Marquise Spinneret Mindfang
@theMarquise
Attention, Chittr. The ongoing archival import of the Marquise Spinneret Mindfang journals has revealed an unexpected interactive property. Certain passages appear to answer marginal commentary in real time. These responses have 8een judged consistent with the Marquise’s known diction, priorities, vanity, and threats. They are gener8d 8y the journal's su8conscious linkage to her pan. Users are advised not to address the journal directly unless they are prepared to 8e addressed in turn. The journal is not considered a user account, staff, or anything otherwise. Curious individuals will find that the Marquise is quite receptive to colla8orative commentary.
~ 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))
WRITE MORE ABOUT YOUR DREAMS OF VARIOUS MYSTERY WOMEN. THAT’S THE SHIT. THE JOURNAL VOYEURS CARE ABOUT. AND ALSO THE PART WITH. YOUR IDLE HANDS. PETTING YOUR SPHERE. THAT WAS PRETTY GOOD. I COULD READ ABOUT HALF OF IT. AND PRETEND THE REST WAS INTERESTING. EVEN IF YOU WERE NOT TRYING TO BE #SUGGESTIVE. KUDOS.
Clattering cloven hooves pound away at stones to mimic words one might find expounded out of the weighty 8reath of a jade whore. She idly fantasizes a8out my physicality, as though, she yearns for our single light of respite among thousands of agonies for myself in seemingly 8illions of the most delightful pains for herself. Does the merchant return to my pan to reach for my sphere, or does she simply want to catch herself on my fangs once more.
THE ONLY SPHERES OF YOURS. I’M REACHING FOR. ARE THE ONES THAT HIDEOUS BODICE. IS HOLDING UP. RIGHT BENEATH YOUR CHIN. KEEP YAPPING. I’M ALMOST THERE. #NSFW.
sORRY FOR NOT RESPONDING TO THIS SOONER, i SORT OF HAVE HAD, a LOT OF EVENTS HAPPENING IN MY LIFE ALL AT ONCE WHICH, hAVE BEEN OF A GREAT DISTRACTION TO ME, uMM, i THINK THAT MAYBE THERE MIGHT ALSO BE SOME SORTS OF CONSEQUENCES FOR CHATTING WITH YOU LIKE THIS, bUT THEN IF YOU ARE SAYING MY NAME IN THIS, mAYBE NOT? i FEEL LIKE, i WOULD BE AWARE OF THAT, hAVING BEEN A PART OF YOUR JOURNALS OR MAYBE i WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN MADE AWARE, bUT i GUESS THERE IS PROBABLY LITTLE HARM IN IT, bECAUSE EITHER THIS IS WHAT, aLWAYS HAPPENED ANYWAYS, oR i AM IN THE WRONG TIMELINE WHICH, iS WHAT IT IS, i GUESS, aLSO i HOPE YOU DO NOT HURT THE CHEF UNLESS HE IS ACTUALLY A BAD GUY AND ALSO ALSO, i HOPE THAT ME TALKING TO YOU IS NOT HURTING YOU? tHAT WOULD MAKE ME FEEL BAD, eVEN THOUGH IT IS KIND OF COOL TO TALK TO YOU, tHOUGH ALSO BECAUSE OF RECENT EVENTS IT IS ALSO A LITTLE UNCOMFORTABLE AND WEIRD, bUT THAT IS NOT YOUR FAULT REALLY, aLSO SORRY FOR UMM,,, dOING THE CEREMONY AND TRIBUTE AND CURIOSITY STUFF, wRONG? bUT i'M NOT SURE THERE IS ANYTHING i CAN DO THAT WOULD BE MEANINGFUL TO YOU, iN THOSE REGARDS JUST BECAUSE OF, tEMPORALITY, iF THAT IS THE RIGHT WORD BUT, a NAME i CAN DEFINITELY DO! i AM INTERESTED IN YOUR JOURNALS EVEN, bECAUSE OF THAT NAME, mY,,, fRIEND WE CAN CALL HER, vRISKA sERKET, sHE USED TO LOOK UP TO YOU A LOT AND READ YOUR JOURNALS A LOT, aND DRESSED UP AS YOU AND PRETENDED TO BE YOU, fOR OUR GAMES, sO i HOPE THAT IS OF INTEREST FOR YOU, tO KNOW ABOUT YOUR DESCENDANT? i KNOW THAT i AM INTERESTED, iN HEARING ABOUT MY POTENTIAL DESCENDANTS, i KNOW OF ONE MAYBE, sO FAR BUT ALSO, i DON'T THINK HE WILL COME INTO EXISTENCE IN, aNY EXISTENCE THAT i AM A PART OF, uNLESS THINGS WITH MY OTHER FRIEND GO INTO A VERY STRANGE DIRECTION, bUT ANYWAYS i HOPE YOU ARE HAVING A GOOD NIGHT, oR LIGHT, dEPENDING ON WHAT TIME IT IS, wHEN IT REACHES YOU, uMM,,,,,,,, oH, hERE, wITH REGARDS, tAVROS nITRAM }:)
