Epilogue : Deep Indigo"You came here in the end, Perfect Prophet." he said, wielding a voice of blue flames. The white clothes he wore had no substance to them. What was substance but a concept there in the heart of the Library? The Garden of Thought. The bowels of Mimir's domain. Casually, he sat upon the left arm of her marble throne. "Even though you refused so adamantly the day he tied your blood to him."
She was as still as a doll on that cold seat of power. Stone shackles and stone chains around her wrists and ankles held her prisoner, though now it was merely a weight, a reminder, for where would she run, exactly? The white bandages around her eyes. The simple white dress that clothed her body. Like the chains, they were meaningless here, for she no longer had any freedom. She no longer had any eyes. She no longer bore Yggdrasil's Curtain on her body. The violet curls and waves of her hair, wore the braid that she had in life in that same place. Asteria's fingers separating
The Last of the Loose EndsTo the students of the Express:
10 months have passed since the the Express left St. Reverie. In that time, I have neglected to perform the duties of one established within a society and forwent the need of a will. This was under the expectation that my belongings would naturally be recouped by the Synderlin Clan if I perish. With the most recent encounter in regards to Nivisia and a message delivered by my Kenyssa, Kyrie Vertrage, I stand corrected of that expectation. As such, a written will is no longer a matter that I may ignore. I dictate this now to Ernest Forfrysning of Ernest and Elise Scribal Services as he will serve as my notary and Kyrie Vertrage my witness here in the town of Creya, this Second Moon of the Season of Fog.
:: :: :: :: ::
To whom it may concern,
If you found this letter tucked between page 340 and 341 inside "Ma
SerendipitySilent singer, you paint a dream
in spaces, in words
Breath and thought aligned
sonatinas to be seen
unheard but heeded
Now your songs slip drunken
laden full, slow sighs
Smiling like fire on wet wood
mast and sail needed
From the deep well of my spine
cold bucket, warm stars
reflected the dome of my head
I recall who you are
and sing instead
your words, and mine
Draw the mirror dripping from deep
the lowest you've been
the darkest of you
Even there you've planted
the music that alight my apex
brilliant night sky
a pleasant surprise
Juvel - Hexenvalze I - Ch5< Chapter 4
Aria Lockehart of Venza was convinced that fate had a grudge. She didn’t know what she did to offend whatever powers dictated destiny, or if the universe was just jealous of how amazing she was. Not many ladies could glower and still look as adorable as this archduchess, of this she was quite certain.
“Is your ice cream to your liking, my lady?” Idric asked.
Aria grumbled back, “The cone is crispy. The ice cream is soft and not too sweet. The chocolate is crunchy. Even the pee-colored filling—“
“Caramel, my lady.”
“Even the caramel is rich and bursting with flavor. It doesn’t even melt. In short, this is perfect.” She took another bite out of the cone.
“Then, my lady, what might be the matter? Is it a brainfreeze?
Juvel - Hexenvalze I - Ch4< Chapter 3
“Iddy, look!” At a toy store close to their host family’s home, Aria held the fattest plush giraffe Idric had ever seen. She raised it high above her head so it looked into his face. He could not discern head or tails of the spherical body. “Can we get it? Ms. Ogden’s students would like it too, right?”
“I believe Ms. Ogden’s students are there to take their music lessons, not to amuse you.” Idric plucked the giraffe out of her hands and put it back on the shelf.
“Iddy, you’re such a killjoy. Oh, this is even bigger! And soft!”
Idric felt his pocket buzz. While Aria sprawled over her newly discovered sea turtle plush, he stepped away to answer the summons. His black phone had only a number pad, much simpler than Aria’s Jaide, but it served his purposes just fine. T
Hexenvalze - Sketch 3From the Journal of Icaritus Gregorio Jurian, age 9.
Dear Diary/// No, pardon me. I mean Dear Journal. Real men write Journals. Real men also stand up to their problems. Dear Journal, I regret to tell you that I have a problem of utmost emergency, one that shall decide whether or not I will continue to call you a Journal or if I must tuck my tail between my legs and be content with the disgrace of rebaptizing you as a Diary. Gladly, you are not impatient and nor are you quick to judge, which is why I will convey to you the circumstances of my woe.
Today marked the day I entered my new domain, where I, at the top my entrance class, would firmly establish my dominion over that which is rightfully mine. At least, that had been my plan. You know very well the strategies I disclosed within your pages over the past several weeks. You know even more well the flawlessness of each movement and the brilliance of every precaution I took to prevent any errors in the execution of having my p
Hexenvalze - Sketch 2Bright as the sun yet no more than a girl at heart, I tumbled into that destiny as a boy through the topiary of her garden. She was the Cein, a goddess and priestess among her people. But I? I was a mere man, a fugitive from my own kin.
I told her once: a butterfly should not belong on the shoulder of a corpse, that her place was the sanctity of Ceintura and not the taint of maggots. But she stayed by me all the more.
"If I cannot save one man, then what can I do for ten men? What can I do for a thousand men?"
That intoxicating brilliance was a sweet poison to induce a sanguine dream. I slowly forgot the ties of my blood and languished in evanescent carelessness while my research gathered dust. It meant the world to me that I could brush her hair off her shoulder just to feel my fingertips run across her skin. The elaborate ruses we invented, just so we could sneak a few moments of privacy beyond prying eyes, sparkled like she did. Long moments of silence cast her gaze far into the hor
Hexenvalze - Sketch 1I made you in the image of my mother, who had grandfather's dark brown hair and a predisposition for mischief, my mother who could not have but pined for a child I could call sister.
I found straight twigs and tied them together to make the form. From rags and cloth scraps, I fashioned you a dress. Shorn-off fur carefully glued to a cloth scalp formed the hair. I tied it all together with twine and old ribbons, forgetting that I was a boy of 7 and what I was making was a doll. At the time, the fact you had no eyes bothered me more.
Mother caught me in Grandfather's workshop, trying to melt a glob of crystal on a long, metal rod. I'd seen it done a million times and I was confident I could do it effortlessly. But the weight of that rod and the hot lump of crystal was too much and the bright blaze of the fire humbled me into her arms. I clamored that only glass eyes would be fitting for you, but she did not scold or fret. Instead, she cut two pink buttons from the front of her shirt and
Night Without StarsWhen my father told me that the twinkling lights in the night sky were the eyes of our ancestor tigers, I would not believe him. No one did, not after the old dirt roads and their wheel ruts were paved flat, and not after the first rain drained down those new, red clay shingles on the roof.
I still remember how they clacked together when I handed them one by one to father, watching him piece together the home that we would have shared with mother. He said that she, too, watched us with glittering eyes. But that was twenty years ago. Everyone smiled twenty years ago.
That was because everything was new back then, including me, barely five and so late to speak the village wives secretly gambled over if I was mute for life. My hand grasped the hem of father's shorts and the hairs on his legs pricked my wrist. Like this, I could walk past their pitying eyes without looking up even once. I felt like I was more than a piece of meat as long as I had father's tattered khakis tight in my finger