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That Month We Wrote A Book

Wed Aug 07, 2013 10:33 am

It is a slim volume that speaks of discreet good taste. The paper itself is thick and smooth as good cream, and nib or charcoal alike fair glide across its surface; there is quiet quality in the watered grey silk of its cover, in the monochromatic marbling that swirls upon the edges of the pages and makes a clouded sky of the flyleaves. Inside the front cover is pasted a simple bookplate, not printed but written in a confident copperplate:

The Truths
of
Ariane Carnath-Emory


Being both a journal and a journey
in search of bethau ag ngwerth.

Write that which is known to be True.
Strike out that which is found to be False.
Question everything.
Assume nothing.
Know Thyself.

Wed Aug 07, 2013 11:38 am

I. Bedrock

I am Ariane Carnath-Emory.
Daughter to Semyon and Vasilisa, sister to Pyotr (deceased).
Widow of Vargan Chernevog, mother of a child never named.
Lady of Darkenhold, Marshall of the Myrken Militia.
Third of the Myrken Defense Committee.
Repentant murderer and things more base.
Reluctant steel in my Lady's service.

There is nothing which I seem to remember but must struggle to recall.
The things which you describe to me are familiar only to you.
Your truths are not mine. Your deceits are only yours.

It is certain that I am compromised.



Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Wed Aug 07, 2013 8:07 pm

Compromised. Compromised.

He did not question where she received the idea. It was a flutter of hope in a sinking, hopeless dream. He was certain that he dreamed, because the real-life consequence was unbearable.

She came to him with a book. A little book, slim and grey. A pocket-confessional. A way to find herself.


Write, so that I may know.

He could not write. But he wrote. There were a few things that he knew.


Image

And her slim, little book would be heavier, for on the other side of the nightmare page was glued a single, broad horse-shoe. Because Hrimfax would help, too.

Thu Aug 08, 2013 8:20 am

II. Overtures

Nifethwyr, fine-spoken and foul-looking.
Berdini strikes a pose upon the Gilded Lily's grand staircase. He is a pantomime,
he is great and secret theatre. The cane is like a weapon in his hand (it
is a weapon, tomorrow he will fling it at a tavern's hearth and the wood
will peel away from the steel). It is the moon. It is the end. His coat
tumbles like a villain's cloak, a very Lanessian fashion, it is as surely
a disguise as every actor is a pretense.

Bethau ag ngwerth is gentle waters and steady calm.
We skipped pebbles across the lake. They shone like
silver, a colour I detest. We made wishes and forgot them.

Catch do you know these words?
In my dreams they are desert words. Lanessian. Jerno.

Here is a gift for you. The last of the orchids that my garden can spare,
prettier pressed than when they grew, I think. Gifts are always prettier,
and that is why I like your flowers best, yours and his. Tomorrow
I shall place some of each into my Inquisitor's vase and it will be
only Perfect.



Image

Tue Aug 20, 2013 2:06 am

III. Context

There is a cottage I once knew and it is surely a lie.

Inside, my horse is painted onto a canvas. Gallant. Powerful. Kind to the deserving.

Upon another canvas a thing which once I saw, a man crouched like a hunting-bird
upon a low wall. The winter snow has covered his tracks, it seems as if he has simply appeared
there, ghost like, or else crouched there in wait for hours. Fine blood upon the snow,
at the picture's rightmost edge a shadow grows. I have seen this and now it is paint
upon a canvas. A hand reaches from the tree. A challenge, a dare. Seize this,
if you're able.

There is an apple orchard and we will visit this too.

Nifethwyr: Destroyer. A weapon; a destructive substance.
The name which I have given to myself, never realising.

Y'leuad. Y'ddihenydd. Your affectation, sir, is also a weapon.

