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 Posted: Tue Sep 26, 2006 7:39 pm
 This is a private journal; you do need permission to post here. Invitation only. Thank you for your consideration.  >>Current Quests<<
>>Completed Quests<<
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Posted: Tue Sep 26, 2006 7:42 pm
~*A Ragtag Family*~ Bios coming soon.
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Posted: Tue Sep 26, 2006 7:48 pm
~*Scraps of Memory*~ Coming soon.
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Posted: Tue Sep 26, 2006 7:50 pm
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Posted: Tue Sep 26, 2006 7:52 pm
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Posted: Tue Sep 26, 2006 7:52 pm
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Posted: Tue Sep 26, 2006 7:53 pm
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Posted: Tue Sep 26, 2006 7:54 pm
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Posted: Tue Sep 26, 2006 9:19 pm
Someone lived here once, many years ago. But beyond the little cottage and overgrown garden Emilie couldn’t ever guess who that person had been—what they had done with their life—except that they had loved roses. Red, wild thorny things, hugging the walls of the cottage, and pink and yellow bushes, draped across the crumbling walls of the garden.
She’d often gone there when she needed away from the suffocating bounds of the village. It was quiet, settled in a clearing far removed from the beaten track and situated next to a clean running stream. But as she had gotten older life had gotten in the way, and she’d slowly forgotten about the place.
She thought about it now, bent over the strange egg nestled in the moss before her. She’d heard the rumors, of course, but she hadn’t paid much attention to them until that moment. The villagers were a suspicious lot, prone to paranoia and unfound panic. But this time it looked as if there was something to it.
Emilie had never understood why they let themselves get so bothered by things that were miles away, far removed from the everyday happenings of their quaint little village. It seemed a waste of energy. Her father had called her jaded for her cynical view; she’d never had the time or patience for their feather-brained notions and gossip. But her father hadn’t been much different, so she hadn’t ever let it bother her.
When her father died, despite all the kind advice to take a husband—for she could never take herself now could she, being a lone woman and all—she waded hip deep into her own trade, did what she wanted, said what she thought, and dressed any way she damn well pleased. It hadn’t settled well with their delicate sensibilities, but what did she care? And now she found herself faced with a decision: one path would lead to her living the same life as always, an isolated anomaly; one would be the final slice of the knife that severed the link between her and her countrymen.
With a hesitant glance at the darkened woods, she picked up the jet black egg, cradling it to her and stroking the hard curve of the egg; it was warm to the touch, almost hot. And as she often did when she was thinking, she started walking – she really shouldn’t have been too surprised to wind up at the door of the old cottage. It had always been there for her when she needed it and it wasn’t about to fail her now.
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Posted: Thu Sep 28, 2006 6:17 pm
Cleaning up the abandoned cottage was much harder work then Emilie had initially anticipated. The years had not been kind, no matter how well built the place was. Ivy has sprouted sometime not too long ago, climbing the walls and choking the roses; forcing itself into nooks and crannies and forcing open shutters – it wasn’t so far gone as to be irreversible, but it did complicate things. After making the interior a little more suitable for habitation, sweeping out leaves and debris left by various woodland occupants over the years and securing a warm, dry corner for her little charge, she went about removing it.
It was a hot, dirty job and she had to work to stifle the curses that threatened to spill forth – better to get into the habit now, if she was going to be raising a child. She couldn’t help the odd expletive that slipped out now and then, though. Ivy was a bane; it truly was. Hauling the mangled vines to her makeshift burn pile, she couldn’t wait to set it aflame.
And from there she slipped into one task, and then another. She uprooted the garden, gone to seed and under siege from spiny, deep rooted weeds and other such menaces; put the rock walls to right; hacked back the scraggily roses in an attempt to make them fill in; and made a valiant attempt to restore the once carefully laid out beds. She cleaned the water wheel of gunk and fixed the sink’s pump; sanded the solid oak table until it gleamed; and scoured the floor until there wasn’t a speck of dirt. Clearing the upper loft was a little more labor intensive. Besides one dusty bed it looked as if it had been used for storage – boxes and boxes of things stacked up to the rafters, all of which she methodically went through.
In one such box was a carefully packed set of earthen wear dishes – plates and bowls and cups, all well-made and durable. Another contained an iron skillet and a brass pot, and in a box of linens she stumbled across a stash of cooking and eating utensils. She happily stashed them away in the various cupboards in the kitchen area.
Looking at the things she was unearthing, her thoughts strayed to the matter of the cottage’s previous owner. A brass pot was expensive – not just anyone could afford one. Whoever had come before had been well off; why had they left? Why pack up all your belongings only to leave them behind? Muddling over the mystery, she went about finishing her task.
