Alysia's Journal

[Alysia]

05.29.2005
Dark Lake Manor, Rhydin.

Regrets.

Woken by an unpleasant dream in the hours preceding dawn, I was angry. To the point of becoming almost blind with blood rage. I tried to keep my breathing even and slow. Tried to focus on the fact that it was just a dream of a memory. Tried to not to wake Lucien as I slipped out of bed and pulled a robe on, heading for the solitude of my tower.

Slammed the door, though, when I realized that my tower would not present solitude, and veered toward the shrine to Dthrendtalen, instead.

I touched the Guardian's icon, a gleaming gold dragon twining serpent-like about a pyramid of black marble. The icon was a relic from Rhilshen, carved from the same stone as the temple I had claimed as my fortress after reviving the Guardian, and cast from bright yellow gold mined from the Dragonspine Mountains. It was a relic of home.

The metal warmed under my touch. An almost overwhelming sense of regret clouded my thoughts, licking at the bottom of my diminishing rage, sent me reeling.

"What happened to the nice, friendly, always with a smile Alysia?" Chris had asked.

That question again. It's one I'd spent enough time - no, too much time asking myself.

Apparently most of RhyDin is one dimensional: it is required to be completely happy all the time, black or white. The populace is not prepared to see anything out of the ordinary. So I explained in an extreme generalization, that the friendly, silly, and happy side of myself was a rather uncommon appearance, until I started spending time with Lucien several years ago. Kitty added something about my perpetually grumpy demeanor.

Chris nodded and sucked on his beer. "Ah ya. . . I see. Just until ya got ya hooks in him "

Okay. I had enough of his provocation the night before. Didn't want to get into that again. But he kept on with little sniping remarks, announcing that I was only friendly to him because he is friends with Lucien... I did ask him, later, what the Hell his problem was.

"shit, lady, I'm not the one that pretended to like ya to get with someone."

As if I have ever pretended to like someone I disliked. As if I have ever had to do something like that to 'get with someone', as Chris so crudely put it. As if I had never known Lucien before, and my relationship with him was something as simple and brief as 'getting with someone.'

I was stunned. Couldn't come up with much to say, other than, "No, you've never pretended to like me, Chris. And I've never -pretended- to like you. Sorry if you feel otherwise."

Chris just laughed. "Ya some serious issues, Alysia. I liked ya, now though, could care less."

No matter how I asked him, I couldn't get an answer from him. Nor could Kitty. Nor could the Pixie.

There was a time I would have killed with less provocation.

Perhaps I don't hold honor so dear, anymore.

[Alysia]

07.12.2005
Dark Lake Manor, Rhydin.

Sometimes I feel the weight of my death curses more heavily. I seem to instinctively resist this, pushing off the dreams that aren't mine, the foreign thoughts, the strange memories. Trying to assert that which is me. . . ah, I'm such a mess. If I could find another kestra'chern in Rhydin, I'd make him or her wealthy beyond imagine, just to find myself again.

Sometimes I feel a passenger in my own mind and body. With Emma's help, I have managed to integrate most aspects of Llehlnia and Orodreth's memories and personalities. This is one of the benefits of having such a skilled psion as a mentor, I'm sure. But there are always conflicts. Llehlnia was an elf, and Orodreth despised elves. Orodreth was one of the Ancient Dragons of Rhilshen, and Llehlnia had an understandable hatred of dragons.

This leads to a peculiar sort of self-loathing. But the tension creates power, and from the souls of those two, I've gained knowledge I would never have had otherwise.

Yet I've always had an affinity for both elves and dragons.

Somtimes I wonder if there's anything left of the girl I was.

[Alysia]

09.06.2005
Dark Lake Manor, Rhydin

I headed into town last night in response to a tersely worded invitation from Emma, delivered by one of her smirkingly polite and oh-so-well-dressed thugs to Dark Lake Manor. I had wanted to curl up in the library with a new book analyzing atypical drow sculpture and relax with a bottle of some bloodspiced wine; instead I ended up with a headache, tense shoulders, and the urge to shred something.

I spend too much time fretting over the unknown. The life of a sybarite and mage ill-suits me. I seem to I find myself left with too much time to think and brood.

