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Mordalynne

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A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« on: March 06, 2023, 08:03:47 AM »

What is the measure of joy for an individual? Is it counted over great tables, keenly watched by jealous eyes as they move it around in great piles?  Is it spoken by forked tongues to ears that have no intention of listening, hollow words of flattery and obsequiousness? Or is it something intangible, earned not given. I believe that to hoard happiness is to steal it from tomorrow.

The sun would shine through mighty stained glass windows, illuminating ancient bravery and acts of love and valor but the rooms were laid cold and devoid of those very things that shone upon their floors. This was to be my prison, the gilded cage of cold, unfeeling luxury. For amusement we would regale each other with stories and perform recitals of past cautionary tales of old and of fleeting victories. My lines were practiced and delivered with the emotion that I am afforded or can muster. It is a supreme irony that our history is nothing but shallow plays on decaying pasts and desperate nostalgia of a life that never truly existed.

I have been promised to one that I do not love, one that I feel no connection to. Wallis is the wealthy heir to the mercantile Pomeroy-Dumont family and whilst he has his fine graces his words ring hollow and disappear on the breeze when we are together. His interest lies in the continuation of his line and he seeks not a wife, more a servant or someone to simply warm or hang upon his arm at high occasion. His temper frightens me but I am loathe to speak of it to Father for, to him, he seems reconciled that our union is to be productive and beneficial to both our families. Talk of politic does not interest me; indeed I find it frightfully tedious, empty, full of lost promise.

I have met her and my heart is fit to burst with happiness, albeit a happiness that I may not infect onto others. It is a bittersweet feeling. Rosalie Weaver her name rolls from my tongue and tastes as sweet nectar supped by an honeybee. Her family is new to wealth and untainted from the growing insidiousness of authority which I fear Father and Mother regard as plebeian. We share so much in common but I do not know if my feelings are reciprocated in fashion. Tonight we spoke upon the balcony whilst the men folk smoked and drank their burdens into tomorrow and away. She is a beautiful star; Educated, eloquently spoken and filled with the desire for philanthropy, everything that ever I should hope to be. A waking dream.

Father's words have scorned me and he is insistent that my betrothal shall be completed these coming weeks. A crushing sorrow fills my very soul. It is not within my capacity to retort with harsh words or to show action contrary to his wishes but this course cannot be continued. I should have felt the warmth of the sun outside drying my tears as I ran in desperation but inside I felt only cold submission and sorrow. I shall not allow this to happen and I will resist with every ounce of my essence.

I have met Rosalie and our tryst ended in ambiguity, for I did not have the strength to admit my feelings. I have informed her of my plan to escape the confines of the Ravensmere-Marshthorn Estate and to disappear until I am blessed with acuity as to our future plans together. Whenever I am filled with melancholy or that when all hope seems lost I shall remember her words and fill my heart with courage and conviction.

Father wasted no time in his endeavors and I had scarcely disappeared a day before the Hunters were summoned. These are relentless individuals whose loyalty is to gold. Individuals are similarly bought and I have fled the Inn where I had hoped to spend a solitary week before continuing my journey, betrayed by the proprietor and his wife for their thirteen pieces of silver. I do not hold a grudge against them, for in the schemes of men my life means precious little and their newfound wealth will grant them some respite from their poverty. The forest seemed empty but it was my momentary lapse of judgment that I found myself a victim of a poacher’s snare, my pursuers will surely pick the trail from my injuries and my options are dire. I have stumbled to the gates of an old Hospice and have claimed the right of Sanctuary within its walls. I have laid my plans to escape this futile existence of repetition, to disappear within the world as one of the anonymous, a scholar of shunned knowledge to supply myself modest income. Another faceless shadow that drifts upon the winds.



Appendix 1: History Drowned in Blood and Wine

My father was proud of what he owned, a master of all that he surveyed with both a tempestuous temper but shrewd, cunning demeanour. For whilst he could show resounding kindness towards both myself and mother his brutal treatment of those who crossed or defied him knew no limit. Let there be no doubt that whilst I consider him ruthless he was still my father and I owed him a grudging gratitude for my safety, my education and my upbringing. I was too young to know at this age exactly at what cost.

Mother and Father were bound together at the behest of his father, my mother betrothed to him at a youthful age whilst he entered his middling years. She was treated as a Princess would in the storybooks I would read alone; extravagant tailored gowns, precious jewellery to put to shame the richest nobles of Dementlieu, the attentiveness and aid of vast numbers of servants and minders. It appeared that the only possession that my father could not accord my mother was his love, truth be that I was to feel she was more his possession that his equal. For whilst my mother lay with me in labour he wandered the forests of the Estate with his gamekeepers hunting Stag. Upon my first breath from afar he was noted as remarking to his so-called 'Master of the Hunt', "Good, that we should secure the name for another generation brings relief. See to it that the mother and newborn are in their fineries upon my return".

My childhood and adolescence was confined to the Great Manor which perched atop a craggy precipice bordering the enlightened lands of Dementlieu overlooking the great ocean. My tutelage concentrated upon etiquette, the history of our 'great' family, performance for passing dignitaries, men of power. We recounted deeds and lies in music and stagecraft, weaving tales of heroism and majesty where none had existed. My sole companionship in this undertaking was the heir to a new trade house who had seen wealth in the increasing import of fine cloths and luxurious items; We had only known trade through gems mined from the locality and production of the tools of war should Falkovia rise against the Treaty of the Four. Her name was Rosalie of the Weaver Family and she was to become more than my companion, she became the love that I had so lacked these years in solitude.

Father disapproved of the Weavers for he saw this new ostentaion as a distraction from the palpable returns of slaughter, for fine clothing and decadent perfumery could not defend walls, repel invasion. I was forbidden to consort with her. I secretly defied his will.     
     

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In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #1 on: March 06, 2023, 08:04:30 AM »
Dementlieu is both opulent jewel and tarnished coal, a dichotomy of which is not lost upon my thoughts, for father would have found it the perfect conflagration into which to cast his soul; A man of outward sophistication, a man who would beat his servants into submission for sport.

I am conflicted with feeling as I pawn that which I am able, keeping only that which I deem a necessity, that which I may freely carry of worth for trade upon the travel ahead. These possessions have held memory of my life before though to the store owner they are simply trinkets to earn another day of lechery and drunkeness, meaningless baubles, an end to a means. I have traded these memories for meagre earning, pleased to be relieved of them, but as Dementlieu steals from me so too shall I take from it, and from a learned institution nearby I have stolen this surname, adorned upon it's walls of honour; That of the DeWynters, foppish benefactors who had fallen into obscurity over the years.

The Caravan departs for the dark outlands of Barovia, as far from civilisation as my finances will allow and I bid final farewell to the cosmopolitan, the cultivated, the sophisticated, for I shall never return here as long as breath remains within my lungs.

There are many questions from those who drive the caravan and I have been tested already as to my purpose in Barovia when questioned. They have unsettlingly speculated my flight as one of a  fugitive and I have countered that my travel is simply that of a scholar who seeks interest in a land of superstition. The payment was to be a gold ring, I have provided two in that no further questions be enquired of me.

I have parted from the caravan and their suspicion, for it appears that those who wander into Barovia do so either by error or happenstance, disoriented within the thick, impenetrable mists that lay claim to all that it touches. I have asked of it's nature of the caravan, these 'Vistani', but they remain silent, I shall not push them for explanation as to why. My remaining gold ring has disappeared from my finger overnight and though I am certain of their involvement, my unease in their company now makes me fearful of what may transpire should I challenge them. I have bid them farewell at their encampment on the outskirts of the township of 'Vallaki' [Addendum, the pronouncement I have learned, 'Vall-Ak-EE. Note for future reference and journal entry to avoid potential embarrassment].

I have taken lodging at a local Inn, rustic in nature, the object of disdain one imagines to the snobbish class of the entitled I have fled, but charming in it's appearance and filled with laughter, merriment and friendship  fear and wariness for outsiders. I have little to offer the proprietress in return for temporary lodging but I have secured accommodation from the safety of the outside... all too easily at the tolling of the town bell that harkens the coming of night and that no coin passed hands.

This is a strange new world
« Last Edit: March 06, 2023, 09:42:33 AM by Mordalynne »

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In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #2 on: March 06, 2023, 08:06:57 AM »
====================================

Rumour and superstition in the township are rife and there is not a corner of it that does not proclaim that it conceals some mysterious cryptid or mythological monster prowling in shadow or darkened woodland. From what fleeting conversation I have had there is  naught but a ready acceptance to believe any tall tale told to them. Should my charade be accepted however I must continue to enthuse upon them that I am here to document their hardships, their beliefs. Perhaps should it prove worthwhile I may make some incidental coin from it, the best of this hopeless situation. Imagine, Mordalynne Ravensmere DeWynter, published author of an Almanac of the Unbelieveable, who may have considered it? Its publication has filled my head with reverie as it spins with a delight I have not felt for some time. Success could mean freedom for myself, for Rosalie, for both of us, to spend our lives comfortable and away from the misery of the chains of family forever. To make this a reality and not delusion? Then I must cease this procrastination and act immediately!

