Qalaya, Nysul and Lanie Mae

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The player scrapbooks forum is literally a place for writers to warm-up, brainstorm, keep little scraps of notes, or just post things to encourage themselves and each other. Each player can feel free to create their own thread - one per account - and use them accordingly.

Qalaya, Nysul and Lanie Mae

Postby Philomena on April 17th, 2013, 2:38 pm

Ana and Fallon today were talking about how I should post some of my silly dreams I have about Mizahar. So, I thought perhaps, it was time I made a proper scrapbook for Minnie, to go alongside my Iha-book. I don't know how often I'll post things, I can't imagine my private musings on Minnie Lefting and Mizahar will be that interesting. But at least this way, I won't kill chat with silly dreams.
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Dream about Ana Sol Starris and Minnie

Postby Philomena on April 17th, 2013, 2:45 pm

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I dreamt that Minnie was on a ship. Somehow, in the dream, she'd become marked in the same way that Wren and Lanie are marked, and so she had purchased this ship, and was sailing, sailing, out into the outer sea, out of sight of land, so that she wouldn't make anyone sick.

Of course, this is dream logic, as in reality, Minnie would have no idea how to sail a ship, so she'd have a crew, and they'd all end up dying. But it's a dream.

She would sleep during the day, then wake up by night, to sail along by starlight. And while she was sailing in the faint light of the stars, she looked out to the side of the ship, to the vast, empty sea, and there just a efw stone throws off the starboard of the ship, was Ana, walking very slowly across the water, only it was Ana as a child, as Minnie knew her. And Minnie saw her, and she was suddenly frightened, because she knew that if Ana realized that she was walking across the water, she would wake, and would sink into the ocean.

And she wanted to pull out the little rowboat off the ships deck, and row over to gather Ana up, to make her safe. But then, she remembered she was marked, and so she didn't.

And the next night, the same thing happens - Ana is walking in the starlight on the waves, and Minie wants to go gather her up, but is frightened she will hurt her. And the next again. And the next after that.

On the fifth night, finally, Ana turns and looks up at Minnie, and says 'Wren-witch, I have been crying for you for four straight nights, why did you not come?'

And so Minnie is terrified then and begins struggling the rowboat into the water, but now, very slowly, Ana begins to sink. And Minnie is incompetent with the oars, and is trying desperately to row to Ana, even as her ship is sailing away beyond reach, but Ana just keeps sinking, lower and lower.

And Minnie, when she gets there, the only thing above the water is Ana's hand, and its chilled and sick, and shivering, and Minnie is pulling and pulling, and pulls herself straight out of the boat, and is floating underwater.

This is the part I remember best, because Minnie was in this great complex, layered dress, with petticoats and ribbons, and her hair done fine, and so when she was under water, all this cloth began floating around her, and in the dream, I could feel, very, very clearly, the touch of this fabric waving in the water against my skin.

And we both just floated there for a moment, and Ana was staring at me, and her eyes were so teribly sad. Then she shook her head, and sunk the rest of the way into the sea before I could grab her.
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Dream about Kenash

Postby Philomena on May 24th, 2013, 6:22 pm

Before its even open, right?

I created a character concept yesterday for Kenash, then found out it was not kosher with lore, so keep in mind, this dream is TOTALLY not lore compliant ;P.

So I dreamt I was Luce, this tall old woman who is a master of etiquette, living in a small, one room wooden house on the edge of the Bloodrushes Field of Morealis manor. It was high summer, and terribly humid, and I late in the evening, so I sat on my porch, rocking quietly, while one of the young girls of the family sat on the stoop, hunuched over a mandolin, playing a mournful blue-grass style love song. And then, in the center of the field, this woman appeared, dressed in violet, with a great broad hat, and a cigar in her lips, and a bottle of clairin in her hand, and oscillating strangely, so that one moment, she would look seven or eight, and the next, seventy or eighty. And she was just laughing, laughing around the cigar, laughing with the thickest good cheer I've ever heard.