I delayed long enough to stop by the Red Dragon Inn for a drink. Mara made some tea, which did improve my mood some. She learns terribly fast. I wonder if that’s her nature, or if it’s just a survival requirement in RhyDin.

I stayed to banter a while, and was pleased to hear that Antonio and Kina snuck off and got married in a private ceremony. I will have to find an appropriate gift for them. Their happiness together is beautiful and an inspiration.

Yes, it is still an effort for me to think of Antonio by his first name. Old habits die hard - I think I will forever think of him by his surname.

Unfortunately, one of my suspicions regarding Shylah was confirmed: she left Antonio because of that incident with the bracelet. I was dismayed to learn that from her perspective, apparently a male doesn’t give such gifts to a female unless they’re bed partners. My first reaction was that I could empathize with that jealousy and could understand her way of thinking, as she has a warrior nature and seems quite set in her ways. And it was almost a relief to know the source of those cold looks and silence.

After I left the Inn, as I was heading for Emma’s residence, I found myself growing increasingly disgusted at that woman’s assumption that I was inclined to that sort of thing. What the Hell does she think I am? Some sort of simple-minded whore to be bought for a time by a bauble?

There was a time not that long ago when, upon such a revelation, I would have rushed out with my blade to demand payment in blood for such an insult to my honor.

Where is that damned blade, anyway? I can't believe I misplaced it.

Still. . . the bracelet is a lovely thing. Mithril, rubies, and diamonds. . . it's a work of beauty and art, and I suspect the gems are perfect for holding enchantments.

[Alysia]

09.24.2005
Dark Lake Manor, Rhydin

I cannot deny my addiction to bloodspice. I crave the pristine clarity of thought, the speed and grace of movement, the enhanced empathy, the sweet and heady fall into painfully accurate memory, and the tantalizing tastes of prescience it offers. And it is almost invariably a more discrete way to feed certain hungers.

But I dislike the thought of needing bloodspice, almost as much as I abhor the thought of drinking blood. That desire is a weakness, and living in the past with vague glimpses of the future are not wise for those with questionable mental stability. Thus, on our trip to Horseshoe Island, I resolved to avoid the stuff.

My will is obviously not as strong as it was. I lasted a few days before I found myself back in town, toying with the idea of heading back to the Manor to pilfer a few bottles from under Yvette Ruby's nose. The girl would be alarmed and dismayed by what she saw as a betrayal of trust, if I showed up and disturbed the wards, so I headed for the Red Dragon Inn.

I drank, just enough to clear the cobwebs from my mind and keep the Beast within at bay. As I traveled back through Shadow, I realized it had been enough to trigger a memory.


It was the start of a new year. I had been in the Inn, trying to decide whether it was worth trying to imbibe a filthy glass of bloodwyne slopped before me by a careless tender when Donovan, a druidic acquaintance of mine, came in to apologize for his hasty exit the prior evening. I tried one sip of the cloudy and poorly aged bloodwyne before shuddering and summoning a goblet of bloodspiced wine.

He frowned thoughtfully and said, "M'sorry I left like I did... but after ye left, I just thought I'd head home."

"There's no need to be sorry. Silly." I mimicked his frown.

"Aye, well," Donovan smiled a bit. "I feel cheated."

That made me laugh. "Then I am sorry for cheating you."

"Apology accepted. Just dinnae let it happen again," he teased.

I decided to take that as a challenge. Donovan gripped the edge of the bar, twisted his barstool to face the actual bar. He spoke quietly. "I found out that one o' m'friends from here died some time ago."

I focused on him, wondering what brought that up. Then again, such memories often prove haunting at the start of a new year. "I'm sorry to hear that... Who was it..?"

"M'afraid yuir like... a livin' relic to me. The last memory, made flesh, o' a time when the place was neither so packed or ... well…" He grinned. "M'sure ye know what I mean."

"I know precisely what you mean… You are something similar to me." I chose my words carefully, tasted the bloodspiced wine, and felt it take hold of me. "I wish for that time often."

