museworks: (Default)
In which I think in type about writing for Lucrezia. )

I hope this made sense, as it was semi-stream-of-consciousness. But just wanted to think 'out loud' (or in type, as the case may be) about things.
museworks: (Lucrezia)
I cannot decide if I want to write of that party, because Chesric was there and thus I would not need to recount it to him, or if I wish to refrain. I will think on it more.

I agreed to meet Lazirus at the small pond just outside Silvermoon's main gate; it would not be the journey that going to Fairbreeze is-- and would not pose as much danger from Scourge stragglers or forest cats should he get lost-- but it is not yet in the city proper. I chose it as much for his sake as for my own. I still am not entirely certain as to why I extended that invitation, is what it is. I feel a peculiar protectiveness when speaking with him, especially after the dream I had the other night.

Ches told me a bit of Sir Thorndawn (Lazirus' guardian, from what I understand), and none of it struck me as particularly alarming. Some he already knew, though he does not personally know the man, other information he dug up for me. Then again, what is there alarming that an unknowing outsider would discover of Jovan, really? Assessment of Jovan would indicate someone who tends to either seek the path of Retribution or, when necessary, provide healing. As illogical as that latter is, to me-- but I do not believe most others saw what I saw of him.

Small steps toward 'reclaiming' my home city, I suppose. I said before I would not keep running; I have stopped running. Now, I think, I will not only stand my ground, but regain what I had lost.

Vorrick asked what I did before I was a mercenary. I wanted to tell him, but I could not. As it was, I told him more than I have said to anyone-- that I was minor nobility. He does not need to know more, I don't believe. What use would he have for such sordid details? There is enough on his plate, and I have yet to actually see him anyhow. I would not know him in a crowd, nor he me. But I still wanted to tell, because I think there is a part of me that just wants to scream and rage and shout to get it out of my head, off my chest. It is why I write, and why I will at least let Chesric read.

For now, though, the Firelands. My shoulder has healed sufficiently, and I have applied more of the Gilnean woman's salve. I think the next time I meet with her for the exchange I will bring something else. Tea, perhaps. She is a very cordial lady, something unexpected. And one with whom, I think, the language barrier does not matter; there are no words needed over tea.
museworks: (Lucrezia)
I have come to the conclusion that when the time comes for me to allow my brother to read this journal, he may get a headache from the different manners of writing I seem to have used. Sometimes I know I slip into a formal voice; for some reason when I write memories, that voice makes it easier for the words to come out. Proper phrasing, no contractions, and so forth. I don't know why, but if it makes it less difficult to face them enough to write down, and write down plainly, so be it. As it is I can't make myself write too many close together. I think the Tome helps there; even though those two individuals with whom I seem to regularly speak are...quite peculiar in their own separate ways, and the "public" pages are themselves full of peculiar individuals, it still is an outlet. And I surprise myself sometimes when writing, as I had last night.

After closing the Tome last night I dreamt of Lazirus-- the aforementioned "slow fellow". I am not so certain he is slow as much as perhaps naive. I would not count him among the smartest individuals, no, but he seems perhaps...underdeveloped, mentally and maybe emotionally. In the manner of one not yet grown. I have been assuming he is grown, but I suppose-- anyhow. I had conversations with him and with Vorrick-- the peculiar gardener. Separate ones on separate private pages.

With Vorrick, I was glad to see he was as well as he seems capable of being; I know few details about his personal problems beyond there being some unpleasantries between him and 'SnowMoth' from the Tome. And by 'unpleasantries' I mean the latter had the former's hands broken, it would seem. But still wants to...keep track of him, even sent him a new tome after Vorrick had burnt his. It's odd to an outside observer who has only seen the vaguest details.

With Lazirus, I just would like to see him not hurt. He said he was supposed to have started work yesterday, but that he was rebuffed quite rudely when presenting his papers (why did they keep his papers?) and doing what that guardian figure of his said. It seems to be a strange situation and I don't know that I should inquire further, but I also don't wish to see him hurt.

