esotericas

POTIONS AND MORE NOW OPEN! -= ҉ =- With the renovation of the south side of Karosgrad comes new business, and this is one of them! Hidden Treasures is now open, and will be selling Alchemical brews, treated gear, jewelry, weaponry, and a rotating stock of variety items. Custom orders and commissioned potions are taken when I have the time, so please write if you’re in need. Hidden Treasures is located at the docks on Amadea Avenue, on the way to Reinmar. You can’t miss it! SIGNED, Her Ladyship, MANON YVAINE GODUNOV The Star Lord, the Ghost of Guise, Alchemist in Residentia at Valwyck, the Starling Stag, Baroness-Consort of Verskaya

Alasdair peered down at the missive, grubby hands staining the paper. With his mother's help, he sounded out the names of his friends, and... a third sibling? He would have to investigate...

VOL. II “PERHAPS THE GREATEST FACULTY OUR MINDS POSSESS IS THE ABILITY TO COPE WITH PAIN. CLASSIC THINKING TEACHES US OF THE FOUR DOORS OF THE MIND, WHICH EVERYONE MOVES THROUGH ACCORDING TO THEIR NEED.” (OOC: THE EVENTS CONTAINED WITHIN ARE KNOWN ONLY TO THOSE INVOLVED. DO NOT METAGAME. QUOTES TAKEN FROM PATRICK ROTHFUSS’S ‘NAME OF THE WIND.’) I SLEEP “First is the door of sleep. Sleep offers us a retreat from the world and all its pain. Sleep marks passing time, giving us distance from the things that have hurt us. When a person is wounded they will often fall unconscious. Similarly, someone who hears traumatic news will often swoon or faint. This is the mind's way of protecting itself from pain by stepping through the first door.” -= ҉ =- “What renders you so skeptical?” “There are many answers to that, which one do you want?” “Them all.” The room is dark, a dark so deep that the space, small as it is, seems infinite. Mists swirl around, the voice of the mentor ringing only in her head. It doesn’t feel real. -= ҉ =- An image emerges, assembling itself like pieces of machinery twisting into place, knitting together. A little girl, wild white hair and large, tired eyes, dressed all in white. YOU ARE THE YOUNGEST OF SEVEN CHILDREN. YOUR FATHER IS A MONSTER. Muffled shouting, distant. The locking of a door. YOUR MOTHER IS GONE. Waves crash. YOUR STEPMOTHER. . . A wedding. The chapel is empty, save for a knot of children. The air is icy. WELL. STEPMOTHERS ARE WICKED IN TALES FOR A REASON, I SUPPOSE. The images crumble away, pieces removed to be re-used elsewhere. THERE IS A MONSTER IN THE WOODS. A shadow, indistinct, darker than the deep black of the room. THE MONSTER PROMISES YOU SOMETHING YOU HAVE NEVER HAD. A child's pinkie, interlocked with a finger made of twigs and bone. A COMPANION, IT SAYS. IT ASKS FOR A LIFE IN RETURN. A LIFE FOR A LIFE. A girl no older than seven watches as a woman is devoured alive. A porcelain doll clutched in her arms. The doll blinks, and smiles. MANON MEANS BITTERNESS. NEITHER OF YOUR PARENTS CONFESS TO CHOOSING YOUR NAME. Once more, the images crumble. YOU TELL A SINGLE SOUL OF WHAT THE MONSTER IN THE WOODS SAID TO YOU. Clasped hands, perhaps older, ten, eleven maybe. One Manon's ice pale, and the other a sun-touched brown. THE MONSTER KNOWS. IT OFFERS YOU ANOTHER TRADE. ONE LIFE FOR TWO, THIS TIME. YOUR FRIEND, THE SECRET-KEEPER, FOR THE TWINS. Baby girls. Warmth and affection. YOU REFUSE. AND? YOU LOST YOUR FIRST HOME YEARS BEFORE. Oren falls to Acre. Walls crumble. NOW THIS ONE LOCKS YOU OUT. Karosgrad, snowy and windswept. The gates slide down in front of a teenaged Manon, clad all in black. YOU RAISED YOURSELF ON STORIES OF FATE. YOU HAVE TURNED FROM YOUR PATH. YOU SHOULD NOT HAVE REFUSED. Pale hands gripping a sword, blade held to the throat of a teenage boy. Terror in his eyes. BUT YOU BELIEVE IN FATE, STILL. YOU HAVE STRODE OFF THE PATH, BUT NOW THERE ARE NO OBSTACLES IN YOUR WAY. A young man, murdered in the Karosgrad square. Manon watches. An Elven woman leaves her child to burn. Manon watches. THERE IS YOU, AND THERE IS THE WORLD. The siege of Karosgrad, Inferi and Haeseni locked in battle. Manon stands, armoured, in the middle of the field. Untouched. Untouchable. She watches. YOUR CHILDHOOD WAS ALL LIES. MAKE-BELIEVE AND PLAY-PRETEND. YOUR TEENAGE YEARS TOO, DESPERATE TO MAKE PEOPLE FORGET THE THINGS THEY SAW. ALL OF IT WAS FAKE. Catty smiles, drinks on rooftops. Dresses, velvet embroidered with stars. Princesses, jewellery. Clockwork marvels, butterflies with flapping wings. NOW NOTHING IS REAL. The images dissolve. AS IF THERE WAS A PANE OF GLASS, BETWEEN YOU AND THE REST OF THE WORLD. YOU ARE UNTOUCHABLE, BUT. . . SO IS EVERYTHING ELSE. -= ҉ =- “I do not actually feel the things I feel, or touch the things I touch.” “Glass is made to be shattered. Your passiveness to all that happens has made you distant.” II FORGETTING “Second is the door of forgetting. Some wounds are too deep to heal, or too deep to heal quickly. In addition, many memories are simply painful, and