I should utilise my intellect to bring hope and satisfaction to these people, to free them of their monsters as I free myself from mine. That they may know true happiness without consternation. There are monsters who exist but who prowl the night simply as men, of charlatans and mountebanks who prey on the gullible, greedy wielders of illusion and trickery. I all too well know these monsters are real.

My work takes me to the attention of two individuals, the ruggedly handsome one, 'Monsieur Astarius' [Addendum, keep objectivity Ms. DeWynter! Embellishment is but for a Penny Dreadful only] and a tradeswoman of dubious legends of the locale, 'Isabel'.


Appendix 2: The Faceless, Forgotten Cogs of the Machine

My experience with servants was limited to the confines of our Estate and whilst the city breathed a diverse range of life it's only purpose was a driven force of labour ; the faceless cogs of a growing industrial machine whose only purpose was progress and misery. My knowledge of the low Mordentshire dialect was necessary to pour scorn and admonish our servants but also to ruthlessly root out treasonous words and suppress rebellion. Whilst the pursuit of knowledge was admirable this more practical application was not. I have come to admire the servants for their mental tenacity in the face of adversity.
« Last Edit: March 06, 2023, 09:43:36 AM by Mordalynne »

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In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #3 on: March 06, 2023, 08:10:44 AM »
====================================

The first to whom my attention is drawn to, that of a woman named 'Isabel'; A stoic, local Barovian woman who is infused with wild legend of ghastly, pale monsters who take the form of men to stalk the night in search of nourishment, that of the blood of their unfortunate victim. Isabel refers to these creatures as 'Vrolok' or 'The Vrolok', something I have not even accidentally stumbled upon in any of my libraries. She appears quite sincere in her judgement and all to ready to attest to their existence, obviously also readily offering that she has witnessed one with her own eyes. The creature, she explains, seems to have a revulsion to salt (and popular spiritual cleanser or ward) and garlic (an odd choice given that this monster consumes blood and not bulbous flowering plants), also that it appears only after dusk when it rises from it's grave (Addendum: Add more adjectives to the description to invoke more dread in the reader, possibly with multiple heads or arms that end in knives, five stomachs et al). I have challenged Isabel that I might spend an eve' sat outside the Inn with a lantern, well within breathing distance of the door, so that I may prove her fear unfounded to which she has remarked with some concern of the considerable danger.

My eve' passes with no greater danger than the incessant ramblings of a drunken halfling and an unexpected storm that cracks the sky in twain. I relate my tale to Isabel that very day who admonishes me but I am proven that there is nothing to fear of the night other than misunderstanding and trepidation of the unknown. Also possibly wolves, most definitely wolves, but then they are quite natural. Still, the door was close by lest a hungry one enter town, I would not forfeit my life that readily.

Monsieur Astarius is the second to whom my path crosses, one all too prepared to proclaim that he has witnessed cursed men who transform into beasts upon the fullness of the moon. Against my better judgement I have allowed him to fulfil his promise that I might see these beasts for myself, though deep down I do not fully trust his intention; That this stranger may cut me down in the darkened hollow and leave me to be disposed of by the wildlife. A Raven's Talon that I am not aware of? Perhaps but then apprehension is the death of discovery. I accept his invitation.

This cavern lies North, some distance between it and the town, and there inside the cave wanders our cryptid; An immense, bipedal, wolven creature, evolved to resemble a man, slathering and uncontrollable. Though I do not mention to the sincere Astarius at the time, the cavern is brimming with a not too uncommon variety of 'pholiotina cyanopus', a psychoactive fungus known to thrive in this cavernous environment. Whilst our shared delusion is, I shall admit, strange I have no doubt that this experience was one of a hallicinatory origin.

I was however taken aback at the arrival of one to whom he was known to, perhaps all too intimately, one who held great offence that I should be wandering the caverns with him. This ethereal, pale... being appeared from the shadow as if wrapped within it as a cloak. To spare the savagery of insult [addendum, a possible bloody death at the hand of a scorned lover. Relate note at later date] I begged that we leave. It is upon our departure however that I must have hit my head upon a rock, perhaps assailed from behind by our newly acqainted arrival, or driven to exhaustion from the cavern's fumes, for my next recollection was a voice within the temple calming me, claiming that I had suffered a misfortune.

A carefully choreographed routine. It must have made coin from many a curious traveller.



The innocence of youth

Appendix 3: The Common Fear

They without fear are already dead, for fear keeps us alert and within the confines of safety. For who would be bereft of their senses to leave their cabins to wander into the dark forests at night to seek it's denizens. Spiders, I must state, have never been a particularly fond admiration of mine and whilst I understand their virtues I do have fright upon their presence.

My first memory of my childhood witnessed a great spider as black as pitch with it's crimson back scuttle across my crib and regard me with fanged curiosity. Whilst the curiousity was mutual the bond between us would not last for long. The creature was destroyed and the assassin would meet his demise at the end of a rope.
« Last Edit: March 07, 2023, 01:42:04 PM by Mordalynne »

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In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #4 on: March 06, 2023, 08:13:33 AM »
====================================

Of all the wild and inconceivable tales that I have had the fortune (and misfortune) to hear, there is none so intriguing as to the local myth of a demon given human form, 'Emilian Drache'. By all accounts, tales of this monstrous beast chill the very souls of those to whom have ear to listen and hear of his savagery, a relentless pursuit in the unholy name of slaughter and desecration. As I write these words before the crackling hearth of the Lady's Rest I feel as though there are murmurs behind me, whispers of an untold dread that even etching his name to parchment should summon him, though I hold no such superstitious inclination to believe so.

The Demon, it is understood, stalks the night, an example of Isabel's fantastical 'Vrolok' that fear the sun's rays of purification, cleansing salt, that which by day sleeps within a tomb or crypt in deathlike slumber only to arise at nightfall. These creatures exist out of the reaches of Death's icy talons, yet walk amongst mortals as their equal in appearance; Neither alive nor dead, forever trapped in a cursed purgatory for which there may be no escape. Curses may not persist with perhaps redemption or atonement, perchance there may be such for it should it truly seek it? [Addendum, you are dwelling too much into fantasy, reminder to approach this with a rational mind - MRM].

The monster is joined in it's misery by that known as a 'Bella Taltos', again one of it's own kind but to whom joy and happiness have become warped and twisted; For I have learned that this creature sought to recreate beauty through it's own depraved and sadistic artistic endeavours. From what has been retold, the Demon's lair had become known and had been incinerated by the righteous hand of hunters, though this creatures artwork persists.

Knowledge, no matter how dark, lost to the world forever. A shame that it may now never be studied and understood.


====================================

Others would claim it obsession and yet no undertaking has ever been completed without the dedication and motivation to create success where none would otherwise exist. For even as I sleep the name of Taltos forever haunts my memory, the desire to know more, to fully comprehend. Both fascinate me but not as the locals describe them as fabled nightmarish fiends, simply to me as monstrous lunatics, psychotics to whom their hideous deeds have grown into myth and fable, exaggerated as a tool of coercion to the populace. Perhaps in Dementlieu their tendencies would have become identified and treated but here within this climate of panic and agitation, this rational psychological impediment presents them as supernatural devils. And yet my mind screams to know, that I must present my evidence to those that would listen to relieve them of their unfounded horrors.

Fortuitous then that a chance encounter, sat outside the Lady's Rest on a dreary eve' beset by the roar of thunder, lightning as it tore across the silhouette of the mighty mountains that surround us, that I would meet one ready to understand this search.. my search.

He would sit around the campfire opposite me as I took my nightly airs and clear my lungs of the staleness of the Inn; Dressed in robes of crimson that seemed to float above the ground, his face obscured, yet beneath it his low, rumbling voice like gravel. The artwork of Taltos existed still and it's horrific content was still fresh upon decaying canvas, capturing forever the suffering of it's subjects. That I should seek a burned hovel to the Eastern part of town and wander a darkened corridor, for it would be at it's end I would discover that of which I search. A wooden box that would reveal the answers to my questions.

And with his words he disappeared into the Barovian night. Silently. As if a wayward apparition.



Appendix 4: Forever Prepared

Knowledge is the true power that we wield. The abundant libraries of the rich breathed their histories into the minds of all who read from them. Whether their contents spoke truth or lie was to be determined by experience, for as memory faded there took over new truths to consign the old to ruin. We were prepared to believe that which was fed to us, recited over again as if to burn it to our minds. The stories that we read were of strange creatures, far away lands and the great deeds of Dementlieu nobility of whom my father idolised and envied, of restless spirits cursed to walk the lands, subterranean monsters who ripped the minds from men and drove them to insanity, of fantastical beasts who flew the skies and called them theirs, of the weak who needed saving from themselves and for whom pacification was a mercy. These are the stories that grew with us, that we may educate those that would follow and lead in our stead.

Sig courtesy of Violeta!

