in the Darkling Grove, listening with the trees

The Lady sits shivering near the hearth, wrapped in a cloak while the cold stormwinds blast through the room. The only light is that from the crackling fire and the occasional flash of lightning, splintering through the room from beyond the wall of stained glass. She speaks low, only just above the sound of the storm, as her eyes gaze dully into the flame.

I’ve been hiding indoors for most of the last week, avoiding the real recognition of the holiday. Now I realize it. Now I can see those ghosts that have been flitting fast through my mind, fast enough that I could let myself be endlessly distracted that I not see them. But not today. Today I can see them, they are so close and move so slow: each one a threat, like someone riding past too slow, watching with hard eyes.

Read the rest of this entry »

She reads the words, twice, thrice, and finds more solace in each reading. But will it ever be enough?

Read the rest of this entry »

She sits in the noon shadow of a tree, dressed only in ivy and the shadows of leaves. Her arms are wrapped round her knees, gathering them close to protect her heart. She mumbles one repeated phrase beneath her long dark curtain of hair.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Lady waits in the feeble overcast light, near the cold campfire. As usual she is alone, and has been for some time.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Lady sits at the edge of the flickering circle of light. The unfamiliar forest around her is dark and silent in the night; no signs of civilization can be seen. The campfire is small, the firelight illuminating but few details: her hair, crimson now, fallen in long curls over her pale face, the shining silver ankh at her throat, the long coat of purple velvet spilled out on the ground behind her, and the page of the book in her lap. She sits dozing, her eyelids heavy in near-sleep, mere slits of gleaming white showing beneath the dark lashes. The night is cold, but her breath does not show.

The book is open in her lap, one silver-ringed hand fallen across it. If you are very fortunate with a glass, you might just make out the words in the flickering light:

Read the rest of this entry »

A notice is posted in several locations throughout Caledon: at the Lady West Speirling’s home, shops, and upon the island itself. It reads:

The Most Honourable
The Marquise of West Speirling
Will be away from Caledon on holiday,
Returning no later than
October the Twenty-Third.
Those seeking to contact the Marquise are encouraged to send correspondence by text.

(signed)
Darkling, West Speirling

A printed handbill blows along with the crimson leaves on the chill autumn wind.

You stoop to pick it up, and read:

Caledon Library Book of the Month Discussion for October Two Thousand and Seven

Sunday, October the Twenty-First, 2:00 - 3:45pm SLTtime
Whitehorn Library, Caledon VictoriaCity

The Caledon Library’s Book of the Month for October is “Islands of Mystery”. This book comprises two works, the novel _The Secret of the Island_, by Jules Verne & the blog adventure _Journey to 20,000 Leagues Beneath the Mysterious Island_, by The Journeyers of Caledon.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Lady paces the grove, thinking hard. The worn earth beneath her feet bears testament to the fact that she has been doing so for hours. She is very, very pale, her eyes glittering like sharp stars, clearly not entirely human. She stops by the bridge, and picks up a bottle of dark glass, drinking deeply, a long pull, her cheeks flushing a bit, then sets it down. She returns to her paces, twisting her fingers round and round each other, and round a strange key on a silver chain. She addresses the silent trees, the cold night air, her own thoughts, with a voice that slides from deeply determined to soft and tender and back again. Her heart is overflowing, her mind aflame.

Read the rest of this entry »

The Lady stumbles in, drunk and giggling and really not acting like a lady at all. She is redheaded again, dressed in the Caledon tartan: a great ribbon of it in her hair, and her kilt-skirt shockingly showing most of her thighs in a culture in which showing as much as a stockinged ankle or uncovered shoulder is considered quite naughty. She is flushed and joyous.

Hooo, freakin yay! Oiya, trees, iszza shame yeh can’t dance and scream and stomp yehr roots! What a fanTAStic game today, Caledon versus CDS, great Caledon against Neufreistadt! And hardly anyone even mentioned the war.

Read the rest of this entry »

Miss Kiralette: Down Into the Caverns We Go

Mister Gnarlihotep Abel: From the Bowels

Miss Fuschia & Professor Avalanche: the Descent

Lady Eva: the Chow Chow Club

Miss Fuschia & Professor Avalanche: Fight Club

Miss Terry: Having Landed

(Please don’t be offended that you cannot see all of my posts. I’ve started a new writing series, and to protect some roleplayers involved in the story, have required a password to view them. They are only meant to protect specific individuals from spoilers. If you are interested to read the posts, and think it likely you are not one of these people, feel free to contact me (inworld or by email) to request the password.

If you are told the password, I expect that you will not share it with anyone else without my permission.

Once the plotline is concluded (or the secrets out), I will probably remove the password requirement.