Aubrey Domergue's loquacious recountings of personalities and tales

[Pandip]

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[Pandip]

Rennik, by mine estimation, is afflicted by the plight of the laborer. By all accounts he is a man with a good heart, but at the end of a long day of toils, it is easier to find comfort in cool ale and warm qalyan than in heroism. And, indeed, who can blame the carpenter for not wanting to wield nail and hammer with revolutionary intent when he has spent all day beneath the sun wielding them to feed his family?

Such was the way of Peerage Ward and such remains the way, it seems, of all places possessed with the gleam of civilization.

Nonetheless, I am gladdened to have had some small part in his ascent to a position in the Janissaries. He will do fine work - nay, has done fine work - with the cloak he has earned, no matter how deep my deception ran on that day. He seems to have already made a name for himself as a watchman good and just, of which the citadel ought be grateful for. There are few such individuals in Ephia's Well and, indeed, the whole of the world as mine eyes have seen it.

And yet! I knew he resented my ruse during the Janissary's assessments, but I was shocked - pleased? - to find that his resentment was not for the reason it at first seemed.

He resents me not for the ruse, but for the act of my refusal. He believes - and earnestly, it seems - that I ought have taken the duties. That I would make a good Janissary. That I am a good person. That such good people need to take the green.

Estellise harbored similar sentiments and spoke them, too.

I do not know whether to be flattered or miserable or insulted or somesuch other boiling emotion that might swell in my chest. I have toiled upon the dunes with the expectation that each day was my last. I have taken on the burden of levity when life has handed me a most severe sentence.

I am not a good person. I am vain and evil and villainous. I am a miserable wretch. I am an undeserving miser.

But--

I wonder if there isn'

What if there wa

Is it in the warm bosom of salvation wherein heroism blooms?

Do I truly become so soft?

Gods, let it not be.

[hide=Plain Text]Rennik, by mine estimation, is afflicted by the plight of the laborer. By all accounts he is a man with a good heart, but at the end of a long day of toils, it is easier to find comfort in cool ale and warm qalyan than in heroism. And, indeed, who can blame the carpenter for not wanting to wield nail and hammer with revolutionary intent when he has spent all day beneath the sun wielding them to feed his family?

Such was the way of Peerage Ward and such remains the way, it seems, of all places possessed with the gleam of civilization.

Nonetheless, I am gladdened to have had some small part in his ascent to a position in the Janissaries. He will do fine work - nay, has done fine work - with the cloak he has earned, no matter how deep my deception ran on that day. He seems to have already made a name for himself as a watchman good and just, of which the citadel ought be grateful for. There are few such individuals in Ephia's Well and, indeed, the whole of the world as mine eyes have seen it.

And yet! I knew he resented my ruse during the Janissary's assessments, but I was shocked - pleased? - to find that his resentment was not for the reason it at first seemed.

He resents me not for the ruse, but for the act of my refusal. He believes - and earnestly, it seems - that I ought have taken the duties. That I would make a good Janissary. That I am a good person. That such good people need to take the green.

Estellise harbored similar sentiments and spoke them, too.

I do not know whether to be flattered or miserable or insulted or somesuch other boiling emotion that might swell in my chest. I have toiled upon the dunes with the expectation that each day was my last. I have taken on the burden of levity when life has handed me a most severe sentence.

I am not a good person. I am vain and evil and villainous. I am a miserable wretch. I am an undeserving miser.

But--

I wonder if there isn'

What if there wa

Is it in the warm bosom of salvation wherein heroism blooms?

Do I truly become so soft?

Gods, let it not be.[/hide]

[Pandip]

Shane Gallows was one of the first people I met upon the pyramid and, for better or worse, a man that seemed intent upon harrying my efforts and uplifting them in near equal measure.

I recall well when he told me of his well-hatched plot; of worming himself into the pyramid on a clerical error; of his blatant misuse of accessible licenses; of his political affiliation with the Whites; of his desire to worm at the system from within.

And in that moment, I congratulated him for a racket most deviously concocted.

This is the pragmatism that is plainly necessary for the Whites to succeed. Their rejection of it is a rejection of history; of present; of reality. Men like Arterian would have us stew in ash and shit outside of Ephia's Walls, calling it virtue. They would spend every dinar on spurning the societal truths laid before them. They would soon forget that rebellion tore apart the Orentid state. They would quickly disregard the lot given unto the Rose for their bluster against the Sultan. They would turn their eyes from the sight of skeletons in the ash; skeletons of men who tread the same path before.

That is the greatest aspect of selfishness in mine eyes: the sumptuous ego required to believe a few dinars and a day of charity is enough to make a man's soul just and true. Even worse, it is a delusion that such an act of self-fulfillment shall make society more fair. I say such men are destined to watch their neighbors starve for water with a smug smile upon their lips! "I am the goodest man, cannot you see? For I give mine dinar so verily."

Do not they see the grotesque parallels with which they parrot John Syter's malicious rhetoric?

Shane may have been marvelous if not for his propensity to move ill forged schemes the way a stream moves water. He reached so earnestly for the stars and became swallowed by the darkness betwixt. I knew with every breath he spoke in every subsequent day that his tale would end in a disaster most foul.

And now, I wonder now how much of mine desire to defend him was a product of self-interest and how much came from friendship true. My heart swelt with a sadness that nagged incessantly upon that aforementioned pragmatism as I watched him march to his doom.