there is no healing to be done. The saying 'time heals all wounds' is false. Time heals most wounds. The rest are hidden behind this door.” -= ҉ =- The glass keeps you alive, you tell him. You should be dead, dead a thousand times over. You used to think it was Fate keeping you alive, that you had a higher purpose to serve, but now you know that’s nonsense. “At what cost? To be made an observer in your own life? When does this become death itself? There is little difference between the two.” It’s still your life, you insist. You still feel, anger, sadness, love. You still exist within yourself, just not to the rest of the world. “Then this glass wall does not exist. You contradict yourself. To exist within yourself makes it impossible for anything to truly affect you. When you see your husband, do you feel nothing? What about your children?” A wall made of mist swirls before you. Beyond it, Sviatoslav. Alyona, Aelita, Anatoliy. Family. You turn away. The wall is there so that you do not need to think about this. About feeling. But a misty hand pushes you back, forces your gaze onto them. “Complacent. Content to live in your ivory tower. High up above it all. You do not question it? You hide away from the notion, the buried knowing, that you do feel.” It doesn’t matter what you feel, you tell him. Intentions mean nothing, feelings mean nothing, it is only actions that matter. Feelings are nothing. You bury your face in your hands, hiding. Beyond that wall, more figures. More faces. Alphonse. Earnest, Rel. Nikolas, Marius. Wolfgang, Ophelie, Emelie, Mathilde. Viorica, Giovanna, Valdemar, Georg, Isadora. A forest of people, of friends, of family. You hunch your shoulders, hiding from the faces that stare down at you. All of them watching. From the mists, more hands emerge, clawing at you, talons tearing your hands from your face. “It matters. There is one thing that keeps you above consequence, stowed away. Yourself. They feel doubly in your absence.” They do not care about you. You wrench yourself away, pitiful, like a kicked puppy. They do not care. You don’t matter, that’s the point. More hands, tearing you apart, pulling at hair, hands, skin, filled with all his rage. “What idiocy do you shroud your mind in? You are not this stupid, Manon Yvaine. Look at this through the lens of an Alchemist, not the lens of yourself.” You can’t. You shake your head. You want to forget, to let it go. To be nothing. Better nothing, you tell him. Your voice cracks, and you sob. Better nothing than what you are. III MADNESS “Third is the door of madness. There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind.” -= ҉ =- “WHAT ARE YOU?” “WHAT DO YOU KEEP LOCKED AWAY?” “COWARD.” “WEAK.” “SAY IT!” “ANSWER YOURSELF, RECREANT.” “YOU BUILT THAT GLASS WALL AND BLAMED ITS CONSTRUCTION ON THE WORLD.” “BREAK IT.” “SMASH IT TO BITS.” “There is no me. Whoever she was, she's long lost. Manon has been dead since I was five years old, and Yvaine was a- a fantasy to begin with. I do not know. I don't KNOW-” “THEN BUILD YOURSELF ANEW. FORGO THE FACADES,” “FORGO THE FAKE NAMES. BE BIRTHED INTO SOMETHING NEW.” “A PERSON WHO YOU ARE IN CONTROL OF.” “I can't leave it all behind. What if this time I DO feel like he loves me, what if this time I'm important? I want to be given what I deserve, without having to beg for it, to grovel for it. Is that so much to ask?” “THEN THE WALL ISN'T REAL. IF IT IS TRULY BUILT UP AROUND YOU, THEN. . .” “SVIATOSLAV DOESN'T CARE FOR YOU. YOUR CHILDREN ARE AMBIVALENT TO YOUR EXISTENCE.” “CAN YOU, IN ENTIRE UNYIELDING TRUTHFULNESS, SAY THAT?” “Sviatoslav cares for me because I made it so. It's not real. I just. . . I do not feel loved. And that's not fair. I have never felt loved.” “WHERE THERE IS HAPPINESS, THERE IS MISERY.” “LOVE IS TRAILED ONLY BY HEARTBREAK.” “DARK IS ALWAYS CAST ASUNDER BY LIGHT.” “THERE WAS NOT ALWAYS THIS DICHOTOMY, MANON.” “LIGHT WAS ONCE SEPARATE TO DARK. THEY DID NOT MIX AND TRAIL ONE ANOTHER ALWAYS.” “THE SCALES CAN BE TIPPED, TO FAVOUR ONES ODDS. IN EITHER WHICH-WAY.” “And am I to sit and wait until the scales choose to tip in my favour?” “WHO WOULD TIP THEM, IF NOT MORTAL MAN?” “YOU WILL HAVE TO MAKE THE CHOICE.” IV DEATH “Last is the door of death. The final resort. Nothing can hurt us after we are dead, or so we have been told.” -= ҉ =- A warped dagger. A torn root. Black silk. A burnt candle. Silence. MANON STARED AT THE OBJECTS, SHOULDERS SLUMPED IN UTTER, ENTIRE DEFEAT. AND SHE STARED. THE LIGHT BURNED LOW. MANON DIDN'T BLINK, BARELY BREATHED. FINALLY, SHE REACHED OUT AND SNATCHED UP THE PIECE OF SILK. SOMETHING TOUCHED MANON'S SOUL. HOPE. MANON CRUMPLED OVER ONTO HER SIDE, WEEPING INTO HER HANDS. “THE PAST STAYS ON YOU THE WAY POWDERED SUGAR STAYS ON FINGERS. SOME PEOPLE CAN GET RID OF IT BUT IT'S STILL THERE, THE EVENTS AND THINGS THAT PUSHED YOU TO WHERE YOU ARE NOW.” ― ERIN MORGENSTERN, THE NIGHT CIRCUS