Note to self: Look up information on Sir Andovar Thorndawn of the Blood Knights. Ask Chesric if he is familiar with the name and/or man, as a paladin himself.

My thoughts are very disjointed this morning, I notice, when reading over what I have written thus far. And I had written of a dream. Nightmare, really, though not quite to the cold-sweat, heart-pounding, almost-kill-your-concerned-brother-for-frightening-you extent of previous ones. More of the heart-wrenching variety.

Dreaming. (Also, possible triggery warning.) )
museworks: (Lucrezia)
[A letter folded inside an envelope, addressed to one "V. Longshadow" in Thunder Bluff. Upon opening said envelope the reader will find a few pressed and dried peacebloom petals included alongside the envelope.]

Mr. Dubs,

I hope this letter finds you in a timely manner; you mentioned "the Bluff", which I assumed meant Thunder Bluff. Thank you for the postcard. Point taken in regard to the gold; I will not send more of my own volition. However, I do extend the offer of some assistance should you be in truly dire straits financially. I will not support you, of course, nor do I believe you would ask such of me; but I am willing to help a little if needed, here and there.

The hibiscus has not worsened, but it has not improved overmuch. I retrieved mud from Zangarmarsh-- I had gone there before you mentioned it, as when I think of mud from Draenor that is the region which first comes to mind-- and it seems to be clinging tenaciously to life. The fungus giants do not attack me unless I am very close; there is some sentience there, I do believe, and perhaps it tells them that the armored elven lady with two large swords may end them if they try anything. Or perhaps I am full of fancies. I seem to be lately.

My brother, while no devoted gardener, has some knowledge of plants; this came as a surprise to me when I learned of it, but he says he prefers to find interesting ones in the wild rather than cultivate them himself. Still, he has provided some bits of advice, though I think I will still ask you any questions I may have. I have begun to set up a garden of sorts at my home. Simply flowers, for now, and though I know it is a weed, I have one bed devoted to peacebloom. I find that I like that particular sort of plant. The activity is relaxing, even if the Quel'thalas sun is not quite as invigorating as that of Durotar. Nor as warm, obviously.

I have been fortunate to escape major injury thus far in the Firelands; plate armor is certainly not comfortable in that climate, but it is bearable and I do not feel comfortable fighting in anything less. It is, perhaps, one of the areas in which being a touch sturdier of build than other women of my race has been an asset rather than a detriment.

The death knight in the tome has sent you a new tome, incidentally. I told him you may burn that one also, but he sent one anyway. Please be careful; I realize, from you both, that your words...perhaps got you into trouble. Whether deserved or no, I would consider you coming to harm-- and especially being killed-- to be breaking the deal as well. I have enjoyed our correspondence to date and would be unhappy to see it end. As those tend to be the words of either a friend or one to whom money is owed, and you are not the latter, I am amenable to being considered the former.

Be safe,
museworks: (Lucrezia)
Diving back into memories, because it is still necessary. I find myself wanting to return to Silvermoon City, to just sort of dare any to take action against me who might recognize me. Would they, though? I was pale and, though still built almost more like someone of peasant stock, tried to be 'properly dainty'; I had my long, beautiful hair, I had delicate cosmetics expertly applied, I had rich clothing. Now my hair is cut, to my shoulders with fringe on my brow; now I wear heavy armor and carry two large swords at my back; now my skin is more tanned, and I can detect tiny lines at the corners of my eyes and such from spending such time outside. I do not wear cosmetics anymore, I know I carry myself differently.

If I pulled my hair back, kept that expression that Ches has described as 'habitually dour', went about in armor and perhaps even a helm...I imagine I could walk through Silvermoon once again. I have heard slightly distressing things about its more recent decline, and I want to believe it is limited to certain places that were unsavory anyhow, but I also want to see for myself. Besides, owing to my parents' lower social status (then and, quite possibly, now), and Jovan keeping me in isolation...even among the nobility there should be few who would so much as notice me (why would they notice someone seeming to be a mere sellsword?) much less recognize me.