In sooth, he did nothing wrong. He merely wronged the right people. Look upon that list of licenses and show me a man in destitution. Look upon that list, indeed, and prove it is not a plain accounting of the Well's richest and most influential. Look upon the pyramid and show me a government that did not cultivate his behavior. Look upon palatial scribes and show me an organization that was not eager to profit from its newcomer's indiscretions.

Mayhap his story is over. Mayhap he shall scheme again.

But mine story continues and I must trudge forth, step by step, boot by boot, score by score - if only to ensure the crawling chase of Doom is kept at bay just another day more.

[hide=Plain Text]Shane Gallows was one of the first people I met upon the pyramid and, for better or worse, a man that seemed intent upon harrying my efforts and uplifting them in near equal measure.

I recall well when he told me of his well-hatched plot; of worming himself into the pyramid on a clerical error; of his blatant misuse of accessible licenses; of his political affiliation with the Whites; of his desire to worm at the system from within.

And in that moment, I congratulated him for a racket most deviously concocted.

This is the pragmatism that is plainly necessary for the Whites to succeed. Their rejection of it is a rejection of history; of present; of reality. Men like Arterian would have us stew in ash and shit outside of Ephia's Walls, calling it virtue. They would spend every dinar on spurning the societal truths laid before them. They would soon forget that rebellion tore apart the Orentid state. They would quickly disregard the lot given unto the Rose for their bluster against the Sultan. They would turn their eyes from the sight of skeletons in the ash; skeletons of men who tread the same path before.

That is the greatest aspect of selfishness in mine eyes: the sumptuous ego required to believe a few dinars and a day of charity is enough to make a man's soul just and true. Even worse, it is a delusion that such an act of self-fulfillment shall make society more fair. I say such men are destined to watch their neighbors starve for water with a smug smile upon their lips! "I am the goodest man, cannot you see? For I give mine dinar so verily."

Do not they see the grotesque parallels with which they parrot John Syter's malicious rhetoric?

Shane may have been marvelous if not for his propensity to move ill forged schemes the way a stream moves water. He reached so earnestly for the stars and became swallowed by the darkness betwixt. I knew with every breath he spoke in every subsequent day that his tale would end in a disaster most foul.

And I wonder now how much of mine desire to defend him was a product of self-interest and how much came from friendship true. My heart swelt with a sadness that nagged incessantly upon that aforementioned pragmatism as I watched him march to his doom.

In sooth, he did nothing wrong. He merely wronged the right people. Look upon that list of licenses and show me a man in destitution. Look upon that list, indeed, and prove it is not a plain accounting of the Well's richest and most influential. Look upon the pyramid and show me a government that did not cultivate his behavior. Look upon palatial scribes and show me an organization that was not eager to profit from its newcomer's indiscretions.

Mayhap his story is over. Mayhap he shall scheme again.

But mine story continues and I must trudge forth, step by step, boot by boot, score by score - if only to ensure the crawling chase of Doom is kept at bay just another day more.[/hide]

[Pandip]

I have had a great need to scrawl thoughts upon parchment for some time and neglected the instinct for other things; things of a non-introspective nature. This habit of thought-scrawling was developed on a long road with much time to reflect. It was a method to soothe anxieties and work through the trevails of leadership. But now mine life has transformed into a fury of activity. So much so that these quiet, anxious moments of reflection have been stolen from me by bombastic, many-colored thrills.

But acts of a more studious nature - of reflection and contemplation and analysis - are in my mind doubtlessly as important as the physical and frenetic. The mere act of writing demands commitment; through this act, suppositions are turned into predictions.. A mark made upon history with the same permanence as ink laid upon the page. As I write, thoughts are plucked from the swirling vortex of mine mind and given a birth of solidity and permanence.

It is easy to look back upon one's actions and say, "I thought so." It is much greater a task to thrust forth your work and say, "I wrote so and wrote true."

Such is the mountainous nature of publication, in sooth; to dip the concrete formulation of ideas upon parchment and present it to the acid bath of critique.

I thought, indeed, of writing some days afore about mine matronly instinct to coddle and protect those in my midst. The Edhas, who I envisioned as darling daughters with no voice with which to speak. The Estellises, who I perceived as struggling to balance temerity with capacity. I presumed that each would falter if not for mine intervention. And yet, they have proven me most wrong. They have demonstrated that they are fierce and capable and strong.

In spite of mine instinct to doubt, I grow proud of these few who have stood above the din. I look upon Edha and Estellise with blooming warmth. And I abhor that pride and that warmth; I hate it with the passion of a thousand burning suns. It is a weakness I would carve out from mine chest. But try as I might, I cannot compel mine hands to wield the knife.

Shane? Shane was an easy cohort to keep. A snake knows a snake.

But this weakness shall spell mine Doom.

[hide=Plain Text]I have had a great need to scrawl thoughts upon parchment for some time and neglected the instinct for other things; things of a non-introspective nature. This habit of thought-scrawling was developed on a long road with much time to reflect. It was a method to soothe anxieties and work through the trevails of leadership. But now mine life has transformed into a fury of activity. So much so that these quiet, anxious moments of reflection have been stolen from me by bombastic, many-colored thrills.

