West Marches - Gilded Cage
There is a sharp rap on the door outside what used to be Quiz's closed Arcane Laboratory. Most of the contents long since transported down to the Forks. Sedriks waits outside, idly toying with a reed flute.
Friday, April 19, 2019
Monday, April 15, 2019
Tragedy - Notre Dame Burns
Tragedy - Notre Dame Burns
"And in the middle of all that grief, there are harmonies. Humans are such magnificent creatures."
https://twitter.com/mikegalsworthy/status/1117881594847612928
Tuesday, April 9, 2019
Life - Obligation
Life - Obligation
Do not be daunted- The Talmud
by the enormity
of the world's grief.
Do justly, now.
Love mercy, now.
Walk humbly, now.
You are not obligated
to complete the work,
but neither are you free
to abandon it.
Sunday, April 7, 2019
Life - Helpless Rage
Life - Helpless Rage
I am alone, standing before a heavy bag. Music I don't remember. There is an acrid smell of chalk and sweat, and the lights are half on, cold, and quiet.
Fists up.
I am alone, standing before a heavy bag. Music I don't remember. There is an acrid smell of chalk and sweat, and the lights are half on, cold, and quiet.
Fists up.
Saturday, April 6, 2019
West Marches - Friend Hunting
West Marches - Friend Hunting
Sedriks vaults a tree with ease, eyes scanning through the forest languidly. The afternoon sun is broken up into dappled flecks beneath the heavy canopy, and idyllic birdsong breaks through here and there. Looking back, the Bard calls to Maren, "What was tha' plant ye said we were lookin' for? What is it used for?"
Maren picks her way through the thick undergrowth of the woods, leaving no trace as she navigates the greenery. She bends over to inspect a small patch of trailing white flowers, rubbing the leaves between her fingers. "Dead Man's Moss, Mirabel's Seedling should be in season... if you can find any Corpseblossom, or see any Ghostpine trees, I would be very pleased." She tosses her ashy silver hair out of her face as she plucks a few of the flowers and tucks them in her apothecary's satchel.
Sedriks vaults a tree with ease, eyes scanning through the forest languidly. The afternoon sun is broken up into dappled flecks beneath the heavy canopy, and idyllic birdsong breaks through here and there. Looking back, the Bard calls to Maren, "What was tha' plant ye said we were lookin' for? What is it used for?"
Maren picks her way through the thick undergrowth of the woods, leaving no trace as she navigates the greenery. She bends over to inspect a small patch of trailing white flowers, rubbing the leaves between her fingers. "Dead Man's Moss, Mirabel's Seedling should be in season... if you can find any Corpseblossom, or see any Ghostpine trees, I would be very pleased." She tosses her ashy silver hair out of her face as she plucks a few of the flowers and tucks them in her apothecary's satchel.
Friday, April 5, 2019
Poetry - 3am
Poetry - 3AM
Speak no words.
Offer no dreams.
Let the play of clouds
obscuring, stars
be your only indication
of
b
r
e
a
t
h.
Speak no words.
Offer no dreams.
Let the play of clouds
obscuring, stars
be your only indication
of
b
r
e
a
t
h.
Monday, April 1, 2019
Life - Altschmerz
Life - Altschmerz
n. weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had—the same boring flaws and anxieties you’ve been gnawing on for years, which leaves them soggy and tasteless and inert, with nothing interesting left to think about, nothing left to do but spit them out and wander off to the backyard, ready to dig up some fresher pain you might have buried long ago.
n. weariness with the same old issues that you’ve always had—the same boring flaws and anxieties you’ve been gnawing on for years, which leaves them soggy and tasteless and inert, with nothing interesting left to think about, nothing left to do but spit them out and wander off to the backyard, ready to dig up some fresher pain you might have buried long ago.
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