"M'friend? Jacob… Some little -" He shrugged and voiced an expletive. "- named Jacob Hendersen killed him…"

I sneered and Donovan smiled a bit before continuing. "Aye, well... admittedly, the future is beginnin' to look a bit brighter. The only thing I have, in the way o' information on Jacob's looks... are what has t'be the single gayest hat that a man's worn…"

"I know him. Or knew him at one point in time." I murmured and drank some more.

"Aye... well, m'not sure if it was nae Jacob's fault." He gazed at me with a faint, interested smile. "Alysia... do ye always drink?"

I immediately started to retort, to defend my habit. A dozen cutting words and acidic remarks flitted through my thoughts in the space of a few seconds as I considered a response. I stammered, "I ah.... No, actually, I don't-"

"-S'alright. M'not judgin', either way…"

"But this…" I held up the whorled ivory goblet, the unicorn's horn that I prefer to drink from. "This I am addicted to. It's a relic of my youth-"

"-And I've just got one more question to ask ye…" Donovan started.

I drawled, making a show of staring at the rafters. "Oh *another* question, alright. I guess I can handle that."

Donovan asked, "When's your birthday?"

I coughed. The Hell did that come from? I answered truthfully, and quietly. "I don't know."

"Aye, well then. A Happy Unbirthday to you." He smiled a bit and leaned over, peering into my goblet as he tried to discern the contents.

"It's bloodspiced wine." The Hell with it, I thought, and plunged forward. "I'm addicted to Jahrel bloodspice. It enables prescience... enhances empathy."

I watched Donovan's eyebrow, which seemed intent on climbing his forehead.

After a while, he said. "Sounds almost like Piracetam."

"What is that?" I asked.

He winced, uncomfortable with the growing crowd in the Inn. "S'a brain drug."

"Ah. I see." I didn't, not really. I was aware of the druid's keen prejudice about blood drinkers. He barely tolerated that habit of mine.

"And I sincerely doubt ye have need to worry about it's cancer causing side effects…"

I smirked. "I don't think bloodspice does that, even had I need to worry about those effects."

"I dinnae like the thought of ye drinkin' bloodspiced wine… Once more, s'the source o' the blood that concerns me."

I didn't want to explain it further. It was something I'd always been touchy about, and something I've grown more sensitive to lately.

The look the druid gave me demanded further explanation. I tilted my head to one side, and glanced down. I sighed. "It's . . Okay. When I was younger - actually, until quite recently, I bore a curse."

Donovan leaned forward and swung around on his barstool to face me. He looked interested.

"That curse was to hold the spirit of an Elven healer who was wrathful against my mother's sire." He nodded, and I explained, "The addiction was something she brought with her… bloodspice was something of her world."

Drayven came in then, greeted me, and found a place to sit very close by. He was kind of huffy. I introduced the two and blithely continued. "Bloodspice is rather rare, coming only from the Jahrel elves of Brikartha. The uh.. Jahrel are generally both cursed and blessed by their gods. Anyways... other elves run over to the Jahrel lands regularly and perform bloodletting ceremonies."

Of course, as my addiction developed, I encouraged the development of a Jahrel enclave in the deserts of Sethil, where they quickly went mad and conducted their own bloodletting ceremonies. I find bitter amusement that due to my exile, I am forced to import bloodspice from Brikartha, rather than the province that used to be my own in Rhilshen. That's a memory to be recounted another time.

The druid thought about that for a while, then commented, "Oh, well... so long as s'comin' from an elf, and not fae…"

I didn't know what the difference was then, so he explained it.

It didn't ease the sense of guilt I had.

Or the sense of guilt I still have.

[Alysia]

02.24.2006
Oura na Surgu Sramaler, The Dril Isles

It is tempting to sink into anonymity again, here among the sea elves. The villa I am occupying, on the sun-drenched eastern bluffs overlooking the blue ocean, is quite secluded and lacking the distractions of regular human company. While these islands lack the sparse beauty and peace of the Sethil desert, here I have found the freedom to observe and to train, and the solitude to steel myself for what I have set out to do.

My infrequent trips to Rhydin have proven mostly fruitless, though I do hope they further the illusion that I remain in residence there. I’ve yet to see my would-be assassin again face to face, though the wards I set at Dark Lake and Taiva have been triggered twice.