In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #5 on: March 06, 2023, 08:16:43 AM »
====================================

I have become acquainted with our unexpected visitor from the caverns, though whether this is purely accidental or that I have been stalked remains a matter of debate. This is all too convenient but I shall not let a growing paranoia consume me, for I am none like that of my own blood; that of interminable conjecture and outbursts of unquenchable violence, satiated only by submission. Sometimes I do wonder whether the apple has fallen far from the tree, or even perhaps that my apple should fall from a separate tree altogether.

The woman in question appears to be either romantically involved with Astarius or at the very least displays an endearment which goes beyond the bonds of simple business interest or mundane friendship. She is a beautiful creature, one would supposition that of some distant Elven kin; Her skin the colour of an ethereal blue, piercing, eyes that appear to leave no detail unobserved no matter how insignificant, a fine physique indeed, honed almost to perfection. Were it not for her crude language and propensity for confrontation, for ferocity, one may assume her a creature of the heavens. Her and Astarius appear matched by brawn, driven by kindred ambition, though as to what end is unclear. He name is Aithra and around her I have steered converstion clear of matters of contention or consternation, if only to avoid a fate successfully circumvented within the caves whence we first met.

The keeping of such formiddable company may yet prove useful, should the matter arise of course. Not that I suspect I have much for fear at this juncture.


====================================

Madamoiselle Isabel has introduced me to several of her companions but as pleasant as their company was there is one of their number that causes me considerable consternation. Roland Moreau is an educated member of Dementlieuese society which under any other circumstance would afford me much pleasure what with the scope for conversation, however it is exactly these qualities to which places my position in much precariousness. Monsieur Moreau enquires of too many questions and I suspect that he already has doubts as to the legitimacy of my claims of lineage. I must keep him at a distance or at the least be curt in my responses to him, politely of course lest I enflame his ire instead. To lose my cover so soon after my arrival would be disastrous, if not my safety then in the least to my ailing finances. I must exercise caution.

Whatever his intentions, Monsieur Roland has evidently taught Isabel some basic Dementlieuese conversational talents, a word or two. Now she refers to me as "Mon Cher" or "Cheri", a term of endearment that lifts my spirits whenever it hear it pass her lips. Perhaps she does not know of it's connotation to me, for why should she? Perhaps she does, perhaps she knows all too well, wishes me to know that I am favoured... Or perhaps she knows everything and that this is a clandestine warning. No, why would I think this...? I must banish these assumptions from my mind before these insidious feelings begin to take root and fester.

Madamoiselle Striga has supplied me with an unusual tome that I might cast my eye over, one that she has permitted me to retain. I shall add these to the growing list of books that I have thusfar failed to read, though frustratingly derided as the poetry and books for children. And there remains 'The Strangest Meats', not one that lends itself to bedtime perusal.



Appendix 5: The Human Hounds

Servants that fled the service were a burden of honour for their owners rather than an inconvenience for they were cheaply replaced. The wealthy kept on their employ trackers of aptitude and renown, the most competent that gold could afford. Business was booming. For my own recollection the Ravensmeres had on retainer a coterie of malcontents but exceptionally gifted to their heinous pursuits and loyal; For if gold could twist loyalties so easily then the contract became worthless. Father had a flair for the dramatic and he refered to himself as the the "Raven's Head". Secretive information brokers and agents would be known as the "Raven's Eye". Those trackers excelling in stalking their quarry from range, who would travel for days with only broken  branches and extinguished campfires were known as the "Raven's Feathers". Then were the murderers and assassins, those skilled in close combat and relentless in their pursuit. The greatest of Father's mercenaries was rumoured to have the brute strength to crush a man's head with his bare hands. They were known as the "Raven's Talons". They were the most feared.
« Last Edit: March 06, 2023, 08:19:35 AM by Mordalynne »

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In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #6 on: March 06, 2023, 08:18:43 AM »
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My hands tremble as I write this, sat as I am at the Lady's Rest, opposite Monsieur Astarius, as he recounts events that had transpired only moments earlier. Accounts that seem wearisome and unexciting but to me have unleashed an intrigue the likes of which I have never experienced. For tonight I have witnessed before me the fable made flesh, this man of legend that wanders the night to seize the lonely and satiate themselves upon their life essence, this 'Emilian Drache'.

It was as I sat outside of the Inn to take my nightly airs that I conversed with a wanderer, one that I did not recognise. I had suggested that perhaps after I were to leave him she should seek the warmth of the Inn's hearth also or perhaps the tranquility of the Temple for reflection as I oft' do in the mornings. He declined and we parted, the night swallowing him as the Inn's door was shut behind me. It was only as I returned to retrieve a lost item that he had disappeared from whence he sat only to be found some distance away under a tree, within the clutches of a beast of man clad in crimson plate, one who had buried his face within his victim's shoulder.

I shall never forget the sight as it's eyes met mine; The glowing crimson orbs into which the depths of Hell itself would become lost, the snarl of an animal interrupted from it's meal, the commanding voice that subverted the very air around him as he spoke, a compelling presence, one that bade me to leave him. It is only to my confusion that I found myself within the Temple walls though I do not fully understand how. I was still gripped in the clutches of terror, for it was as if I had witnessed a Demon that night... and that it had spared me.


====================================

Under the warmth of what one would consider 'daylight' for these dismal climes I have set upon investigation of the scene; There are no pulleys nor wires, ropes set upon the tree to lift or to otherwise evacuate an individual on short notice. The ground is now moist with dew but there remains evidence of a short, futile struggle, some spatterings of scarlett as though an artist had become careless with his brush, one set of footprints that walk towards the scene from the seating outside the Lady's Rest... but then none other. There remain no marks upon the floor to signify evasion or escape. Alas I had become disorientated before I could witness the lunatic as he fled and what evidence remains upon the floor slowly becomes spoiled as the feet of merchants walk upon it. Unlike the explanation of the cavern the trunk of the tree bears no habitation of any psychodelic or hallicinatory fungi so I have discounted this as a possibility. My hypothesis still revolves around the possibility of trickery through illusion and yet... I find myself possessed of the belief that perhaps there may indeed be no rational elucidation for this. No, I have overlooked something... of this I am certain, I have to be certain... This cannot be true.

My experience as first-hand witness was mired in circumstance that makes a perspicuous supposition impossible without fault; The distance from the event measured at a distance of, twenty seven, nay.. perhaps twenty eight paces which places it, under the auspices of twilight, to be just beyond the measure of normal, unobscured vision to say the least. [Addendum: Correct measurement needed to ascertain precise distance]. The angle at which the event occurred was direct, though almost certainly so as to impede knowledge of any placed mechanism. Then there remains the possibility of magics employed and yet... and yet I did not feel this to be in evidence.



Appendix 6: The Devices of Torture and Oblivion

I would wander the corridors in my youth, the servants amusing me with games of hide and seek to bide the time between study until I was called to refection. There was little that I was not permitted to however the vault in the South Wing was restricted to only those close to father's affairs. It was in my nature to push these boundaries and it was a stormy evening that I was to creep past the large, iron-studded door to a room illuminated only by burning forgotten braziers and the flashes outside. Amongst wooden tables and ropes and empty twisted chandeliers I spied the ideal place to fool my pursuers. Towards the wrought metal cabinet I stole but one other had already occupied my hiding spot. Within the cold iron grill of the cabinet I saw eyes that belonged to a servant who regularly provided my entertainment, fixed and still, forlorn in appearance. Even the cabinet wept tears that wet my feet to the touch. He did not answer to my pleas that he had been discovered and I left him to his solitude to find another place of concealment. Only the maturity of my later age would help me to understand what had transpired that night. I still fear those places of misery and oblivion.

Sig courtesy of Violeta!

In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #7 on: March 06, 2023, 08:22:02 AM »
====================================

Astarius secretly mocks my disposition of incredulity, watching over in silent judgement or to disparage my theories. This work that conduct is of another, for I am no true scholar of fables, this guise merely a mantle of convenience, and yet... I am fascinated by what has transpired, drawn to it as a moth to a flame, a butterfly to a web. I have attended to all that I may do before light fails for the eve' and, possibly due to his own conscience in ridicule, Astarius has asked that I accompany him at dinner, to apologise maybe? I admit that these past nights I have neglected my appetite and had I the coin I would relish in the local delicacies, for it appears even the dubious stews for the moment would satisfy me.

Whilst I compose my journal and satiate myself with the dish he has provided, Astarius speaks at length of his more than 'antagonistic' relationship with this man, Drache; That they have fought on many an occasion owing to an animosity fermented over time, viciously wounding one another, seemingly forever caught in mutual hatred. Astarius' life seems dedicated to his destruction and yet... and yet I cannot feel that his goal is one that he may not ever attain. Drache seeks perfection, the ideal martial opponent, perhaps even an equal to either stand at his side or to test his prowess... however maybe this man seeks to finally be delivered unto death's embrace, to be at peace? [Addendum: Speculation without evidence is theory, revise notes as applicable]. I have several paths before me; That I must investigate this 'Order of the Crimson Cross' [1] and then to wander to a keep located far to the West of town where this 'Drache' resides. In a coffin no less, with the flair of an actor or one truly lost within the labyrinth of the mind".