I do not think Chesric would care for this idea, so perhaps I will keep it to myself.

The game continued. )
museworks: (Lucrezia)
I had another nightmare last night. Thankfully they stopped being every night, and not only because of occasional use of the dreamless potion; I prefer to not take that every night if possible, only when I feel I truly need uninterrupted sleep and am somewhere I feel relatively secure. This time my brother did not stand over my bed to wake me. In fact, he did not disturb me at all and let me wake on my own, but when I awoke again this morning he was leaning on my bed asleep. Apparently he had brought a chair up from downstairs to sit beside me. I wish I knew what goes on in his mind, in dealing with me; I do not ask, but I wish I knew. I have a strange-- I would not say 'morbid' as death is not involved, but perhaps 'dark'?-- fascination with how he sees me now. From when he smuggled me out of the Redbrook estate, to now when we sleep in our beds at night in this house we now share. I know he keeps a journal of his own, but I have not asked about it, nor he of mine.

Ches brought me a postcard, sent by Longshadow. I will pen a response soon, but I find I am quite curious about the man's circumstances. He is a very peculiar man-- as noted before-- and one whose business I believe it is best to keep at a distance, as concerned as I find myself growing. Though I also am curious about the...interactions between him and the one calling himself 'SnowMoth' in the Tome. Broken fingers, burnt tomes, and so forth. I told the death knight, in the Tome, that the gardener had burnt his; he (the death knight) mused on sending Longshadow another. I do not know that it would be useful and I certainly doubt it would be well-received, but I do not think I would inquire further. Their issues are their own. I think being a vague outside observer is perfectly fine. I imagine that sword/moth symbol on the crate I'd broken up and burnt, at Longshadow's request, belongs to that death knight. Curious.

I sent the slow fellow in the Tome an inquiry as to his well-being; just a brief one, but I find myself oddly concerned for him. Perhaps because he seems so...trusting. Nice. And I do not like the idea of that being ruined, even if it might simply be a part of life with which he will have to become accustomed someday. I suppose, even though I rarely take up my shield anymore, there is a vague sort of protectiveness lingering still. I do hope this "Sir Thorndawn" is not training him to be a blood knight.

I should venture out today, and take care of some tasks. Earn some more gold. Otherwise I fear I will become a shut-in, simply because this home has a strange sort of peacefulness to it that I do not wish to leave. Not leaving, though, would likely lead to complacence, which I cannot afford at the moment. As much as I want to block out everything outside this house and the few surrounding acres, and focus only on myself, my middling attempts at gardening, and my brother, I should not.
museworks: (Lucrezia)
One day I woke and it was light. There was a face above me, but it was full of gentle concern; it was Jovan's face, and it was his hand cupping my cheek. I know my reaction was instant and instinctive at that point-- fear. I had come to be afraid-- terrified, even-- when I saw Jovan's face, or just his eyes in the dark. I would have scrambled away like a frightened rabbit, as much as it shames me now to admit, but his touch kept me pinned in place with no effort on his part.

"Shh, it's alright," he said, in a voice more tender and loving than I had ever heard from him. "You've been ill, hallucinating what must have been terrible things. But we think you will be well now."

I did not understand. Hallucinating? Ill? I had experienced all of the previous months' (or was it years at that point?) torment. I know I had. I could feel the aching on my back, on my backside and thighs, the various stinging welts and cuts that had been Alamir's work. I know I shook my head at Jovan, wanting nothing more than to shove him away from me and run, but I could not. I was dimly aware of actually wearing an item of clothing for the first time in I don't know how long. I closed my eyes but felt his hand move over my cheek then gently stroke my hair.