I need to set some Shadowslave as guards about this place. My face is mostly unknown - the Dril use shell coins, of course - but traders do visit, and they are a breed prone to excessive gossip.

[Alysia]

03.21.2006
Oura na Surgu Sramaler, The Dril Isles

Last night, before returning to my villa, I visited Dark Lake long enough to retrieve my armor (and it still fits decently) and one of the Shava relic blades I looted as a benefit of the first Venom Alliance. While it had been my intent to commission one from the death knight, Jodiah Ayreg, the moment did not arise, and I dare not delay. The elven sword is no replacement for Angylsblud and has no particular enchantment save for the normal virtues of mithril and crimsor, but it will serve. It will have to serve.

Scrying in midnight seawater and the cooling blood of the wicked (am I not wicked myself), I saw the unconcealed face of the one who hunts me. By appearance, he is one of my own Priests. The serpentine sigil of the Guardian God of Rhilshen, the dragon Lojwdthrendtalen is branded on his brow and tattooed across his cheeks. His countenance is known to me, hazily familiar from the Twilight War in Kaul. His name is not. He holds my soulsword; while he has proved he can wield Angylsblud, I doubt he has mastered it.

Kalwrathe was right. I should have killed all of the Priests. The memory of blood is longer than the memory of justice.

And now, in my exile, I contemplate violence against my own son, to regain the throne that I fought and nearly died for, the realm that I sacrificed family and lovers for. I have not spoken of my plans to Javan. I fear he will, at best, disapprove of my intentions to remove Alaric. At worst, he will be forced to act against me. And once again, I feel that what he does not know, he cannot condemn or betray.

Has it come to this, that I cannot trust at all? Perhaps Daemonshi was right, and I will die in solitude, trusting no one.

[Alysia]

03.07.2006
Oura na Surgu Sramaler, The Dril Isles

Seeing Lucien last night brought back some poignant feelings. It would be nice if I could call it love, but reflecting on my history, I no longer believe that is anything but a weakness. It’s more likely that I automatically wanted to fall back into that familiar pattern of denying what I am, pretending to be something nearly mortal, playing with the allure of indolence and sweetness, wearing the illusion of being something Light and Good instead of something spawned of demons.

High from bloodspice and ichor, swaying under a rush of wistful memory and longing, I almost chose to forego hunting when I came back to this cool and silent villa. I struggled through a blurred recollection of a stern meeting with the Council of the Elven Nation, that fool Elrond’s disapproval, Perrin’s dismay and the final letter he left me. Then I beheld the Shava relic sword, and savored the memory of how it came into my possession.

Better that I hunt and sharpen my skills than linger in memories. That is a weakness that will serve me poorly in my current endeavors. I know too well the sort of opposition I will face when I retake my fortress and my throne; I trained that opposition myself.

The chimera, Queit Populi professes to be a police man; while I laughed last night at the idea of law enforcement in such a lawless realm as Rhy’Din, I did think for a moment that he might prove useful in locating my stolen soul sword. The opportunity to request his assistance did not occur. I’m not even sure he’d have the aptitude to locate the thief, particularly since I can’t even say when or where I last saw the blade.

I sensed some of Javan’s rats sniffing about the edges of the shadow gates I set up between my villa here and Dark Lake Manor. Their little bodies are broken and bloodless, but Javan will discern the absence of his servants soon enough and will set his own traps to spring.

[Alysia]

04.04.2006
Rhilshen Fortress, Central Province, Rhilshen

Despite recent events, I feel safe. Or maybe it’s because of those recent events. I have my soulsword back again. I am free to travel in Rhilshen again, and my fortress is once again just that: mine.

I will grant that this feeling of safety may be deceptive. I will need to place a few agents in Rhydin and have asked Javan to adjust the focus of his network somewhat, as it is obvious that some areas have gone dangerously ignored. I’ve set a permanent shadowgate between Dark Lake Manor and the dungeons here in Rhilshen. Anyone with ill intent who tries to pay me a little visit here through the gate should prove to be very entertaining.

Ugh. Speaking of entertaining, the dungeons might not be the best place for guests to come through from Rhydin. I can only imagine people muttering about the screams and the smells. Hells, for the rare occasion I do any casual entertaining, I’ll do it at the Lake.