And I kept rocking, and just watched, and the girl on the stoop kept playing. Then this great cypress tree that stood on the edge of the field fell down, suddenyl and with a great noise, and it cracked open, and from the center, blood started to spill, to pour out all across the field in front of my house, until it was up to the violet-dressed woman's neck, and she kept taking swigs of clarion, half mixed with the blood now, still laughing, laughing, laughing. And the blood was speaking, a thousand little whispers, and i leaned forward to hear, and eery whisper was just a name, I only remember a few of them.

"Jean Piget"

"Eloise Sanmercy"

"Ida DuBois"

"Francois Hubert"

And the blood just whirled and whirled, and the purple-dressed woman kept drinking and laughing, and the girl on the stoop kept playing, and I just listened, trying to remember every name.
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Ana Akvatari

Postby Philomena on May 27th, 2013, 3:17 am

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I swear to you all, I don't always dream about Ana. She just has this knack for saying things that remind of the dreams I have. :D

I was not in my own dream, at the beginning, which was strange, simply watching, silently, from somewhere above it - this is very unusual for me, though I'm told its fairly common. But I was watching, and Ana was, for some reason, atop this rooftop. In Miz it was nothing like Stormhold, but in my dream, it was Stormhold, and Ana was tied hand and foot, and from the ties hung slabs of rotten meat, the blood dripped all over Ana. So these vultures were swooping down to tear at the meat, then at Ana herself, and there was a row of knights watching, solemnly, guarding. When the vultures had torn enoguh of her, the knights went down into the castle and left her there to die.

And then Qalaya came down, holding hands with another goddess who is not from Mizahar at all, one I made up in a story I am writing, named the Grey Lady, and Qalaya stood over the dying girl, and read this book - the Ensli Book, if you're following the thread Ana and I are writing. And teh Grey Lady was springkling ground stone over Ana's skin, and she ebgan to change, her flesh grew into stone, and wings unfolded from her back, and her legs fused into a fat tail of an Akvatari, and her mind changed, I could watch it changing, because in the dream, her mind was like a wilted flower you could see just behind her left eye, and it dropped its petals and swelled, and grew into a juicy, ripe fruit, something like a white-fleshed plum. And Qalaya finished the story and reached into Ana's eye, and plucked the white fruit, and the Grey lady held her - noww transformed into Ensli - in her lap. And Qalaya leaned over the dying girl, and gently fed her bits of this white fruit, and it changed her blood, you could see in her veins, so that all her blood transformed into ink.

And then I Was there - or Minnie was there. And Ana gasped, and raised her hand and she was awake. And Qalaya looked up at me, sadly, and shook her head, and came to me, and tied this scarf around my eyes, of scarlet-dyed wool. And she leaned in close and whispered in my air, "Not for you, child, not for you. You are not clean for this, not for you."

And then I couldn't see anything, the dream was dark, but I could hear Ana gasping, and then laughing, and then crying. And then everything was silent. And then the blindfold was gone, and the rooftop was empty except for Minnie. And for the rest of the dream, it was just Minnie, taking up the Ensli Book, and reading it, slowly, softly, to herself.
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Qalaya, Nysul and Lanie Mae

Postby Philomena on May 28th, 2013, 2:59 am

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I do not dream about Iha as much, simply because, frankly, I have not worked as hard at her as I should. But I did last night.

I dreamt that Haddy and Shearsy (That's Hadyn and Shiress, if you don't know my nicknames) were being lowered into Hai, after they had murdered Shiress's former master - an unjust sentence, of course. And Shearsy was very, very, very pregnant, thin and emaciated, but with a belly heavy with child. And they were dropped onto the stone floor from several feet up. And the blow of it with their frail state snapped Shearsy's hip, and made her body start to go into labor. Haddy, rather gallantly, had wrapped around her trying to preserve her health, but it had not helped. So instead, she went searching for a healer to try to help.

