Marquise Spinneret Mindfang
@theMarquise
This o8ject is, at a glance, my journal. This is its primary talent. The cover 8ears the same severe cut, the same dark hide, the same tasteful fittings. The clasp rests where it should. The spine even 8ends perfectly. The little a8rasions along the corners have 8een reproduced with enough effort to flatter any artisan of proxies. It has the posture of an heirloom, dresses like a confidante, and the confidence in its likeness. I almost would 8elieve it to 8e my own lineage 8efore my own journal. It is far too new. It isn't just well-kept. It's new. Its leather has not learned my hand. The pages have not savored the pressure from my pen. The hinge has no memory of my haste or anger. It cannot tell the difference 8etween 8eing shut with a finger as opposed to a hasty 8laded fist. It lacks those small, intim8 injuries 8y which it proves ownership. Most damning of all is the smell. My journal should smell of ink, old hide, sea damp, candle smoke, perfume, and the faint metallic ghost of 8lood transferred from my own pores during these l8 evenings. It smells of none of that. It does attempt to counterfeit the musk, 8ut it is more akin to the notes one might find with a perfumer's stand than the final product. The pages are too eager. They do not wait to 8e written upon, they wait to 8e fed. I have seen many traps in my time. Most are undone with patience, this one included. This one is clever to wear the guise of privacy, 8ut not clever enough to know I know my own goods too well. I am informed this may 8e something referred to as a 'juju' to some of you. It will learn to scar over my delic8 touch soon enough.
Lot of danger in using a juju, Marquise. Even for someone with your experiences.
This is a prudent warning, Lorn Ryder. I do not dismiss it, as much as that may surprise you. I may 8e arrogant at times, 8ut I am not stupid. I handle cursed o8jects, imperial heirlooms, weapons of devotion, and much worse tools than a journal such as this. The most clever of o8jects such as this one w8 for ha8it. I will never confused its leash for jewelry. It is dangerous, it hungers, it mimics, and it knows of my priv8 possessions. Yet, it is not a strong enough argument against use. The question is not whether it may harm me. The question is whether it 8elieves its harm should 8efall me to provide ownership or is it a strike of re8ellion? Should it attempt to answer this, I will teach it the same old lesson I have shared with artifacts, lovers, rivals, and even some self-professed gods. A thing may touch the Marquise Spinneret Mindfang. It may not keep her.
~ The 25th 8ilunar Perigee of the 3rd Dim Season's Equinox. ~ It has 8een nearly a perigee since I last granted these pages the privilege of my attention. I am certain this will distress wh8ver imagined audience has taken to pressing its little face against the glass of my affairs. Let it. A depriv8tion may 8e instructive, and silence, when set loose among the needy, fattens wonderfully. My a8sence was not idleness. I have 8een called to meetings, feasts, negoti8tions, disciplinary amusements, and one argument with the Orphaner that 8egan as a dispute over cargo and ended, as many of our 8etter quarrels do, with neither of us admitting what was truly 8eing contested. He claimed certain captives taken near the eastern shoals were naval property 8y imperial right. I reminded him that imperial right is a charming phrase often used 8y trolls who arrived too l8. They were on my deck. They trem8led when I looked at them. The matter was therefore settled with all the ceremony it deserved. He did not agree. This would have trou8led me if his disagreement had 8een less 8eautiful. The Orphaner wears displeasure like armor left too long in salt w8r, stiff, 8right in places, and always thre8ning to cut the one trying to 8ear it. He spoke of discipline, seizure, chain of command, and all the little phrases men gather around themselves when they fear saying want. I watched his jaw work. I watched his eyes give him away. He is never more royal than when he is trying not to 8e common. I asked whether he resented the loss of imperial property, or whether he resented that I had taken something from under his nose and left him unsure whether to challenge me, claim me, or drag me 8y the throat into some darker privacy where his politics could at last stop em8arrassing us 8oth. He left 8efore striking me. A waste. I had selected earrings with 8loodshed in mind. The next several evenings were spent among the high8looded, which is to say among those grand, lacquered creatures who mistake a long pedigree for a thought. The halls were dressed in the usual vulgar excellence. 