βπ¬π«π±π’π«π±π°: 349; Him β’ β’ β’ I Unsent Letter β’ β’ β’ II Glossary; On The First Things β’ β’ β’ III 350; Summer β’ β’ β’ IV |
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The Unburnt Journal
- Thread starter Walter Thornley
- Start date
Autumn 349, on the road.
Ten months of sorrow, and my heart still has not bled all of the tenderness crushed after I'd lost him.
It did not matter what he became, he was mine. His calloused hands felt sturdy in hold. I've never felt so anchored to my fleeting being as when I was with him, brow against brow, in the quiet of the woods, in the peaceful awakenings in dawn-lit rooms.
He was warm, and I could be warm with him. I could be less lord, and less wraith, and I could be myself - half-forgotten myself that I'd done so ill to forget, and felt so good to remember and be seen.
I thought, this was my sweet spring, my verdant love, come to me tenderly after so long, a scorching and irreverent summer, a beautiful but fickle fall.
And I felt young again.
And there was hope.
I'd keep him close - he seemed all too eager to follow. I'd put him with the Hunt. We could be together. My revenant road was not so doomed after all, I thought.
He'd grow his roots, and he'd grow strong, and we would intertwine and grow together, true to one another, in this harsh and deceitful but beautiful world. Two oaks, evergreen.
Maybe, if we did grow old, we would grow old together.
I imagined us a witty pair for all the social events where I'd usually have to fend for myself. I thought us well capable of complementing each other on the hunt, as well.
So long as he wanted it, too. He said he did.
Those who took him from me will pay.
Not today, nor tomorrow, but the day will come.
My vengeance will be frigid as the winter gales.
I will find all of them, their cherished possessions and persons,
their ventures and their values and their pets and houses
and servants and childes and heirlooms and legacies.
And I will erase them from this earth.
But as I wallow in my grief, another thought visits me.
A doubt.
I think I loved him deeper than I've loved anyone before.
But I know that I have been deprived. I had to chase, to court and to provide, such was always expected of me and never in reverse, however much I'd pine for equilibrium.
And starving people, they will eat anything. And I was starving.
He was kind, but aimless, as if being acknowledged as a good man was the start and end of his character. He never revealed ambition, avoided intent, and, somehow, suffered. Not persevered. As if... life happened to him, with no agency of his own, as opposed to him living life, with misplaced judgements and poor choices that come. As if he was there for someone to help him out of that pit, whilst his own motions were insufficient - help him out of pity, out of the goodness of the heart, or misguided mercy.
And I took that. I was mid-winter, desperate for sunlight's touch.
But he seemed to not know what to do with himself, once released from his pain. He'd drifted away, smiling, easy as ever, but less, and less still, each day, until there was a distance between us nothing could surmount. If love is closeness, this was no love.
And so, by the time he was gone, my heart had already been crushed. So did I love him? Or did I love the thought of being in love? Did I adore my own knightly antics?
Did I yearn for him to give, as well as take, in vain once more?
Have I deluded myself, used to responsibility and solitary burden?
It was a dream, that verdant spring.
My mind has understood it, though my heart relents.
I only have myself to blame.
Even after carrying his dead weight for half a year, to that place, and watching the great oak wither, I still knelt before him, and bled Shroud into the earth, begging for him to come back, until I almost shattered my own self beyond repair.
I have to move on, of course, and I will.
I have to have faith that this winter is not forever.
And I have much to give, to the spring that's true and would give in turn.
Ten months of sorrow, and my heart still has not bled all of the tenderness crushed after I'd lost him.
It did not matter what he became, he was mine. His calloused hands felt sturdy in hold. I've never felt so anchored to my fleeting being as when I was with him, brow against brow, in the quiet of the woods, in the peaceful awakenings in dawn-lit rooms.
He was warm, and I could be warm with him. I could be less lord, and less wraith, and I could be myself - half-forgotten myself that I'd done so ill to forget, and felt so good to remember and be seen.
I thought, this was my sweet spring, my verdant love, come to me tenderly after so long, a scorching and irreverent summer, a beautiful but fickle fall.
And I felt young again.
And there was hope.
I'd keep him close - he seemed all too eager to follow. I'd put him with the Hunt. We could be together. My revenant road was not so doomed after all, I thought.
He'd grow his roots, and he'd grow strong, and we would intertwine and grow together, true to one another, in this harsh and deceitful but beautiful world. Two oaks, evergreen.
Maybe, if we did grow old, we would grow old together.
I imagined us a witty pair for all the social events where I'd usually have to fend for myself. I thought us well capable of complementing each other on the hunt, as well.