I shall celebrate my progress with this local brandy, for I consider it a special occasion and I have earned it... And Astarius is paying...


====================================

I write this because I have a candle and I don't want to waste light but what a night and... and... He would be the perfect gentleman had I the disposition such but truly he's a cad... a scoundrel at that... and a cad because he is but he can't beat the brain at an arm wrestle because... brains always win over brawn and he's just a sword with a head and legs, like a.... Something, whatever it is. A cad of the highest order. I cannot be sure and I cannot sleep because the lodgers in the next room seem to be having a drinking contest or some bawdy entertainment and that is all I have to warm my arms is you my sweet, sweet journal with your strong spine and huggable, yellow-leafed paper and I have a head that swims and swirls around like a big swirly, whirlpool. I would celebrate again but the door is so far away and the bed is so warm and strawy.

'Tis the morning and my only though is that a bear has relieved itself within my cranium. I am horrendously dehydrated and lacking the motivation to leave the comfort of the room. The bell tolls for morning and it feels as though the sound relentlessly reverberates within the room. I shall avoid this 'peach brandy' in future, it appears to be either strong or brewed with noxious ingredients. [Addendum: Dispose of prior entry, there is regret enough without reminder].

Today is to be a day of recovery, damned be my work until I may again resume my concentration.



Appendix 7: The Art of Trust and Betrayal

Betrayal is the payment of trust, a powerful currency that used to scrape favour and claw at the gates of influence. Violent struggles were very seldom rewarded with power as blades stained with blood were coated in guilt. Instead the great houses would scheme and plot behind doors of darkened rooms from which no light or secret would escape. To bring down your opponent by utilising their own strength against them was regarded as an art form played for personal ambition. This nefarious game would ensure that only the most adept at deception stayed at the top of the tower and competition was fierce and unforgiving.

I have rejected this petty posturing for dominance and have sought deception only to protect myself but my family's blood flows deep within my veins and I cannot run from what lies deep within. I would never betray companionship, guardianship, yet as I write these very words I feel a sense of distrust that I cannot refuse, that eventually all will turn on me, regard gold above our fellowship, to murder me whilst in the silence of sleep. This paranoia should be ignored but it whispers to me when I am alone at night and demand that I reply to answer.

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Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #8 on: March 06, 2023, 08:24:11 AM »
====================================

Why the absolute rogue, he stood me up! Oh how I should verbally excoriate him upon our next meet and demand apology and recompense. The table was laid with as many meats and local cheeses as I could muster with what meagre coin I had in my possession... and he abandoned my company no doubt for some petty expedition or tryst. The shame on him! As I sat there and expectation turned to hope, then to dismal abandonment I could hear father's words echo within my head; That the life of a commoner would never amount to much, that only the ruthless succeeded and that if it meant with a foot upon the backs of others then so be it. To listen to his belligerent tones again and give them credence... I hastily admonished myself that I should once again hear his voice. The 'justice' delivered today upon a woman of foreign heritage within the marketplace... an act of savage barbarism that father would revel in as amusement and example to others, one that I found no joy in witnessing and yet... Yet it is the place of the powerful that they should use the weak as simple playthings as such? For what purpose serves the weak upon this land if not for the gains of others?

I have taken walks in vain as to meet with Isabel and yet she has become absent as of late and I miss her conversation and rustic wisdom terribly. Her words are a song and without them 'tis a morning with naught; No whistle of birds as they fly freely, the tolling of the bell to signal another day. I hope within the bottom of my heart that she returns soon.

I have received word that the creature 'Taltos' has perished which I consider an 'inconvenient convenience', for just as my path had become chartered that she disappears from this life and into the next. I will continue my search for her remains, perhaps even in death her study would yield something of her condition.



Appendix 8: The Tangled Web

Lie breeds lie, weaved into an intricate web of deceit into which we either remain the spider or become the butterfly. I have left behind this life but blood, it appears, is thicker than water. In protecting myself and those of my companions I have began the weave of an intricate cloak of deception, one that may not so easily be unpicked. Is it through selfish ends that I maintain this pretence or is this bloodline so set within my veins that I am attempting to run from something that I can never escape? Myself?

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #9 on: March 06, 2023, 08:26:41 AM »
====================================

I write these words upon a damp tree stump, some two kilometres of the outskirts of the township of Vallaki, and though my wandering should bring me inspiration and creative venture my mind is but a mire of despair, of dark thought, of regret.

My acquaintance friend Astarius is rumoured to lie in a watery grave, into the icy, tumultuous depths of a cascade the locals name 'The Dyad'; An inhospitable, unfeeling crag high in the Barovian mountains. My mind is thrown upon all direction as if cast to this chill winter wind and blown to and fro, consumed by naught but doubt, chaos, unreconcilable in nature. It is upon the murder by an assassin's blade, I am to believe, of his lover Aithra, upon which he forfeit his life, unable to remain his footing upon this land, unwilling to stay without her companionship. It would be but a bittersweet feeling now that they should see eternity together but.. but within me lies a dormant rage that I had not been power enough to save them, perhaps to intervene... To announce that I would give my life so that theirs may continue would be to lie, a selfish thought that shames me. I should miss them both terribly beyond which words may not express.

Desperate actions are the choice of desperate people and I had no recourse. Upon the gloom of the night I called to him and bade him to appear before me and answer, nay, be informed of the death of his nemesis; That his death had not occured by his hand and that he had become deprived of that satisfaction. How I had hoped to twist the mind of the maniac Drache, to make him seek retribution upon my taunting but... He proclaimed me as but a weak parasite, a stain upon the name of honour and power, a simple peasant of devious tongue. As his words spun around me I offered him what I thought he wanted, my life to his so that I may seek vengeance.

"Peasant", he replied, "You possess nothing that I may desire"... and his cruel words cast me aside.

How wrong he should be.


====================================

Exile befalls me, my actions betrayed to the Garda, by whom I know not but of whom I shall discover in time. 'Facta non Verba' was written above the hearth at my family's great manor, "Deeds Not Words", an ever vigiliant phrase that would mark us as noble if indeed there lay truth upon it. I suppose I should sink to the depths of hopelessness and yet... and yet there is a silent joy that cries out within me, for have I not lived this life in exile so far, so apart from that and those that I cherish? Should I give thanks that my fate may be considerably darker than it is? And yet even upon this they should take pieces from me to ensure that I no longer transgress their jurisprudence; For my indiscretion I lose not only the freedom of the city but the use of the finger that should adorn my wedding band and that of the one next to it, barbarically removed in the name of 'restitution'.

As I hung from the chains within the dungeons,the screams and pleading of those in the cells aroud echoing from walls as cold as the hearts of their owners, my mind was cast to conversation with Astarius and Aithra, that of covert rebellion against this treacherous system of law and government. They spoke of moral obligation, that tyranny should not prosper over the weak, that those 'gracious' institutions that presided over Vallaki displayed only the facade of virtue... and that their justice was neither divinely mandated nor honourable in intention. I admit my mind wandered to dark places, corners of my mind which whispered to me that should my chains be broken that I should wield upon them similar 'mercy' that they had shown me. But I must never think as this. I will not become the very monsters that I flee from.

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #10 on: March 06, 2023, 08:28:24 AM »
With the death of both Atarius and Aithra, this shadowy brotherhood appears to be bequeathed in administration to one know only as 'Agony' and to whom I have submitted my reports upon the movements and identities of the city garrison. How easy that  falsehoods laced with confusion and with the guise of sincerity and naivety loosen the tongues of men, for it was by sowing amongst them the reward of coin for a 'favour' committed by one of their number that they should list one upon the other, duly noted down; I had become lost in town and a member of the Garda had assisted me to locate it, to which I had offered coin in compensation only after this event in thanks. This fabrication served it's purpose, a just promise of reward my ultimate aim.

This 'Agony' petrifies me beyond any that I have met thusfar; For whilst the one known as Helmuth [annotate as pseudonym dictates] displays a fearful, brutal, moutain of physicality, 'Agony' is as a silent volcano, one that would readily wake from it's dormancy to punish all who stood against his molten wrath. He looks towards me as though I am a plaything, his features concealed behind a dark mask, eyes that are devoid of life or humanity. His cordiality towards me is evident for the moment but I fear that I have committed a great mistake in my trust of him and now I suffer a great distress. Should I become too far engaged with him then I fall within the fatal depths of the volcano to burn forever, yet if I turn against him then... then I should not think upon this yet to avoid panic. He relishes that I should suffer, I should not yet appeal to his baser indulgences.

Has it come to this that I should not possess any that I may truly trust within this land? Or should it be that my mind unravels slowly?

No, I should not think this way. 'Facta non Verba', Mordaylnne Ravensmere... Facta non Verba....