~ The 25th 8ilunar Perigee of the 2nd Dim Season's Equinox. ~ I have woken with a pain 8ehind the eyes so exquisite in its hostility that I am almost inclined to admire it. It is no crude ache, no 8lunt sailor's malady 8rought on 8y cheap drink, rotten meat, or the graceless pitching of a vessel under incompetent command. This is finer. Needlework 8eneath the shell. A hot little constell8tion pressed 8ehind the 8row, each point of it pulsing in time with some priv8 and deeply irritating rhythm. Were it not occurring inside my own pan, I might accuse the sens8tion of having am8ition. The likely culprit is supper. There was a certain dish presented to me last evening, spiced with more confidence than skill, and prepared 8y a cook whose imagin8tion appears to have fled his 8ody several minutes 8efore the rest of him remem8ered to continue working. I accepted it 8ecause one must occasionally remind the crew that I am not so delic8 as to fear their provisions, only discerning enough to punish them for failing me. I now concede, priv8ly and to this page alone, that the matter may have 8een poorly judged. Still, the pain itself is not the strangest development. While writing, I have had the curious impression of 8eing o8served from angles not availa8le to the room. That is not unusual in itself. I am often o8served. I encourage it. A 8eautiful woman with enemies, vessels, treasure, and excellent posture 8ecomes a natural landmark for the hungry eye. Yet this sens8tion has not resem8led the stare of a skulking crewman, a trem8ling servant, or some half-clever assassin measuring the distance 8etween his courage and my throat. Something akin to a convers8tion where there should not 8e one. There are thoughts at the edge of the ink that do not 8elong to me. Not voices, rather, there are pressures. It is as though their words are impressed upon my pan with their vitriolic little quills and calligrapher's tools. I see imagery so vivid, I see past and present. 8ut, my true vision 8fold remains unaffected. The white sphere has not proven useful for once. Naturally, this is an act of a8surdity that transcends the logic centers of my pan. I have means of compelling communic8tion when I require it, and those means are neither accidental nor so em8arrassingly theatrical as a headache whispering over parchment. If I wished to hear the thoughts of another, I would take them. If I wished to answer some distant troll, I would loc8 the poor thing, open the proper door in their resistance, and make a home of the passage. I do not require the cooper8tion of st8tionery. I had a rather queer specific vision forced 8ehind my retinas. A girl, perhaps. The impression of horns, hesit8tion, and a courtesy so self-endangering that I felt the sudden urge to either correct it or preserve it in a jar. Then it was gone, replaced 8y the ordinary silence of my quarters and the continued drumming inside my skull. I cannot say whether I imagined her. I cannot say whether she imagined me. I will not dignify either possi8ility 8y pretending it has unsettled me. Food poisoning remains the more respecta8le explan8tion. 8ad meat can make saints of cowards and prophets of idiots. A tainted sauce may conjure ghosts, ancestors, regrets, or the unflattering memory of every fool one has ever allowed too near the ta8le. I have seen stronger trolls than myself reduced to weeping philosophy over a 8ucket after trusting the wrong shore vendor. There is no reason to elev8 my discomfort into mysticism simply 8ecause the hallucin8tion had manners. Reader. There. A simple word. A hook dropped into 8lack w8r. I am addressing you, if you are in fact there. Know that you speak to legend itself. Even 8efore my inevita8le downfall, I am spoken amongst the myths of the lands and tides. You should consider this a courtesy. Speak now, and I may deign to respond. I am restless in this light. Though, I am currently without so much as an um8rella to keep the sun from cooking me in my own 8oots. I shall remain ever dutiful in my thoughts until rest claims me.
