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:
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.
Wed Aug 07, 2013 11:38 am
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.
Wed Aug 07, 2013 8:07 pm
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.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
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
Tue Aug 20, 2013 2:06 am
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
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
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.please. come. home.
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