Post by The Marquis on Sept 4, 2014 9:11:51 GMT -8
From the diary of Alphonse Gerbeille, erstwhile Marquis D'Angerville
(In pages barely legible from age)
So much have I forgotten. How to bow, the correct distance to stand. My performance left much to be desired and yet I hope I have conveyed myself to these rough Kindred here.
I fear time is speeding up, like a poorly-tuned clock buzzing faster and faster. Barely had I a moment to introduce myself to the elegant Primogen of this city, before we were beset by small wolves of a most delicious character. Most delicious indeed, and yet the eating was befouled by an indignant squawking from my charge. A complaint against such a trifle, like the plucking of a grape. We are so changed.
Yet mere moments after, I was rushed into court, paraded before the Prince, who acted as if we had never met, and swiftly ushered away on a preposterous hunt. This place is like a Voltaire farce, but without the wit and beautiful youths. Nevertheless there were great revelations. This city is a hive bursting with honey.
(In pages yellowed and frayed)
They who dwell below are coalescing like a creme bruleé, and thusfar without excessive bruleéing. These young artists are filled with a love for beauty that moves me. I feel the dust falling from my eyes. In weak moments I dare dream that upon seeing what they have wrought, Monsieur Sunshine may smile upon me as I had always hoped he would.
I looked upon a painting that moved. A young man breathed life into it as Aphrodite animated Pygmalion, and she was as sweet. This world seems to be becoming more magical, and not less, as we had always hoped.
(In pages yellowed)
The Mouth is open but only silence emanates. Truly a prosopon melancholia.
(In pages white and crisp)
War has cast a death shroud upon the world. This may be the end of it all, and I still feel so monstrous. One can hardly imagine that I will be comforted by my peers, who are savage to the last.
At least there are many secrets to be buried. And so much space down here to fill with them. The younger ones have discovered a wonderful trick: if you put something in the basement, with a bag of coins or a nice banque note, Mr. Sunshine will take it away for you, never to be seen or heard, or even remembered.
They are so proud of their invention. To me it seems we are simply the oubliette of the Kindred castle. As dark and hopeless. As devoid of laughter.
(In pages barely legible from age)
So much have I forgotten. How to bow, the correct distance to stand. My performance left much to be desired and yet I hope I have conveyed myself to these rough Kindred here.
I fear time is speeding up, like a poorly-tuned clock buzzing faster and faster. Barely had I a moment to introduce myself to the elegant Primogen of this city, before we were beset by small wolves of a most delicious character. Most delicious indeed, and yet the eating was befouled by an indignant squawking from my charge. A complaint against such a trifle, like the plucking of a grape. We are so changed.
Yet mere moments after, I was rushed into court, paraded before the Prince, who acted as if we had never met, and swiftly ushered away on a preposterous hunt. This place is like a Voltaire farce, but without the wit and beautiful youths. Nevertheless there were great revelations. This city is a hive bursting with honey.
(In pages yellowed and frayed)
They who dwell below are coalescing like a creme bruleé, and thusfar without excessive bruleéing. These young artists are filled with a love for beauty that moves me. I feel the dust falling from my eyes. In weak moments I dare dream that upon seeing what they have wrought, Monsieur Sunshine may smile upon me as I had always hoped he would.
I looked upon a painting that moved. A young man breathed life into it as Aphrodite animated Pygmalion, and she was as sweet. This world seems to be becoming more magical, and not less, as we had always hoped.
(In pages yellowed)
The Mouth is open but only silence emanates. Truly a prosopon melancholia.
(In pages white and crisp)
War has cast a death shroud upon the world. This may be the end of it all, and I still feel so monstrous. One can hardly imagine that I will be comforted by my peers, who are savage to the last.
At least there are many secrets to be buried. And so much space down here to fill with them. The younger ones have discovered a wonderful trick: if you put something in the basement, with a bag of coins or a nice banque note, Mr. Sunshine will take it away for you, never to be seen or heard, or even remembered.
They are so proud of their invention. To me it seems we are simply the oubliette of the Kindred castle. As dark and hopeless. As devoid of laughter.