When she was done she had come to the conclusion that the previous owner of the cottage had been decidedly male – the clothes that she had unearthed were from sturdy, well-made cloth: trousers and shirts, jackets and cloaks, all just a little too big for her; too broad across the shoulders and a tad tight across the chest. But they fit and she thanked her lucky stars for having smaller breasts than was norm. She’d be popping buttons if she took after the ladies in town.
She also found a set of sheets and a wool blanket, various gardening tools, and books; dozens of books on geography and mathematics and the stars and magic and so many other things. It more than cemented the fact that her mystery-man had been of higher learning. What in blazes had he been doing out here? But the most astonishing thing she found was a rather plain, worn sword; the only embellishment was an engraving along the hilt that she couldn’t read. Not knowing exactly what to do with it, but sensing that it had been important to someone very long ago, she hung it across her door. It seemed to fit.
Despite everything she had accomplished, though, she needed to go to town. She just didn’t have enough supplies to make it through the winter, and she wouldn’t dream of leaving her carpenter tools to those misguided fools. So, early the next day, hiding the precious egg in a dark corner of the loft, she headed off to town.
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Posted: Thu Sep 28, 2006 6:18 pm
It was cool among the trees, but pleasantly so, and for awhile she lost herself to fancy as she walked. But, as she drew closer to civilization, she couldn’t help but feel a small stirring of dread. Her nosy neighbors were used to her eccentric inclinations, and thought nothing—except for a vague feeling of horror at her outlandish actions, perhaps—of her gallivanting off into the woods for days on end. But she’d been gone for the better part of two weeks and there were bound to be awkward questions, what with tensions being so high.
It was still relatively early when she reached town though and she took the back way to her small shop, going unnoticed. Her tools were the first to be packed away, carefully wrapped and placed in her pack. Next were her father’s books, not as impressive as they once had seemed compared to the hoard sitting on the shelves in the cottage, but still special. And finally the things her mother had left behind – a pair of mother of pearl combs, a delicate music box singing out its heart about a mermaid’s lost love, and a shell, which her mother would place to her ear so that she could hear the ocean when she was lonely.
Then she hunted down more practical things – knifes, a sharpening stone, an axe. And then it was time to head into the village proper. She needed seeds for the garden and a dozen other things to even begin to survive. Fingering her savings, sorting out the smallest coins and only one gold piece, she headed out. She’d pick up her pack later.
By now the square was bustling: bakers working the crowds and shop owners yelling their wares over one another. Emilie headed for the seed dealer first; a kindly old man who she had bought from before, he didn’t find her requests odd and wished her luck with her garden before sending her on her way. Moving from stall to stall she bartered for the rest she needed—flour, dried meat, various spices and such. And throughout it all no one asked about her disappearance, barely sparring her a glance. It was like she had never left, or never existed at all. Delighted with the prospect, and feeling freer than she had in years, she haggled shamelessly with a hard-eyed, middle-aged woman for a healthy looking hen, and then, not knowing what baby Succubae needed, went in search of a goat. The milk would serve her well either way, and it would be easy enough to build a shelter. The sturdy old donkey she ended up with to carry everything home was an unexpected bonus.
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Posted: Thu Oct 26, 2006 5:47 pm
Starring out the window at the steady drizzle Emilie was disinclined to do much of anything. She’d finished the shed and the lean-to for the animals last week, the house was cleaned, the garden weeded, and she’d made a fresh batch of bread just yesterday morning. So here she was, curled up with a cup of tea by the fire flipping through the old, well-loved journal she’d found among the other books.
Uncle has sent my tutor away. I’m to attend school this year; a boarding school, somewhere in the mountains. It’s said to be more—inclined—towards my particular talents, though I’m loath to wander so far from home. I would much rather take for a teacher one of the local practitioners, but Uncle is firm in his decision and Mother doesn’t wish to quarrel. Of all of it, I will miss the sound of the ocean the most, I think.
Only those of well-to-do families could ever afford a tutor. And to live by the ocean—her mother had grown up there and had always spoke wistfully of sandy beaches and the lull of the surf and watching the storms roll in over the water. It would be nice, to see the ocean some day.
My time away from home has been—an experience, to say the least. The journey to school was enjoyable but my arrival was anything but auspicious. What I had hoped would be a place of higher learning is more a breeding ground for petty political alliances and rivalries. And most of the teachers are more concerned with vying good favor with their students’ well-to-do families. But there is an opportunity here, and I plan to take it. For whatever good it will do me.
A crash from the loft pulled her from the journal with a jolt; she’d gotten so used the silence these past few weeks it was like a gunshot going off. She abandoned the journal and her too-cold cup of tea, scrambling upstairs on shaking limbs. The wicker basket where she had been keeping the egg was upset, bits of broken shell scattered across the floor. Her heart stopped, starting painfully again as one of the overturned blankets shifted, revealing curious luminous eyes and a shock of flame red hair.
“Mummy?”
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