So long as he wanted it, too. He said he did.
Those who took him from me will pay.
Not today, nor tomorrow, but the day will come.
My vengeance will be frigid as the winter gales.
I will find all of them, their cherished possessions and persons,
their ventures and their values and their pets and houses
and servants and childes and heirlooms and legacies.
And I will erase them from this earth.
But as I wallow in my grief, another thought visits me.
A doubt.
I think I loved him deeper than I've loved anyone before.
But I know that I have been deprived. I had to chase, to court and to provide, such was always expected of me and never in reverse, however much I'd pine for equilibrium.
And starving people, they will eat anything. And I was starving.
He was kind, but aimless, as if being acknowledged as a good man was the start and end of his character. He never revealed ambition, avoided intent, and, somehow, suffered. Not persevered. As if... life happened to him, with no agency of his own, as opposed to him living life, with misplaced judgements and poor choices that come. As if he was there for someone to help him out of that pit, whilst his own motions were insufficient - help him out of pity, out of the goodness of the heart, or misguided mercy.
And I took that. I was mid-winter, desperate for sunlight's touch.
But he seemed to not know what to do with himself, once released from his pain. He'd drifted away, smiling, easy as ever, but less, and less still, each day, until there was a distance between us nothing could surmount. If love is closeness, this was no love.
And so, by the time he was gone, my heart had already been crushed. So did I love him? Or did I love the thought of being in love? Did I adore my own knightly antics?
Did I yearn for him to give, as well as take, in vain once more?
Have I deluded myself, used to responsibility and solitary burden?
It was a dream, that verdant spring.
My mind has understood it, though my heart relents.
I only have myself to blame.
Even after carrying his dead weight for half a year, to that place, and watching the great oak wither, I still knelt before him, and bled Shroud into the earth, begging for him to come back, until I almost shattered my own self beyond repair.
I have to move on, of course, and I will.
I have to have faith that this winter is not forever.
And I have much to give, to the spring that's true and would give in turn.
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| Dear Dolores, I will never tell you how cowardly your twin brother is. How he used to cry because by the time he'd taken the full weight of the family legacy and teachings, he did not feel like he could find a person that he was anymore. Just an extension of our crest, on two legs, a living mask to present our family. How desperate he ever was for another's love, even when he was not loved. How the stable boy's ghost haunted him for years of his youth spent travelling, the feeling of his mouth on the neck like a teething cub, his hands low under the shirt, and the world would smell like sunlight and straw, all in gold. How he didn't know when to give his heart, because we haven't been taught these things. We have been taught all things reason, and calculation, and heraldry, and managing anything from taxes to codes of clothing, but not this. Our father was not kind. Our mother had a tainted sort of kindness. And we are poorer, all three of us, a mess. I will never tell you how he is terrified each night that the thing that is now part of him will erase him, what remains of him, like the tide erases the tall cliffs - if it spills over for too long, or gathers too much grief; how the thing that solidifies being in truth will deem your brother's change a distortion, and then he will be gone - and it with him, for a flame cannot burn by itself. How abhorrent the notion that he could one day have to Harvest someone of the family. How somber the understanding that it is only his resilience and what remains of hope that keeps this end at bay. | I want to hope. Nothing good or lasting in life comes without effort, though the point to which one applies themselves is oft misplaced. With that in mind... I will set things right for my family. It is what was entrusted to me, after all, what we were born for. There is much work to do, and I hope that I can rely on your hand in this. You do not have to like me, the wayward son who still received what you may feel you've rightfully deserved by years of staying at our father's side. But you are still my sister. We did not ask for this, and yet it is ours to bear, and we cannot let go. We have to keep noticing the good while we deal with the ugly. Our name will mean something again, something commanding respect, and if not admiration - then at least fear. I have plans I hope to share with you. So many plans. I am so sorry for bringing you hardship in life - my conduct in youth left much to be desired, and harmed more than myself. I will find a way to make it up to you. I don't know how, just yet, but I will find a way. It is my responsibility. But your twin brother is a coward, and thinks often how easily softness breaks him. He yearns for things outside his reach, and I think that part of me wants him to learn to keep his heart and its contents all to himself. For all time. Any less proved folly. |
To follow is a condensed version of my own notes and theories,
collected from memory, later research, and all the journals I have burned.
Much came to light since I've last mused on the topics such as the nature of the Weave,
the source of Shroud and many others connected.
Do gods exist? Does Fate, or Luck?
What is the middle point between a weave made maniftest
as an effect, or an object, or clinging on as interaction with such
(in levitating, maintaining sight and access beyond, keeping determined barriers waterproof, etc. etc. etm.)-
and the pure, yet imperceptible and faceless, source of miracles itself?