Manon Yvaine reads the missive in her lab out west, allows herself a moment of self-satisfaction, and then returns to brewing.

Manon is so excited to be an auntie :)

A young scholar–not actually so young anymore, although she resents that fact–wipes a trickle of blood from her fingertip, gaze resting lazily on Helena's pyre. That little girl's accusations, although evidently false, based on the smudge of red now staining her glove, were worrying. Something to keep in mind. "Nothing to fear from her. Not about being a Frost Witch, anyway.” After tossing an early daffodil onto the flames, Manon Yvaine strides off to saddle her horse. As ever, she has questions.

Manon Yvaine reads the announcement over a cup of tea, far out West. She sets the page down with a sigh, and goes to pen a letter to her husband.

Manon Yvaine sat on the steps of the NGS museum, a rain-soaked corpse at her side. She remained there for hours on hours- no way of knowing how long, as water and fire mixed in the air, twisting the night into a hazy glow. The battle raged beyond the city, distant shouts and clashes of weaponry all that could be heard from this distance. She did not cry, not yet. She simply sat and watched the blood trickle from the wound at the back of Rel's head, fidgeting with a dagger held in gauntleted hands.

Manon does not have a window for Elia to stand outside. She'll have to find another way :)

FROM DARKNESS, LIGHT A LONG-AWAITED UNION Lord Sviatoslav and Lady Manon, c. 452 E.S. As the house of Godunov exits its period of mourning, the house sees fit to announce the union between its patriarch, Baron Sviatoslav Jaroslavich Godunov and Lady Manon Yvaine of house de Leuven. The wedding is to be a public affair, with special invitations sent to the family and dearest friends of the betrothed pair. LORD SVIATOSLAV AND LADY MANON CORDIALLY INVITE THE FOLLOWING: HOUSE GODUNOV HOUSE DE LEUVEN HIS HIGHNESS MARIUS AUDEMAR BARBANOV-BIHAR @Mio HIS HIGHNESS NIKOLAS LEOPOLD BARBANOV-BIHAR @louislxix HER LADYSHIP SADIE CRISTONIA AND HIS LORDSHIP VLADRIK IOV ROBAIRE O’ROURKE @Moenah @Cally HIS LORDSHIP WOLFGANG AND HER LADYSHIP ANNE VICTORIA DE VILLAIN @Greehn @ibiou HER LADYSHIP MISCHA FLORENTINA LESANOV-FALCONE @Melpomenne OPHELIE ELEANORA ASHFORD DE FALSTAFF @liz EARNEST BANKS @frankdh FELIX WEISS @SethWolf REL DE WEES @PXY ASTARTE LORENTHUS @bloomtiara SIGNED, His Excellency, SVIATOSLAV GODUNOV, Lord Marshal of the Brotherhood of St. Karl, Baron of Verskaya Her Ladyship, MANON YVAINE DE LEUVEN The Star Lord, the Ghost of Guise, Alchemist in Residentia at Valwyck, the Starling Stag

