Written By Darren
Nov. 15, 2016, 12:06 a.m.(2/14/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Isolde
They say timing is everything. And my timing, as it was? Was perfect. There are no regrets.
And if my lady wants the stars? Well, then I'll just have to find a way to reach to the sky and pluck one out for her. It wouldn't be the most difficult thing I've ever accomplished.
And if my lady wants the stars? Well, then I'll just have to find a way to reach to the sky and pluck one out for her. It wouldn't be the most difficult thing I've ever accomplished.
Written By Isolde
Nov. 14, 2016, 11:48 p.m.(2/14/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Darren
Well, that just happened.
The commonfolk will be telling tales for weeks, I think, of how the wicked Mirrormask seduced a High Prince. Or maybe they won't notice at all. Either way, someone needs to teach that man better timing. I suppose that's my obligation now.
The darling man. I'd give him the world, even if I don't get the stars. But don't tell him that. Darren, don't read this part.
The commonfolk will be telling tales for weeks, I think, of how the wicked Mirrormask seduced a High Prince. Or maybe they won't notice at all. Either way, someone needs to teach that man better timing. I suppose that's my obligation now.
The darling man. I'd give him the world, even if I don't get the stars. But don't tell him that. Darren, don't read this part.
Written By Hammar
Nov. 14, 2016, 9:57 p.m.(2/14/1005 AR)
When Hammar fight Talen in training center, after fight Hammar get messenger from Lady Dawn. Hammar not believe Lady Dawn buy Hammar ruby cund armor. Hammar so excite. Hammar want be bestest champion ever for Lady.
Written By Hammar
Nov. 14, 2016, 9:55 p.m.(2/14/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Talen
Hammar think Talen maybe goodest fighter Hammar fight. Hammar never beat Talen, Hammar think maybe not win because Hammar not able beat Talen quick, Hammar get tired. Hammar maybe need try get better shape. Maybe Hammar win then.
Written By Isolde
Nov. 14, 2016, 7:58 p.m.(2/14/1005 AR)
Blessed Reflection, Darkenss to the Light,
Let my Pride be forged into action, a unifiying force.
Let my Lust for Vengeance be an inspiration, that strengthens the Compact.
Let my Fury be made manifest, a weapon against the enemies that seek to divide us.
Let my Greed reflect the bounty of your favor, that all may come to you, and embrace their own Reflection.
In all things, I glorify you, and I dance eternal to your song.
Let my Pride be forged into action, a unifiying force.
Let my Lust for Vengeance be an inspiration, that strengthens the Compact.
Let my Fury be made manifest, a weapon against the enemies that seek to divide us.
Let my Greed reflect the bounty of your favor, that all may come to you, and embrace their own Reflection.
In all things, I glorify you, and I dance eternal to your song.
Written By Silas
Nov. 14, 2016, 6:51 p.m.(2/14/1005 AR)
It is my cousin's birthday.
I have gifted him a bookcase, a book, and hopefully a set of good clothing is in the works.
Though I have discovered he is dressed by someone other than his mother these days...
I have gifted him a bookcase, a book, and hopefully a set of good clothing is in the works.
Though I have discovered he is dressed by someone other than his mother these days...
Written By Juliet
Nov. 14, 2016, 5:07 p.m.(2/14/1005 AR)
The problem with having a heart that loves as soon as it sees what is special about a person is...
As often as not, you will not be loved back.
Perhaps their heart belongs to another. Not all love as freely as you.
Perhaps they are scared by the intensity with which you feel. Or think you frivolous for giving away your heart so easily.
Perhaps they simply don't like you.
Perhaps they just want a friend.
And part of loving a person is respecting that. Is taking joy in their victories and triumphs in life.
Compersion, the feeling of knowing someone you loved, are loved by someone other than you. It is the greatest joy. It is the opposite of jealousy. It is the confirmation of everything good you see in someone.
But sometimes, not having their love, as you want it
It hurts nonetheless.
As often as not, you will not be loved back.
Perhaps their heart belongs to another. Not all love as freely as you.