The insidious little thought inserted itself into my mind, I recall: What if he were right? What if it had been a hallucination, or a nightmare, or both? But why do I hurt so? I opened my eyes again to see some casualties of this 'hallucination'-- the remaining frame and stand of a shattered floor-mirror, a large curio cabinet similarly broken, things that could very well be responsible for my injuries. And Jovan-- he was being so concerned, so kind. I so desperately wanted to believe his words that I let myself do so. I apologized to him-- I apologized to him-- for everything, for being ill, anything done in the throes of hallucination, breaking anything. I was so desperate to believe that it had all been an extended nightmare or hallucination as claimed, so I clung to that. I clung to the kindness he seemed to be showing me and was already convincing myself of the truth of his words, and feeling ashamed that I had believed what was surely false. I did not want him to believe me mad, either, even though I myself was starting to wonder about such.

I do not think it was unreasonable to want to believe such, or even weak of me; it was so much easier to believe what was more pleasant at that time because everything else was in itself unbelievable.

All kinds.

Jul. 17th, 2011 12:53 am
museworks: (Lucrezia)
I was writing my latest 'installment', as it were, of my memories of my marriage. It was interrupted by the Tome; rather, I suppose I should say I took a break from writing as I find I need to do sometimes. Especially when here alone, as I am now.

It is a most peculiar thing, that Tome; there seems to be neither rhyme nor reason as to who gets ahold of one. Perhaps various coincidences and circumstances, some like mine in which it is taken from a dead man, some...who knows. I am not entirely certain how this one particular individual found one. He does not strike me as overly intelligent, and I would say it may be best that he live with his mother. I think I almost pity him; I hope she is a good guardian, as he seems to be one who might be easily parted from his possessions if found by more unscrupulous sorts. As I write this we are carrying on something of a conversation in the Tome, and I still am not certain as to what to make of him. He does not seem bright enough to be involved with the Blood Knight order, at least.

I must give the poor soul some credit, though: he has lightened my mood a touch.


Jul. 13th, 2011 09:19 am
museworks: (Lucrezia)
My sleep was not as peaceful as I had hoped, and when I woke in the middle of the night there were glowing eyes above me in the dark. It is fortunate for Ches that I was not sleeping with a dagger under my pillow, as I have been most of the time otherwise; the eyes were his, and he had woken up because of me and had only been showing concern. I had moved instinctively when seeing his eyes, as if I had that dagger in my hand-- it would have gone across his throat. He realized this, as did I; I think it was a combination of the nightmare, that strange time of night when one's thoughts seem amplified, the dark, and his presence above it all, but I ended up crying myself to sleep on his shoulder.

I woke again this morning with him holding me as he had sometimes when we were children. He did not ask me about my nightmare, and I did not tell him. I know he was curious, though. I will have to continue writing some memories and let him read. As it was, I asked him only to please never stand over me like that again.

I am fortunate he does not ask questions. He has them, I can see it in his eyes, but he does not ask. I regret feeling as though he did not care, or only vaguely cared, at one point; I know now that he has, but was restrained by circumstance and misinformation (or simply lack of information).


Jul. 13th, 2011 12:43 am
museworks: (Lucrezia)
Outside is quiet, just the sound of crickets, water on the shore, rustling leaves. Inside is the sound of Ches' shallow, steady breathing in the next bed over. The sound of my pen on the page of this personal journal. It is relaxing; I forgot to pick up the materials for another dreamless potion, or even the potion itself, so I hope the night's relaxing quality will help me sleep without incident. I have been making use of the potion the past few nights, because I do not wish to worry my brother.

Hopefully this night will be fine as well, because it's so peaceful and it's just us here.

A letter.

Jul. 12th, 2011 09:27 am
museworks: (Lucrezia)
((Because I am bored this morning, the correspondence turn-around is Supah Fast! >.>))

Lucrezia looked at the small package she held; very inconspicuous, plain brown paper around oilcloth, tied with sturdy string and addressed to one Vorrick Longshadow in Orgrimmar. The identity of "Dubs the Peculiar Gardener," as she had considered him up until that point. Interesting. She wondered if Ches would try to look up information on the odd man, or if he would even find anything if he did.