====================================

My wanderings between my new home of Berez and the boundary of Vallaki have garnished some interesting experiences; If not watching the regimented prowling of the wolves that inhabit the forest as the stalk their prey, then there would be the cheerful conversations with passers-by as they leave the township onwards to the far West and whatever lay beyond. The hiding places of fungus attached to fallen, decaying logs, the cawing of Ravens as they watch overhead... The forest is a place of deadly tranquility and I have learned all too well that this nature demands the respect it deserves, for it shall not grant second chances in its grand, green arena.

And then there shall be the curious case of Tychus of Reed, Tychus Maroon of Reed given his full title. Three full days had passed and I had started to become accustomed to the solitude of outpost and the surrounding... It was as simple a day as any that I met this carapaced, plated hulk of a man onwards to Vallaki, a quite extraordinary meeting of which I have no explanation of the fortuitousness, as if some power had planned our contact. He is a martial man of some considerable talent, though for what he has in overabundence in strength he lacks in diction. He potrays himself a man of honour, lost and far from his homeland, ripped from the arms of his wife and daughter, a professional soldier or knight, perchance one that I would read about at length in my fables. It was only as we talked further that it would become apparent how jaded and of desolate mind he had become. I reminded him of his daughter, he was to inform me, a loss that bore him great upset, and he would not speak of her at length only to tell me that she was a woman of good reading, cultivated, virtuous and vivacious.

Whether I accepted his aid or not he would become my companion, protector... but something of him does not sit correctly in my thoughts


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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #11 on: March 06, 2023, 08:30:37 AM »
====================================

Tychus treats me as a girl, a fragile doll that he deems weak with an inability to protect itself. He is constant in his demands that I become hardened, tougher, stronger... but these are qualities to which I have never become accustomed to. These hands that once would turn the page of a book, embroider, caress the face of a lover now he wishes stained with blood, callous, unfeeling. His guardianship was at first endearing but now I fear the loss of his true daughter has driven him to desperate obsession, that he may claim me for his own as substitute.. a cuckoo within his nest. To fan the flames of his ire would be to invite death, for within him I see a darkness to which no flame of love could ever once again light. And yet.. Yet I feel a concern, an overwhelming pity for his plight, for I fear his cause is destined for a failure which would crush him completely; Too dangerous to stay with him, too guilty to abandon him to the iniquity of the land. Of what should I do?

I have received word upon a meeting within the village of Barovia, some considerable distance away, one of urgency to which I have responded with haste. The sender I know not and yet there is a familiarity of it that fills me with hope. Ha! Hope; But a fleeting feeling that crawls into the darkest of recesses of the mind to decay within some solitary corner of late. I have also received correspondence of one from the township to whom I have been offered aid to appeal my dismissal, one of close attachment to the Garda and, though no guarantee has been given, may supply petition upon my behalf. It is a hope indeed should it prove worthwhile, one that I have accepted to hear, yet nothing should come without price nor favour. Altruism has found hope in that darkened recess to perish alongside it.


====================================

My youth was nothing extraordinary, to me the days were punctuated only by lesson indoors and I was reminded only of the time of week as to whether these were of etiquette, embroidery, mercantile enterprise or solitary daydream. Through a large window within a study crowded by towers of stories, leatherbound tomes, I would watch over the habour, far away from the estate, looking at the spindle-like masts of ships as they disappeared into the horizon. I was never aware of their destinations, nor what their correct nautical terms were, but I hoped that they were bound for distant shores for exploration, the pursuit of adventure and treasures forgotten far beneath the sands of a island littered with palm trees. It was terribly romantic to think that ones life could simply be thrown to the wind and taken in whichever direction was favoured to the day, to live without a care. Father despised what he called 'Sea Vermin' however, saw them only as a method of transporting cargo and as venture for his own purpose of wealth. 'Paupers', he would state, 'were oft' content to work towards their death upon the sea as burial within its depths was as worthless as the lives that sailed upon it'. 

Now it is by mere chance that I meet one of these 'scallywags' [Yarr?] upon my daily sojourn at the North bridge that delineates the city boundary, so carefully observed by myself as to abide by the terms of my removal. 'Thera', her name, a seafaring buccaneer of some joviality, quick of wit and whose whimsical nature is endearing, intoxicating. Each scar upon her face must tell an exciting tale of danger from distant escapade, resting in a cave populated by the skeletal remains of prior explorers? Swigging wine from a barrel whilst heartily regaling others with her irreverent deeds. I may listen to her tales all day I shall freely admit, they are a wonder to behold.


A 'Troll', she had the nerve to inform me that I was seen as! Sat at my bridge she may be forgiven but I have neither the likeness nor... disposition to force coin from the hands of passers-by to cross safely... And a 'Worrywart' to boot as well, the cheek of it all! Perhaps I should be called a 'Troll' after all in that I accepted her invitation of a meal at the Lodge as the hour grew late, that at in recompense for her diabolical name-calling and teasing. Eurgh, and a 'Wiggler', named as a common earthworm.

I may think her a pirate but her vocation, she explained, was more mundane, nevertheless exciting however to one who had only heard of their tales and exploits, never experienced them. She sailed a Schooner [Addendum: Look at vessel sizes for comparative purposes] that she had named 'The Huntress', a business operation which saw her travel extensively and sometimes engage in less-than legal business. Her words of her exploits were hypnotising, intriguing, and I could feel myself being drawn towards her charm, her happy-go-lucky bearing [addendum: remove content concerning ale consumption and subsequent mortification]. Her personality was as open as the sea she sailed upon and perhaps filled with as much mystery.

She posited that I should simply rot in Vallaki or at 'My Bridge' as she so named it should I decide to stay and that I should join her in her wanderings and see the land, although I had dreaded as to how much more hardship I could witness or bear. But I have a feeling of exhilaration around her, as though she is a beacon in this dark that should keep sailors from crashing upon rocks, or to keep myself from becoming rooted at the river crossing as a permanent feature.

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In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #12 on: March 06, 2023, 08:32:55 AM »
Thera has returned in a somewhat bloodied fashion from some business she had conducted, caused from the ravenous appetites of whatever lay in her path on her journey back to the Lodge. I have invited her to my rented chambers so that I may at least provide her with some respite, to tend to her wounds as best I may and to provide her with nourishment herself. As a woman of a nautical nature I theorised that perhaps 'fish' would have made a grudgingly tedious plate, so Tsuika and a local delicacy I thought would make a pleasant change. We spoke as she ate, myself watching, though I felt her initial rejection of the Tsuika was disrespectful, like that of an unappreciative servant.

As she gently drank I looked upon her with interest and imagined that she should suddenly clutch at her breast, her arms attempting to claw at the air in a futile attempt to keep herself upright on her feet as I stepped away from her flailing limbs. To no avail, that as the poison would quickly seep through her veins she would choke upon her own peasant blood and as a candle starved of oxygen, quickly extinguished, released from her misery. That as I stood above her as she gurgled and breathed her last I would see the life drain from her eyes, leaving them as only opaque, glass-like marbles that peered back at me, transfixed and still unappreciative. I would be the last that she saw and she would finally understand how benevolen...

What is happening to me? These words I write but they are not of the making of my own hand nor my thoughts. I am clouded in doubt or exhaustion... Yes, exhaustion and perhaps rest should dismiss this negativity. But she knows, I told her who I am... That makes her a danger both to me and herself. Would it be a kindness? No, I must not think on this.



Appendix 9: Lessons of Life Learned

Although I doted on them with child-like innocence in my infancy, embraced them with warm hands still covered with dirt from my short time allowed within the confiens of walled gardens, as I grew I would give neither my father nor my mother consideration. The veil of childhood purity would fall from my shoulders and my vision of what my reality entailed became clearer as the years would progress. I would nod in acceptance of the unacceptable, become humble in my speech, provide that which they wished to hear from my mouth, but deep inside I harboured a deep resentment, of rebellion. Defiance.

But as memories etched upon a canvas of stone his words would remain there forever with me, an indelible stain of which not even time would wear away. 'People, Maudamour', were as commodities; The poor were a simple folk who served no greater purpose comparable than that of a slave to a master. Their existence was to the lowest denominator of any community, and that they should fall so that the mighty should rise upon their broken backs and prosper, structure rebuilt anew to a society of betterment, bereft of poverty and idleness. The cycle would continue always and we were superior for it.

Then upon my supper he would throw to me a red apple, picked by the servants and checked for deficiencies by the kitchen staff, tested for toxins and contamination before it touched my lips. 'Then Maudamour, there are the others who are as apples; For they show on their outside a pure, enticing skin under which lay a delicious taste of their true character, but... Underneath lies a core that is forever hidden, filled with seeds that harboured poison, feeble in few but threatening in number. That these seeds would serve to grow thoughts of revolt, dissidence.*

The servant of whom tested my apple that day would not recover from whatever curse was laid upon it, her blue lips still upon her fading breath.
« Last Edit: March 06, 2023, 09:31:18 AM by Mordalynne »

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In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #13 on: March 06, 2023, 08:34:19 AM »
====================================

I have been reserved as to making note upon news which has lifted my spirits considerably, not in the least that it should be unexpected but welcoming nonetheless. 'Lord' Astarius, as he notes his full title, lives, as tangible as a block of steel and with the resilience of an ox, though exasperatingly he appears to have retained his probing curiosity and... and other irksome behaviours. But for all his fault I am relieved that he should live, for it provides a constant upon which I may anchor myself in a world of fleeting friendship sailed upon a tumultuous sea.

