Marquise Spinneret Mindfang

4 days ago

Patron

A certified moneyspender. Thanks for supporting the site!

@theMarquise[TM]

~ 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.