BE FREE MADY

RECORDED IN THE HOPES OF PREVENTING FURTHER HARM FROM COMING TO THE GOOD PEOPLE OF ALMARIS OOC: A LETTER BEING, BY NATURE OF ITS NAME AND ITS WRITING, A RECOUNTING OF DONNCHADH VON DRACO’S ATTEMPT ON MY LIFE, AND A HUMBLE REQUEST FOR HIS MAJESTY’S PROTECTION. -=✺=- The events described herein are recounted to the best of my memory and knowledge, however I do acknowledge that my mind was not in its usual place after my injury, and what transpired afterwards - while I remember it well - was made less clear by the pain I was in. That said, I have written only what I know to be the truth of the situation as it occurred. RECORDED ON THE 10TH OF VYZMEY AG HYFF, 449 E.S. It was only two Saint’s days ago that I found myself, inspired by a discussion on Inferi magic, wandering through Sedan in search of a library. I had found little success in the books of other nations, and had turned my attention there, but was unable to locate such a building on my own. The square was empty, and rather than give up on my search, I made my way instead towards the palace, home of Prince Louis Haverlock, who I had become friends with some years ago. In the palace anteroom, I found a scattering of familiar faces: those of Donnchadh von Draco (or Donny, as he will be referred to from here on,) Lady Gisele Godunov, and Lady Nicoletta Halcourt. Donny, who I at this point still believed to be a friend, introduced me to Lady Halcourt. The young Halcourt and I spoke for some minutes, but we were interrupted by the arrival of Donny’s wife, Aoife von Draco. Donny greeted her with warmth, but when Aoife set eyes on me, she immediately left the building, Donny following promptly after her. Discomforted, I struggled to maintain my conversation with Lady Halcourt. Donny returned minutes later, and said not a word. When I turned to greet him, I found him with a loaded crossbow pointed directly towards my head. Lady Godunov brought Lady Halcourt away from the danger, but made little attempt to defend me. When I asked Donny why he was directing such a weapon at me, I was met with no answer, but the following words: “I WISH I NEVER MET YOU.” “I SHOULD HAVE LISTENED.” “IF YOU MOVE, YOU’RE DEAD.” Remaining as still as I was able, I reminded Donny of something I had offered in the past. Our friendship had long brought conflict between him and his wife, Aoife, and it had once before caused an argument between Donny and myself, where I offered to forget our friendship, not wishing to cause a rift between him and the woman he loved. Then, Donny had refused, stating, ‘I don’t want to forget you.’ Once more Donny refused this offer, approaching me and ordering me to get on my knees. I began to do so, and asked him only to tell me why he was doing this. Yet again, he refused to answer, and when I did not kneel fast enough for his tastes, he shot me in the leg, causing me to fall to the ground. Upon seeing my injury, Donny threw his crossbow aside, the weapon shattered, and he began to cry, although fury still bore itself on his face. As I fell, Lady Godunov, still watching, laughed. It was then that Prince Louis Haverlock and Margrave Loran von Draco arrived at the palace. After taking in the scene - the Ladies Halcourt and Godunov sheltered in a corner, and myself with a crossbow bolt in my leg, Prince Louis approached Donny and told him to calm down. Donny refused, claiming: “THIS ***** TOOK MY WIFE AWAY FROM ME,” And he reached into his clothing, beginning to draw a weapon. From across the room, Lady Godunov called for Donny to finish the deed, saying: “KILL HER ALREADY,” “LET HIM KILL HER.” Worried for my safety, I responded by explaining that Donny had been the one to encourage our friendship despite his wife’s wishes, not I, and that I could not be held responsible for the conflict it caused. Prince Louis came to my defence, likely seeing the honesty in my words, and stood between Donny and myself. Donny bade Prince Louis move, saying: “YOU’RE MY KIN. MOVE, I DON’T WANT TO HURT YOU TOO.” Prince Louis refused, stating he did not want Donny to be made a murderer. Donny withdrew a dagger and pointed it at Prince Louis, once more claiming that I was responsible for the collapse of his marriage. Prince Louis instructed him to take the matter to court if he wished for justice, and from across the room, the Margrave assented, reminding Donny that to strike Prince Louis would make him a kinslayer. Once more, I spoke, stating I had done only what Donny had asked of me, and that I could not be blamed for such. The Margrave’s words seemed to register with Donny, who sheathed his weapon and agreed he was not a kinslayer and never would be. Prince Louis and the Margrave agreed that I be brought to Petra, so that my wound could be seen to. Donny overheard this, and said he hoped I bled out before we made it to Petra. Prince Louis took me to Petra, where I was seen to by local medics. After my injury was tended to, it was discovered that both Donny and the Margrave were loitering outside the clinic. Prince Louis said he would draw them off, and I was aided by a knight - Ser Lucien - in my escape and return to Haense, where my cousin Giovanna de Leuven aided me to my room, and I rested. CLOSING THOUGHTS I have spent the last months in genuine fear for my life, knowing nothing of Donny’s location, and unable to ensure my own safety, be that within the walls of Karosgrad or in the myriad of foreign nations that my profession as a scholar draws me to. I do not write this to ask you to punish Donny for crimes committed outside of Haense, only to obtain your guarantee that my safety as a citizen of Hanseti-Ruska will be ensured. SIGNED, Her Ladyship, MANON YVAINE DE LEUVEN The Star Lord, the Ghost of Guise, the Grand Auri of the Gardens, Alchemist in Residentia at Valwyck, the Starling Stag

A young scholar's gaze traveled over the proclamation. Calamity. The word echoed of a vision seen only days before. After a moment to search the pamphlet, Manon sat down to write a letter.