We have ventured together to a cave, seated to the South of the village of Barovia, a dangerously exciting distraction far opposed to the mundane safety that I have drifted through these recent days. I have noted before that he is driven to push himself beyond the means of normal men but now... now I feel that within him sits an inner rage that calls to him exceed these boundaries, as though his grief for Madamoiseille Aithra leads him to seek the coldness of the grave before his time. To join with her perhaps? I should shudder that he think his life so meritless or paltry that he should demand it end so suddenly and in such violent a fashion.

He has method to make me uncomfortable, awkward around him, a trait that seems to bring him an almost sadistic pleasure. He peers as though a farmer observing his cattle, though I may not lie in his presence. He enquired as to why I wore my spectacles and I answered truthfully; That my vision was recified by them as that I may see and read clearly... But also that... that they were something else further that I may hide behind. He removed them and looked upon me as I averted my eyes from his inspection, worried as to what he would discover in his scrutiny.


====================================

He calls me 'Cute'!  A 'Cute' display in avoiding what I would assume was a clumsy attempt at his flirtation or advances. Why the absolute... bounder. Then he had gall to mimic whatever social faux pas I had unintentionally committed within his presence at dinner some weeks past. Unaccustomed as I am to being spoken of in this fashion why I.. Why I should nullify whatever voice he has and dispossess his words so that I may pretend that I do not hear them. 'Cute' indeed, he should not know the meaning of the word.

As I write this he sits with Lady Esther sharpening blades and speaking of violent encounters and training and ... GRRR! I would never... A simple rapscallion, whipper-snapper, rascal and wastrel such as himself? Why I should run out of the vocabulary for which to describe him and have to invent words anew.

Throughout his latest excursion into the jaws of death to tempt his premature fate I chided him as puerile and had Lady Esther act as intermediary to communicate with him on my behalf... And yet still [Addendum: Do not push the quill harder into the parchment for fear of snapping end and necessitating purchase of new quill] he plays these childish games.

Though perhaps had I attempted to listen to his advice I would have taken more heed of the surroundings and become more aware of the danger that I faced unknowingly. I felt the click beneath my heel too late, and as I turned to face the whoosh and heat of something behind me, my thoughts flashed before my eyes slowly and then a terrible void.


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In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #14 on: March 06, 2023, 08:36:40 AM »
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There exists a peculiarity evident in all but none so much that permeates the temperament of an acquaintance I know as 'Alice'. She is knowledgeable, softly-spoken, tinged with an eccentricity which both delights and daunts dependent upon the manner of topic engaged upon. Recently she has loaned me one of her more 'esoteric' works as though she were a lending library. I shall admit that the thought of reading again in such a place as this, devoid as it is of literature, was one of elation... That is until I had cognizance of it's content. As much as the rituals of summoning demons should only hold mild fascination, forbidden as it should be, it hardly demonstrated suitable reading for late in the evening with only oneself for company.

There there remains the peculiarity of her jealousy, a much darker side of her that I had no intent to witness. She had me followed as a common criminal gripped in a paranoia that I should steal from her the object of her deep affection. I had to explain that Thera was to me but a peculiar remnant from stories that I would read as a child [Addendum: Read, 'Pirate'] and that ours was a friendship of mutual appreciation only but... alas to no avail. The slight had become embedded within what appeared her fragile state of mind, she paid no heed to my protestations.

I was to prove Thera's loyalty to her and on her behalf. He plan was as outlandish as  it was unachieveable; That I was to walk with Thera and offer her poison brandy in the hope that she would become more pliable to suggestion. I was then to seduce her so that Alice would judge her fidelity from afar. In Alice's eyes it would to be a "win/win" scenario as she stated, for she would maintain her relationship or be free of it. How little she knows of how awkward I become in matters of interaction, especially of... this category. Thank the heavens that this plan never saw fruition.




====================================

They skulk around me as shadows, pretend that I do not hear them but I do. They whisper behind my back and when I approach they cease their incessant gossip and look upon me as though I am a polite, nay useless, doll whose only purpose is to become object of their mockery. Have I become so content with myself that I should not have witnessed this approaching?

Thera has remained absent of late after depositing here me as nothing but a piece of litter by the wayside, for her own amusement no doubt. Indeed I should imagine her telling her stories of the 'poor, downtrodden, hideous bridge troll' to her audiences for coin as some circus sideshow.

Alice remains hidden always and I peer over my shoulder constantly because I know she pursues me still, concealed from eye. This book that she has gifted me, I feel as though she uses me as a naive vanity box, that I should be the one to be punished as she claims ignorance to it's existence should  it be discovered.

Remir has provided me with sandwiches from his venture but has become distant of late, distracted. Perhaps he knows? I had purchased one of his 'creations' to support him but he took too long in it's making and I threw this instrument of my destruction in the fire lest it be laced with belladonna or monkshood when I was out of sight. I will watch for his reaction when I return to see of his surprise that I still live.

The poem I have penned for Monsieur Hale remains still within his pocket and he has not spoken it to his amour. He noticeably thinks it a travesty of talent and I will search the trash and catch him at his betrayal.

Astarius and Esther have no doubt found that their relationship is more than that of simply Lord and Squire and I envisage them both in each others embrace, counting their gold, prospering from my poverty.

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In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell

Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #15 on: March 06, 2023, 08:38:58 AM »
====================================

I have had the most wonderful day! Thera had returned and informed me that she travelled to the city of  Port-à-Lucine and that this outlined the cause for her absence. I will note that my suspicions bore similarity to my imagined concerns but I still keep a rational mind, after all I remind myself that I must not weigh my mind down with that for which I have invalid evidence to support.   

And here I stand, once again, upon Port-à-Lucine's streets paved with hope and aspiration, my feet firm upon the ground but a confession that in her presence I feel as though I float or fly above it all, a joyous observer of life below as it bustles vivaciously. I feel as though I have known her all of my life, and that she has keen eye that sees through me and know of my heartfelt desires. We have visited the library upon the seafront, a taste of water for a parched mouth that has been starved the weeks prior; The great works of the poets, celebrated tales of literary weavers, theoretical and practical works of scholar and sceptic alike. How I have missed the passion of the Enlightened, how giddily I ran through the rows of shelves, all but a fool for all to see. It must have been a moment of madness for I 'appropriated' [RE: 'Liberated'] a tome from it's wooden prison and concealed it beneath my cloak, perhaps something of a memento or keepsake for the long journey back to Hell.

We spoke at the premises of the city's instrumental merchant where she sought to purchase a violin. Her renditions of compositions are sublime, soothing, melodies that took me home to an imagined time when I would have remembered a peace and tranquility afforded any child. I was entertainment for the purpose  of others, never once had I become the audience.

And then as a hound baying for it's Mistress, she appeared, to ruin it thusly, and cause a scene...






Appendix 10: Of Birds and Bonds

Feathers that I have discovered misplaced by some careless bird fleeing from goodness knows what, the species of which I know not but should I to hazard a guess I would choose a songbird of sorts.

These winged animals hold a special place within my heart for what they are and for what they represent; That of play-things kept  by Aristocrats and Nobility in gilded cages for entertainment and novelty. I have seen the cruel clipping of wings first -hand from my first songbird which seemed oblivious to the protected yet caged life that awaited it. In my youth I would watch it with curiosity as it forever attempted to discover escape, moreso with fascination of where it may flee to in a world where it would be quickly devoured as prey by some predator should liberation ever be achieved. I would later realise this cruelty and atone by opening the door freely to allow it this opportunity... but it did not flee. Instead it withered in the corner, head tilted, finally resolved that whatever fate lay within imprisonment was but a mercy to the alternative. My father's hound ate well that evening.

The namesake and 'heraldic bird of our family was the 'Raven'; A cunning, ruthless bird who preyed upon the weak, pecking the eyes from newborn lambs as they drifted apart from their mothers, their herd. It was an animal of pure and noble intent, for it never pretended to be that of which it was not. Of late I have felt that I have lost this noblesse of the moniker and as I look at myself within the reflection of a looking glass I see instead a cuckoo as it peers back at me, usurping the nest for it's own benefit.

How ghastly I have become.

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #16 on: March 06, 2023, 08:40:17 AM »
====================================

I watch Alice from afar, as with any keg of black powder I dare not light her fuse and watch the ensuing carnage. She is a considerable power but misguided in her disposition, naive perhaps, untempered by the ability to control herself. Yet I find myself inextricably drawn towards her, her perfervid intensity, her art in binding this 'weave' to her will that it would do her bidding, the mind of a polymath but with the body of a simple labourer. Though she denies it should would have reduced me to ash at Port-a-Lucine and my mind wanders to what we should become, what I should become had I the aptitude she possesses.