But, Iha could smell the scent of impending birth, and she came up the passageways, feeling carefully with her cane, her eyes, of course, still hoodwinked, and came across the passage, and to Shearsy's side, and started singing softly, I Remember the song:

What is the sun but a ripe-plump fruit?
What is the moon but a woman's belly?
What is the earth but the ever pressing womb?
All things, my mistress, in thee.
All things press against thee.
Open, and let them pour forth.
Open, and let the world be given gifts, my mistress.

And then, well, I delivered a baby. The dream was actually quite detailed in this regard, there is a vast array of smells and textures involved, and since i was blindfolded, these smells and textures were very strong. But perhaps not interesting to most readers.

But when the child was born, it was two twin girls, both silent, and with heavy, wise breath, and a magic had fallen on them, because I felt them both speak in very soft murmurs in my ears.

"Quick, little child set us..."

"...to our mother's breast, she will die soon..."

"...and we must have a drink before the end comes."

And se so i did, and Shearsy was dying, and Haddy was stroking the baby's heads, and they were drinking quietly, and I was sitting on my haunches, hearing the babies feed, and Haddy crying and Shearsy breathing all at once, and waiting.
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Qalaya, Nysul and Lanie Mae

Postby Philomena on May 30th, 2013, 11:30 pm

The other night, in my half sleep i was thinking about the Jamoura, because I'd been speaking about the Spires with Fallon earlier in the day, and I found myself thinking of what sort of character I would love to play, there. In that strange half-dreamy state before I went to sleep, here is the image of Jamoura story I had - for all good stories begin with a vision (Minnie and Ara both did, as did Iha - I could tell you if you're ever interested).

The old Jamoura woman, Huili, meditates quietly, her hands resting in her great, muscular lap, across from Hopscotch - a Symenestra woman who, of course, this is not her name, but she will share no other name with Huili. Huili is teaching her the way of silence, of looking within. Hopscotch has a great facility for it, and breathes deep and slow, almost with the placidity of a Jamoura. They both sit, and wait, turning their eye inward, looking.

Huili is old, she has seen many of her lives, but there is one life, the Secret Life she thinks of it, which she has never seen. She can smell this life, can almost taste it, and has yearned for it for many years - for it has the smell of the wood, and of the Jamoura, the Jamoura before the time of their awakening, and she wants to understand why it is so important to her.

But as she meditates, she feels a moment of Hopscotch meditating beside her. This does not startle her. She has grown quiet and still enough over the years to feel the edges of her soul blur, to feel wher eshe is and is not the rock, the tree, the earth, the air, the other Jamoura. And the young student in front of her - they are all young, these outsiders - is clear and clean and quick.

But then, she sees it at least, the secret life, because she looks at the life, and smells the scent of Jamoura in it, and smells it coming from Hopscotch - it was Hopscotch who was the Jamoura in this long ago life. She had been, then, a male, an elder of the wandering, hunted peoples of her ancestry, strong, and frightened, leading his people north, ever north. And Huili looks round at all his people, to try to find herself there. But she isn't. And then, she sense her body in the secret life, and it is pulling down a sword, and there is blood, and she is a human, rnaging through the troop, and cutting down one Jamoura after another laughing wildly, lopping their beautiful hands as trophies to take home. The man who was Hopscotch then bellows forward wildly, to fight her. And she stabs him cruelly in the neck.
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Qalaya, Nysul and Lanie Mae

Postby Philomena on June 4th, 2013, 1:05 pm

When I woke up this morning, the grass was drunk with dew. This sounds fairly meh, perhaps, if you do not live near me - the dewpoint here is a subtle, and evasive mistress, and I seldom see real dew on the grass. I miss it. Even today, it wasn't the Mythical Dews of my youth. I remember, for instance, in Wisconsin sometimes in the spring, the dew would collect in tiny delicate pin-pricks on the grass, so miniscule all you saw was the fading moonlight reflecting from them, so that the blades of grass in the last of the evening light looked intricate lacework fairy-stitched in the night. Sometimes, there, if I woke up before everyone, and was not too shy of being seen, I would go out into our yard, and bend and plash my eyelids with the droplets, rubbing them into the fragile skin there, and opening them again to try to see the last fey folk wrapping their dresses back around themselves before they retreated into the entrance of the wild rabbit warren that loomed like a gate to the underworld in the corner of our yard.