Sun Aug 25, 2013 6:23 am

IV. Cartography

While comparing my understanding of the castle's interior to the lord architect's drafts for same I have discovered

.Three discrepancies in the dojon's upper levels alone.
.An error in the great hall's dimensions that I cannot account for.
.The mews and the archives appear to be interchanged.
.On the upper level a room is marked where none exists at all.
.The existence of a space beneath the lower floors with which I am completely unfamiliar.

There is no understanding these discrepancies. In light of my Lady's requirements for this celebratory week
there is no opportunity for further exploration. I am not disappointed. The implications were
unnerving.

Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Mon Aug 26, 2013 6:23 am

he cannot read the notes she leaves him. the uncertainty. the struggle of her mind. his fingers touch a flower. his one eye picks out the letters that he knows. his mind finds only a struggling as his fingers, ink-soaked, scribble across pages, and an eye that burns, and below the wet, wrinkled black of the page, stark words, a struggle against the own rust and fright, pain and desperation of his mind.

Image

please. come. home.

Mon Aug 26, 2013 6:51 am

Image

Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Mon Mar 20, 2017 5:47 pm

In the town they tell me this is the third month of the year 216AR. As to the date there is no certenty but that in two days the ships
will come and then one week after this the ships will come again, and this is how the count of days is reckoned where there is only
ships and what they bring.

Twelve months and then twelve months again and some sevral weeks further still to know that this is the measure of what must pass
before I can open the book I've carried so long, read the drawings he set there for me better than words could ever be, and with most
care touch dead flowers and the utmost of pre heavy iron and then

It seems so long.

Only a book, after all. It seems so much time for so small a thing but twelve months passed and then after twelve months more here I
sit hesitent of hand and barely willing to read even a word of it

Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Tue Mar 28, 2017 7:52 am

Here is a truth added to that list: I am not acusstomed to being my own.

As a child, and like any child, I was my parent's thing and a very useful one.
As a bride I was my husband's, good for display and bad at dying.
As a woman grown I was my employer's, in every case an asset be it as an able body in the kitchens or some weight at the army's
forward lines or a militia's weapon or a governor's shield

The name for this is Regulation, a word which denotes rules protocol schedule, these themselves being words that describe order.

This regulation has been most of my life. It suits. I haf liked it very well. In its absens

Here now is this place where we haf stayed for a time (too many months perhaps and then departed and then return but I prefer
to write it simp
and here what I must do is only what pleases me. I might sleep from dawn til dawn next and none will say But there
is this problem this necessity this things which must be done with all haste. I might eat every thing contained in the larder and the cold
room or no thing at all. I might swim or jump from clifs into deep water or tarry in the town or walk the forest places for days and days.
I might bury a book in a chest beneath clothing and kept things and turn my eyes from all that has been and the thing which I haf been.
Here and in all the world there is no thing which can compell me to do otherwise. It is a dangerous state. I do too much or I do nothing.

So here is this additional truth: in the absens of Regulation, I apply pressure.

Like a book left open upon a small desk in a room which only I visit and which ever I visit, so that I will not for one day mistake that it
is cowardice which keeps me from its pages and from what has been and from the thing which I haf been. Like a book carried for twelve
months and then twelve months again, two years until the weight of its presense is huge in my thoughts and at last unbearable, which
is only another word for unavoidable. I keep it there like an accusation, and rightly so, and which is what I require it to be until at last I
can read the words written by a hand that was and was not mine and touch the flowers which I did and did not draw there. And my hand
shakes. And I feel as if it will burn me. And that is when I know that I am doing exactly what I must.

Cinnabar calls this planishing. It's a good word.

Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Mon Apr 03, 2017 8:13 am

Of every thing drawn here, the flowers

Very late in her life she journeyed to his home, not Aithne but the other. She has writen that much here on other pages: a cottage
an orchard, Hrimfax painted upon a canvas years old. Off course she was very pleased by this discovery, not Hrimfax but the art
it was a fine surprise for a thing which reckoned itself an artist of great finess. Seeing this and knowing besides that she had
been thieving his inks for weeks (a complicated matter) he offered her the paints which he kept there, and brush and seat and a
canvas upon which she might, he said, paint whatever she pleased at that very moment.

