Written By Bliss
June 30, 2018, 4:29 a.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
You cannot burn away what has always been aflame.
(Credit: Nikita Gill)
(Credit: Nikita Gill)
Written By Joscelin
June 30, 2018, 3:08 a.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Morrighan
They did. And they kept telling me 'a stitch in time, saves nine'.
And I'll be darned. They were right.
And I'll be darned. They were right.
Written By Morrighan
June 30, 2018, 3:06 a.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Joscelin
Oh, that sounds terrible. Sew very terrible. Bet they had you in stitches.
Written By Joscelin
June 30, 2018, 3:04 a.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Morrighan
So I found myself in a room full of tailors today. I tell you what. You want to find yourself at the mercy of puns?
All the sewing jokes. So many.
And all strung so seamlessly together.
All the sewing jokes. So many.
And all strung so seamlessly together.
Written By Fredrik
June 30, 2018, 2:05 a.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Joscelin
You really aren't old, though, trust me.
Written By Joscelin
June 30, 2018, 1:48 a.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Tomorrow is my birthday.
Austen is right.
I -am- old.
Austen is right.
I -am- old.
Written By Shae
June 30, 2018, 1:31 a.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
The world shifts, as the seasons do, but it's deeper. Is there change on the wind? A scent of something new on the air? Will the prey become the hunter and the predator beg for mercy?
Written By Coraline
June 30, 2018, 12:17 a.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Thena
Your words fill me with a gratitude I can't begin to describe. Every possible word I can think of pales in comparison to the scale.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Written By Coraline
June 30, 2018, 12:15 a.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
I wear pants, they have pockets, this has always made me exceedingly happy. But I am thrilled those who wear dresses might soon enjoy the freedom of pockets as well.
Written By Margret
June 29, 2018, 11:47 p.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Alas, I missed the dresses with pockets. I was going to stuff all of the bandages in them, too.
Written By Edward
June 29, 2018, 11:21 p.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Niklas
I look forward to the day when the world is introduced to your child, Griddlecakes Grayson.
Written By Elloise
June 29, 2018, 10:37 p.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Kenna
Nirav doesn't talk too much. But he came by with a note - yes, he keeps an eye out for Journals that mention pockets for REASONS, okay? So don't worry, not all is woe-gotten. Pockets will be in route very soon. VERY SOON.
Written By Kenna
June 29, 2018, 10:37 p.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Oliver
Master Oliver Coldrain is AMAZING.
I bemoaned missing his sale but he found one that was just PERFECT for me and he is so so so amazing!!
!!! AND NOW I HAVE ANOTHER ONE.
A CREAM AND A PINK ONE.
Oh my gosh I know EXACTLY who will look amazing in this cream one!
(yes, Agatha's big words are appropriate!)
I bemoaned missing his sale but he found one that was just PERFECT for me and he is so so so amazing!!
!!! AND NOW I HAVE ANOTHER ONE.
A CREAM AND A PINK ONE.
Oh my gosh I know EXACTLY who will look amazing in this cream one!
(yes, Agatha's big words are appropriate!)
Written By Kenna
June 29, 2018, 10:11 p.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
I went to go buy a dress with pockets.
They were already gone before I could get there.
Woe.
They were already gone before I could get there.
Woe.
Written By Elloise
June 29, 2018, 10:07 p.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
I didn't know that someone could be so beautiful that it would hurt to look at them. It did. She was like a statue, with the night-sky in her hair (or her eyes -- I was too nervous to look) but there was little bird. I drew it. It sang and clicked and fluttered and ticked. It was even more beautiful than the lady, but it didn't hurt to look at. I wasn't nervous. I drew it. I think -- I think I know how to fix my Ferdinand now. He won't be the same. But, maybe I can learn.
Written By Elloise
June 29, 2018, 10:04 p.m.(2/9/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Oliver
To the super-smart tailor that made Dresses With Pockets -- thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank. You. Once I figure out a thing to make to properly show how happy I am, my thankfulness will need to do.
Written By Thena
June 29, 2018, 8:44 p.m.(2/8/1009 AR)
Relationship Note on Coraline
You will make a fine knight.
Written By Oliver
June 29, 2018, 8:39 p.m.(2/8/1009 AR)
My father used to tell me many stories. I was a young man when our tribe bent the knee to Darkwater, and I spent far too many of my years paying off a debt incurred for broken promises, but I remember a few things here and there, tales passed down from one generation to the next, though the tales have ended with me. I suppose I'll write one of those tales here, as I've not seen much written of my tribe, and I am the only one remaining of what was once my family.
My favorite story had always been about how my father took my mother to be his bride. My family was of no particular importance; my father was not a chieftan or anyone of notable status. My father, like his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him, had been a simple man. A warrior. He had little to his name - a place to call home, a few horses, his weapons and his armor, but little else - but it had been good enough for him. Until he met my mother. Returning from a raid, bruised and bloodied, he'd seen her washing laundry down by a small river. I don't recall my mother being of any significant beauty, but I remember clearly how my father would speak of her, as though she were the most magnificent thing in the world. He was a bit of a romantic, my father. I suppose that is one trait he handed down to me.