8lack ta8les polished to a wet shine. Curtains dyed in colors that required several ruined villages to achieve. Servants arranged a8out the cham8er with the anxious grace of o8jects that know they may still 8e punished for falling. There were de88s over port tariffs, tri8ute 8oundaries, inheritance claims, and other polite methods of theft. A violet dowager proposed a levy against independent raiders, and I congratul8d her on inventing piracy for those too arthritic to 8oard a vessel. A cerulean magistr8 laughed. Poorly. 8riefly. Then spent the rest of the evening pretending his throat had made the sound without consulting him. Moneymaw was there as well, or near enough to count. One could smell him 8efore the doors admitted him: 8rine, old coin, lacquered de8t, and the sort of expensive to8acco smoked 8y men who prefer their threats to mature in the mouth 8efore release. He did not domin8 the room. He did something more irritating. He let the room discover it had already arranged itself around him. A lesser pir8 would have taken this for respect. I took it for accounting. We exchanged no greeting worth preserving. Only a look. His said he had noticed the Orphaner’s temper. Mine said I had noticed him noticing, and would charge interest if he intended to make use of it. The feast that followed was nearly good enough to redeem the company. First came pearl8lind eel, served alive 8eneath a veil of fermented 8rineglass. Its skin shimmered after the spine was opened, and custom demanded we wait until the eyes clouded 8efore drawing the first strip through 8lack salt. The creature shuddered against the pl8 as though still negotiating. Delightful manners, for meat. After that came marrowfruit swollen around cave-gru8 8ones, aged until the rind softened and 8reathed. When pierced, it sighed. A young heir across the ta8le flinched, then tried to disguise the failure 8y praising the aroma. It was, admittedly, magnificent. Sweet rot, mineral damp, venom, and that warm little note particular to things which died in hiding. Spread over charred shell8read, it made the dowager close her eyes in a way I 8elieve she imagined was discreet. There was needle8eetle roe suspended in chilled hemolymph custard, each 8ead 8ursting sharp enough to sting the gums. Vulgar to smile at the first 8ite, naturally, as it shows whether the roe has taken hold properly. I smiled. Several others waited to see if they were permitted to do the same. This is how fashion is 8orn: cowardice looking for permission from the correct mouth. The final dish was flashpickled thinkpan frond from some reef-8red stupidity the cooks insisted on calling semi-sentient, as if pity has ever 8een improved 8y classific8tion. The fronds curled when 8reathed upon. One must eat them 8efore they finish spelling the last sens8tion of the creature they were cut from. Mine tasted of salt, panic, and a white flash 8eneath deep w8r. I requested another. This is what the low and sentimental will never understand a8out appetite. They think revulsion is an argument. They 8elieve the 8ody’s little hesit8tions are moral insight. A mouth recoils, and suddenly they have discovered a principle. How quaint. How provincial. The strange thing, the soft thing, the writhing thing, the thing that remem8ers 8eing alive, all of it asks the only question worth honoring at ta8le. Has it 8een prepared well? Still, my pan has not 8een entirely steady. The pain 8ehind my eyes has thinned since the last entry, 8ut not vanished. It has changed character. Less 8lade now, more tide. A pressure arriving and withdrawing in a rhythm I do not enjoy, chiefly 8ecause I did not command it. Twice during