I think I may have touched it, that state between, in my own tribulations.
Not only once during my becoming, but twice - on foolish heart's notion.
Then, after my return,
I have congregated all of the texts that I could find from grandfather's study.
May have been exhaustion turning my mind, may have seen the Mother, herself.
But I digress.
ππ©π¬π°π°ππ―πΆ
β’ First, we have the Material world, which includes all objects, entities, weaves and effects that can be witnessed to exist in our reality, be it in the realm of spirits or otherwise, anchored and knowable - if not immutable. It includes everything that did, does and will exist, regardless of its origin or iteration.
β’ Second, we have the Shroud as I will hence define it - a transparent energy, imperceptible to most and present in most things just as well.
It is in the blood and flesh of every living thing, plant, the wind that carries dust, it sometimes condenses into ley lines which affect the world around them - just the same as the Shroud-devoid areas are bound to wither and crumble. Shroud, however, is not something as trivial as 'life force', however attached it is to the concept, since it can be woven in patterns that have nothing to do with life, death, or the natural.
As such, Shroud refers, in this text, to the power pre-manifestation in the Material.
β’ Third, we have the Aspects - likewise as in alchemy, they are not only direct meanings and manifestations (a rock may, most sturdily so, carry an aspect of 'a rock'), but also the meanings that are imbued by what their attributed thing is or does. Aspects are required for the Shroud to manifest stably in the Material.
Example: A direct Aspect would be, as mentioned, a rock which represents 'a rock'.
It would be the strongest in being rooted to the Material, but the most limited expression of the Aspect.
A lot of primitive cultures, occultists and folk-learned weavers engage with direct Aspects as a source of stability for their Weave.
An indirect Aspect would be a rock which represents 'sturdiness' or 'strength' - the nature of the Aspects is such that, translated to one of many languages across Khurun, they may never be suited to a particular word.
Such an aspect would be less rooted and stable, however, provide much more variety of potential use.
Most of aspiring artificers perfect their use of indirect Aspects, for the creation of layered enchantments - for example, layered inscriptions infused with the Weave to adopt a particular order of the Aspects; else, gems with one weave inlaid into the base with a different weave.
But so do the occultists - ask any who don't throw cut fingernails into the water, or take care to burn cut hair, as those can be particularly powerful indirect proxies to target a specific person.
That said, with enough will or use, words themselves can also be Aspects - such as someone's given name, or a name ascribed to a quality.
If your name carries enough weight, or is on numerous lips - don't give it to strangers. Especially so, not yourself. Titles and aliases help, so I've heard.
Aspect Cascade - is an event where two Aspects interact with one another to produce a third effect not native to either, or several aspects produce a consequently altering effect (usually in Weaves intended to deviate in releasable power, or to escalate in complexity).
β’ Fourth, we have the Weave - unlike some scholars may assume, it is not simply knitting the Shroud together into a particular ornament.
The Weaving itself, be it in the spirit of occult pursuit or arcanocraft - poetry or mathematics - pulls the Shroud into the Material (*channeling), and in order for it to stay manifested needs to imbue it with one or more Aspects via the force of their will.
A stable Weave will produce an object, entity or effect as predicted.
Stable woven control over fire with aspects of 'flame', 'guide' and specifically shaped, outlined, or willed pathway - will result in fire travelling in that trajectory, regardless of whether it's intended as a blast or a continuous stream, that would depend on a specific weave structure.
Unstable woven control over fire with aspects of 'flame', 'guide' and a pathway - may result in the pathway deviating, may result in the Aspect of 'flame' being empowered with Shroud above what the Material can contain and growing out of control (e.g. explosion), and the specifics of volatility expression depend on mistakes made.
Ascher's Self-Voiding Law - is a tendency of volatile Weave to continue unravelling until all Aspects are no longer contained and all the manifested Shroud has dissipated in the environment. The formulas to calculate compound volatility can be found in the attachment. The maximum is always 3 (III, three). It is particularly important to remember when attaching Weave to physical objects or inscriptions.
β’ Lastly, we have the First Things - which represent a metaphysical 'middle space' between the pure Shroud and pure Material, and a congregation of Aspects in the largest, most general sense.
ππ« π±π₯π’ ππ¦π―π°π± ππ₯π¦π«π€π°
Of what I could gather from the worth of folklore in my travels,
the sum total of my ancestor's writings, and my own past theories and aspirations -
- as well as a particular encounter -
the comprehended knowledge may sound cryptic, or resemble, perhaps, a fable.