Perhaps they are scared by the intensity with which you feel. Or think you frivolous for giving away your heart so easily.
Perhaps they simply don't like you.
Perhaps they just want a friend.
And part of loving a person is respecting that. Is taking joy in their victories and triumphs in life.
Compersion, the feeling of knowing someone you loved, are loved by someone other than you. It is the greatest joy. It is the opposite of jealousy. It is the confirmation of everything good you see in someone.
But sometimes, not having their love, as you want it
It hurts nonetheless.
Written By Tulasam
Nov. 14, 2016, 4:17 p.m.(2/14/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Damon
Lord Wyrmguard seems like a fine fellow and he helped me get settled in. What an amazing friend to have for a bard down on his luck.
Written By Cara
Nov. 14, 2016, 2:04 p.m.(2/13/1005 AR)
I am a student of history.
It feels a bit as though I've not had a conversation that didn't concern someone dead for hundreds of years in nigh ages. All of this investigating the distant past is giving me a terrible crick in the shoulder, not to mention a persistent headache from squinting. It was easier, when it was summer and there was no shortage of light.
I can say that I have learned this, though -- throughout our known history, no good has come from breaking a vow, or breaking a contract, or failing to fulfill the obligations of a marriage arrangement.
Would that we would all know better by now.
It feels a bit as though I've not had a conversation that didn't concern someone dead for hundreds of years in nigh ages. All of this investigating the distant past is giving me a terrible crick in the shoulder, not to mention a persistent headache from squinting. It was easier, when it was summer and there was no shortage of light.
I can say that I have learned this, though -- throughout our known history, no good has come from breaking a vow, or breaking a contract, or failing to fulfill the obligations of a marriage arrangement.
Would that we would all know better by now.
Written By Calista
Nov. 14, 2016, 10:37 a.m.(2/13/1005 AR)
My return to Arx was welcomed by frigid temperatures. Tor was so nice and warm. I should have stayed until the frost of Arx thawed but I literally found myself bored to tears. Tor might be home but it did not feel like home without Leo. I had no one to rightfully torture.
It was a short but productive trip. I am quite pleased with what I was able to accomplish only to return just in time to seek a seamstress for new warm clothes.
It was a short but productive trip. I am quite pleased with what I was able to accomplish only to return just in time to seek a seamstress for new warm clothes.
Written By Lark
Nov. 14, 2016, 9:41 a.m.(2/13/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Gareth
It cannot be said that where his body did crumble, his mind and own personhood did not rise to meet the challenge. I consider him to be a man of utmost character, forged by his own trials and come out the better for them.
Would that so many others returning from battle, broken-winged, should have the same opportunities for rehabilitation as he. Must look into.
Would that so many others returning from battle, broken-winged, should have the same opportunities for rehabilitation as he. Must look into.
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 14, 2016, 9:03 a.m.(2/13/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Orazio
I am uneasy about receiving commissions, especially commissions from nobility. Few who are not artists truly understand the innate unpredictability of art. They expect the piece finished to their specifications, as if the painting could grow out of their mind and not from my hands. They see experimentation as a distraction, and deviation as failure.
Still, Archlector Orazio is more measured and sympathetic to the struggles of artistic intuition than I'd expect from a man of his stature and judgment. Perhaps he is feeling especially whimsical. And it may be that I could stand to grow as an artist. We will see where this goes for now.
Still, Archlector Orazio is more measured and sympathetic to the struggles of artistic intuition than I'd expect from a man of his stature and judgment. Perhaps he is feeling especially whimsical. And it may be that I could stand to grow as an artist. We will see where this goes for now.
Written By Fortunato
Nov. 14, 2016, 8:52 a.m.(2/13/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Aureth
My brother is irresponsible and impulsive and full of ridiculous. I love him not despite of this, but because of this. I am delighted that he has a daughter.
Written By Sophie
Nov. 14, 2016, 3:01 a.m.(2/12/1005 AR)
She is so beautiful, the purebred, notch-eared Westshore hound gifted to the House of Solace by Archlector Orazio. Stalwart, vivacious, and of such a sweet disposition, Panacea already is, by far, the most popular Mercy.