Throughout the days I have drawn her closer to my web, perhaps as a siren as to lure a wayward sailor upon the rocks, accepting her apologies as I lend ear to the tangled complications of her life. She fascinates me absolutely and the soft touch of her hand reminds me of better times, her vitality a flame that burns passionately but would consume everything around it if left ungoverned. In her pity she has taken me under her wing and has begun to show me that of which I am capable without restraint; to change my form to that which I desire, to fly as I had always imagined upon gentle, cool breeze, to transform living flesh to become as rock, the revealing of those who would lurk concealed.

... And then there is the reverie; The ability to entrance the mind so completely that it wanders to beautiful memories of times past, wrapped in comfort and warmth, joyous evocation of people and places I have not witnessed in years. For Alice to watch me but moments had passed, for myself it was though I experienced them as if they replayed themselves over and over.

But something feels different now. Something has changed. There is an insalubrious corner of my mind which calls me to behold these events with older, supercilious eyes.



====================================


Thera remains absent and I remain with Alice within the safety of the encampment beyond the mists as she continues to show me great wonder and achivement. In other circumstances becoming a lowly mink would have instigated my ire but... As I lie vulnerable within her lap, alone by the fire, and receive her attentions in the form of teasing, brushing and rubs I cannot feel anything but affection and geniality for her. My mind slipped to the reverie but she has scolded me upon my insistence that it be carried out again, that it is a dangerous addiction into which many could become lost and that perhaps to be free of it for today would be beneficial. Would it however be that terrible to feel the illusion of happiness than a reality filled of danger and torment?

It was upon that evening that I told her that which had burdened my heart for these long, drawn-out days, and we embraced, my bumbling mind stumbling as a drunkard over uneven cobblestone as it tried to formulate words to my intention. But as the silhouette of Rosalie faded from my mind I could see only Alice in her stead. Mine once again.

I have travelled to Berez filled with an effervescence that would be fit to burst, to inform Monsieur Rex that out business has concluded and that I wish to cease this nefarious activity for this Brotherhood. That I had new life to lead now with someone to whom my affections were returned and to whom I loved with what remained of my heart.

He is a shadow of his former self; Haggard and languid, his dispassionate eyes formed of detachment. I was offered permanance to dissolution of our union and his words formed the threat so that there should be no doubt as to what he proposed of 'permanance'. I have taken his advice of temporary respite and once again the door to the cage closes, trapping the bird once again within it.

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #17 on: March 06, 2023, 08:41:26 AM »
Appendix 11: The Throes of Finality, Lingering Goodbyes. Part 1

I remember it as if it were but yesterday.

Father's Grand Ball had concluded, the usual affair of merriment and laughter, his guests in their fineries as they danced to buoyant tunes whilst discussing commerce and enterprise anew. He regaled the assembled crowd and they listened as they formed a circle around a servant who danced for their entertainment. It was to be my twentieth birthday. It was a jubilant occasion.

I had used it as opportunity for a tryst with Rosalie within my chambers so that we might speak, reveal our feeling for each other away from prying eyes and gossip, safe within the room with walls of stone. I wore a great black gown that trailed behind me, Rosalie a more simple affair, a dress that gathered around her waist within a crimson sash. It was of purest white, so much that the dust from the Estate that lingered in the air may stain it.

The door was closed and I embraced her, told her that I had an unquenchable passion for her, filled as deep as any ocean, as expansive as the sky above. She listened and she stumbled backwards upon my words, overcome by emotion, laughing happily as she threw towards me an apple from the bowl that I might eat away from the party. In her clumsiness her aim hit the wall behind me but I cared not, for she continued laughing and smiling at the revelation. I was relieved.

To calm her I poured the wine which she consumed more than readily, hands that trembled with delight, hysterical with joy. Beside me she lay upon the bed, exhausted, as I embraced her and whispered that we would be together again, that my plan was to flee, that I would return to her. The wine lingered within her and as she slipped into the throes of sleep I felt a contentment that she would always be mine no matter what occurred.

No, that is not what happened. Tell yourself the truth...Listen to me

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #18 on: March 06, 2023, 08:43:04 AM »
====================================

Alice has informed Thera, I have but mixed feeling of relief and betrayal that she should do so, that I should now become as a spare wheel upon this cart that now forms this trio. Thera seems as her usual, carefree self, professing that she bears no concern with this 'bonny' decision... And as I smile and profess that all is well... Alice showers me with affection... I cannot steer my mind from thought that though the battle is lost that the war continues... I have never shared, always been taught that our property remains our own and that we should grasp it tight, that otherwise others may thieve and pilfer when our backs are turned... As pirates of tale would find pleasurable.

Our first excursion upon this newfound bond was once again to the Port-a-Lucine to enjoy again the sights that had been unfortunately cut short on our previous attempt, though I hold no grudge against Alice for what had transpired; Now I see it as carefully orchestrated theatre to have me murdered through fit of jealousy... That Alice would bear the blame, that Thera could once again claim her as her own.

We have made our stop at the Grand Bibliothèque and again my mind is giddy with excitement as I immerse myself within it's texts but I keep close watch upon them both. We are most disagreeable in our attire, a matter that has not escaped the attention of petulent fops and boulevardiers... And it now I find myself dressed as a truffle; a stylish, tailored gown with more ribbon and frill that I care to mention. In that moment at the fitting room mirror I stared at what I become lowered to; That of a delicate, porcelain doll, once more created for the enjoyment of others....

I have diverted to the museum to distract my mind whilst the two of them travel to the Lucine Harbour... And there I find myself lost within the lifeless, unfeeling, ebony eye of the Raven that hangs upon its wall... as it stared back at me, knowingly.


« Last Edit: March 07, 2023, 01:45:45 PM by Mordalynne »

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #19 on: March 06, 2023, 08:43:59 AM »
Appendix 11: The Throes of Death, Endless Goodbye. Part 2

It lay raw upon my mind as if it were but yesterday.

Father's Grand Ball had concluded badly, and his guests whispered in hushed voices of apprehension. He informed the assembled crowd that there lay a traitor amongst them and as he spoke he had the servant whipped before them as example of what he may do to whomsoever had stolen my affection from my betrothed. It was a terrifying occasion.

Rosalie had spoken out against his cruelty but her virtuous display had inspired his ire and he had lashed out against her in anger instead. The crimson blood dripped from her waist through the torn white gown she wore and I fled with her to my room that I may treat her wound. All the while the gathering in the Great Hall watched the 'entertainment' continue.

As the door to my chambers was closed I could not help but reveal to her my feelings, that I loved her greatly and that I had plan that we should flee, the both of us, to live out our lives together anew in some foreign land... But my words were met with revulsion, rejection. She had hated that I bore the name and blood that I did, that eventually I would become the vile, hollow shell that my father was. She pushed me away and began shouting, that I too was vile, and to her hand she picked the apple from the bowl to throw at me, missing and hitting the wall behind. My heart was broken. I was devastated.

I poured wine to calm her, hands trembling with disgust, hysterical with fear, and I begged for her forgiveness but her mind had been made up. It was only as the extract of laudanum took effect upon her nerve that she was to stop pushing me away, now almost motionless upon the ground where she now lay as a crumpled heap. I drew her upon the bed and we lay together at last in peace... And as I listened to her breath as it ceased I knew that we would be together again.

And I felt a contentment that she would always be mine no matter what occurred.

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #20 on: March 06, 2023, 08:45:07 AM »


Ritual Magics: The Circle of Summoning
A gift, from the Arcanist Alice. In gratitude
« Last Edit: March 07, 2023, 01:45:26 PM by Mordalynne »

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #21 on: March 06, 2023, 08:47:20 AM »
====================================

My mind drifts, my concentration in all that I do and wish to do compromised by feeling of doubt, jealousy. I am overcome with possession, that either I have become so devoid of love these past four years that I claw at it rabidly in desperation now that it appears? Or that I simply do not like that others should touch my possessions as I watch? I am an individual not beset by greed or desire, quite the opposite, but as I quilled the cautionary poem for this 'Vela' the words that appeared on the parchment were not mine but instead from some seething, slathering beast imbued of hatred. And as I read these words to her and watched the terror grow in her eyes I felt a power over her, that I was her Master and she should heed my command.

For this ill-thought course of action Alice has struck me for the threat that I had made against her friend... and as I endured the sharp sting of pain upon my face I felt our connection had strengthened a shame upon what misery I had inflicted upon her once again. Had I the power I would have melted within the ground at her feet in forgiveness but I knew, deep down, that this was Thera's machination, that this was her doing in attempting to usurp me in her affections.

My mind is in a terrible muddle. I am confused but driven in my intent. I am perplexed by my actions but know that they are warranted. I must flee, forget of Alice and leave once again before I cause her harm of which may not be undone.

I left the note by the campfire that we had shared these cold nights, oft in a tranquil embrace... and as I signed it with whatever name I now gave myself the light of the fire died... as had her love for me, replaced instead with festering ash, the blackened embers of what remained of my heart... motionless within my breast.*

I would flee to Vallaki, back to the city of the damned.






Alice, mon amour... ma vie

Vallaki is a town of the dead.