And I find myself curiously indebted to one Lord Ayreg. This is a strange and even uncomfortable feeling, for I really can’t recall ever owing such a debt to anyone before. Not only did the death knight save my life, he’s proving to be of quite some assistance in regaining my throne in Rhilshen. Besides providing a more than adequate sparring partner, that is. Bladework is a very useful diversion.

I must think of a way to appropriately repay him.

There's something familiar about him. Why does that name sound like. . .bah. My memory is obviously not what it was.

[Alysia]

04.22.2006
Dark Lake Manor, Rhydin

Last night, after I butted into his conversation with Lenika, the death knight requested a boon of me, first phrasing it so delicately that his meaning was obscured. He politely asked something about Time magic. Now, no matter how I try, I will never have any skill as a chronomage, and I have exerted a great deal of will and effort in this regard. It's a regret that I will carry with me to the end of my days, since it is my own terrible failure that leaves the Keep de Li'Ved in a separate time stream, so close to Rhilshen and yet completely unreachable.

I try not to think about it, but there are times when I cannot help but miss my father's family. Satan Fury. . . Ari. Michael and Wyndy. Radu and the others.

Anyway.

With a little coaxing, Jodiah Ayreg clarified his request: a desire to be younger. This was unsurprising to me, as by many accounts, the death knight is rather old for a human. While he is far from fragile, I suspect his recovery from battle injuries is protracted, and pain is probably a near-constant companion. Particularly after his breakneck investigation of the provinces. I should never have allowed him that journey through Rhilshen.

But he has voiced a fitting request; after all, he saved my life, and there is appropriate symmetry in my restoring his health.

It first occurred me to send him to the Baroness of Mynw. Emma Frost has nearly perfected her own Fountain of Youth, a disturbing process involving blend of science, psionics, and magic. As a matter of necessity, after a very unlucky duel with one Eric "Flame" Gooliambi, I once underwent that process myself, and it left me with some disjointed memories and lingering claustrophobia. I imagine Emma probably even has data on Ayreg already. But it's still experimental, and I'm not sure he would appreciate Emma's inevitable attempts to improve or upgrade him.

I considered another option. It's usually used to . . . increase the numbers of a vampiric clan, a gift of sorts inherited from Daemonshi, my mother's vampeal Sire in the Vladslace Bloodline, and my father, Satan Fury of the Blood Li'Ved. Once I used that gift to heal a mortal girl of deadly injuries. Proving no good deed goes unpunished, the endeavor was something I quickly regretted, as it introduced an extremely petulant, sulky, and troublesome childe into my Clan. The girl, Sarah "Kit" Mystery, eventually found her way to Vladslace, and she became their problem.

Time and time again, I am reminded that the trade of life for undeath, with the resulting balance of strength and skill and weakness, is something that should not be considered lightly. Some souls are too prone to madness to survive that trade intact. Then, there will always be those who view the things that live in shadows and feed on blood as tainted and damned.

There is no doubt that I am damned. But such is life.

And of course, this should have occurred to me first, but I am prone to self doubt: The symptoms of age are a disease which can be alleviated by a Healer.

I dabbled in the Healing arts for many years as a mostly disinterested student and only grew serious about it during the foolish and miserable time I spent as a mortal. When it became apparent I would need to learn more than the practical application of battlefield Healing, I came into the possession of the journal of a Healing Adept, written by one of the sea-elves in a tongue surprisingly similar to archaic drow. The tome detailed a relatively simple ritual, a blend of priestly and magely energies, which on a cellular level restored a mortal body to a form that matched the subject's mental self-image. At the time, I didn't have the capacity for it. Now. . . the ley lines and node beneath my fortress are again mine to wield, and I can invoke the deity I serve to complete the ritual

After fasting for three days, I'm going to be a ravenous bitch.

It will be interesting to see how the death knight views himself.

[Alysia]

09.09.2006
Rhilshen Fortress, Central Province

At least . . . Well, I must grant that Guthorm was correct in his estimation of everyone's favorite barrister. At least I have spoken with him, and at least I have seen him alive. But that is all I know that is certain.

