Tribute Island is open
Never pass up the chance to dance. Better yet if it be a dance with the dead.
Tribute Island, memorial park sim is open!
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Caledon Morgaine is born
Every time a new piece of Caledon emerges from the waters of unprogrammed chaos, I must visit it. I must see it, walk on it, inhale deeply of that new sim smell. I must welcome the land into being, welcome it to its new role in paradise. Sometimes I ride round on it, though today I am feeling too placid to summon my mare from her shadowy corner of my pocket. So it is on foot, and alone, that I walk this new blank island.
If ever you move into your new parcel and find drawn into the mud “Róisín was here”, I hope you’ll forgive that I strolled by in rather a cheeky mood.
Transylvania… Part Four
(continued from What the Mouse Saw and the Bloodwing Foundation)
Transylvania, the Vampire Empire, is a bloody great place to dance.
The music is dark and hard-edged, gothic, industrial, wicked and screamy. It is always night there, and the locals are friendly and accepting of immortals of all sorts, in a bloodthirsty sort of way. It’s the Kine, the mortals, that need watch their step there; and evenso, the Kindred and Lupines nearly never kill.
Nearly never. It’s not a very good place to dance alone, if you’re mortal. If you are… you’re considered willing food, merely by being there. With all the fanged and bloody decor, gothic architecture and fountains of crimson vitae and artwork portraying the bloody beauty of vampirism… come on! It’s not like anyone needed to warn you.
Stumbling Around in WindLight Bliss
She might be drunk, but on beauty. Her eyes stay fixed on sky and sea, shadow and the soft touches of light. She stumbles to shore, slides off of cliffs, clumsily, soaking her boots to the ankle in the shocking cold waters of the firth. Laughing! Eyes shining with reflected light.
Rezday… gazing up at my stars
The Muse lays stretched out on a pile of fallen leaves, gazing up at the great dark bowl of night. She smiles, lips soft with contentment, eyes bright with joy.
She gives new names to the stars overhead. Names like songs, like passions, like time and breath and light and sleep. Names after precious friends; the brightest blessings in her sky. Names of Caledon, of travelers already home, of cats and birds and rabbits, of faeries and aliens and djinn, angels and demons. Your name is there among them, stitched up in the sparkling luminosity of her sky.
At the end, she has more blessings than stars.
Two years ago I was rezzed into this world… and my joy only continues to grow. Thank yeh, my precious friends. You are my finest inspiration. You make this SLife so very good.
Yeh’ve given me wings…
She stands, and stretches. Her wings unfurl slowly, like great dark banners rising behind her. She throws her head and arms back, bare and open to the sky… and flies straight up, into infinity.
a Darkling Waltz
The Lady is finely attired in a new dress… a strange and beautiful dress, made of multiple shifting layers of feathery lace…
a Darkling lance
The Lady, dressed in pale violets, steps purposefully out her front door, surveying the sheltered grove beyond. The morning sun sparkles on the dew of her satin petals, and in her eyes. Her lips quirk in a little smile.
Several of the older birds fly prudently away. They recognize that mischievous smile.
the Tome that Should Not Be
The chill moist mist lurks along the ground, too afraid to rise any higher than the ankles of the strange residents of this land. It is always twilight, and the elegant streetlamps cast an unnatural, greenish glow.
They say you should never, ever drink the water in Winterfell Absinthe. Stick to the fine sweet herbal liquors; they’re safer.
having danced with the spirits…
… the Lady collapses, exhausted, onto green moss, as the feeble morning light picks out her form in overbright blurring streaks of violet, purple, crimson, and skin pale as milk.
The spirits were not gentle this year… but as she slides into oblivious sleep, a little Mona Lisa smile plays across her lips.