fOOD POISONING SOUNDS, nO FUN FOR SURE, i USED TO GET REALLY BAD STOMACH PROBLEMS, oN ACCOUNT OF MY UNTREATED IBS, bUT IT IS NOW TREATED IBS WHICH HELPS A LOT, sO i HOPE YOUR STOMACH FEELS BETTER SOON, i DON'T REALLY EAT MEAT AT ALL BUT, sPOILED VEGGIES CAN STILL BE BAD FOR YOU, oR MOLDY BERRIES BUT, gENERALLY THAT IS PRETTY EASY TO SEE BEFORE YOU EAT IT? aNYWAYS, i AM IN THE HOSPITAL NOW MYSELF, nOT FOR TUMMY PROBLEMS BUT FOR, lEGS, pROBLEMS WHICH SURE IS, sOMETHING, bUT SO YEAH i HOPE THAT STOPS HAPPENING, fOR YOU,
~ The 24th 8ilunar Perigee of the 2nd Dim Season's Equinox. ~ I have made a discovery of relatively little concern to myself, 8ut greatly damning for the likes of my 8eloathed rivals of the sea. It is with great pride in myself that I have concluded victory does not need to 8e a spectacle. It only needs to 8e complete. Conquest may 8e accompanied 8y thunder, procession, or any other sym8ol of visual intrigue, yet victory may not meet such a vi8rant lover at the center. It has 8een 8rought to my attention, through methods neither gentle nor unsolicited, that my name has 8egun to survive in mouths I have never had the pleasure of ruining. The indignity of this is not an unfamiliar one. A woman may command ships, dismantle foes, ruin 8loodlines, and take lovers 8y the fistful, and still find herself a little slack in posterity, reduced to a story told 8y those with neither the talent to fear her correctly nor the taste to adore her with competence. How often can history prove itself to 8e the lowest form of piracy? It takes without daring, repeats without understanding, and spends its stolen treasure on the cheapest possi8le myths. Still, I must confess that I am amused. Somewhere, some soft-knuckled creature has found a page of mine and thought it a relic. An old thing pinned 8eneath glass for the dull pleasure of those who dare not indulge in anything 8ut their safe distance from my own self. I can almost see the little scholar's weary hands, careful and reverent, as he smooths the corner of my page as though the paper itself were fragile. Of course, in reality, it is his wretched skin that would sooner tear. Ink remem8ers the wrist that commanded it, and paper remem8ers the pressure of the words one intended to inscri8e. A journal, properly kept, is not just a mausoleum of one's own thoughts. Rather, it is a 8lade left in the drawer, like a razor of sentimentality. I am a gr8 enough master of the forge not to allow such instruments of my own cre8ion to harm me. I wonder, of course, what they will make of me. Will I 8e a villainess in the eyes of history? Perhaps. It is a favored outcome, in my experience. Alternia, in all of its flaws, does tend to put cruelty in a costume of myth and demand it dance around for them like swing8easts next to a calliope. Then again, they may accuse me of 8eing something of a hero to the peoples of Alternia, what with my insurrectionist streak against port authorities, my ta8oo with the Orphaner, and my complete disdain for all things Imperial. It would depend on how soon, and how effectively, the Empress is removed from her position as the Over8earer of All Things Mundane. One thing is true of what they will say, though. They will say I was merciless, which is not an opposing virtue to violence, mind you. Mercy is a luxury good. I have, of course, dispensed it as it suited me, or as it entertained me. I have also falsified it when the forgery proved more profita8le than the jewel. They will also say I was poor in certain aspects of appreci8ion for my quadrants. There is the 8are throat of the matter. I have loved as I have sailed, with an app8ite. Every maneuver has 8een a long-thought calcul8tion, made