a way.
Now I see a way.
Written By Giada
Jan. 9, 2024, 10:33 p.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
He's back!
Written By Lianne
Jan. 9, 2024, 5:25 p.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Apollo
Transcribed from my Blacks by my own hand:
(8/23/1014 AR)
It felt, for a moment, as if he wished to use me as a weapon against himself. The cut would've hurt us both, though him more grievously, I imagine. Guilt is a terrible thing.
I wonder, though, if I already am, without trying. There's a shape to his pain that I can't fully see. It's easy to imagine it's a matter of language; I never understand the fullness of what he communicates, and I've come to accept this. This feels different, like I can't see it because I'm a part of it, my perspective limited. When I look at it like that, I can trace the pain back to the beginning. Every step along the way. What a burr and burden I've been.
Not only that, I know. And yet...
(8/23/1014 AR)
It felt, for a moment, as if he wished to use me as a weapon against himself. The cut would've hurt us both, though him more grievously, I imagine. Guilt is a terrible thing.
I wonder, though, if I already am, without trying. There's a shape to his pain that I can't fully see. It's easy to imagine it's a matter of language; I never understand the fullness of what he communicates, and I've come to accept this. This feels different, like I can't see it because I'm a part of it, my perspective limited. When I look at it like that, I can trace the pain back to the beginning. Every step along the way. What a burr and burden I've been.
Not only that, I know. And yet...
Written By Lianne
Jan. 9, 2024, 5:24 p.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
Relationship Note on Aleksei
Transcribed from my Blacks by my own hand:
(10/2/1007 AR)
Of all the things which have brought me joy this week, it is the peace which Aleksei and I have found which makes me happiest. I do not expect that it will last; there is too much inherent tension in our opposing positions on so very many things, no matter how much we might agree on others. I will, however, enjoy this armistice for as long as it lasts. I rather like being able to think of him as a friend again.
I believe it was seeing another misunderstand my intentions that leant him some empathy, that reminded him I am not so cold and cruel as I can sometimes seem when I am pursuing understanding so doggedly. It was a matter of perspective, being on the outside of the conversation, an observer rather than participant.
He does seem tired, though. Increasingly. Each new struggle wears him away a little more. I want to ask if he feels the weight of his chains.
I also want to not lose this friendship while I have it.
(10/2/1007 AR)
Of all the things which have brought me joy this week, it is the peace which Aleksei and I have found which makes me happiest. I do not expect that it will last; there is too much inherent tension in our opposing positions on so very many things, no matter how much we might agree on others. I will, however, enjoy this armistice for as long as it lasts. I rather like being able to think of him as a friend again.
I believe it was seeing another misunderstand my intentions that leant him some empathy, that reminded him I am not so cold and cruel as I can sometimes seem when I am pursuing understanding so doggedly. It was a matter of perspective, being on the outside of the conversation, an observer rather than participant.
He does seem tired, though. Increasingly. Each new struggle wears him away a little more. I want to ask if he feels the weight of his chains.
I also want to not lose this friendship while I have it.
Written By Fatima
Jan. 9, 2024, 5:01 p.m.(7/11/1021 AR)
Day 2:
Sharks have fins AND wings. They swim among the clouds, and are your friends.
I once saw a man heroically pull a child out of Darkwater. It was a miracle to behold.
I saw a woman hurl herself willingly into that same water in order to help protect the world, though few would know it.
Sharks have fins AND wings. They swim among the clouds, and are your friends.
I once saw a man heroically pull a child out of Darkwater. It was a miracle to behold.
I saw a woman hurl herself willingly into that same water in order to help protect the world, though few would know it.
Written By Apollo
Jan. 9, 2024, 2:36 p.m.(7/10/1021 AR)
What do worship and devotion mean to you? How do they differ?
Written By Theo
Jan. 9, 2024, 1:45 a.m.(7/9/1021 AR)
In shadows cast by candlelight's soft glow,
A dangerous courtier, unseen, moves to and fro.
In chambers hushed, where whispers softly tread,
Loyalty is woven, like silken threads.
Through gilded halls and mazes of deceit,
Where every smile conceals a hidden feat,
The courtier, a phantom in the courtly dance,
Draped in loyalty, a cloak of circumstance.
To sovereign's whim, allegiance tightly bound,
Yet secrets held in depths where trust is found.
A double-edged embrace, this loyalty,
A dance with shadows, veiled in secrecy.
In silence, ears attuned to every word,
A pledge unbroken, though unseen, unheard.
Through coded language and a knowing glance,
The courtier protects, with loyalty's advance.
With parchment quill, a letter takes its flight,
Words veiled in layers, shrouded from the light.
A maze of verses, labyrinthine, deep,
Where loyalty and treason interweave.
The dangerous courtier, a guardian unseen,
Navigates realms where truth and lies convene.
In loyalty's name, a solemn vow is sworn,
Yet, in the shadows, loyalty is reborn.