Within the package was a small box; simple, unfinished wood, nothing special. Its contents were well-cushioned to neither shift nor make noise, as its sender did not particularly care for it to be lost or stolen. Upon opening said box the recipient would find a small linen pouch containing 20 gold coins, and a ring.

Her business in the village was brief; she put the package, with appropriate postage, in the mail. She did not wish to remain there any longer than absolutely necessary; send a package, pick up a few essentials, then leave. She was already nervous enough having given a proper name to someone unknown, but a peculiar sense of fairness dictated such. Besides, should it fall into undesirable hands, it might still be turned to her advantage. She would see.

A letter for Vorrick Longshadow. )


Jul. 10th, 2011 09:56 am
museworks: (Lucrezia)
I have a home.

I would have gone for a room in Orgrimmar, given the choice on my own. Orgrimmar feels safer to me; the Durotar sun is bright and harsh like the land. I have slept in hammocks, on furs and hides, in my own simple bedroll. I am accustomed to life in Orgrimmar, even the endless dubious looks, sometimes bordering on hostile, that I've gotten for being an elf.

But this new home is in Quel'thalas. I would not have chosen it. It was my brother's doing. It is our home, I should say; he intends on sharing it with me. That is the only reason I would even consent to live in Quel'thalas again until Jovan is dead, and at least it is not Silvermoon. Rather, it is located near the coastline, south of Sunsail Anchorage. Near the Scorched Grove. Within sight of the darker Ghostlands, and I think Ches would have possibly even opted for something there, but he knew I preferred sunnier locations. Even the filtered sunlight and temperate temperatures of non-Ghostlands Quel'thalas are preferable to the unnatural twilight of the Ghostlands.

It is small, of course; two rooms and a loft area. The rooms are the main room and the washroom; the cooking area is part of the main room. I would not call it a kitchen. The loft is for sleeping, and has two small beds beside each other, a lamp-table between, a dresser nearby. There is barely enough room for those plus a couple of stands for our armor and weaponry. Strange to think of it; of the two of us, Ches was always more for luxurious surroundings and endless amenities, but he opted for this small, previously abandoned home at the edges. I suppose it was for my sake rather than his own, but he insists on sharing it. He knows my misgivings about being in this land, but he insists it is the best way for me to overcome that because he says it is not right that I be kept from my home. I suppose he is right, and even as simple as this home is, it is within the land where we grew up. And, perhaps, I can attempt to cultivate a garden of sorts.

I asked Ches if he knew any spellcasters who might put wards on our home for us. He said he would see who he could find who might be trustworthy enough for such.

I have a home, and it has a potted plant on the windowsill.
museworks: (Lucrezia)
Sometimes I look back on what I wrote previously; even on things that are difficult to read, still. I started writing in this at the recommendation of a Tauren priest, the only individual to have even a remote idea of things going through my mind. She said it would be therapeutic and that putting my thoughts down would help me organize them as well as come to terms with them and with my personal history. And my feelings. I believe I am repeating myself from writing before but they are my thoughts.

I started writing almost flippantly. I now think it was because I did not take her seriously, did not believe a rather minor act would really, truly help. Maybe it's different for someone who is a writer or artist or musician or some such but I could not understand how words and thoughts would feel any differently on paper as they did in my mind. So I started writing with the notion of perhaps changing, or at least making light of, my thoughts and experiences. It seemed to make sense at the time-- if I wrote things with the edges dulled they would not hurt as much and maybe I could convince myself of that so that they would loosen their hold. That I would not be as helpless in reality as I had felt then. Helpless and terrified. I despise those traits when they start to nudge back into my mind, and I do not-- did not-- want to think about them defining me before. So I tried to gloss over it somewhat.

I realized that was a mistaken approach, though. It did not make me feel better to try and fog the past a touch, and I started writing as I remembered. As plainly as I could. I do not understand why, but it truly does seem to help. There is a long way to go, but I feel like perhaps there is a light at the end of the path. And I still intend on showing these to my brother. I do not know when, whether I will wait until I have written through the time he helped me or shove the journal at him when I see him next, but I will. I do not even know what I will accomplish in doing so. I wonder if it would only make him feel awkward; but he did know some of what happened, else he would not have stepped in.