But acts of a more studious nature - of reflection and contemplation and analysis - are in my mind doubtlessly as important as the physical and frenetic. The mere act of writing demands commitment; through this act, suppositions are turned into predictions. A mark made upon history with the same permanence as ink laid upon the page. As I write, thoughts are plucked from the swirling vortex of mine mind and given a birth of solidity and permanence.

It is easy to look back upon one's actions and say, "I thought so." It is much greater a task to thrust forth your work and say, "I wrote so and wrote true."

Such is the mountainous nature of publication, in sooth; to dip the concrete formulation of ideas upon parchment and present it to the acid bath of critique.

I thought, indeed, of writing some days afore about mine matronly instinct to coddle and protect those in my midst. The Edhas, who I envisioned as darling daughters with no voice with which to speak. The Estellises, who I perceived as struggling to balance temerity with capacity. I presumed that each would falter if not for mine intervention. And yet, they have proven me most wrong. They have demonstrated that they are fierce and capable and strong.

In spite of mine instinct to doubt, I grow proud of these few who have stood above the din. I look upon Edha and Estellise with blooming warmth. And I abhor that pride and that warmth; I hate it with the passion of a thousand burning suns. It is a weakness I would carve out from mine chest. But try as I might, I cannot compel mine hands to wield the knife.

Shane? Shane was an easy cohort to keep. A snake knows a snake.

But this weakness shall spell mine Doom.[/hide]

[Pandip]

The Old World does not seem so far away now. The problems I faced in that era of my life haunt me still, even in these new environs. The people are not so dissimilar; they are not even compelled to wear a different veneer to conceal their sameness.

I have been mocked and cast as the villain of mine own story. I have been humiliated by rumors spread with the intention of injecting me with a venom not of mine own make. I struggle in equal measure to scurry out from the shadow of mine predecessor's greatness and the billowing smoke clouds of his wrongdoing.

I am a failure. Even offered a second chance, even given the miraculous luck necessary to claw Survival from the clutches of Doom, I continue to fail.

Was it a byproduct of mistakes repeated unnecessarily? Was it simply my self-inflicted nature which led me astray anew? Am I forever damned to have salvation within reach, only for it to be plucked away?

I hate that Velan was right. I hate that I could not even concoct a factitious argument to the contrary. The keenness with which he identified mine many flaws was disconcerting. I hate that I am so predictable.

I want to scream so loud my neck bursts with crimson viscera.

But the despair tastes different this time. There is a triumph underneath all the layers of misery; a sensation I feel most sharply whensoever I look upon Lynneth and mine companions, Cinquefoil and elsewise.

I cling to that sensation, so desperate I feel my knuckles whiten.

[hide=Plain Text]The Old World does not seem so far away now. The problems I faced in that era of my life haunt me still, even in these new environs. The people are not so dissimilar; they are not even compelled to wear a different veneer to conceal their sameness.

I have been mocked and cast as the villain of mine own story. I have been humiliated by rumors spread with the intention of injecting me with a venom not of mine own make. I struggle in equal measure to scurry out from the shadow of mine predecessor's greatness and the billowing smoke clouds of his wrongdoing.

I am a failure. Even offered a second chance, even given the miraculous luck necessary to claw Survival from the clutches of Doom, I continue to fail.

Was it a byproduct of mistakes repeated unnecessarily? Was it simply my self-inflicted nature which led me astray anew? Am I forever damned to have salvation within reach, only for it to be plucked away?

I hate that Velan was right. I hate that I could not even concoct a factitious argument to the contrary. The keenness with which he identified mine many flaws was disconcerting. I hate that I am so predictable.

I want to scream so loud my neck bursts with crimson viscera.

But the despair tastes different this time. There is a triumph underneath all the layers of misery; a sensation I feel most sharply whensoever I look upon Lynneth and mine companions, Cinquefoil and elsewise.

I cling to that sensation, so desperate I feel my knuckles whiten.[/hide]

[Pandip]

Mayhap I need to learn to take my own advice.

It is ironic to think that I bid Estellise to cast aside the presumptions of others and tread her own trail when I have made myself concerned with the opinions of the audience to near obsession. But I begin to fret. Have I insulated myself too much from mine actions? I feel it becoming increasingly difficult to take credit for the efforts I have orchestrated and the gains I have clawed.

After all, who shall write upon the conquests and achievements of a shadow?

In that way, I wonder if I have ceded too much territory and control over to Lynneth in my quest to reinvigorate my public image. She now bristles with confidence and panache, calling what is ours, hers; even taking what is my making and crediting it solely to her own brilliance. It itches and frustrates me, but I know these are misguided and willful thoughts. They must be, no?

Nonetheless, it bears repeating: I have made her too-reasonable a foil to my unreasonable mien. She has not suffered many consequences for the boisterousness I have demanded of her. It leaves me wondering: Do others merely abhor me and therefore wish to undermine my actions more vociferously than hers?

Whatever the case, I do not trust Cosine and Vergal enough to leave this plan of mine to languish much longer. I must demand the list, command Gianluca's acquiescence, and make the announcement by week's end or we may rapidly lose momentum.

[hide=Plain Text]Mayhap I need to learn to take my own advice.

It is ironic to think that I bid Estellise to cast aside the presumptions of others and tread her own trail when I have made myself concerned with the opinions of the audience to near obsession. But I begin to fret. Have I insulated myself too much from mine actions? I feel it becoming increasingly difficult to take credit for the efforts I have orchestrated and the gains I have clawed.