There was something different about him, but I could not quantify it. Something in his eyes? Perhaps it is the weight of time and distance that separated us. He was so guarded.

I have a feeling he does not wish to be found.

I should respect that.

I should allow him what he seeks, free of interference.

But I remembered something. Bloodspice is wretchedly good at churning bittersweet memories to the surface of my mind.

--A trail through the woods by moonlight. West and north from the Dark Lake, past Taiva.

--White stone walls and a white watchtower, gleaming in darkness.

--Muted sound, a long room lined with dark woods and books, measured by ladders and shelves, framed by a mezzanine walkway.

--" . . .This used to be my most favorite place, my one refuge. It's probably why I kept this complex. . . I could retreat here and just lock everything and everyone else out. You see, no one else has ever been in here, or even permitted to come in here."



I wonder if I still have that key.

[Alysia]

11.08.2006
Dark Lake Manor, Rhydin


Seeing the minstrel happily ensconced on his lap, that stung. Twas only one among many, of late, and fickle empathy being what it is, there are still things I can't bear silent witness to. I've grown too practiced at smiling graciously when I want to snarl and draw steel, and that wouldn't fix a damned thing, not in the long run. I'd be unanimously reviled if I gave free reign to my temper.

Doubtless I'm now reaping the dubious benefit of those few months with Drac. Or for exiling Chryrie. Or for exiling and blinding Quinntessa. I wonder, is this how it felt? The symmetry is appropriate, I guess.

I did what I had to do, what I decided to do last night in a haze of black ichor. Still made sense today. He seemed. . . relieved? Guarded as is his wont now, still perfectly composed. I should have just sent it back to him, and we both could have avoided the awkward, polite and insincere dance of words about finding happiness when in all probability neither of us was very happy at all.

In hindsight, one of Javan's little rats could have found the barrister eventually, assuming they didn't keep the diamond for its sparkle and deliberately misplace the letter.

Well, what's done is done. It's become too easy to swallow my wounded pride and look away, blindly clutching the terms of a bittersweet promise that I held no real claim to anymore. My grandfather pointed out that Pride could be a virtue, but right now, I fail to see how.

At least Lucky he is free to seek what he wishes, without interference. And at least I have the certainty of prescience that he will find what he wants.

I know I did the right thing. Why do I feel like I did the wrong thing?

Still spending too much time thinking. Words will not prove the answer here.

[Alysia]

11.10.2006
Dark Lake Manor, Rhydin

In sufficient quantities, aged black ichor numbs the mind into a gentle, blissful euphoria. The hangover drops one into the other end of the emotional spectrum. The end result usually discourage more than one day and night of overindulgence. It's been three nights. Or four? I've lost track.

There was so much I wanted to say to Lucien, but as I pointed out, none of it was really appropriate at all. Words which I'd rehearsed over and over again with an almost desparate hope to work things out began to grow worn and tired in my mind, and before they left my lips, I realized that they'd been said before.

History repeats itself. A pity I can't learn from my own mistakes.

It was years ago, actually, toward the beginning of a tempestuous relationship, I think one of the first times I'd completely lost any sense of decorum and snapped at him. After avoiding eachother for a while, he'd invited me on a short carriage ride and asked what he'd done to make me angry. He sat watching me in silence and I started to come up with a snide remark, then I shut up and decided to take him seriously. I was, after all, his guest.

"It is nothing you did. It's what everyone else was doing."

"What everyone else was doing?" he asked.

"You may not think that there are dozens of lovely young things waiting with baited breath for a moment of your attention, but there are."

There still are. I was then, as now, inclined to the slow boil / flashpoint temper.

"I...it's..." He stammered a bit, uncharacteristically.

I interrupted, "I'm not inclined to compete with them. ... probably too old for that."

"But...there's no competition there. It was never a competition."

"They think -- well, it looks like it," I retorted. "Or it feels that way."

He explained, rambling a bit, working out his thoughts as he spoke. "I tend bar. I'm used to talking to people, and yes, women, smiling at them, winking at them. But there's nothing there beyond what's on the surface. Because that's all that is, on the surface."

"Is there anything here beyond what's on the surface?" I retorted hotly.

"For them? No. For you?" He paused.