Even now I do not know how I feel about that. Grateful, yes; I do not think I could have escaped before losing my mind. Beneath it all, though, there is a strange feeling of something…I would not say resentment, but that is close. No resentment for Chesric, but toward myself. For being in that situation and being unable to get myself out. For being too afraid. I needed my brother and though I do love him, I hated needing someone. It meant weakness, and did I not kill Pryderi because he had been weak? What does that mean for me?

I tried drawing myself. I used to draw and paint; I was never an artist, but I had proper lessons as a young lady in ladylike things such as watercolors and music. I have a good singing voice but I have no reason to sing, so that has been dormant. But I tried to draw, to exercise my very limited skill, and what was to have been a self portrait somehow turned into a picture of Ches. We do look like each other, at least, though I would say he is more handsome than I am pretty. Or perhaps the qualities that make him above average are what make me average. I am not delicate, even if I am shorter than some. My weapon training and metalworking ensured that, even if before then-- even when wasting away in the dark-- I was not so dainty of build.

It has been so long since I've tried drawing something living, instead of sketching out armor plans. A child could do better. But it is something, and perhaps with practice… (A sketch is at the bottom of the page.)

((OOC: I tried sketching Lucy. It ended up looking too masculine. And I was too lazy to color or even clean it up and refine it. :) ))
museworks: (Lucrezia)
((Warning for possibly disturbing content under the cut.))

Oh, Pryderi Skyblaze. You had potential, once, I am certain. You could have been a genuinely decent man instead of a half-heartedly decent one. I do not consider you bad, nor did I truly even before you lay lifeless before me. Please understand that you still had to die, though. I could not allow you to live when I found you. But I did make certain your death was painless and without the humiliation I made Alamir endure. I think you understood.

You died because you were weak. )
museworks: (Lucrezia)
My peacebloom plant is growing rapidly. Like a weed. Heh. The peculiar gardener did say it was a weed, after all. It seems to be thriving. I like looking at it. I hope the gardener is healing well of his broken fingers; I hope he received my letter on the tome page.

Lately I've been in Hyjal and the Firelands a lot; the fire-things have apparently redoubled their campaign to see the world burn, including the appearance of 'druids of the flame' or whatever they call themselves. Tried to destroy Thrall. It did not go as they probably would have wished. Pity. Really.

If nothing else, the Firelands reminds one of where they need more armor padding, at least if one's armor is metal. Ordinarily I value my plate armor, but I think I will need more sets of padding for underneath, as this will need to soak for a good while to get the smell out. I am almost fanatically clean, but after just a few tasks for the Cenarions I smelled like something that had been set on fire in Murder Row. It is not a smell of which I am fond. Sustained some burns, both from elementals and from heated armor where there was a gap or weakness in my padding. Fortunately, I acquired this swiftthistle salve from a Gilnean woman at the inn by Nordrassil. It was acknowledged that while this was a good temporary arrangement of goods and sales, it was not necessarily something that would last over time. Faction matters, after all. It is a reality of life even when faced with greater threats, it would seem. For now, though, I will continue to help the battle there. They pay decently, and I have some stirring of conscience.

For now, though, I think I will rest. My tent has been set up, bedroll laid out. It is within a Horde settlement where they permit travelers to camp; I will be safe there. At least, safe as Lucrezia; safety as simply another Horde fighter is a bit more relative, but none who seek me for myself should get to me.

My mote-jar to one side, peacebloom pot to the other. I have a potion that is said to drive away dreams. I hope to sleep deeply.
museworks: (Lucrezia)
((Warning for potentially disturbing content beneath the cut.))

I wrote of the way I sometimes still have nightmares of him. Of how sometimes when I wake in the dark I still imagine seeing his eyes over me. How I crave the sun. I do not know if I mentioned in a past entry-- I do not care to look-- about how I hate total darkness now. One thing I carry with me, wrapped carefully and hidden in one of my packs, is a jar. A glass jar, in which there are several motes captured from various places on Draenor. Bits of energy siphoned from gas clouds and the like, elemental energy, that glow.

