You have been taken by the Mists

Author Topic: Pages from Paige  (Read 708 times)

Ghost Love Score

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Pages from Paige
« on: October 03, 2021, 01:25:48 PM »
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Mother,

The caretakers have urged me to cease my correspondence with you completely. Judging by the years of silent response, I doubt that my letters ever even reached you to begin with. Regardless, something tells me that I must not calculate and that I must continue. Not only for the sake of your sanity well-being, but also for my own.

Things have been good here together with uncle and aunt, you remember Walter and Edith don’t you? Walter had me help him with painting the lighthouse yesterday, he thought it simply "hilarious" to pretend like he was losing grip of the ropes as I was dangling up and down the exterior for hours on end! Now I’m sore all over to the point where I can hardly even walk.

Reminds me of the times back when I was but a kid--you would set my bones and give me powders for my fever whenever I'd return from being out playing by the cliffs. I remember father being furious that day. You’d tell me the story of the Pale Lady and the Ashen Man while I was stuck in bed, remember that? I fear the day that I’ll return to you with wounds that will never heal.

I don’t know what was worse; the damn seagulls or Walter’s constant nagging. I’d like to believe that he’s slowly warming up to me, I dare say he’s even starting to enjoy having me around now that he’s got an extra pair of hands around to help out with tending the lighthouse. I still think I prefer helping Edith around garden, she’s been teaching me a bit about herbalism. She says that you’d be proud of me, if only you were here so I could hear you say it.

- From your loving son, Tristan

P.S. I wrote a little poem for you as well. I thought you might like something else to read aside from all my woes and virtues. I call it “Mother of the Sea”.

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"Mother of the Sea"

"True as a gale is her heart, never to falter.
Gentle as a siren song is her voice, a calm amidst the storm.
Infinite as the sea is her wisdom, whose waves provide guidance to lost souls.
Brilliant as a river is her mind, a font of knowledge for those seeking succor.

Now her son writes words that aren't real, but they are for him, in a quiet place whose stone shape shakes the ground.
For the mother of the sea will always be there for him, no matter what.
A whisper in the wind, a shepherd upon the sea, a guiding stream through the bitter moors.”
« Last Edit: July 03, 2022, 05:28:41 PM by Ghost Love Score »
Evil watches, evil waits, goodness stumbles, evil takes.

Ghost Love Score

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Re: Letters to Mother
« Reply #1 on: November 15, 2021, 03:22:44 PM »
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Mother,

I head for Blackburn’s Crossing tomorrow. Uncle and aunt seem glad to have me around; likewise, I have grown to appreciate their company more and more. Nor will I forget their kindness and sacrifices that they’ve made for me, not after everything that has happened. But tis now high tide that I set out on my own voyage to explore these mercurial waters with my own eyes. Funny, how humble all of it now appears. This rural spire; speckled with dust and salt among the chalk; towering high above the cliffs in its former magnificents.

A look upon what had been my home away from home, this, at least, had remained constant. My tomb, and the womb of my rebirth. My own unique resurrection into manhood to usher in the next verse of this sordid chanty. I know that you'd be proud of me, seeing me finally leave the bird's nest...

Do not fret mother, for you know like every Paige before me, I will forever be inextricably bound to these waters. At the fear of sounding too melodramatic, humor my musings, as you always do. I fear tis but one of the few pastimes that keeps me entertained.

The Crossing will be but a giant’s step away from home, as I’m sure you know. I promised uncle and aunt that I would return to Mordentshire, ere long in time for next harvest season. Uncle was even kind enough to forward an introductory letter to one of his old trade colleagues there. You know, from back when he was still in the river trade business. I’m to apprentice as a shopkeep at the local apothecary, I’ll even have my own room up in the attic above the store.

It’ll be a welcome change of pace from tending the lighthouse. Bittersweet as it may seem, I can’t help but feel both excited and nervous. There is a lot that I’ll miss of course, too much to even fit onto these pages, so I’ll spare you the detail, lest I fall risk of sounding like a complete bleeder. Though truthfully I’m not certain how I’ll fare with the hustle and bustle streets of Blackburn’s Crossing.

I’ll make sure to keep you updated once I’ve settled in.

- From your loving son, Tristan.

Evil watches, evil waits, goodness stumbles, evil takes.

Ghost Love Score

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Re: Letters to Mother
« Reply #2 on: January 09, 2022, 07:09:46 PM »
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Mother,

I believe the last time I wrote to you, my parting words were those of genuine excitement. While this holds true still, I can’t help but to feel a sense of — trepidation. Alas, I’m getting ahead of myself.