And when he saw her - my mother, a simple laundress, a caretaker for the warriors in her home - he knew that he had everything a man could want except for her. He set off to woo her, but for whatever reason she had paid him no mind, and I think it only made him want to wed her that much more. One day, he'd gone down to the river while she was washing her piles of clothes, and he attempted to lend a hand. She'd gotten annoyed by the assistance, she was fiercely independent, and when she tried to tug one of the bed sheets he'd grabbed out of his hand, he fell with the momentum and sprained his sword arm. I think perhaps she'd felt bad for him, maybe a little guilty, but from that day, they were inseparable.
It was tradition in my tribe that when one person desired to wed another, they would receive a blessing from the tribe Shaman and then stand vigil at the family home of their intended. They would bring a gift for the family and a gift for their desired, and they would wait outside in whatever weather until they were invited in, and then they would be wed. It usually only took a few hours, no more than a day. My father chose the evening of a storm to begin his vigil for my mother. He received the blessings he needed and stood outside in the rain and the wind and the lightning, and took no food or drink as was custom.
She made him wait three days.
It always used to make me laugh when he told me this story, trying to imagine my father - who was as tall as I am now, and as broad as a mountain - standing outside, soaking wet, hungry and thirsty, waiting for my mother to let him in the house, and somehow remaining incredibly patient.
I was eleven when my mother passed from a horrific illness that plagued her for months before it finally took her life. I was twelve when my father, who was far too prideful to bend the knee, was killed in front of me. I did not laugh about this story for years. In fact, I did my best to put the memory of this tale aside, and never think of it again. But today? Perhaps it is because I am older, perhaps it is because I finally know something that my father knew for years. Today, I am thinking about this story again.. and I am finally able to laugh once more.
My favorite story had always been about how my father took my mother to be his bride. My family was of no particular importance; my father was not a chieftan or anyone of notable status. My father, like his father and grandfather and great-grandfather before him, had been a simple man. A warrior. He had little to his name - a place to call home, a few horses, his weapons and his armor, but little else - but it had been good enough for him. Until he met my mother. Returning from a raid, bruised and bloodied, he'd seen her washing laundry down by a small river. I don't recall my mother being of any significant beauty, but I remember clearly how my father would speak of her, as though she were the most magnificent thing in the world. He was a bit of a romantic, my father. I suppose that is one trait he handed down to me.
And when he saw her - my mother, a simple laundress, a caretaker for the warriors in her home - he knew that he had everything a man could want except for her. He set off to woo her, but for whatever reason she had paid him no mind, and I think it only made him want to wed her that much more. One day, he'd gone down to the river while she was washing her piles of clothes, and he attempted to lend a hand. She'd gotten annoyed by the assistance, she was fiercely independent, and when she tried to tug one of the bed sheets he'd grabbed out of his hand, he fell with the momentum and sprained his sword arm. I think perhaps she'd felt bad for him, maybe a little guilty, but from that day, they were inseparable.
It was tradition in my tribe that when one person desired to wed another, they would receive a blessing from the tribe Shaman and then stand vigil at the family home of their intended. They would bring a gift for the family and a gift for their desired, and they would wait outside in whatever weather until they were invited in, and then they would be wed. It usually only took a few hours, no more than a day. My father chose the evening of a storm to begin his vigil for my mother. He received the blessings he needed and stood outside in the rain and the wind and the lightning, and took no food or drink as was custom.
She made him wait three days.
It always used to make me laugh when he told me this story, trying to imagine my father - who was as tall as I am now, and as broad as a mountain - standing outside, soaking wet, hungry and thirsty, waiting for my mother to let him in the house, and somehow remaining incredibly patient.
I was eleven when my mother passed from a horrific illness that plagued her for months before it finally took her life. I was twelve when my father, who was far too prideful to bend the knee, was killed in front of me. I did not laugh about this story for years. In fact, I did my best to put the memory of this tale aside, and never think of it again. But today? Perhaps it is because I am older, perhaps it is because I finally know something that my father knew for years. Today, I am thinking about this story again.. and I am finally able to laugh once more.
Written By Coraline
June 29, 2018, 8:15 p.m.(2/8/1009 AR)
A night of contemplation has become a night of cleaning and contemplation. I couldn't imagine a more proper way to consider the virtues than by doing so serving the gods and their shrines.
Every journey is an adventure, I am excited to see what the next step will bring.
Every journey is an adventure, I am excited to see what the next step will bring.
Written By Saoirse
June 29, 2018, 7:19 p.m.(2/8/1009 AR)
Prince Beaumont graciously lent me his cloak to stave off some of the cold -- I hope my family will forgive me for wearing Valardin colors for a while.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.