After all, who shall write upon the conquests and achievements of a shadow?

In that way, I wonder if I have ceded too much territory and control over to Lynneth in my quest to reinvigorate my public image. She now bristles with confidence and panache, calling what is ours, hers; even taking what is my making and crediting it solely to her own brilliance. It itches and frustrates me, but I know these are misguided and willful thoughts. They must be, no?

Nonetheless, it bears repeating: I have made her too-reasonable a foil to my unreasonable mien. She has not suffered many consequences for the boisterousness I have demanded of her. It leaves me wondering: Do others merely abhor me and therefore wish to undermine my actions more vociferously than hers?

Whatever the case, I do not trust Cosine and Vergal enough to leave this plan of mine to languish much longer. I must demand the list, command Gianluca's acquiescence, and make the announcement by week's end or we may rapidly lose momentum.[/hide]

[Pandip]

I am more audience member now than participant in the grand play and, in sooth, there is comfort in fretting over the simplest things. I have derived joy from sharing a bottle of wine with Jacques and balancing ledgers whilst we snicker at van Pommerst's cracking whip. I watch the many eyes gleaming covetously at the bounty boards and I confess, there is a tinge of envy. But I feel as if I have outgrown such mild adventures; the slaying of the fourtieth goblin feels hollow compared to the political machinations for the soul of the citadel.

In that way, Ephia's Well is quiet. I do not know if this is a mercy. I go to Jodfry and I beg, "Where has the commotion gone?" And he shrugs his shoulders. Four or six groups taking contracts, seeking wealth and glory in equal measure. The Krak is dreadfully silent of late. Where there was once a hum, there is now a distant shuffling. The sound of a disgruntled Balestriere pushing a drunk out of a corner has replaced the roar of activity and indignance.

A part of me wonders if this is not a worthwhile retirement; tending to fiduciary responsibilities and balancing dinars while the world crawls slowly forward outside. How I would have begged for this inevitability just a year past! Indeed, the wine is good, the company is grand, the accommodations plush! But now that I have it, I fret over whether I have become a masochistic glutton, hungry for my next meal of death and danger.

But as I hear the familiar hawking over the bellows - "We require an arcane weaver!" - I find myself more interested in the hunt for a missing vase in our stores than the hunt for a fifth companion on the road.

[hide=Plain Text]I am more audience member now than participant in the grand play and, in sooth, there is comfort in fretting over the simplest things. I have derived joy from sharing a bottle of wine with Jacques and balancing ledgers whilst we snicker at van Pommerst's cracking whip. I watch the many eyes gleaming covetously at the bounty boards and I confess, there is a tinge of envy. But I feel as if I have outgrown such mild adventures; the slaying of the fourtieth goblin feels hollow compared to the political machinations for the soul of the citadel.

In that way, Ephia's Well is quiet. I do not know if this is a mercy. I go to Jodfry and I beg, "Where has the commotion gone?" And he shrugs his shoulders. Four or six groups taking contracts, seeking wealth and glory in equal measure. The Krak is dreadfully silent of late. Where there was once a hum, there is now a distant shuffling. The sound of a disgruntled Balestriere pushing a drunk out of a corner has replaced the roar of activity and indignance.

A part of me wonders if this is not a worthwhile retirement; tending to fiduciary responsibilities and balancing dinars while the world crawls slowly forward outside. How I would have begged for this inevitability just a year past! Indeed, the wine is good, the company is grand, the accommodations plush! But now that I have it, I fret over whether I have become a masochistic glutton, hungry for my next meal of death and danger.

But as I hear the familiar hawking over the bellows - "We require an arcane weaver!" - I find myself more interested in the hunt for a missing vase in our stores than the hunt for a fifth companion on the road.[/hide]

[Pandip]

This journal has become a blasted remembrance of the darkest and most tumultuous times that I have spent in the citadel. And yet I am here again, returned to the well of misery and reupping my dues.

Two roses blossom in the garden.
One is plucked of a petal.
It withers
And dies.
The other blooms.
Vibrant and Radiant.

Let us hope I experience some swell of vibrancy in the near future. I feel dim compared to Lynneth's resplendence. I was prepared to die on that battlefield. Eager for it, even. I was ready to see the mantle laid fully into the hands of the next generation.

I am not so inclined to dishonor the dead by suggesting that I ought be dead for the indignity of survival. But I do wonder how much easier it would have been to die heroically rather than being burdened with carrying the weight of heroes into the future.

Everyone is distraught and grieving. I feel obligated to keep them on their feet. But whose duty is it to catch me when my quavering legs give out?

I am getting too old to keep doing this.

Hide

This journal has become a blasted remembrance of the darkest and most tumultuous times that I have spent in the citadel. And yet I am here again, returned to the well of misery and reupping my dues.

Two roses blossom in the garden.
One is plucked of a petal.
It withers
And dies.
The other blooms.
Vibrant and Radiant.

Let us hope I experience some swell of vibrancy in the near future. I feel dim compared to Lynneth's resplendence. I was prepared to die on that battlefield. Eager for it, even. I was ready to see the mantle laid fully into the hands of the next generation.

I am not so inclined to dishonor the dead by suggesting that I ought be dead for the indignity of survival. But I do wonder how much easier it would have been to die heroically rather than being burdened with carrying the weight of heroes into the future.