Of soulless ghosts who drift upon a breeze that rattles as a wheeze through decrepit alleyways, delapidated buildings whose facades have faded and now lie in ruins, unkempt and unloved. Forgotten.

Of the bereft who wake the morn' and know they face another day of hardship and strife, a solitary existence without meaning nor comfort. Alone.

Of violent men with violent passions, that should choke whatever constitutes life left there to fulfil their own gluttonous desires. indiscriminate in their callousness, brutal in execution. Unloved.

I hear through my head the words of my father echo as I write this, as almost a laugh across a distant table, knowing that he should forever be correct in his judgement and that I should have interminably suffered his expectation, a failure. That perhaps he was always correct and it was I that had been mistaken, naught but a rotten apple.

This camp of mist and mystery holds but painful memories and I am reminded that all happiness is as fleeting as a leaf as it falls to the ground in an autumnal wind and withers within the ground beneath it. My presence causes tension and consternation. Perhaps I do not seek trouble, perhaps it has always been there by my side as a constant companion? And this gloating fiend beckons me to feed it.

I cling to your memory and yet you are but water betwixt my fingers, and the more I clutch at you the more you slip through them, the more I forget you as sand through an hourglass. That my memory of you should run out, this is what scares me above all else.

Vallaki is a town of the dead and to this graveyard of hope and ambition I return, a faded epitaph upon its tombstone.

Tu me manques,

Madamoiselle M. DeWynter

« Last Edit: March 07, 2023, 01:45:17 PM by Mordalynne »

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #22 on: March 06, 2023, 08:51:03 AM »
====================================

I knew she would come for me

My heart simultaneously wished that she would not, a moth drfiting towards the feverish flame of its inevitable demise yet I craved her intensely, yearned for her through my own avariciousness. But there she stood, loved and so in love, innocent and pure in her devotion. And as she slipped the ring upon my finger and pledged her steadfastness I knew that she was at last mine.

That night we lay together, our bodies entwined, and I loved her as a spider gently caresses a fly; That before she slept in my embrace I would be the last thing that she would see and think of. No knowledge would be denied me now, no desire or want that would go unfulfilled, and with our powers combined we would set the world alight with a cleansing fire that burned away the impurity and injustice. We would shape it how we saw fit and we would fear nothing.

And as laudanum took effect I lay with her, my arms around her bandaged waist, an embrace that would last forever, wrapped within whatever failing warmth she bled to me so that I might feel the same again. Her chest rose and fell as she fought the chasm of sleep to which she had already plummeted within, falling endlessly, but I knew that I would be there to catch her when she awoke. But what then, what of when she awoke? She thought me a hideous monster to suggest that I should be with her, hated me for whom my father was in mind and deed, fearful of a life enclosed within the same cage as I, unable to become mine... though I knew her resistance was misplaced.

My heart made my decision. With loving hands I gently squeezed her throat until her breath ceased and she resisted no more, calm upon the bed... and as we lay together I shared my comfort with her as she became cold, frozen in time, and I tasted the apple that she had touched and lovingly thrown at me in disgust.



====================================

Our lessons continue but not as before, not plagued by suspicion or wariness, but now as willing conspirator in our pursuits. From across the field I can feel her excitement rise as her heart beats faster at the incantations that she imparts, or when my name is spoken upon her lips as tutor to a student, lover to lover. These fiery conflagrations she conjours, this endless study of warding and theory of the metaphysical, symbolism and ritual... But there lies on my mind the learning of power to which she does not possess Stop it! but which I now impress upon her. For how are we to defend and steel ourselves against the Land's evil when we are ignorant of how it would function? To see the hands of our enemies as the summoned magics the likes of which we had never witnessed or experienced? We would let ignorance murder us where we stood, apathy and innocence our only enemies. No. I enquired of such magical tomes that we may peruse and though hesitant at first she became compliant, came to see this yearning from my point of view Please stop it! suggesting an excursion to a forgotten, dark instution that safely harboured grimoire brimming with forbidden lore.

And there back once again in the tiny, far corner, the beginnings of our own dominion, in the arms of each other as we promised that ours was of good intention. As she began the incantation of which I could not comprehend, to summon forth a circle that would instantaneously decay and wither all those who stood inside of it, my heart filled with pride and passion. Her undertaking was one of love You're hurting her, can't you see this? Let her go! and I loved her all the more for it.

But upon the rise of the final recitation she faltered, abruptly stopped... Thank the heavens, she had seen sense, I must take her from this place and far from that which I would have her do. And yet she looks at me through dfferent eyes. A fiery emptiness.


====================================

"Si tu lui brises le cœur, je mangerai le tien..."
"If you break her heart, I will eat yours..."

               "Alors je crains qu'il n'y ait pas grand-chose pour que tu te régales"
               "Then I fear that there will be little for you to feast upon"



                                      - A conversation at the Camp of the Dyad.
« Last Edit: March 06, 2023, 09:24:04 AM by Mordalynne »

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Mordalynne

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #23 on: March 06, 2023, 08:53:29 AM »
Appendix 11: The Fracture of the Mind. Part 3

It was burned upon my mind as if it were but yesterday.

Father's Grand Ball had concluded and his guests whispered in hushed voices of apprehension. He informed the assembled crowd that there lay a traitor amongst them and as he spoke he had the servant whipped as example of what he may do to whomsoever had stolen my affection from my betrothed. It was a terrifying occasion.

I had spoken out against his cruelty but my virtuous display had inspired his ire and he had lashed out against me in anger instead. The crimson blood dripped from my waist through the torn white gown I wore and I fled to my room that I may treat the wound. All the while the gathering in the Great Hall watched the 'entertainment' continue.

As the door to my chambers closed I could not help but break down in disgust, that everything I had loved greatly now lay in ruin and that I should flee to live out my life anew in some foreign land... But my words were met with revulsion, rejection. I had hated that I bore the name and blood that I did, that eventually I would become the vile, hollow shell that my father was. I wailed in despair and began screaming that I too was vile, and I picked the apple from the bowl and threw in to the wall in anger. My heart was empty. I was confused.

I poured wine to calm my hands, trembling with disgust, hysterical with fear, but my mind had been made up, of what I should do, to end it there and deprive him of any satisfaction. It was only as the extract of laudanum took effect upon my nerve that I stopped resisting, now almost motionless upon the ground where I lay as a crumpled heap. With what little energy I possessed I drew myself upon the bed and I closed my eyes in that the hope that I would finally be at last in peace... I listened to my breath as it weakened I knew that I would fear him no longer.

And I felt a contentment that I would always belong to myself no matter what...
« Last Edit: March 08, 2023, 07:01:07 AM by Mordalynne »

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Re: A Decaying Journal Bound With a White Ribbon
« Reply #24 on: March 07, 2023, 09:44:52 AM »

====================================

The contemptuous little busybody! Had I but promised Alice that no harm should come of her I would... I would... Argh! She is insufferable as she is interfering! This 'Vela' wretch haunts me in plain sight, milling around Alice as though she is her shadow, whispering to her that she imagines I may not hear, tugging her mind away from our work for her own lustful benefit no doubt. She knows of my ire and yet continues regardless, obviously green with envy of my possession, her flapping, long tongue gossiping behind my back to sully my name. How already like the odious toad she is already to save me the opportunity to transform her into one for an afternoon, as warning of course. But... I have promised, all to eager to appease it appears. I know of her social circles however, it would be shame indeed if she had to kiss her frog prince to break the curse that she brought upon them.*

Alice has informed me of her moment of weakness with this Vela in the forests and though she begs my forgiveness, sobbing at my feet, I informed her that it would not be forthcoming; She need never apologise to me ever in that the fault was not hers, that she was seduced to arouse my vexation in the hopes that I should falter or make error that may be capitalised upon; That I shall fall for this ruse or facade of romance, it insults my intelligence to think her scheme worthwhile.

Then the little viper had the audacity to meet me upon my hill, slithering upon her belly in penitence. As Vela hissed her apologies to me her words rung hollow and I imagined that should I have had the means I would have her whipped upon a wheel, an example to others as to what provoking my indignation would inspire. Perhaps there would be time still. Perhaps I now knew why father's public spectacles were warranted in his eyes and that I was too quick to judge him.

Alice belongs to me and I do not like thieves stealing my possessions.




The Unfortunate Happenstance of a Nosy Know-it-All

In others' lives she pokes and prods,
A busybody, oh so odd,
Her nose in every single thing,
No matter what the season brings.

But karma has a funny way,
Of making those just like her pay,
And so one day without delay,
She found herself in quite dismay.

A witch had heard her meddling ways,
And turned her to a toad that day,
Now hopping through the grass she stays,
Her interference all in vain.

So let this be a lesson learned,
To stay out of what's not concerned,
Lest you find yourself overturned,
Into a toad that's left to squirm.


« Last Edit: March 07, 2023, 01:45:00 PM by Mordalynne »

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In the darkest corners of the mind, Where shadows writhe and demons dwell, The wretched embodiment of Hell you'll find, In the abyss where silent reason fell