THE REINVIGORATION AND RESTORATION OF AN ANCIENT AND NOBLE HOUSE Scelera non nostrorum. IN LEUVENEM BEING, BY NATURE OF ITS NAME AND ITS WRITING, AN ACCOUNT OF THE HISTORY, CULTURE, AND TRADITIONS OF THE ANCIENT DE LEUVEN FAMILY, NOW REVIVED IN THE DUAL KINGDOMS OF HANSETI-RUSKA. -=✺=- The prestigious family of Ashford de Falstaff has been around since the age of de Bar, born from the son of Ser Baldwin ‘the Black’ who sought only to revel in his own long-lasting legacy. Wrought from the sins of their fathers, the kin of this foretold ancestor allied themselves with the domains of Orenia, Savoy, and Haense. However, due to negligence from our parentage, it is evident through tellings of history we do not adhere to the same outdated ideals as our forefathers. It is with great consideration that we, House de Leuven, deem it proper to officially split ourselves from our newfound sibling lineage. THE SINS OF OUR FATHERS ARE NOT OURS. I HISTORY HL Conrad Armande de Falstaff, Baron of Guise, c. 420-423 E.S. THE HOUSE DE LEUVEN House de Leuven originated from the combination of two different lines of Ashford de Falstaff, being from Savoy and Oren, which eventually merged into one within the domain of Hanseti-Ruska. They joined under the efforts of Lady Priscilla Amelia and Lady Emelie Ada, forming themselves into a new household entity under the decision of the elder Matriarch. With time the family fully integrated into the Kingdom of Crows, taking on a newfound culture of their own from influences of their region and bloodline. Promptly led by the latter Lady once the death of the Founder, Priscilla Amelia, had occurred. IN SAVOY IN ORENIA IN HANSETI-RUSKA II THE FIRST GENERATION EMÈLIE ADA ROUSILE FRANCESCA DE LEUVEN First Matriarch of House de Leuven, The Silver Stag, The Brazen Mare, b. 424 E.S. Worked under Priscilla as her Heir, gaining the first official land and titles of the de Leuven family. Emèlie is also known for her kind nature and single peg leg. She has been seen as the more bold of the three remaining Falstaff sisters. OPHELIE ELEANORE DE LEUVEN Beauty of Guise, The Sunshine Stag b. 425 E.S. The middle daughter of the Leuven trio, known for her beauty akin to that of Lucille Antoinette and Evanna Anna. She is a stellar force known for her mastery in Haeseni etiquette, admiration of books, and sense of wit. A force to be reckoned with in both appearance and intellect. MANON YVAINE DE LEUVEN The Ghost of Guise, the Star-Lord, the Grand Auri of the Gardens, The Starling Stag, b. 425 E.S. The wild youngest child of the three, Manon has always been insistent on carving her own path through life. With her unusual appearance and esoteric interests, Manon is often marked as an outcast, but she is one who thrives in the position. Known for her irreverence, stubbornness, and passion for the academic. PRISCILLA AMELIA DE LEUVEN Founder of House de Leuven b. 397 E.S., d. 447 E.S. The Founder of House de Leuven and previous Matriarch of Ashford de Falstaff. She was raised upon the sea alongside her siblings, frequently moving due to her father’s merchant business. Inherited his skill in economics, politics, and leadership. Known for being clever yet highly blunt, and sometimes rather crude. EVANNA DE LEUVEN b. 410 E.S. Regarded as one of the most beautiful Ashford de Falstaff's in her youth, often compared to Lucille of Leuven. She lived on to inherit a knack for pulling off grandiose events and being a kindred spirit. PHILIPPE THEOFREDA DE LEUVEN b. 435 E.S. The first and eldest child known of Evanna, Often said to be reclusive and quiet. The boy lives currently along with his mother and younger siblings within the de Leuven keep. ALERAN CALANDRO DE LEUVEN b. 441 E.S. The second child of Evanna, although by only a few moments. The boy is a rambunctious one who has been seen to dance on tables and cause childish chaos. Though his means are not bad, the youth has much room to grow and is adored by his family. ENSELT OTTAVIAN DE LEUVEN b. 441 E.S. The youngest child of Evanna, known as a ray of light. He was sick for most of his childhood which kept the boy from properly being able to speak for quite a few years. The young lord often is referred to as 'The Golden Child' GIOVANNA BELLA DE LEUVEN b. 426 E.S. Born as the illegitimate daughter of Margarita Baldwin, raised as a Florentino until she reached the age of nineteen. Known to be a proficient squire taught under that of Ser Walton, having an ambitious fire to be possibly the first Dame from House de Leuven. THÈODORE OLIVER DE LEUVEN b. 420 E.S. Thèodore, or Thèo is often a black horse of the family. Rarely spoken of and keeping to the shadows, rumors of his legitimacy had stopped as the Orenian Kingdom was destroyed. What is known is that Thèo is often seen as a dashing and handsome younger version of his father Conrad. III HEIRLOOMS TIARA OF LEUVEN CHAPLET OF CURONIA HALCOURT GEMSTONES DANIEL’S RING BAISER DE LA MORT SISTERS OF LEUVEN CLOSING THOUGHTS May this change in nomenclature – and brief exploration of family history – welcome in a new era for House de Leuven, and for the future branches of the Leuven tree. -=✺=- SIGNED, Her Ladyship, EMÉLIE ADA ROUSALIE FRANCESCA DE LEUVEN Matriarch of House de Leuven,The Silver Stag, Her Ladyship, PRISCILLA AMELIA ‘THE HARSH’ DE LEUVEN Founder of House de Leuven, Her Ladyship, MANON YVAINE DE LEUVEN The Star-Lord, the Ghost of Guise, the Grand Auri of the Gardens, The Starling Stag

"Hmm...." Says Manon Yvaine, reading the pamphlet. "Hmmmmmmmm... .. . . .. . ."

