The Musings of Marius Valéreaux

[MsDianaQueen]

Une Lumière Prisée

A candle crafted with rough hands and hearts burns unevenly. The distinctive strike of the match brings a sudden, violent yet almost magical display of nature that allures the heart and seduces the mind. While the conceptual design may be flawless, the creation of the candle was done so through reckless abandon, creating a perfectly imperfect candle.
As the newly formed flame flutters with every movement of the match, the wind is a willing participant in the delicate dance that decides whether it is snuffed out or allowed to burn brightly. With every flicker, a desperate plea for existence screams out to a cruel and uncaring world, desperate to be granted peace for no more than a moment. The match burns and burns until nearing the end. As if in a final act of defiance the desperate creature leaps from the match and onto the candle, setting the wick alight. The spark finally has found a new host.

As the candle begins its affair with the strange yet alluring force, it begins to slowly drip from the sheer intensity of its will. As the flames calm and continue to lap away at the wax, the imperfections begin to manifest within the candle. Seeing these defects the elemental being lashes out at the candle, causing small bursts and pops from the waxen body which writhes and contorts in excruciating pain. With each lash the devilish light consumes more and more waxen flesh, causing the candle to become misshapen and what once was a seemingly ordinary candle is now virtually unrecognizable to those who would gaze upon it.
Wretched.
Failure.
Defective.
The candle endured the lashings and the beatings from its new companion to prove those who dissented incorrectly. Struggling to keep itself together the was begins to pool at the base, continuing to struggle to maintain its original form. Beating after grueling beating the candle endured, while onlookers sneered and scoffed at the pitiful excuse that appeared before their very eyes. Alas, despite the desperate struggles to cling to maintain its original form, the softened wax begins to give way, and the candle finally succumbs to the endless hunger of its indomitable host. Passersby will take no notice of the waxen puddle with a slightly smoldering wick, as to them it is simply not important enough to spare an ounce of attention.

[MsDianaQueen]

Small pieces of parchment appear to be scattered through the western outskirts of Vallaki, with some being nailed to trees or being left on the ground, as a rock keeps the paper from fluttering away in the wind.

[MsDianaQueen]

Conte du Vigneron

They say that producing a fine wine requires love and care, carefully cultivated within the fruits of the vine and harvested with gentle hands. A young woman reaches for the grapes, her tender ivory skin seeming to sparkle in the light as it is warmed by the sun's gentle rays. Her hair flows gracefully as the gentle breeze dances around her, the dress she wears fluttering to life with each passing gust. She grasps the plump grapes in her delicate palms, remaining cautious with her movements to not drop a single grape. She studies each one, searching for any visual imperfections that may hinder her production process. The corners of the woman’s tightly pursed lips begin to turn upwards, seemingly pleased with the quality of fruit ready for her to harvest.

She moves swiftly through the vineyard, her movement graceful and fluid. It appears that with each step is accompanied by a slight spring, allowing her to traverse swiftly yet effortlessly through the tangled vines. She begins to hum a small tune as she glides through the growth. A sickly sweet melody eminates from within the woman, creating an almost somber tone as she nears a grande estate. Inside the sprawling estate is an area that has wooden barrels sealed shut along the walls and cold damp stone lining every surface of the room. The etude reverberates off the smoothed stone, creating a cacophony of wails that pierce the heart. The young artisan begins to craft the wine, gently plucking the grapes with her dainty fingers. She begins to press the grapes, her enchanting smile beautifully framing the tender expression on her face. As the light red liquid begins to stain her fingertips, she begins to imbibe the juice with her very essence.

The volume of the humming begins to increase, causing the echoes to become louder and increasingly frantic. As sounds of wails become that of screams of agony, the woman continues to infuse the fledging wine. The anguished cries become increasingly louder and louder as the woman remains still, humming the melody seemingly undistracted by the noises around her. The horrific choir continues to swell in intensity until suddenly, a settling silence falls upon the room. The woman smiles slightly at the drink in front of her. A deep, rich, crimson-red wine now inhabits the wooden bucket. She peers down into the container at the creation before her with eyes that seem to reflect the inky hues of the libation. The woman gently scoops a bit of the freshly brewed wine out with a glass and inspects her creation. Her pursed lips part slightly, as she takes a sip of the wine, savoring the tannins, as a slight metallic twinge sharply hits the back of the throat. A twisted yet elegant smile appears on her face as she savors her perfected crafted glass of wine.

[MsDianaQueen]

A small piece of parchment lies on the ground, seemingly lost from private journal, some words smudged from tear drops

21st of the 8th month of the year 779:

I have spent the last few days in reflection. The events of the Keep of the Dyad has caused reverberations that will be felt for years to come. Twenty of the bravest souls amongst us went in, with only five exiting. Their sacrifice has not gone unnoticed, and in fact, is felt by those who may not have even known those who fell. The aire in the Mist Camp is that of remembrance and sorrow. Memorials and tributes left to those who have passed on by those who succeeded them.

The Marchand feels much quieter now.

I have a heavy heart while writing this, as at some point I have crossed paths with those who have departed, whether it was them lending their aide after I was attacked in Barovia while bravely pushing the mists back, to nights of drinking and merriment while enjoying a now unfortunately named “Death in the Afternoon.”  Or more recently spending the day tossing hammers, coal walking and sparring matches all under the glorious sight of the giant flaming horse.

Rayo, Solara, Ljot please know whatever that even in brief moments, your impact was significant.