Marquise Spinneret Mindfang

3 days ago

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~ The 26th 8ilunar Perigee of the 2nd Dim Season's Equinox. ~ Yet another inconvenience has fallen upon my foes, as for the moment, I remain alive as opposed to that foolish chef who tried to assassin8 me. The pain 8ehind my vision8fold has softened and su8sided mostly. I am no longer looking to mutiny against my own pan 8y placing a certain 8lade 8eneath a ridge and prying my cranium open just to relieve some sem8lance of pressure. It is much closer to the casual rever8er8tion and pain one might find themselves dwelling in after a long-fought 8roadside 8arrage. It is a mild offense to me. Proper agony should have had the decency to conquer me or retreat entirely. This is a diplomatic approach I do not trust. I had to question the cook. He was weeping 8efore I even asked my first interrogative motion. Which means he was either guilty, had foresight to the conclusion, or an em8arrassingly soft constitution. He ensured me the meat was fresh, the spices were exotic, and the sauce was prepared according to lineage's pathetic inherited instructions. I allowed him to keep his hands only so that I may o8serve them as evidence l8r should I find that there is a separ8 investig8tion needed. The pain in my pan, however, is not producing any other symptoms. No melting walls, whispering portraits, drowned lovers reaching at me through the floor8oards with their affection8 accus8tions. I would have welcomed such a haunting as opposed to the dull radiance of pain. Instead, the only proper hallucin8tion I have endured was that girl again. Her wide horns flicker at the edge of my thoughts. It is as though she is goading me into my own su8conscious. She leaves an impression on my pan like prongs dragged through fine velvet. She has a trem8ling courtesy a8out her. Her carefulness is so excessive, that it circled 8ack around to a sense of danger. She survives 8y hiding her teeth. Though, I am now aware of her own ailments that I neglected to call any further investig8tion upon. I wish to understand her. Naturally, I gave chase. Naturally, it was fruitless. There are certain truths upon which I must rely. Doors open when I decide they are doors. Minds yield to my psychic venom and silver tongue. Distance is a formality for those with talent. Resistance is merely the decorative cover placed over the dish of fear. This presence did not feel like a mind I have ever found. Nor did it feel like a mind that has found me. It resem8led a happenstance. A random occurrence of crossing paths. Yet, she 8eckons to me again. This is unaccepta8le. O8viously, I am not frightened. Do not mistake this as fear. I have not filed any of these journals once in my life with a trem8ling simply 8ecause my skull may have developed its own opinions. Instead, I am offended. This is an entirely different, and refined condition. Even the cue8all can only provide me such limited inform8tion on this... Tavros Nitram. Such an odd name, it eludes me. It trespasses into my pan without so much as an invit8tion and I am expected simply to accept this failure to kneel at my threshold? Disgusting. I addressed the reader again yesterday. I did not get an answer. I did not expect one, really. As if I were a queen waiting on tri8ute from a distant island that is unaware of her claim as their ruler. No, the lack of an answer is as expected. I was merely going some sense of radical regarding this estranged thought. I was merely experiencing a hallucin8tion donning the 8ones of language to strike a chord within my own 8eing. Yet. I persist in my asking. Dear Reader, Who are you? Why do your gandering glo8es trespass onto my domain? I can tell you who I am. There are gru8s who know my name from warnings. There are sailors who do not speak of me in open w8r. There are collectors who would lock away portr8s of me as if I could 8ite them through the paint. Widows grieve over the memory of my silhouette as I cut down their quadrants, and all the same they would delight in warming my cupe at night. I am rumor. I am an omen. I am a captain; I am a conqueror. 8ut most importantly, I am the last thing that will 8e reflected in your pathetic irises 8efore you fall. You may think yourself clever. It is impossi8le that there may exist a girl so distant, or foolish, that she can 8rush up against me through my own ink and ask in all sincerity who I am. Surely, you must know. I will wait. My idle sphere will remain useless, silent, and smooth. I hold it now, in my own hands. The pain of admitting its fault is like a hook set 8eneath my ri8s. Who are you? Who are you to 8e so mannered even in intrusion? What defect in this world has permitted you to stand close enough to gaze at my thoughts through fogged glass? The sun is rising soon. The pressure is re8uilding as I write these words. If the reader remains present, let her understand this. I do not appreci8 8eing watched without ceremony. I do not appreci8 8eing questioned without tri8ute. And I especially do not appreci8 8eing made curious. Return, little trespasser, if you can. 8ring a name, or a wound, or at least a more interesting fear. I have little patience for ghosts that only trem8le in doorways. The cook is preparing 8roth tonight. I have instructed him that, should I suffer another vision, I will decide whether it was prophecy or seasoning 8ased entirely on how much I dislike him when I wake. ((#violence, #gore))