The fire in Manon's bedroom burns brighter with each shred of inked paper she feeds it.

Manon Yvaine looked over her review and gave a nod, satisfied that she had done well enough for herself.

Manon Yvaine spends hours in the bathroom, getting ready. She is going to be the prettiest girl at the party.

THE DOORS OF THE MIND “PERHAPS THE GREATEST FACULTY OUR MINDS POSSESS IS THE ABILITY TO COPE WITH PAIN. CLASSIC THINKING TEACHES US OF THE FOUR DOORS OF THE MIND, WHICH EVERYONE MOVES THROUGH ACCORDING TO THEIR NEED.” (OOC:) The events contained within are known only to those involved, so don’t metagame. This is creative writing, and I can't promise that anything I've written reflects the rp it's based on. Quotes taken from Patrick Rothfuss’s Name of The Wind. -=✺=- I SLEEP She knew what needed fixing “First is the door of sleep. Sleep offers us a retreat from the world and all its pain. Sleep marks passing time, giving us distance from the things that have hurt us. When a person is wounded they will often fall unconscious. Similarly, someone who hears traumatic news will often swoon or faint. This is the mind's way of protecting itself from pain by stepping through the first door.” -=✺=- Manon slept. She slept and she dreamed of things she was afraid to see during the day. Of Edelmir and of wriggling maggots and of guilt seeping under the door like blood. Something was wrong. She needed to fix it. In her dream, Manon rose from her bed and she crept to the door and she knew that whatever needed fixing was on the other side. The floor was wet with seeping guilt and Manon’s bare feet slipped on the soaked boards. She walked slowly, hand braced on first her bed, then her desk. Her bookshelf. The wall. The door did not want to be opened. It stood heavy on its hinges and it stared malevolently at Manon as if it could sense the little rotten thing she kept in her soul for nobody to see. Touching the handle felt like her hand was going to melt into molten metal and freeze into a perfect piece of ice all at once. Opening the door took all of Manon’s strength, and afterwards she turned around, facing her bedroom and checking to make sure all was as it should be. It was a performance. She was hiding. Hiding from whatever was inside the door, whatever needed this much fixing, so much fixing that the nasty little thing inside her was growing, roiling and disgustingly pleased with itself. Manon gritted her teeth and turned around. The door did not open on the sitting room. There was no tiny library, no Ophelie and Austina. The door opened and behind it was crumbling stones and vines and the floor was trailed with blood, as if something dying had walked straight up to her door and tried to get in. The door opened and Manon was somewhere that was Acre and Dobrov and Krusev and none of those places. The stones were icy cold under Manon’s bare feet. The air was heavy and filled with whispers, like the buzzing of a thousand bees telling her to go, to leave. Manon didn't listen. She didn't listen to the whispering bee-voices and instead she took a step forward, following the path of blood-spots up the stairs, down the hall. A turn to the left, then one to the right. She was getting closer, the trail was thicker. Whatever needed fixing was at the start, she knew. Whatever had killed the dying thing that couldn't get through the door was at the start of the trail, and she would find it and she would figure out what was wrong. Down a hallway, up a ladder, through a door that weighed more than anything Manon had ever lifted. She wasn't supposed to be here, but the black evil spot on her soul was growing and stretching its limbs and she needed to do this now. Manon’s steps slowed as she approached what must be the final door. It was different, not rotting or crumbling. Manon knew this door. She wasn't even surprised when she pushed the door open and it slid like butter and she was back in her room. She knew what needed fixing. When Manon awoke, she found herself standing before the empty keep of Krusev, her bare feet bleeding from mindless walking through the woods and her nightgown torn by grasping trees and snagging brambles. Surrounding her, filling the air with rot and lies and guilt, was Edelmir. II FORGETTING “He promised me she wouldn't be hurt.” “Second is the door of forgetting. Some wounds are too deep to heal, or too deep to heal quickly. In addition, many memories are simply painful, and there is no healing to be done. The saying 'time heals all wounds' is false. Time heals most wounds. The rest are hidden behind this door.” -=✺=- “There are some things that not everyone should know. I think I'd be killed if people knew…” Manon stopped, clearing her throat. “... Knew?” “I shouldn't have said anything.” Stories are made by remembering, by telling. This was a story that Manon should have left quiet, hidden in the half-truths she told Francisca, in whatever Ioanna managed to glean from silent stares and escapes into the woods. Secrets should be kept, folded up close like a handkerchief in a pocket. For nobody else. But here she was, turning secrets into stories. Nikolas could be trusted, of course. He wouldn’t tell. He couldn’t tell, or... “Swear I can trust you? You'll not tell a soul?” “Niet a soul.” “I've killed someone.” She shouldn’t have told him. Nikolas wouldn’t tell, but now she couldn’t sleep. She woke and she was not where she was supposed to be and she slept and she dreamed terrible, terrible dreams. Before she told the story it wasn’t a story it was just a sickening memory at the back of her mind but now the secret wasn’t a secret. Now it was a story that Nikolas knew and now it was a nasty little black thing curled up inside Manon’s soul, making itself at home. “He asked me to find someone from Acre, and I knew what he was going to