Written By Dafne
Nov. 14, 2016, 12:29 a.m.(2/12/1005 AR)
THE SECRET BEHIND THE GLASS, by D. Z.
When she was eight, Rosicitta was sent to live with her grandmother.
Her mother was dying, after all. Dying slowly, and coughing up blood in the night, sticky scarlet staining snowy sheets. There was no time for children, especially not for a wide-eyed, skinny-legged girl who liked to peek in every dark corner to see what was hidden there.
So she was sent to live with her grandmother. Her grandmother lived in the original family manor, somewhere in the wilds outside Gemecitta, where the land was barren and still marked by the pale smudges of marble where the land had been quarried to half to death. Now, only a few, skinny goats grazed on weeds between the marks of marble, and clouds scudded in the stormy sky overhead.
The old manse had one wing that had been abandoned, left for the owls and feral cats, the stone tumbling and eroding into a ghost of its former glory. The wing that remained was built oddly, all twists and turns and dark shadowy corners, and rooms where there should not have been rooms.
Then there were the drapes.
It was in her grandmother's sitting room, a pair of immense curtains of black velvet, drawn closed as if over a window. Only there was no window.
"What's that?" she asked her grandmother, because she was too young to have learnt there are things you should never ask questions.
"Evidence that little girls should not ask questions," was the decidedly unhelpful answer.
And so it went. Her grandmother never answered questions about it, never let her go near it, and the more Rosicitta's curiosity grew, night by night, day by day.
Until the day her grandmother stayed the night with their nearest neighbours--some twenty miles hence. And, that night, with the servants safely abend, Rosicitta snuck out, a wide-eyed, skinny-legged girl clutching a candle, and went through the twists and turns and by the rooms where there should have been rooms, and into her grandmother's sitting room.
And, with a trembling hand and a pounding hand, she drew aside the curtain.
She saw nothing at first. No window, no portrait--only a mirror. An old mirror in a golden-framed, reflecting the shadows of the room behind her. And the skittering flame of her candle, and her own face by its light, pale with fear, and her own eyes, pale blue, floating before her--
Her skin prickled, as if someone was watching her. As if someone was staring through her from the mirror, right through her--
She tugged the drape shut, turned, and fled.
(Er. I'm stuck there. What is in the mirror? Should have a murder and an old bloodstain, I think. Skip ahead ten years and give her a lover. Maybe some handsome prince, with a strong jaw and golden hair. Maybe the cook's shy son. Maybe a Thraxian pirate, all rough and crude, but with a magnetic gaze that makes her tingle all over because she knows it is so wrong--
WHAT IN THE WORLD IS IN THE MIRROR?)
When she was eight, Rosicitta was sent to live with her grandmother.
Her mother was dying, after all. Dying slowly, and coughing up blood in the night, sticky scarlet staining snowy sheets. There was no time for children, especially not for a wide-eyed, skinny-legged girl who liked to peek in every dark corner to see what was hidden there.
So she was sent to live with her grandmother. Her grandmother lived in the original family manor, somewhere in the wilds outside Gemecitta, where the land was barren and still marked by the pale smudges of marble where the land had been quarried to half to death. Now, only a few, skinny goats grazed on weeds between the marks of marble, and clouds scudded in the stormy sky overhead.
The old manse had one wing that had been abandoned, left for the owls and feral cats, the stone tumbling and eroding into a ghost of its former glory. The wing that remained was built oddly, all twists and turns and dark shadowy corners, and rooms where there should not have been rooms.
Then there were the drapes.
It was in her grandmother's sitting room, a pair of immense curtains of black velvet, drawn closed as if over a window. Only there was no window.
"What's that?" she asked her grandmother, because she was too young to have learnt there are things you should never ask questions.
"Evidence that little girls should not ask questions," was the decidedly unhelpful answer.
And so it went. Her grandmother never answered questions about it, never let her go near it, and the more Rosicitta's curiosity grew, night by night, day by day.
