Marquise Spinneret Mindfang
@theMarquise
~ 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 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?