I have a nightlight, like a child might.

I'm ashamed of this fact, and maybe someday I can overcome this problem with myself, but for now I cannot handle complete darkness. Even if it means wrapping myself in my bedroll so that no others can see it, if I am supposed to remain hidden in the dark, I have this with me. I am…afraid of the dark. At least some.

The only thing that haunts me more than that is an abuse of the Light. )

I have to keep reminding myself that this is my personal journal, even if I'm also now writing for my brother's eventual enlightenment. I fear that it is turning into just me recounting my husband's trespasses. I will try to write more of me in the present day. Perhaps of my hunt, and as I am successful in finding more than just Alamir.
museworks: (Lucrezia)
((Inspired by [ profile] lohendrin's writing from Tensuns' perspective, I decided to try to write something from Jovan's perspective and see his mindset.

Warning for some possibly disturbing content.))

He stared down at her as she slept. )
museworks: (Lucrezia)
It would be pointless to say he repeated, and often, that cycle of starving/feeding just like the still-going cycle of darkness/light. Not simply starving of food, but sometimes of magic; I do not know what magic-wielder he employed but there had to have been one who would set and lift wards on command. At that point I was fairly certain I was going mad; the only reason I didn't consider myself mad quite yet was that I still had some self-awareness, and I couldn't just mental retreat from any of it. I'd read of others who face traumatic events or simply 'highly undesirable situations in which they are helpless' and manage to withdraw into their minds, into their own private worlds that either block it out or turn it into something else. I wish I could have done that, but I was raised to be acutely self-aware, and it seemed that I could not turn that off even in this case.

When it was during one of the dark times, I would stare into the blackness. A darkness so complete that I could even see my own hand when I held it to my face, apart from what was the tiniest, faintest sickly glow from my eyes. I stared into it until I could 'see' things. Not images, no pictures, but just those odd little patterns and faint specks that one might see when closing one's eyes. Like after-images except I could not see anything in the first place, so I don't know where they were from. Perhaps my mind. I would try to follow these 'patterns'. I tried to imagine what they might be from, or what they might go with. Some were recurring, such as patches of faint stripes. Vertical stripes, like bars. Appropriate.

Sometimes I imagined there being someone else behind those patterns, and to her I was the imagined person in her own darkness.

I couldn't stare into the darkness forever, though. Not even when it seemed unending. I had the layout of my chambers memorized at that point so I no longer stumbled. It was a small mercy that it had not occurred to Jovan to have the furniture rearranged. Sometimes instead of staring into the dark I would continue my exercises, as I had done since first brought there. I did not wish to be sickly. Rather, some stubborn part of me wanted to resist the slow wasting-away that was inevitable in those conditions. After the exercises the 'sparks' that I saw in the total darkness were more prominent. Another reason for doing them, I suppose.

Sparks and stripes. Feast and famine. Light and dark.

Darkness until I would wake and see his eyes over me.

Is it any wonder I crave the sun now?


Jun. 28th, 2011 09:28 pm
museworks: (Lucrezia)
The peculiar gardener from the tome sent me peacebloom seeds, a bag of dirt, and a metal pot. I honestly wasn't expecting it so soon. I also only expected seeds. I am not complaining, though; I wrote him a private note of thanks in the tome. I appreciate all of it. His letter was odd and rambling but I understood it. I didn't mind the extra information anyhow. I enjoyed reading it. I never thought about the soil from Draenor being that different in composition but I suppose it makes sense. The ore I'd mined was certainly different.

I will try to find a decent place to grow them and be sure they're tended. Perhaps I should establish a home of some kind. I shouldn't run anyhow. I told the gardener that a moving target is harder to hit and it is true, but maybe I want him-- them-- to try.

In the meantime I will try to grow this peacebloom. I hope it survives.
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