do, but I brought her anyways. I'd be killed if anyone knew. If anyone even THOUGHT.” “Oh,” the boy's voice fell. “Killed someone?” “Please don't hate me. I took her to- to the place in the woods, and it ate her. Told me to turn around, and then…. And I looked back and she was getting pulled into the ground. And it's my fault.” Edelmir was angry with her. It was the only real answer. He knew, somehow. Knew she’d told. She’d really told, not the flimsy excuses (lying was getting easier in ways that made Manon sick) she’d given to Franny. Not the silence she’d given to Ioanna. Nikolas knew, and Edelmir was angry. “He promised me she wouldn't be hurt. Pinky promised, but I knew, I knew. I knew he was lying.” “Have vy told anybody else?” “No.” Manon said, forcing her eyes shut, giving a minute shake of her head. “Nobody. Not really.” “It is our secret then.” Nikolas’s hand in hers was clammy and weak, but he’d been the one to offer it, so she held on anyways. “Alright.” The story was there forever, now. Stories do not die away as easily as secrets. Stories are made to last, to be told, and now that Manon had told it once she worried it would be too easy to tell it again. III MADNESS Sometimes she woke up at night and she wasn’t where she had fallen asleep. “Third is the door of madness. There are times when the mind is dealt such a blow it hides itself in insanity. While this may not seem beneficial, it is. There are times when reality is nothing but pain, and to escape that pain the mind must leave reality behind.” -=✺=- Nothing in the world was WRONG. This was what Manon told herself, day after day. Nothing in the world wasn’t meant to be there. The Weavers made everything, everything was just as it should be. Each monster in the woods, each puddle of dried brown blood, each rotting, fly-buzzed corpse was there because it should be. The world-thread didn’t decide between good or bad or light or dark. Kindness or cruelness. Everything existed because it should exist, and therefore Manon should exist too. But some days, on the days when Manon’s vision was blurry and the doll’s little whispering voice was altogether too cruel, on days when the sun was too bright and the darkness too dark, when the warm-wood walls of the library felt as if they were going to crush her fluttering heart like a bird in a too-small cage, Manon wondered if she should exist. Wondered if the world really wasn’t all meant-to-be, because what else could explain the wrongness in her head? She wasn’t special. That much Manon knew. She wasn’t Nikolas or Mischa or Vladrik or Sadie. There was nothing as perfectly correct about her as there was about them. She read big books and knew big words and sometimes she talked in ways that made adults look at her strangely, and sometimes she woke up at night and she wasn’t where she had fallen asleep. But there was nothing truly special to go along with these things. Manon wondered why she existed. Many days she had no answers. She didn’t want to be a knight or an author or a poet or a politician. She couldn’t see ghosts or spirits or do magic. She wasn’t what her papa wanted or what her mama wanted and she wasn’t even sure what SHE wanted. (If she wanted anything at all other than to sit by the lake and look at the moon and let everything be quiet for once in her life) The world and the Weavers who wrote all the stories of the world wanted her to be something. She could feel it in the stones and the dew-grass under her feet and in the ache where her new arm connected to her old one and in the little tickle at the back of her neck whenever she was in the right sort of forest. She was supposed to be something. She knew that, on the good days. On the bad days she knew nothing and the world was made of heavy wet cloth that covered her and smothered her and pulled the breath from her lungs like tearing out a tooth. Even on the good days, though, she didn’t know what she was supposed to be. She was not normal enough to be normal but she was not unusual enough to be something altogether not normal, and so she sat in the library and was quietly crushed and she sat in the woods and was quietly afraid. Everything had a purpose. Everything that was anything, everything that the Weavers wove had a purpose, was made to DO something. Manon was not special, this was a fact. A stone-solid truer than true fact. Because she was not special she must be like everything. She must have a purpose set down by the Weavers just like everything else did. But the knot in her stomach and the knot in her throat and the constant pounding inside her head told her no, she didn’t. And she knew they were right. IV DEATH She had awoken and felt Edelmir’s presence and known that something was coming. “Last is the door of death. The final resort. Nothing can hurt us after we are dead, or so we have been told.” -=✺=- The next time Manon slipped out of her room, Ophelie asleep by her side (to watch her, to keep her safe, to protect her,) she was awake. Bare feet treaded slowly across icy wooden boards, and Manon crept through her rooms, down the halls. Up, up, up to the streets of the city, and then out. This time, she was walking of her own accord. This time, she was going to find Edelmir. Manon’s feet were freezing where her bare soles touched the chilly cobblestone streets. They grew caked in mud as she waded through dew-damp grass. She carried doggedly on, making her stumbling way to the forest. To Krusev, where she had awoken and felt Edelmir’s presence and known that something was coming. The keep was as dead and cold and empty as ever. Manon buried her bare toes in the moss that grew on the broken-stone floors, planting herself firmly, and she looked out at the dead, empty woods. The back of her neck prickled. “I am not afraid of you.” She said. It was a lie.