Cinnabar would haf done such a thing as a test a measure, or perhaps as a means to erode some of the damage done to her mi me.

Syl simply intended a kindness. Knowing full well that the cottage had her uneasy, that his presence terrified her, he thought to put
her at ease by offering the means and oportunity to practice an art which she claimed to love. It would sooth, it would distract.

She thought herself an artist. I had never in all my life held a paint brush before that moment.
Imagine a child's first painting. Imagine the child a cripple. Imagine it blindfolded.
There are practical limits to what Belief can acomplish.

He watched as she painted, in great secrecy so that she would not realise and off course she never saw this.
I saw see. Busying himself about the hearth or the drapes or wine and watching all the while watching as with great confidens
she put brush to canvas expecting flowers and getting nothing but mistakes. She persisted, Believing. Hands that can only make
mistakes lack the skill to correct them, every thing becomes worse. Colour becomes like mud when it is layerd over and over. She
could not understand, there is no understanding when Belief fails so confronti. She suspected a fault in the paints but how could
this be? An architect she reasoned, even a frightning one, must necesarily be equipped with the very best paints else he was not much
of an architect at all, and if he was flawed at so fundamental a level why would she fear him? And she did, even when her painting
looked like mud instead of gardens. Where then lay the true flaw? if not the paints the brush the canvas then

So she covered it all with grey, to make it ugly like everything else. It was a disaster. So she murdered it.

Twelve months later and then twelve months again, my hands still shake when I reach towads this page with its ink flowers. It burns,
I am sick with the memory of it. That was her unfounded pride that he watched or else it was mine, my eyes frowning my hand
trembeling, me being every inch a fool upon a stage before an audience who's opinion is actually of meaning to me.

There is no good cunclusion to this tale. There is no meaning. It is neither confession nor history.

Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Tue Apr 04, 2017 11:04 am

Perhaps it is something more like cor

But this is a word I do not know how to write, and off course I cannot ask of it. An unusual word will inspire specific
questions, and I think I do not wish to haf that conversation until I know what I will say and that I will say it gently.

Off course this is a large part of why I haf traveled so far and tarried so long. Violence should be done calmly and with
calm intent: a measured response or a deliberate instigation. Set me against a man over come with rage and I will best
him with ease regardless of his size and his skill, I will smile at it after because he was a fool and his end was inevitable
in the moment that he forgot the virtues of quietness. Whether it be by words or with blows, violence should be done
deliberately and not because my anger has eaten me entirely, and for so long you see anger was at the center of every
thing that I was.

These are all words that I know how to write. (This is a joke but not really) In seven written lines my foces the
nature of my education is writen clear (this is a pun, itself a vareity of joke but the kind which is even less funny than
the ordinary sort). Syl can write the names for a hundred kind of bird, Syl can write a dozen discriptions for desert and
sand and dozens more yet for such things as family and nurchure and green and growing and kind. Glenn Burnie off
course can write anything he wishes to, Catch draws terrible horror and terrible beauty and absolute awe and sometimes
they are one and the same, Catch writes a desparat plea a need an insistence and with his heart, with great great effort

Just by looking you begin to know them.

What does it say then that I write very easily of violence but faltre when I come to speak of wounds?

Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Wed Apr 05, 2017 11:56 am

I would like to tell this complicated matter of inks and the funny thing which came of them. But this It is a story which
illustrates a phinomenonn but by it's nature it must be illustrated in turn, it must be two things told semultanesly. But I am
not a scribe nor an architect nor a writer of letters at all except under duress, I am not a philosapher nor educated by
scribes or philosiphers or munks or in any way whatever I cannot even spell phillosophers and that is also funny but only a little
bit.

In short I do not know how to tell two things in the same moment, so it must be one and then the other. It will be a very messy
method and unordered upon the page but by that you will know it's importance to me, were it less so I would refrain and
spare this small book the insult.