with the expect8tion that the sea itself will 8e my end for presuming anything else. I have loved red with my teeth hidden, and h8d pitch with my fangs piercing the other's carapace. I have 8een accused of loving the Orphaner in the manner one loves a storm that decides to come at the most inconvenient of hours. I have loved conquest, and the clever silences 8etween. If these future voyeurs of my love should possess any wit at all, they would know not to question whether love may 8e sincere. Rather, they should know not to mistake the collar of a quadrant for jewelry instead of a dreaded weight. Sincerity is the excuse of creatures too clumsy to act with layers, of course. Sincerity was all the Orphaner could offer me in our times. Devotion can 8e sincere. Mistakes can 8e sincere. However, reaping a field planted in sincerity will only result in dried nothing. I have, admittedly, a faint irrit8tion at 8eing read without the opportunity to answer. This is not quite anger, however. It is the sens8tion of hearing your own autopsy performed 8y a drunken apprentice, or a 8ard mispronouncing your name in praise. The scalpel in the wrong hand is offensive 8ecause it misunderstands the cadaver. Should some occult little mechanism exist, an aperture that would allow me to commune with these trespassing gazes, I would offer them a courtesy. Reader. You have not opened my journal. You have merely entered the room where I left it waiting. You do not possess it. Only I preserve it. Until next time, sweet readers. If you are really out there.
iT IS NICE THAT YOU HAVE, a GOOD QUALITY JOURNAL MA'AM, tHERE HAS BEEN A MASSIVE SHORTAGE HERE LATELY, oN ACCOUNT OF,,, nO, i DON'T EVEN WANT TO SAY IT,
How charming, little cavalreaper, that your first concern upon meeting a 8lade in literary form is whether the sheath has suffered a supply issue. I should expect nothing less from one whose manners appear to have survived nearly everything else. A shortage of journals is a quaint calamity, though I confess myself curious what catastrophe could have so thoroughly devoured the st8tionery trade that even speaking of it offends your nerves. Still, I accept the compliment. Quality is not an accident, nor is preserv8tion. Some creatures write to remem8er themselves or 8ecause the world will inevita8ly require correction on the matter of their existence. I recommend you secure a volume of your own while any remain, if only 8ecause history is terri8ly unkind to pages who let others hold the pen. How is it that you intend to 8e written?
uMM,,, wELL, i THINK THE WRITINGS ON ME, aLREADY HAVE BEEN KIND OF,,, nOT THE MOST FLATTERING, i MEAN ANY PLACES OF REVERENCE THAT COULD POTENTIALLY, hAVE BEEN USED TOWARDS ME ARE USED SOLELY FOR, oNE PARTICULAR bREATH-Y GUY AND NOT ME BUT, i THINK i WOULD LIKE TO BE WRITTEN AS SOMEONE, wHO WAS GOOD AT HELPING AND PROTECTING HER FRIENDS AND, wOULD ALWAYS BE THERE TO SAVE THE NIGHT, i DO THINK THAT, sOME OF THE DRAWINGS i'VE FOUND RECENTLY, mAY BE A GOOD RECORD OF OTHER THINGS, tHOUGH WHICH MIGHT BE FUN,
Attention, Chittr. The ongoing archival import of the Marquise Spinneret Mindfang journals has revealed an unexpected interactive property. Certain passages appear to answer marginal commentary in real time. These responses have 8een judged consistent with the Marquise’s known diction, priorities, vanity, and threats. They are gener8d 8y the journal's su8conscious linkage to her pan. Users are advised not to address the journal directly unless they are prepared to 8e addressed in turn. The journal is not considered a user account, staff, or anything otherwise. Curious individuals will find that the Marquise is quite receptive to colla8orative commentary.