Everyone is distraught and grieving. I feel obligated to keep them on their feet. But whose duty is it to catch me when my quavering legs give out?

I am getting too old to keep doing this.

[close]

[Pandip]

Sometimes I wonder whether I am trapped in an amber prison, forced to watch people move and shift from a place of stasis. It feels as if the world is a whirlwind of change; transforming people and loyalties. Diakos, from mentor to traitor. Lynneth, from student to superior. Rennik, from conspirator to rival. So many faces that were unfamiliar in those earliest days have transformed into figureheads of our citadel.

Cosine and Mae appear to be chief amongst these. Oh how I long for the days of their bumbling foolishness; of the naivette in my pity for them. How quickly they have surged in confidence and renown! How quickly their foolishness has turned to dangerous folly.

But I feel the same. The same woman I was. Just older; more worn and weary. Have I gotten better? Have I gotten worse? I lost track of the moment when lip service to Warad became a comforting familiarity, like an ever-present companion. I felt such a roiling indignance as I learned about the shards of the Red Star; about the casual indifference with which Marcellus demanded its calling and the glee with which the astronomers justified their rituals. Once, such indignance was reserved for those who wronged me. Those arguments of the Old World seem petty by comparison to what we wrestle with today.

I miss that Mae Stern; the one overlooked for inclusion in the Astronomers; the one turned aside for epochs as others ascended. I would never have found cause to demand the death of that Mae.

I wonder if this dread is something Estellise experiences whilst she scours potential futures. I mislike contemplating grim and dire potentialities.

Hide

Sometimes I wonder whether I am trapped in an amber prison, forced to watch people move and shift from a place of stasis. It feels as if the world is a whirlwind of change; transforming people and loyalties. Diakos, from mentor to traitor. Lynneth, from student to superior. Rennik, from conspirator to rival. So many faces that were unfamiliar in those earliest days have transformed into figureheads of our citadel.

Cosine and Mae appear to be chief amongst these. Oh how I long for the days of their bumbling foolishness; of the naivette in my pity for them. How quickly they have surged in confidence and renown! How quickly their foolishness has turned to dangerous folly.

But I feel the same. The same woman I was. Just older; more worn and weary. Have I gotten better? Have I gotten worse? I lost track of the moment when lip service to Warad became a comforting familiarity, like an ever-present companion. I felt such a roiling indignance as I learned about the shards of the Red Star; about the casual indifference with which Marcellus demanded its calling and the glee with which the astronomers justified their rituals. Once, such indignance was reserved for those who wronged me. Those arguments of the Old World seem petty by comparison to what we wrestle with today.

I miss that Mae Stern; the one overlooked for inclusion in the Astronomers; the one turned aside for epochs as others ascended. I would never have found cause to demand the death of that Mae.

I wonder if this dread is something Estellise experiences whilst she scours potential futures. I mislike contemplating grim and dire potentialities.

[close]

[Pandip]

I am split, it seems, in eight different directions; pulled by forces which demand my time and attention with ferocious rapacity.

The greatest of these opposite agents is, of course, the split between the White League and the Cinquefoil Rose. I am incessantly accused by both parties that I am not fully committed to either of them. But how dare they? I have done more for both the Lily and the Rose than most people can claim to have done for either individually!

Perhaps there was a time long ago when my allegiance to either was a matter of convenience - of garnering prestige and recognition in a citadel where refugees were scorned and one needed to stand out from the masses. But to-day, I should no longer be perceived as some half-committed layabout, exploiting easy avenues to fame and glory. I have proven myself, have I not? I have seen death and destruction! I have faced oblivion and spat into the void!

And yet, if I am sincere, I must confess there is truth hereabouts. My heart is stationed somewhere between a purity towards either cause. In some matters, the Lily is watered first. In others, the Rose. And I cannot be compelled to abandon one for the other. I believe passionately that they are interwoven in purpose and futures. But so often, I am dismayed by how eagerly others will tell me that these are separate paths - that treading one means neglecting another.

There are many such games being played. I wonder when they will tear me apart. I wonder what seeming I would take given a different path. I wonder why I keep seeing visions. I wonder what Aubrey Domergue's life looks like, chainmail weathered by travel and a greatsword on her shoulder.

What life have you lived, Sister? And why do I long so desperately to live it?

Hide

I am split, it seems, in eight different directions; pulled by forces which demand my time and attention with ferocious rapacity.

The greatest of these opposite agents is, of course, the split between the White League and the Cinquefoil Rose. I am incessantly accused by both parties that I am not fully committed to either of them. But how dare they? I have done more for both the Lily and the Rose than most people can claim to have done for either individually!

Perhaps there was a time long ago when my allegiance to either was a matter of convenience - of garnering prestige and recognition in a citadel where refugees were scorned and one needed to stand out from the masses. But to-day, I should no longer be perceived as some half-committed layabout, exploiting easy avenues to fame and glory. I have proven myself, have I not? I have seen death and destruction! I have faced oblivion and spat into the void!

And yet, if I am sincere, I must confess there is truth hereabouts. My heart is stationed somewhere between a purity towards either cause. In some matters, the Lily is watered first. In others, the Rose. And I cannot be compelled to abandon one for the other. I believe passionately that they are interwoven in purpose and futures. But so often, I am dismayed by how eagerly others will tell me that these are separate paths - that treading one means neglecting another.