I theorize, that at the beginning of time there have only been Darkness and Ocean.
Once again, consider them as abstract, metaphysical objects, the direct representation of which is only the simplest way to view or address them.
Night, or the First Darkness - the ultimate vacuity that contains everything, and permeates everything.
It is the ultimate stability, stagnancy, immovability - and states of comprehension in unknown.
It is the beginning, and the end - but only the beginning and the end, merged into one. It is the point where a cycle revolves.
Not only death, but what is before life. Not only forgetting things, for good or ill - but limits to perception so sanity may be retained.
Not only the grace of hiding from a predator, but being hidden from one as well.
By itself, it does not exist when perceived. It needs bodies to outline or to obscure in shadow.
It needs the flame (enlightenment) to reveal the true shape of things.
It is averse to breaking of the established order, to objects without shadows, to cycles without end.
But also, it embraces longevity, stability - at least, until the illuminated things are enshrouded once more.
It can be considered 'Order', after a fashion, not order as a virtue, but as a constancy of state.
And it is that which connects the Shroud to the Material.
That which ensures stability once the Weave has been created.
Ocean, or the First Boundless - is the ultimate array of potentials for all things, and all of their states, everywhere, at all times, in all the combinations.
The ultimate disarray that rejects any longevity, that recombines, changes, transmutes, and cannot stay the same - and yet, produces novelty.
It is the middle of the cycle - every middle, of every cycle, always and never.
It is also every point of change, predictable and not.
Not only water, but cloud and rain and burning steam. Not only health but rot and sickness too. Not only generation but mutations.
By itself, it is inscrutable when perceived - even the strongest, most potent mind needs limits to its perception to remain whole.
It is the volatility, the good and bad change, the flow of pure emotion, the spontaneity that never ceases, births and destroys itself endlessly.
It is the spark of passion, and what is echoed in both the stream of consciousness and the creative process.
It is that which allows to change the faceless Shroud and bind will to the pull, and Shroud to the Aspect.
That which allows the process of creating Weave.
And lastly, we have what emerges from the two, and in between the two,
and as the only thing that we can truly, partially, experience.
Woods, or the Bountiful Earth - is not the potential, but things manifest, stable within their own sets of laws, but mutable.
It is the Earth, the tidal waves, the animals and plants and every Weave and every person's thoughts.
Once there is too much Chaos, the cycle ends, but the nature of the thing changes, and so the new cycle begins.
Our beautiful, horrifying, fleeting imperfect world.
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Summer; 350 E.O.D.
Had to leave before dawn after the daytime fiasco.
Stalked to the beach. Went to those cliffs, sober as a glass shard.
He was a sweet boy, he didn't deserve this. How did he end up all the way there, in the fissure?
Erased the remnants of my weave from the rocks. The Ocean took everything else.
Felt like it was someone else's almost.
I have to hold on to what's left. Build something better. Grow.
I gave up when I returned. But I love my family, and what few of my friends still remain. For them.
And for myself.
I refuse to surrender just because my circumstance limits me.
But it would be of help if someone could help me. What am I?
I have theories, but putting them to the test stifles my heart.
Dolores depends on me to continue pushing the family success.
And I will. I have been working hard every single day to that end, much as I could, given I have to go and find Harvests to reap.
But, for now, I will keep him and his safe and sound. If he ever wants to, as he put it, repay me - I'm sure an opportunity would present itself.
The other nightly visitor from late spring still comes to mind. What in the world has happened there?
The Captain would have put the madman out of his misery.
I've grown soft at home, so quickly, too. Perhaps, for the better.
Had to leave before dawn after the daytime fiasco.
Stalked to the beach. Went to those cliffs, sober as a glass shard.
He was a sweet boy, he didn't deserve this. How did he end up all the way there, in the fissure?
Erased the remnants of my weave from the rocks. The Ocean took everything else.
Felt like it was someone else's almost.
I have to hold on to what's left. Build something better. Grow.
I gave up when I returned. But I love my family, and what few of my friends still remain. For them.
And for myself.
I refuse to surrender just because my circumstance limits me.
But it would be of help if someone could help me. What am I?
I have theories, but putting them to the test stifles my heart.
Dolores depends on me to continue pushing the family success.
And I will. I have been working hard every single day to that end, much as I could, given I have to go and find Harvests to reap.
But, for now, I will keep him and his safe and sound. If he ever wants to, as he put it, repay me - I'm sure an opportunity would present itself.
The other nightly visitor from late spring still comes to mind. What in the world has happened there?
The Captain would have put the madman out of his misery.
I've grown soft at home, so quickly, too. Perhaps, for the better.
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