The First

Should you question Genevieve Tolleson or Glenn Burnie (but if you do this you are a on the mentalism practiced upon me
you will hear an anullogie involving a seed planted in an unwilling garden. This is acurrate, but lacks in function it has no
movement and understand that, having spent months of my life as a jewlled lackwit with great fondness for gardens and
no regard whatever for much else that lives, I do not care to be likened to a hej.

Imagine the mind and it's memory and it's thoughts as a map, a maze a town it's streets a labyrinth, and understand that I
would rather it were not a map but it is what suits. A maze, a labyrinth, these by their nature imply that a person is tasked
with escape. They are construkts with purpose: forward movement towards an existing exit. This is all wrong.
That it leads us to the spectre of Golben is only worse.

No. Let us wrecklessly mix annulogies. Imagine a blank page off great size (I do not know if there is a word for such thing),
and this is the mentalist's canvas. Here she plants her seed and it begets a map a diagram of new streets and houses and
buisneses each of them steeply walled. A new mind, a new topography through which thoughts will move.

We pour a thin streem of water into this model. And you see? It naturally flows down those streets made available to its use,
it curves away from where walls forbid, it runs shaloe or deep or swiftly or slow as it must in order to conform to the shape
permited it. Some times the walls transform into a configureation which will better accomodate the water's flow, and then
the water adopts this shape in turn. But these walls you see cannot be breached. Confronted with an impregnable boundary
the water seeks instead the simpler route.



He tells me that the term for such a page is fools cap.
He swears most solemnly that this is truly its name.
I suspect an architect of tom foolery.

Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Thu Apr 20, 2017 5:43 pm



The complicated matter of his inks
OR
How Glour'eya Inehdvertantly Ruined Some Of A Mentalist's Careful Work
Also Much Of A Wall And Two Rugs Of Particular Quality


This is how it would begin. Set down just so, just as such chapter names are set in some of his books: the solemn thing and then the exaggerating. But to read
the words as they are set down now is to see a thing written as if by another's hand. This assembling of words, each with their fellows following in due order, and
all in such a manner that the words become art, the statement becomes a picture, and the writer therefore wishes only to dip the whole thing in ink and give it
to her fireplace.

I want to.

I

It is off course very possible to kill a page.
It is also unsatisfying.
(not causeation, this is simply two truths that happen to exist simultaneusly)
To kill a page I must tear it from its book of horse shoes and pictures, and I cannot abide such mutilation


Re: That Month We Wrote A Book

Mon Apr 24, 2017 1:56 pm

The Second

Imediately upon discovering colourfull inkpots in a drawing room, she assumed ownership of them all.

She had not before that moment known off their existence. They could not then haf been her property.
But her understanding of Darkenhold stated that everything contained within was either hers or the architect's or
else shared uncomfortably between them both.

They must therefore be his
but this was not possible as her understanding of the architect described him as by turns crude, cold or formidably
villainous and posessed of an intellect turned towards such base pursuits as in short, a man who's very nature
defied the existence of things delicate and fine.

They were not hers. They could not be his.
The topography of her mind, it's rules and definitions and identities new and old, forbade the flow of both thoughts.
This was not supportable, but such was the mentalist's design that her mind was a malleable labyrinth.
Thought flowed down unlikely avenues developing new topography as it passed

These pretty things were his, but they were not bought.
Acquired therefore, likely by fell means: a corpse a tragedy a state come to ruin.
Acquired not as a trophy (else she would not dare take them for her own) but as a passing fancy, briefly entertaining
but ultimately of little lasting interest to a man of his prauclivities.

His disinterest outraged her. Her outrage confirmed the definitions that the mentalist had constructed within her mind.
Outrage was as permission
Outrage also demanded response: it was not permissable but right that she rescue such precious things from his neglect.
So she did, with great satisfaction and a smug sort of pride and her un sane existence proceeded onwards for weeks

Until Glour'eya during a confrontation informed her that she had it all wrong.
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