The dew this morning was different, great broad drops, like miniature worlds perched atop of the blades of St. Augustine grass. A quiver made the weight of them tumble down the grain of the leaves, to pour into the hungry root-mouths of the plants. I was in my socks - I bring my shoes to work, in case I need them, but never wear them unless required. I stepped into the dew, and the coudl watter soaked into the cheap material of my socks, drawn up like capillaries feeding back to a hungry heart. The soles of my get drank teh dew up, and still now, in the sterile air of corporate office, are lying still beneath my desk, chill and pregnant with the delicate kiss of morning-light.
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Qalaya, Nysul and Lanie Mae

Postby Philomena on June 5th, 2013, 3:14 am

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I was riding her horse through a bleak, winter-bitten part of the grasslands, that time in November when the grass is dulled to colorlessness, and the snow is patch, half-melted, and grimy. The sun shone, but only tepidly.

And I was not dressed for the weather. I rode on top of Canterfoot, dressed only in a white linen nightgown. And I was looking, looking very hard for Irriari (the PC, not the writer, mind you). There were thousands of body's, half-frozen in the snow, I remember them clearly, because their faces had the look of blood vessels burst by freezing, mottled purple and black patches under decaying skin. Their hands held weapons in them , frozen, and fresh, and many marked with blood. They were settled in between the patches, and all of their eyes were open - and in the strange logic of dreams, the eyes, alone in the corpses, still lived, and they followed her movements through the field, slowly, steadily, unblinkingly.

And then, I saw Irri, and picked my way through the dead, then dismounted the horse, still in a linen nightgown, to kneel in the snow beside her, I remember this, because I remember the way the snow burned my knees like coming frostbite, and the frozen grass crackled underneath me, and melted into clinging strands against my calves and bare feet. Irri was breathing shallowly, nearly dead.

But instead of treating her wound - a great gaping bloody spear wound in her belly - instead, I lifted a bag from my horse. IT was filled to the brim with enormous black feather. And I knelt their beside her, stroking her face, then driving the sharp tips of the feathers into her bat wings. She was crying and I was crying, because it hurt her, and I started to sing this song, I only remember a little:

"No cave to fly to, my baby, my girl,
Gonna have to fly to the mountaintops.
Take me up in your arms with you,
To a cottage up in the mountaintops."

And I just drove feather after feather, until she was fully plumed, and then her belly was healed. And she rose, and sang this queer counterpoint, almost in a black-bird's canting whistle, in words I didn't understand, and kissed me on the temple, thn rose and flew away.


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Qalaya, Nysul and Lanie Mae

Postby Philomena on June 13th, 2013, 8:17 pm

Hello friends.

Well, honestly, I'm moderately sure noone really actively reads this anyway. But in case you do, you'll probably notice I have not been around chat as much. Its been a time of it in the real world, the last little while, and when that happens, I become difficult, and unenjoyable in chat, and a frustration to folks I'd rather be a pleasure to. But I will be around, I may even pop in to chat once in a while. And I will try to keep up with my posts and PM's, so you're always welcome to tell me if I've missed something or you need me.
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Qalaya, Nysul and Lanie Mae

Postby Philomena on June 19th, 2013, 6:50 pm

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I have not put up a video on here, before. There are a lot of reasons, none of them of much interest to anyone else. Insecure, timid, all that. Feel free to ask questions, but be gently with me, if you don't mind too much. I guess... I just figured with all the things that have gone on lately, it would be responsiuble to say 'yes, I'm a human, I have a face', to assuage any concerns to the contrary.

Sorry its long.

And has me in it.

And just to retiterate - this is purely philosophical discussion of the accent in Zeltiva, in no way do I mean to imply that my made up high and low Zeltivan accents are in any way reflecting lore.


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