There are many such games being played. I wonder when they will tear me apart. I wonder what seeming I would take given a different path. I wonder why I keep seeing visions. I wonder what Aubrey Domergue's life looks like, chainmail weathered by travel and a greatsword on her shoulder.

What life have you lived, Sister? And why do I long so desperately to live it?

[close]

[Pandip]

I wonder whether there is a measure of rest to be had at any juncture. When does the road curl around a bend, only for the next turn to reveal a comfortable lodge where I might rest my head? Every journey feels more arduous than the next, every trail more ragged and uneven than its predecessor. I can scarcely recall the taste of victory, so often is it soured by the bitterness of loss - supplemented, as ever, by a steady diet of defeat.

Is there a point at which the difficulties melt away and the intervening hours are spent in bliss? The Sisters and my fellow Balladeers would have me believe that we are owed this - that it is waiting for us, if we are just faithful or diligent enough. But I am baffled by their measures of "diligence." Do they not understand the daily toils necessary to see us take a singular step forward towards our goal? Are they not intimately aware that the path does not reveal itself to those who will not move their boots to meet it?

They are going on another one of these journeys. I mislike it. I mislike seeing the form of Lynneth and being told that the future is ours. It is not; it has never been. Owed! What is owed but misery and sadness? Anything we are owed is only made so because we have dutifully extracted it from the world around us.

The other Balladeers? They see these visions and fool themselves into believing that the future is one of inevitable hope! But when I gaze upon these Misty images, I know plainly that we have not done enough to coerce the world into mirroring that vision of Paradise.

Hide

I wonder whether there is a measure of rest to be had at any juncture. When does the road curl around a bend, only for the next turn to reveal a comfortable lodge where I might rest my head? Every journey feels more arduous than the next, every trail more ragged and uneven than its predecessor. I can scarcely recall the taste of victory, so often is it soured by the bitterness of loss - supplemented, as ever, by a steady diet of defeat.

Is there a point at which the difficulties melt away and the intervening hours are spent in bliss? The Sisters and my fellow Balladeers would have me believe that we are owed this - that it is waiting for us, if we are just faithful or diligent enough. But I am baffled by their measures of "diligence." Do they not understand the daily toils necessary to see us take a singular step forward towards our goal? Are they not intimately aware that the path does not reveal itself to those who will not move their boots to meet it?

They are going on another one of these journeys. I mislike it. I mislike seeing the form of Lynneth and being told that the future is ours. It is not; it has never been. Owed! What is owed but misery and sadness? Anything we are owed is only made so because we have dutifully extracted it from the world around us.

The other Balladeers? They see these visions and fool themselves into believing that the future is one of inevitable hope! But when I gaze upon these Misty images, I know plainly that we have not done enough to coerce the world into mirroring that vision of Paradise.

[close]

[Pandip]

I am aflush with the hope and anxiety of new roads traveled.

I have been graced with recognition by Elizabetha and instead handed her my cloak. My hand still shakes, even as I write this, with a worry and yearning for that other path.

I see a future for which I have dreamed and I ache to make it tangible. Have I made the right choice? It is a question which, as ever, nags me incessantly.

Certainly, there are many people throughout our citadel like me who dream readily of futures greater than our own. They wonder at what could be, given the right circumstances. They speak easily of what could be attained, if only our surroundings made it so.

But too often do we only dream! It lulls us into false security; comforts us during inequities, muddies our tenacity to press forth. A dream is only fantasy until we are driven to mold the world into its vision. We cannot sit idle and merely pray for succor. We must instead sing such that our neighbors are galvanized to action so that its coming is inevitable! We must craft a better world through our own hands, diligently put to purpose!

And why not my hands? I have watched, too often, as I have ceded center stage to others. I have anguished for too long as I have seen carefully laid plans fall to disarray. I have hoped, beyond hope, that Ephia's Well would direct itself on a natural course towards that Valley of Paradise I see in my visions.

This, I realize now, has been my folly all along. I have mistaken dreams for reality.

I shall be both Legate and Lyrist in tandem.

I will lead Ephia's Well towards prosperity.

I am Aubrey Domergue. My contemparies shall undoubtedly abhor me, but history will mark this as an era leading to fond futures. Elsewise, I shall perish in my efforts to ensure it.

Hide

I am aflush with the hope and anxiety of new roads traveled.

I have been graced with recognition by Elizabetha and instead handed her my cloak. My hand still shakes, even as I write this, with a worry and yearning for that other path.

I see a future for which I have dreamed and I ache to make it tangible. Have I made the right choice? It is a question which, as ever, nags me incessantly.

Certainly, there are many people throughout our citadel like me who dream readily of futures greater than our own. They wonder at what could be, given the right circumstances. They speak easily of what could be attained, if only our surroundings made it so.

But too often do we only dream! It lulls us into false security; comforts us during inequities, muddies our tenacity to press forth. A dream is only fantasy until we are driven to mold the world into its vision. We cannot sit idle and merely pray for succor. We must instead sing such that our neighbors are galvanized to action so that its coming is inevitable! We must craft a better world through our own hands, diligently put to purpose!

And why not my hands? I have watched, too often, as I have ceded center stage to others. I have anguished for too long as I have seen carefully laid plans fall to disarray. I have hoped, beyond hope, that Ephia's Well would direct itself on a natural course towards that Valley of Paradise I see in my visions.