For in this world of courtly intrigue,
Where fealty's touch is gentle and discreet,
The courtier, a keeper of the hidden lore,
Knows loyalty is power, forevermore.
A dangerous courtier, unseen, moves to and fro.
In chambers hushed, where whispers softly tread,
Loyalty is woven, like silken threads.
Through gilded halls and mazes of deceit,
Where every smile conceals a hidden feat,
The courtier, a phantom in the courtly dance,
Draped in loyalty, a cloak of circumstance.
To sovereign's whim, allegiance tightly bound,
Yet secrets held in depths where trust is found.
A double-edged embrace, this loyalty,
A dance with shadows, veiled in secrecy.
In silence, ears attuned to every word,
A pledge unbroken, though unseen, unheard.
Through coded language and a knowing glance,
The courtier protects, with loyalty's advance.
With parchment quill, a letter takes its flight,
Words veiled in layers, shrouded from the light.
A maze of verses, labyrinthine, deep,
Where loyalty and treason interweave.
The dangerous courtier, a guardian unseen,
Navigates realms where truth and lies convene.
In loyalty's name, a solemn vow is sworn,
Yet, in the shadows, loyalty is reborn.
For in this world of courtly intrigue,
Where fealty's touch is gentle and discreet,
The courtier, a keeper of the hidden lore,
Knows loyalty is power, forevermore.
Written By Fatima
Jan. 9, 2024, 1:40 a.m.(7/9/1021 AR)
Two Truths and a Lie. It is a custom of Suj'Abbat, but many do not understand it. Of late, I have pondered the meaning of the tradition, and wonder about its effects. So I have decided I shall write two truths and a lie once a day for 13 days in my white journals. I leave it to the reader to guess which is which.
Day One:
I rejected the advice of a friend, knowing it might put others in danger.
The Marin'alfar are gone, but not forgotten.
Snow is as hot as the desert sands.
Day One:
I rejected the advice of a friend, knowing it might put others in danger.
The Marin'alfar are gone, but not forgotten.
Snow is as hot as the desert sands.
Written By Theo
Jan. 9, 2024, 1:35 a.m.(7/9/1021 AR)
In the intricate dance of courtly affairs, the discerning eye finds hidden gems, unlocking doors to influence and ascension. The quill, wielded with finesse, reveals paths veiled to the uninitiated.
Written By Denica
Jan. 8, 2024, 11:07 p.m.(7/9/1021 AR)
Well, let's just see what happens when I mix all the colours together.
Written By Lianne
Jan. 8, 2024, 6:09 p.m.(7/9/1021 AR)
Transcribed from my Blacks by my own hand:
(7/6/1008 AR)
It occurs to me only after penning my last entry that I really ought to write this one as well, that I should document, to some degree, my most recent excursion into the tunnels below Aviaron's Peak.
I went because Fortunato asked. Perhaps I should write more on him as well. Another time.
I went because Mydas has my loyalty, even if Aviaron's Peak is no longer his to worry over.
I went because I thought I could help.
There was little help I could offer beyond naming the Reflections at every level, calling attention to their influence. Legion, Despair, Knave. Mydas wouldn't let me speak the Sleeper's name. We argued over whether the fifth level was for Blight or Veil, though Avarice clearly had the sixth.
On the seventh, Fortunato painted. He painted vast dwarven cities and, when he was done, dust rumbled from the walls to reveal the destruction wrought by the thing trapped under the tunnels, to show how both sides worked together to contain it. Balance and cooperation.
Proof of that which I most crave. Proof that it serves a purpose. Proof that it works.
Still, it was all unsettling. After, as a few of us sat around talking, I held to Fortunato's arm and took comfort there.
I should write him. I should visit. I should ask him to paint Avarice for me next.
(7/6/1008 AR)
It occurs to me only after penning my last entry that I really ought to write this one as well, that I should document, to some degree, my most recent excursion into the tunnels below Aviaron's Peak.
I went because Fortunato asked. Perhaps I should write more on him as well. Another time.
I went because Mydas has my loyalty, even if Aviaron's Peak is no longer his to worry over.
I went because I thought I could help.
There was little help I could offer beyond naming the Reflections at every level, calling attention to their influence. Legion, Despair, Knave. Mydas wouldn't let me speak the Sleeper's name. We argued over whether the fifth level was for Blight or Veil, though Avarice clearly had the sixth.
On the seventh, Fortunato painted. He painted vast dwarven cities and, when he was done, dust rumbled from the walls to reveal the destruction wrought by the thing trapped under the tunnels, to show how both sides worked together to contain it. Balance and cooperation.
Proof of that which I most crave. Proof that it serves a purpose. Proof that it works.
Still, it was all unsettling. After, as a few of us sat around talking, I held to Fortunato's arm and took comfort there.
I should write him. I should visit. I should ask him to paint Avarice for me next.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.