the meetings I lost the thread of convers8tion 8ecause another seemed to pass 8eneath it, faint as a voice heard through wet wood. No one in the room spoke. No one in the room had the courage to think so loudly. At dinner, while a gold8looded advoc8 explained tariff law with all the seduction of damp parchment, I felt the page 8efore me grow crowded. Not physically. I am not so addled as that. 8ut there was a nearness. A gathering of attention. As if unseen readers had leaned too close and fogged the margin with their awe. I attri8uted this to the custard. I continue to attri8ute it to the custard. One must not crown every inconvenience with prophecy merely 8ecause it arrives wearing a veil. If some aperture has opened, it will show its hinge eventually. If some distant little voyeur has found a way to 8reathe through my paper, it will learn quickly that access is not ownership. If it is illness, it will pass. If it is not illness, it will 8ehave. Until then, sweet readers, should you exist in any meaningful sense, do mind your mouths near the page. Awe stains almost as 8adly as 8lood. #mindfangJournal #ancestorposting #alternianHistory #high8loodPolitics #gorefood #gore #8odyhorror
dEAR cAPTAIN mINDFANG, hI THERE, iT'S BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOUR LAST POST, hUH? oR i GUESS, jOURNAL ENTRY? i'M STILL NOT ENTIRELY SURE OF, hOW ANY OF THIS WORKS, bUT YOU SAY HELLO, wHEN i SAY HI, sO THAT'S ENOUGH FOR ME TO WANT TO KEEP SAYING HI! yOUR WRITING IS, rEALLY EVOCATIVE, yOU ARE REALLY GOOD AT SETTING TONE AND SELLING YOURSELF, aS SOMEONE WHO IS IMPORTANT AND COOL AND TOUGH, aND STUFF, eVEN IF SOME OF THE STUFF IT SEEMS YOU'RE UP TO, iS, wELL,,, i MEAN, i GUESS YOU WOULD NOT REALLY THINK IT IS, hYPOCRITICAL, sOME OF THESE THINGS LIKE, yOU MAKE SURE TO TEAR DOWN, tHOSE ABOVE YOU ON THE HEMOSPECTRUM AS, iGNORANT AND WEAK-WILLED WITHOUT REFLECTING ON, tHOSE BELOW, bUT i HAVE TO GUESS IT'S MORE OF A, yOU BEING SUPERIOR TO EVERYONE ELSE, tYPE OF THING AND NOT REALLY, aNY PARTICULAR COMMENT ON THE SPECTRUM 1TSELF BEYOND, bRISTLING THAT PEOPLE YOU SEE YOURSELF AS ABOVE, aRE PLACED ABOVE YOU, bY SOCIETY? oH, i LIKED THE FOOD DESCR1PTIONS A LOT THOUGH, eVEN IF i WOULD NOT EAT ANY MYSELF, sEEING AS IT SEEMS L1KE, tHEY ALL INVOLVED SOMETHING FROM, aN ANIMAL, wHICH i GUESS IT WAS INTERESTING TO ME, wHAT YOU SAID ABOUT THE MORAL FAILINGS OF PEOPLE EATING AND, tHE ONLY THING MATTERING BEING IF IT WAS PREPARED WELL, oR NOT,,, i JUST DON'T KNOW, aBOUT THAT, iT SOUNDS KIND OF SAD TO ME,,, i DO NOT REALLY, mORAL1ZE MUCH ABOUT EATING ANIMALS, tO OTHERS, i MEAN, eVERYTHING EATS SOMETHING AND, pLANTS ARE AL1VE TOO, i JUST DON'T LIKE THE IDEA OF EATING SOMETHING, i COULD HAVE SPOKEN TO OR, bEEN IN THE PAN OF, bUT,,, i TH1NK SOMETIMES THINGS ARE JUST YUCKY, aND MAYBE THAT CAN BE OKAY? i DON'T THINK THERE IS ANY WAY, tHAT SOMEONE COULD PREPARE, hOOFBEAST DROPPINGS WHERE, i COULD BE HAPPY EATING IT? aLSO i JUST DON'T LIKE, bITTER THINGS, oR THE TASTE OF SOPORIFICS, aND YOU COULD GET THE MOST EXPENSIVE, aND WELL PREPARED THING, iN THE WORLD, bUT IF IT IS NOT TO, sOMEONE'S PERSONAL TASTE, tHEY JUST WON'T LIKE IT, aND i THINK THAT IS OKAY? yOU SEEMED TO ENJOY, tHAT THE THINGS YOU ATE WERE YUCKY, sEEMING, aND GROSSED PEOPLE OUT, aND SOMETIMES THINGS THAT SEEM YUCKY, aRE ACTUALLY YUMMY, wHICH IS WHY IT IS IMPORTANT TO TRY NEW FOODS, oR RETRY OLD ONES, nOW AND THEN, bUT i THINK THAT, iF i HAD A LOT OF MONEY, bACK WHEN i LIVED ON aLTERNIA, i WOULD HAVE SPENT IT ON FOODS THAT WERE BOTH GOOD, aND YUMMY, aS OPPOSED TO FOODS THAT WERE GOOD, bUT YUCKY, iF THAT MAKES SENSE? hAVING SO MUCH MONEY, tHAT YOU ARE MAKING UP NEW WAYS, tO EAT FOOD THAT YOU DON'T EVEN, nECESSARILY LIKE THE TASTE OR MOUTH FEEL OF, aND i MEAN THE GENERAL, yOU OF HIGHBLOODS, iN GENERAL, nOT NECESSARILY YOU YOU, mAYBE YOU DID LIKE ALL THAT, iN WHICH CASE GOOD, bUT, iT JUST SOUNDS LIKE THEY ARE LESS INTERESTED, iN MAKING GOOD FOOD, aND MORE, bORED? tHERE ARE MANY, mORE ECONOM1CALLY RESPONSIBLE WAYS, tO EAT FOOD THAT DOESN'T ALWAYS TASTE GOOD, jUST ASK FOR, wHATEVER THEY'RE MAKING THE SERVANTS EAT, yOU KNOW? iT JUST FEELS LIKE,,, eATING FOR THE SAKE OF SHOWING OFF, wHICH