This, I realize now, has been my folly all along. I have mistaken dreams for reality.

I shall be both Legate and Lyrist in tandem.

I will lead Ephia's Well towards prosperity.

I am Aubrey Domergue. My contemparies shall undoubtedly abhor me, but history will mark this as an era leading to fond futures. Elsewise, I shall perish in my efforts to ensure it.

[close]

[Pandip]

Digging through this journal is difficult, cracked and wrinkled as it is with future promises and past mistakes. It is, by any reasonable measure, an attestation of my thorough failures during my time in Ephia's Well. I am left to wonder what I have achieved save surviving the brutal passage of time in the Great Ash Desert.

Constantine yet eludes me. In spite of my best efforts, I have been unsuccessful in gaining ground in my hunt for him. Simultaneously navigating the Sibilant masses and the hordes of Iakmes proved more difficulty work than originally anticipated, even lonesome as I was. I hoped the feast would provide some closure on this matter. I knew seeing Constantine there would be a dissatisfying climax - knowing I could not stake my vengeance against him - but I hoped it would provide closure nonetheless. Alas, the snake was nowhere to be found. And the hunt continues.

Things change so marginally hereabouts. Doom rests on the horizon. The legates are incapable of leadership. Baz'eel looms as a large shadow. The desert looks to us for guidance and succor but refuses our bids for unity. The earth quakes beneath us. And ever more, the gaze of the Disc hones in on its epicentre - Ephia's Well; its histories, its People, its future.

Our jeweled citadel rests at the eye of a storm that encapsulates the entire world. And I know not how to proffer even a shred of salvation before that storm collapses inward and destroys us all.

The Dakhwar awaits. Oh, it ever awaits.

But does it await me?

Mayhap it was delusional to ever think it did.

Plain Text

Digging through this journal is difficult, cracked and wrinkled as it is with future promises and past mistakes. It is, by any reasonable measure, an attestation of my thorough failures during my time in Ephia's Well. I am left to wonder what I have achieved save surviving the brutal passage of time in the Great Ash Desert.

Constantine yet eludes me. In spite of my best efforts, I have been unsuccessful in gaining ground in my hunt for him. Simultaneously navigating the Sibilant masses and the hordes of Iakmes proved more difficulty work than originally anticipated, even lonesome as I was. I hoped the feast would provide some closure on this matter. I knew seeing Constantine there would be a dissatisfying climax - knowing I could not stake my vengeance against him - but I hoped it would provide closure nonetheless. Alas, the snake was nowhere to be found. And the hunt continues.

Things change so marginally hereabouts. Doom rests on the horizon. The legates are incapable of leadership. Baz'eel looms as a large shadow. The desert looks to us for guidance and succor but refuses our bids for unity. The earth quakes beneath us. And ever more, the gaze of the Disc hones in on its epicentre - Ephia's Well; its histories, its People, its future.

Our jeweled citadel rests at the eye of a storm that encapsulates the entire world. And I know not how to proffer even a shred of salvation before that storm collapses inward and destroys us all.

The Dakhwar awaits. Oh, it ever awaits.

But does it await me?

Mayhap it was delusional to ever think it did.

[close]

[Pandip]

At this point, I am near certain Rebecca knew what was going to happen at Assembly. She was too keenly pleased by my approach for aid; too eager to lend it without condition.  She smiled too broadly because she knew how far a small measure of reason would go with me. She anticipated that I could not expose myself and ask for aid from the Sisterhood, then fail to defend them when the hammer of Kha'esh loomed overhead. And so I was drawn again back into her too-loving grasp. It seems inevitable every time I attempt to turn away from that stare.

I truly wonder what things might have been like had I accepted Cosine's offer of independence. Would I be Legate? Even today, even still? Would everyone recognize that I can see the path forward? Would the People lay their trust in my hands? Would they allow me to ferry them unto better futures?

Methinks that is a wishful dream. That is not my path anymore. It is as Argent says; the legates are only afforded so many critical decisions before the burden of those decisions collapses on them from all sides.

But everyone gazes at me like a mad woman when I express a hint of doubt in the Sisters. A snake ever knows a snake - and I feel as if I step into a viper's den whensoever I nose my way into that Priory. Every attack upon the Sisterhood from without fails to shaky evidence and piles of testimony to the contrary. The Astronomers have ever seemed the unreasonable and jealous rival. The only steady ground the Janissary have to stand on is the accusations of drug-peddling - and even that is uneven terrain. Even this endeavor has served only to paint them in a more kindly light. Are they so bad? Certainly, they have not demonstrated any abject villainy. No ill intent. No malicious results.

But a snake knows a snake.

A snake knows a snake.

A snake knows a snake.

Selsi returning and the surfeit of new acolytes makes the situation even more difficult to navigate.

And the visions. The visions! Would that they did not feel so real, so tangible. I know I can give them form. But how?

How?

Plain Text

At this point, I am near certain Rebecca knew what was going to happen at Assembly. She was too keenly pleased by my approach for aid; too eager to lend it without condition.  She smiled too broadly because she knew how far a small measure of reason would go with me. She anticipated that I could not expose myself and ask for aid from the Sisterhood, then fail to defend them when the hammer of Kha'esh loomed overhead. And so I was drawn again back into her too-loving grasp. It seems inevitable every time I attempt to turn away from that stare.