The journey to the Crossing went smoothly, all things considered. Aside from the strenuous weather which provided for a rather bumpy ride, with me being cooped up inside the back of the carriage. During that time, I found myself staring out across the great moor, leaving the white chalk cliffs of Mordentshire behind — our home. This land has been drowned by the deluge, spilling from the river Arden, seeping across this wounded land. As my mind began to drift, and my eyes wandered, I spied countless ruins scattered about all along the journey. The remaining testament of our proud nation, now derelict; the people who lived there, centuries dead. I could probably name you more than half of them just from all the stories you used to tell me when I was still but some young runt, oblivious and carefree.

Beyond the cliffs that witnessed my youth, a bustling city sits right at a crossing — Blackburn’s Crossing. Its architects conceived this humble town as a union between two merchant houses. Their ancestral home: a colossal manor of polished red stone, now stands silent, and only these vacant spaces remain to whistle their impotence.

This would be my first stop, as my aching bones stepped onto cracked cobblestone, weary from my journey across the great moors.

Which reminds me of a ballad I once heard. I think you might enjoy it.

- From your loving son, Tristan.

[Tucked inside the letter is a faded, albeit beautifully written ballad.]

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"Oh, where have ye been, Lord Lantonn, my son?
 Oh, where have ye been, my handsome young man?"
 "Out with the hounds, mother make the bed soon,
 I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie doon."

 "Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Lantonn, my son?
 Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?"
 "I dined with my leman, mother make the bed soon,
 I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie doon."

 "What ate ye to dinner, Lord Lantonn, my son?
 What ate ye to dinner, my handsome young man?"
 "Eels stewed in damsons, mother make the bed soon,
 I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie doon."

 "Oh, where are your hounds, Lord Lantonn, my son?
 Oh, where are your hounds, my handsome young man?"
 "They swelled and they died, mother make the bed soon,
 I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie doon."

 "I fear ye are poisoned, Lord Lantonn, my son!
 I fear ye are poisoned, my handsome young man!
 "Oh yes! I am poisoned, mother make the bed soon,
 I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie doon.”

OOC:
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The ballad is called: The Ballad of Lord Randal in New England
« Last Edit: January 09, 2022, 07:32:25 PM by Ghost Love Score »
Evil watches, evil waits, goodness stumbles, evil takes.

Ghost Love Score

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Re: Letters to Mother
« Reply #3 on: February 28, 2022, 07:34:07 PM »
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[Somwhere inside a dusty study in Blackburn's Crossing, Mordent. Idle musings tucked away, forgotten.]

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Am I living?
I'm not sure.
For my existence feels like a chore.

I don't want to die.
But I don't want to live either.

My faith is pure.
I commune.
I adore.

I sit and wonder, and wander.

Give me a portent.
Some sort of sign.
My great design.

Good dogs are never put down.

Drown.
Drown my sorrows.
Drown my sins.
Drown myself.

I write words but they aren't real, but they are to me.
In a quiet place whose stone shape shakes the ground.
I miss it.

Need to clear my head.

Remember to pick up some wraithroot.
Evil watches, evil waits, goodness stumbles, evil takes.

Ghost Love Score

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Re: Letters to Mother
« Reply #4 on: May 28, 2022, 06:16:57 PM »
Artist:
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Adam Colonia - Dutch Painter

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[Somewhere inside a dusty attic in Blackburn's Crossing, Mordent. A crumbled up letter, never to be sent.]
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Mother,

Oh, how tired I am of myself. How I'd like to get away from it all, north and beyond, or perhaps east. Where they say people are clean and noble, cultured, rich, free, awake and happy!

Then, in the congregation, the brothers would say disapprovingly: “Like the bird that leaves the nest, so is the man who leaves his place.”

“Tell me, Paige, who sings over the sea?"

The sound they give makes the air bounce in all its rustic emptiness. It’s like a vessel, creaking, groaning – ancient.

“Tell them Paige, tell them to come.”

While I, far away, would laugh at the law and of ancient wisdom of arid people. That I should never follow my dream and that I will stay here until death.

Yet I love it with great pain and sadness. This poor, dirty, sad, unfortunate country of mine.

Evil watches, evil waits, goodness stumbles, evil takes.

Ghost Love Score

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Re: Pages from Paige
« Reply #5 on: July 03, 2022, 05:37:28 PM »
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[Scribbles on an abandoned letter. Never finished -- never sent.]
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Vermilion tresses.
The scent of rosemary.
That is what the people told me in town.

I contemplate your person, your eyes at all times.
Every now and then when I roll, at all hours of the night.
Whichever door you knocked on, I wanted to open it for you.
You made that summer last forever, and that winter just bearable.

Your love is suspicious. For I do not deserve it...
« Last Edit: July 03, 2022, 05:43:09 PM by Ghost Love Score »
Evil watches, evil waits, goodness stumbles, evil takes.