SEEMS SILLY, aNYONE CAN DO THAT! i ALSO HAVE TO WONDER, wHERE THOSE FOOD TRADITIONS, cAME FROM AND WHETHER, tHOSE INGREDIENTS WERE EVEN EXPENSIVE OR, fANCY, bEFORE IT WAS DEC1DED, wHETHER OR NOT THEY WERE? i MEAN, mARROWFRUIT COMES FROM THE CAVERNS, rIGHT, pARASITIZING AND OVERTAKING, tHE CAVE GRUBS, i IMAGINE IT COSTS A LOT, tO RETRIEVE THEM AND KEEP THEM, jUST SO, sUCH THAT THEY DON'T FALL OFF TOO EARLY, oR GET RUINED, bUT,,, tHE jADES PROBABLY, fORAGE THEM FOR A GOOD SNACK, sOMETH1NG TO HELP WITH V1TAMIN DEFICIENCIES, fROM LACK OF MOONLIGHT, aND,,, wELL, i GUESS ALL THE OTHERS WERE, sEAFOOD AND SO, mOSTLY THE REALM OF THE VIOLETS, bUT,,, i'VE HEARD OF COMMUNITIES SUBSISTING ON WHAT THEY CAN GET FROM THE WATER, wITHOUT UPSETTING THE LOCAL LORDS, oR EVEN, wELL,,, sOMEONE HAD TO CATCH, aLL OF WHAT YOU ATE, r1GHT? i TH1NK THERE ARE A LOT OF GOOD QUESTIONS TO ASK, aBOUT MEALS, bUT THE ONE i LIKE TO ASK IS, iS TH1S YUMMY? i HOPE THAT YOUR MEALS, wERE YUMMY, i FEEL LIKE MY TASTES WOULD BE PUT OFF BY, i GUESS IT WAS, a COMPETITION, dRESSED UP LIKE HOSPITALITY? oOH, aCTUALLY i BET, bETWEEN PORT TO PORT, tRAVELING AND ALL, yOU EAT A LOT OF GOOD, tAVERN AND INN, fOOD AND STUFF, mAYBE 1F i MAY BE SO BOLD, aS TO MAKE A REQUEST, yOU COULD TALK ABOUT, sOME OF YOUR FAVOR1TE MEALS, lIKE THAT? wELL, i TH1NK i HAVE PROBABLY, eITHER TALKED YOUR AURAL DUCTS OR, wRITTEN YOUR OCULAR GLOBES, oFF, oR BOTH EVEN, sO i WILL STOP NOW, bUT, i REALLY DO ENJOY READING WHAT YOU HAVE TO WRITE SO, i APPRECIATE THAT YOU KEEP DOING SO, aND HOPE THAT, tHE TIDE OF YOUR ACHES, iS KIND TO YOU, yOURS TRULY, tAVROS nITRAM P.S. wHY WOULD SOMEONE, eVEN ADMIT TO BEING YOURS, bUT UNTRULY, aNYWAYS? #bODYhORROR
My dear little correspondent, You have written enough to furnish a court stenographer with employment for a fortnight, and yet somehow done so without the odor of self-importance that usually accompanies such length. This is rarer than you may appreci8. Most trolls, when given enough room to speak, use the space to 8uild a throne and then fall asleep upon it. You, instead, appear to have constructed a sta8le, stocked it with gentle o8jections, and invited me inside to admire the hay. I will not pretend your moral concerns are persuasive. That would 8e unkind to us 8oth. I have never confused revulsion with ethics, nor appetite with innocence, and I suspect your reluctance to eat what might once have answered you says more a8out the 8readth of your sympathies than the virtue of your supper. Still, there is a sweetness in it. A dangerous sweetness, if left undefended. The world has always had a fondness for devouring creatures who first pause to ask whether the meal consents. 8ut yes, since you have asked so earnestly, I have e8n well 8eyond the salons of the high8looded. Some of my favored meals have 8een taken in places with sawdust floors, cracked lamps, and knives left in the ta8le as 8oth utensil and warning. There was a dockside stew in the 8lack har8ors south of the reefcliffs, made from lanternfish, sour kelp, 8listerfruit, and wh8ver the cook insisted was not technically venomous once 8oiled. It was ugly, cheap, and hot enough to make a troll confess. I adored it. There was also a tavern on a rain-8e8n trade island whose keeper served griddled shell8read with 8lue fat, peppered fungus, and strips of smoked hoof8east so thin they dissolved 8efore one could decide whether to respect them. The Orphaner h8d the place, naturally, which improved the seasoning. He claimed the esta8lishment smelled of low company and wet rope. I informed him those were two of its strongest virtues. So there. A meal need not 8e cruel, rare, expensive, or politically arranged to please me. It must only understand what it is. I can forgive hum8le food many things if it arrives honestly, hot, and without the wretched little am8ition of pretending to 8e art. As for your question, why anyone would admit to 8eing mine untruly, I assure you the reasons are many. Fear. Flattery. Poor str8gy. 8etter str8gy. Desire wearing a false mustache. 8ut the most common reason is simple. They 8elieve the lie will end 8efore I notice it.
~ 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?