"That was my question." Then, as he paused, I averted my eyes. I didn't want to see his face. "You don't have to answer."

"No. I need to answer that, for myself. Yes. Yes there is something beyond the surface for you. I can't say yet how deep it goes. And it scares me
to admit it, but yes, there is something there....beneath the surface. Take away the grins and the winks and whatever else you wish...and there is it. A catch in breath? A pause in my heart? Probably sounds all contrived to you."

I shook my head, glancing at him. "No, it doesn't. Believe me, I know. I had sworn never to let myself feel this way -- it can be such a weakness, you know."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry that appeared you were in competition. The irony of that is-"

Things continued in that vein. Tentative banter and apologies. Carefully sharing feelings and emotions.

"What would you like for me to do to assure you? Stop talking with her? Don't look at anyone else?" He asked. It sounded to me like he was getting exasperated, and I didn't blame him.

"I don't know. There's nothing you could do to make me believe otherwise -- I think that's what you said." I growled. "This is pointless. You are who you are."

"Who am I? To you, who am I?" He asked intently.

"Who are you, or what are you?" I answered both. Cautiously and as vaguely as possible, without revealing my feelings. "You are Lucien, a most charming and intriguing man who I have a great deal of interest in."

"But?"

"But nothing. There are no qualifications to that." I felt restless with attempting to explain things, and the frank discussion was making me nervous and on edge. Revealing matters of the heart openly has not always been troublesome for me, but it is something that I learned in Shava. Something for another time.

He leaned out the door and muttered something to his driver. The carriage slowed to a stop, and he sat back, just looking at me.

I felt a need to break the silence and looked outside as I spoke. "It is as I said. The problem is certainly not with you. It's, well, it's with me. I'm rather possessive, I think." As if there was any doubt.

"And I'm singular in my desires. I don't go from one woman to another," he said.

It continued in that vein. He had a counter for every argument I tried. He didn't care; it was a risk he was willing to take.


And thinking back on then, and now -- he has always risked much more than I.

And I, the coward.

[Alysia]

13.11.2006
Dark Lake Manor, Rhydin


"As for payment... I only wish the fae's negative mark against her name in your family to be resolved. I can assure you.. the man named Jhessair was and is indeed dead... she still laments and feels she dishonored you in some way."

Those words from Jade - those words stung.

And rightfully so.

I have spent hours - days, probably - brooding about how differently things might have gone, had I been wiser, not so devoted to laws, more focused on my family than an inflexible code of honor, public opinion, and power.

I wonder if Chryrie would find it ironic, that I myself was exiled from Rhilshen for the same thing I had exiled her for. It is an appropriate reflection.

Need to talk to her.

This whole . . . fasting thing probably isn't helping my state of mind. Need to hunt. Soon.

[Alysia]

12.28.2006
Dark Lake Manor, Rhydin

Ah... these few moments I have to reflect are fast becoming precious. Between reviewing troop strengths, training, researching, practicing, teaching, watching. . . well, it's better to keep busy. I brood less that way.

Yesterday, I was working on a treaty for Shayltan, something to prevent their insular, xenophobic culture from working against the rest of the damned realm. The whole idea of codifying laws to require them to behave as I expect, to follow my own code of honor and ideals, makes me nervous.

I'm still not sure it's the right thing to do.

It's edgy work, holding honor over matters of the heart. And it occurred to me Quinntessa was a good example of that. So am I, probably.

Karthalan would have said something about Skye women being fickle. Bastard.

No doubt there was a time when honor was all I had, but I've realized it is possible to hold honor too close. It's a wonder Aeris does not despise me. After all, I took her away from her parents in the name of family honor.

Aeris spent much of her childhood living with her father, Anubis. She was surely a daddy's girl, if for no other reason than her mother was rather busy with other men and just wasn't around. She was lucky at least one of her parents was responsible.

Her mother was Quinntessa Lashonde De'Alariel Amberleaf, first the childe of my ex-husband Daemyon Bloodshire, then my childe after Daemyon disappeared. Quinn had been sent to sleep in torpor for a few years for certain indiscretions involving her marriage vows. She'd also abandoned the children she'd birthed. One of them died an infant. Probably the youngest Skye to be buried in the Rhilshen Grove. And somehow, the young vampiress had managed to find the strength to rise from her crypt before her punishment was complete. I sensed her stirring and awakening, certainly before my wrath had abated, and in a rage, I summoned her and the rest of the family to pronounce a more appropriate judgment.