Until the day her grandmother stayed the night with their nearest neighbours--some twenty miles hence. And, that night, with the servants safely abend, Rosicitta snuck out, a wide-eyed, skinny-legged girl clutching a candle, and went through the twists and turns and by the rooms where there should have been rooms, and into her grandmother's sitting room.
And, with a trembling hand and a pounding hand, she drew aside the curtain.
She saw nothing at first. No window, no portrait--only a mirror. An old mirror in a golden-framed, reflecting the shadows of the room behind her. And the skittering flame of her candle, and her own face by its light, pale with fear, and her own eyes, pale blue, floating before her--
Her skin prickled, as if someone was watching her. As if someone was staring through her from the mirror, right through her--
She tugged the drape shut, turned, and fled.
(Er. I'm stuck there. What is in the mirror? Should have a murder and an old bloodstain, I think. Skip ahead ten years and give her a lover. Maybe some handsome prince, with a strong jaw and golden hair. Maybe the cook's shy son. Maybe a Thraxian pirate, all rough and crude, but with a magnetic gaze that makes her tingle all over because she knows it is so wrong--
WHAT IN THE WORLD IS IN THE MIRROR?)
Written By Dafne
Nov. 14, 2016, 12:05 a.m.(2/11/1005 AR)
I don't understand why it seems everyone wants to tutor me in sword play all of a sudden.
Written By Vincere
Nov. 13, 2016, 10:39 p.m.(2/11/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Pietro
Pietro, I know you're going to check this sooner or later to see if I've written anything about you. Here you are:
Next time, don't drink that much _that_ quickly.
Next time, don't drink that much _that_ quickly.
Written By Orazio
Nov. 13, 2016, 10:19 p.m.(2/11/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Fortunato
Art is one of the gods' many gifts to mankind. I quite enjoy meeting artists, although few of them seem to enjoy the meeting as well. Master Grayhope is an intriguing man - rough and unpolished, but talented, and I cannot fault his courage.
I have commissioned a portrait, and a painting, and so should have more time to see if my initial impressions were correct.
I have commissioned a portrait, and a painting, and so should have more time to see if my initial impressions were correct.
Written By Dafne
Nov. 13, 2016, 10:06 p.m.(2/11/1005 AR)
I found a kitten.
I would have never found her if I had not been in the gardens, lying in the bushes and trying to understand what it felt like to be dead, a corpse discarded in the underbrush--er. That is a very relevant thing to--never mind.
I found her there, huddled behind a planter, a tiny scrap of black fur shivering in the cold. Too young to leave her mother, I thought, but no sign of mother or siblings. So I kept her warm--she was tiny enough to shove down the front of my bodice, but it's likely a good thing Sylvie didn't see that--and the cook and I fed her with milk and a bit of beef stew mushed into mush. After eating, she purred loud enough to shake the house, bright-eyed and lively.
She is black all over, like the deepest depths of night. I've named her Nightshade.
I'm sure someday she will be sleek and deadly.
I would have never found her if I had not been in the gardens, lying in the bushes and trying to understand what it felt like to be dead, a corpse discarded in the underbrush--er. That is a very relevant thing to--never mind.
I found her there, huddled behind a planter, a tiny scrap of black fur shivering in the cold. Too young to leave her mother, I thought, but no sign of mother or siblings. So I kept her warm--she was tiny enough to shove down the front of my bodice, but it's likely a good thing Sylvie didn't see that--and the cook and I fed her with milk and a bit of beef stew mushed into mush. After eating, she purred loud enough to shake the house, bright-eyed and lively.
She is black all over, like the deepest depths of night. I've named her Nightshade.
I'm sure someday she will be sleek and deadly.
Written By Freja
Nov. 13, 2016, 10:05 p.m.(2/11/1005 AR)
Relationship Note on Damon
The Lord is a persistent one. He favors the quill as much as the sword, but I suspect that the steel is more out of the earlier necessity of youth to please his father. Now that he is in Arx, I see him pursuing the path of a scholar more than anything. It probably helps that his father is now six feet under and can't raise an argument against it either.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.