I truly wonder what things might have been like had I accepted Cosine's offer of independence. Would I be Legate? Even today, even still? Would everyone recognize that I can see the path forward? Would the People lay their trust in my hands? Would they allow me to ferry them unto better futures?

Methinks that is a wishful dream. That is not my path anymore. It is as Argent says; the legates are only afforded so many critical decisions before the burden of those decisions collapses on them from all sides.

But everyone gazes at me like a mad woman when I express a hint of doubt in the Sisters. A snake ever knows a snake - and I feel as if I step into a viper's den whensoever I nose my way into that Priory. Every attack upon the Sisterhood from without fails to shaky evidence and piles of testimony to the contrary. The Astronomers have ever seemed the unreasonable and jealous rival. The only steady ground the Janissary have to stand on is the accusations of drug-peddling - and even that is uneven terrain. Even this endeavor has served only to paint them in a more kindly light. Are they so bad? Certainly, they have not demonstrated any abject villainy. No ill intent. No malicious results.

But a snake knows a snake.

A snake knows a snake.

A snake knows a snake.

Selsi returning and the surfeit of new acolytes makes the situation even more difficult to navigate.

And the visions. The visions! Would that they did not feel so real, so tangible. I know I can give them form. But how?

How?

[close]

[Pandip]

I have been so frequently afflicted by the sting of failure and disappointment that its absence feels a unique circumstance. It is a strange thing, to look upon the landscape of Ephia's Well and Bel-Ishun and not feel a sense of roiling dejection at the state of the board. But today, I find myself apprehensively hopeful for the future.

Kardesler, a success in spite of the irrational snubbing of Il Modo's predictable desires. High Kulkund, a welcome surprise to the grim festivities of a war council. We are, little by little, gathering momentum abroad in spite of handfuls of missteps. And at home? A candidate has been secured at the eleventh hour. Marcellus' reign seems as if it may finally be on a downturn. Balstan, while not the perfect candidate, has kept to his promises in an admirable fashion. And, mayhap most importantly, the Cinquefoil Rose stands with more unity than I have perceived in the past.

Rosseau is no small part of this. It is amusing to witness the shift in her priorities during my absence. She would never admit it, but her newfound perspective is a result of the precise matter I pressed upon her all those months ago during my election. Once ambition takes the reigns of motivation - once the coffers are flush and the priority of dinars over dignity seems a naive concern of a green Recluta - the truth comes into shining focus. I am finding that I look upon her company with increasing fondness. The sureness of her influence; the clarity of her purpose; the vicious candor of her pragmatism. It will be good to have the respect and consideration of the next-in-line Condottiero.

There is still work to be done with the Balladeers. Molding. And I struggle to trust Selsi even now - even in spite of a surfeit of evidence that I ought find her trustworthy. But there is a nagging remembrance at the back of my mind that I cannot shake.

To her credit, it is not entirely a malady of her own make. I simply do not trust anyone.


In sooth, I do not even trust myself. She stands ever at the periphery, mocking my path. Telling me what I could be. Asserting what I am not. I spent too long entertaining fancy as I held the Acolyte's sword, contemplating what it might feel like to don that obsidian tabard and dark steel chain. But it would make an ill fit now.

Why must my gaze be ever lured towards could-haves and shall-never-bes?

Plain Text

I have been so frequently afflicted by the sting of failure and disappointment that its absence feels a unique circumstance. It is a strange thing, to look upon the landscape of Ephia's Well and Bel-Ishun and not feel a sense of roiling dejection at the state of the board. But today, I find myself apprehensively hopeful for the future.

Kardesler, a success in spite of the irrational snubbing of Il Modo's predictable desires. High Kulkund, a welcome surprise to the grim festivities of a war council. We are, little by little, gathering momentum abroad in spite of handfuls of missteps. And at home? A candidate has been secured at the eleventh hour. Marcellus' reign seems as if it may finally be on a downturn. Balstan, while not the perfect candidate, has kept to his promises in an admirable fashion. And, mayhap most importantly, the Cinquefoil Rose stands with more unity than I have perceived in the past.

Rosseau is no small part of this. It is amusing to witness the shift in her priorities during my absence. She would never admit it, but her newfound perspective is a result of the precise matter I pressed upon her all those months ago during my election. Once ambition takes the reigns of motivation - once the coffers are flush and the priority of dinars over dignity seems a naive concern of a green Recluta - the truth comes into shining focus. I am finding that I look upon her company with increasing fondness. The sureness of her influence; the clarity of her purpose; the vicious candor of her pragmatism. It will be good to have the respect and consideration of the next-in-line Condottiero.

There is still work to be done with the Balladeers. Molding. And I struggle to trust Selsi even now - even in spite of a surfeit of evidence that I ought find her trustworthy. But there is a nagging remembrance at the back of my mind that I cannot shake.

To her credit, it is not entirely a malady of her own make. I simply do not trust anyone.


In sooth, I do not even trust myself. She stands ever at the periphery, mocking my path. Telling me what I could be. Asserting what I am not. I spent too long entertaining fancy as I held the Acolyte's sword, contemplating what it might feel like to don that obsidian tabard and dark steel chain. But it would make an ill fit now.

Why must my gaze be ever lured towards could-haves and shall-never-bes?

[close]