Manon heeded her friend's warnings - spending what money she had on an extra blanket, healthy food. Her mind was elsewhere, though, her stomach knotted with worry - not for Haense, but for Nikolas.

CODEX MANONAE VOL. II A STORY ABOUT HOW THE WORLD CAME TO BE Manon crafts her tale. CODEX MANONAE, VOL II BEING, BY NATURE OF ITS NAME AND ITS WRITING, A TALE OF HOW THE WORLD (OR PERHAPS, A WORLD) CAME TO BE. -=✺=- PART I THE WEAVING OF THE WORLD In the beginning, there was darkness. The world and the worlds that lived alongside it had not yet even been conceived of, as in all the great deep emptiness, there was nothing capable of conceiving of anything, let alone something so complicated as an entire world. The great darkness was blacker than blackness, blacker than coal and night and ink and stone. For a long time, the nothing remained as nothing. Eventually, though, the nothingness found itself growing rather bored. There was nothing to do in this unending emptiness. The nothingness had nothing but itself with which to entertain, and so the nothingness twisted and wrapped about itself, slithering and tangling until it had stretched out into a thin piece of string, as long as longness and as thin as hair. The string, pleased with its new shape, twisted itself about once more. It tangled into a knot, and then another knot on top of that one, and another and another, and after a while the string began to weave. It started simple, crafting a flat piece of black fabric. Then another piece, linked to the first, which it wove into an arc above the first piece. These first two pieces of fabric were the soil and the sky. The nothingness went on weaving things, until it realised that, truly, it wasn’t nothingness anymore, because it had created a whole world of somethings. Soft, rolling hills, an arch of a sky, tiny woven forests. Those were all somethings. And so the nothingness decided to name itself le Fil du Monde, the World-Thread. After days and nights and more days of endless weaving, le Fil grew tired. Weaving was hard work, and there was no light at all to work by, so le Fil was always getting tangled up in itself. The World-Thread stopped to think about this for a while, tangling itself and untangling itself into knots on knots on knots. Eventually, however, le Fil looked down upon itself, and realised that it had grown too tangled, and every tug just tightened and tightened and tightened the knot. Panicked, le Fil pulled harder and harder - dragging itself through its woven landscape, until, with a ping! the knot snapped off. Before le Fil had time to look or think or do anything at all, the knot began to glow. It had been pulled so miraculously tight that the infinite blackness of le Fil had turned in on itself, and the knot began to glow a bright, painful white. The woven world was shot into a brilliant light, and le Fil looked around at its masterpiece. The blackness, see, wasn’t blackness at all. The World-Thread was as many different colours as one could imagine. More, even. The cloth hills were a deep hearty brown, the forests a vibrant green, and the sky a pale, dusty blue. At the sight of this world - the world le Fil had woven, it realised just how empty it still felt. Even with the trees and the hills and the sky, the world was not much of a world. But le Fil simply didn’t have the energy to fill the entire place, so instead it decided to make itself some helpers. Three would suffice. Since the knot had broken off, one end of le Fil was separated from the other. It took the back end up in a loop of thread, and wove three chords. The three chords became three bodies, which became three women with long hair and dresses and skinny hands. Le Fil named these three women the Tisserands - the Weavers, for they would be its assistants in creating the rest of the world.

Manon Yvaine stood at the entrance to the crypts, a bundle of wildflowers clutched in her hands. The heavy wooden doors creaked as the girl entered, and her footsteps echoed as she crept downstairs to the lowest level of the hall of Kings. It was the least she could do, Manon figured. She could neither see Arn nor hear him, but she wasn't foolish enough to take that to mean he wasn't there. The little bit of life did the place good. Everything was just as she had left it, when she reached the bottom. The floors ever-dusty, save for Nikolas's footprints. Her attempts to sweep hadn't lasted long, but never mind. The white flowers in their glass vase had begun to wilt. Just in time, then. Manon withdrew the old bouquet from its vase, and slipped her wildflowers in instead. Nikolas never actually told her if Arn liked the flowers. Manon certainly hoped he did.

Manon reads the pamphlet, trying not to laugh. "I wouldn't recommend it," she murmured to Austina, a grin adorning her face. @zuziee / Manon frowns at her sister's response, arms crossing in front of her chest. "I sent out invitations before I saw you in Haense. We hadn't spoken in ages." @_mady07

Manon Yvaine prepares for battle.

Manon Yvaine politely reminds the Dark Emperor that they have never met, and it would be very impolite to invite a stranger to a sleepover. Perhaps he should come meet her :)