That judgment was simple at first, blindness and an aversion to anything but the blood of rats. As my disappointment grew, I renounced her as my childe, and her former lover, Anubis, took her back, offering to sustain her with his own blood until she grew strong again. I tartly suggested that their bond of blood had better strengthen the bond of love which should have lasted between the two of them when they decided to wed within my Clan. They made a rather poignant portrait there: a sweet, happy family of vampeal and vampire.

Prescience, mistrust, memories, whatever the reasons, I didn't believe it for one moment and was sure the circumstances that led to Quinntessa's recent predicament would be repeated, and we'd be back here again, testing eachother's honor. Maybe I saw something of my own mother in Quinntessa. Aeris must have sensed some of my thoughts, for the thin little girl stopped snuggling against her mother long enough to stare at me with those large, haunted eyes.

Then I told them I was fostering their child to someone I trusted. By the time I finished saying that, I was cold inside, but I held out my hand to Aeris, and she came to my side.

Anubis looked shocked.

Quinntessa looked repulsed and, despite her frailness, started railing at her ex-lover to fight for his daughter. She exhorted him to take what was his and to fight. She screamed that she'd rather die than be part of the Skye Bloodline. As quickly as she'd exploded with her bitter words, Quinn fled into the night, shrieking and strident.

Darkness could not protect Quinntessa, then. To rouse the anger of a demoness. . . As Aeris watched, I summoned a firestorm birthed from Chaos and pride, a cyclone of flames to turn vampire blood to ash and steam, to blacken and crisp the flesh from inside out, to sear the aching fragments of an undead soul. I pronounced a horrific curse of exile upon Quinn, even as she burned in her flight from Rhilshen.

So, the little girl who would become Javan's second watched me blind, curse, burn and exile her own mother.

Yet Aeris took it like her father. Stoic. Quiet. Neither she nor Anubis condemned me for my judgment of Quinn. . . they faced it with zen-like calm and acceptance, have remained unerringly faithful and loyal to the Bloodline all these years. They are nearly paragons.

I suspect I first erred in allowing Quinn to avoid retribution for her actions against her Bloodline, rather than bringing swift and harsh judgment upon my childe. Deep down, I know that mercy will lead to failure. Mercy does not temper justice. It weakens justice.

Maybe Shayltan Province has grown to accustomed to mercy.

I'm rambling. Need to go for a walk to clear my head.

[Alysia]

01.17.2007
Dark Lake Manor, Rhydin

The other night, I overheard Tara and Chryrie speaking in the Red Dragon Inn. Not sure exactly what they said.

I was somewhat distracted at the time.

Lucien has that effect on me.

Observing my public display of affection, Tara had commented that given my usual reserved nature, a show of affection was out of character. I had thought to be offended, but... Hell, it's probably true these days. At least Chryrie pointed out that she’s seen many sides of my personality that most people probably didn’t even fathom existed. So it actually wasn’t all that unusual. Even if she wasn't family, Chryrie's known me for years.

Tara eventually decided there was a remote possibility that I probably experienced and displayed emotions once in a while.

Experience, yes, all the damn time. Less, when I don't indulge my demon-born cravings. Hence the allure of bloodspice. But display? Not if I can help it.

I realize that once upon a time, there were a great deal of similarities between Tara and I. She has always been fiesty, passionate, temperamental and fiercely protective over what is hers. Had it not been for crazy Silvana, I think Tara and I would have been close friends and I’d have even attempted to coerce her into joining the Skye Bloodline. Yet one of the fundamental differences between Tara and I is that she has no qualms about showing, even flaunting, her emotions. And I do.

It wasn't always that way. At some point, showing emotion - particularly love and affection - became a weakness for me. It was a chink in armor that couldn't afford to be breached. Too many knew too well how to play upon my emotions to manipulate me. I eventually learned to guard against it. At what cost, though?

I don't want to think about it right now. Things are fragile enough without revisiting that.