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In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
The luxury of an afternoon nap was one of the finer pleasures of retirement, particularly during the heat of an Italian summer. Elara stretched like a cat on the capacious sofa, pulling a couple of kilim covered cushions into place to support her neck. She had only read a few pages of her book about the Cerne Abbas giant, the enigmatic chalk figure on a hill in Dorset, before her eyes slid closed and the book dropped with a thud onto her chest.
The distant clang of a bell woke her several hours later, although she remained motionless, unable to open her eyes at first. Not one to recall dreams as a rule, Elara was surprised at the intensity of the dream she was struggling to awaken from, and the clarity of the details, and the emotion. In the dream she was at the CERN conference, a clamour and cacophony of colleagues, some familiar to her in waking life, some characters complete strangers but familiar to her in the dream. She had felt agitation at the noise and at the cold coffee, and an indescribable feeling when Florian somehow appeared by her side, who was supposed to be in Tuscany, whispering in her ear that her mother had died and she was to make the funeral arrangements.
Elara’s mother had died when she was just a child, barely eight years old. She was no longer sure if she remembered her, or if her memories were from the photographs and anecdotes she’d seen and heard in the following years. Her older sister Vanessa had said darkly that she was lucky and well out of it, to not have had to put up with her when she was a teenager, like she had. Vanessa was ten years older than Elara, and had assumed the role of mother. She explained later that she’d let Elara run wild because she didn’t want to be bossy and domineering, but admitted that she should perhaps have reined her younger sister in a bit more than she had.
Again, the distant bell clanged. Shaking her head as if to dispel the memories the dream had conjured, Elara rose from the sofa and walked out on to the terrace. Across the yard she could see Florian, replacing the old bell on the new gate post.
“Sorry, did I wake you?” he called. “I had a bit of linen round the clanger so it didn’t make a noise while I screwed it to the post, but it slipped. Sorry,” he repeated.
Squinting in the bright sun, Elara strolled over to him, saying, “Honestly, don’t worry, I was glad to wake up. What a dream I had! That’s great Florian, nice job.”
In reply to: Quintessence: A Portrait in Reverse
Work in Progress: Character Timelines and Events
Matteo
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Newly employed at the Sarah Bernhardt Café, started after its reopening.
- Writes the names of Lucien, Elara, Darius, and Amei in his notebook without understanding why.
- Acquires the bell from Les Reliques, drawn to it as if guided by an unseen force.
- Serves the group during the reunion, surprised to see all four together, though he knows them individually.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Working in a vineyard in southern France, nearing the end of the harvest season.
- Receives a call for a renovation job in Paris, which pulls him toward the city.
- Feels an intuitive connection to Paris, as if something is waiting for him there.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Matteo has a mysterious ability to sense patterns and connections in people’s lives.
- Has likely crossed paths with the group in unremarkable but meaningful ways before.
Darius
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Arrives at the café, a wanderer who rarely stays in one place.
- Reflects on his time in India during the autumn and the philosophical journey it sparked.
- Brings with him an artifact that ties into his travels and personal story.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Living in Barcelona, sketching temples and engaging with a bohemian crowd.
- Prompted by a stranger to consider a trip to India, sparking curiosity and the seeds of his autumn journey.
- Begins to plan his travels, sensing that India is calling him for a reason he doesn’t yet understand.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Has a history of introducing enigmatic figures to the group, often leading to tension.
- His intense, nomadic lifestyle creates both fascination and distance between him and the others.
Elara
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Travels from England to Paris to attend the reunion, balancing work and emotional hesitation.
- Still processing her mother’s passing and reflecting on their strained relationship.
- Finds comfort in the shared dynamics of the group but remains analytical about the events around the bell.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- (was revealed to be a dream event) Attends a CERN conference in Geneva, immersed in intellectual debates and cutting-edge research. Receives news of her mother’s death in Montrouge, prompting a reflective journey to make funeral arrangements. Struggles with unresolved feelings about her mother but finds herself strangely at peace with the finality.
- Dreams of her mother’s death during a nap in Tuscany, a surreal merging of past and present that leaves her unsettled.
- Hears a bell’s clang, only to find Florian fixing a bell to the farmhouse gate. The sound pulls her further into introspection about her mother and her life choices.
- Mentors Florian, encouraging him to explore his creativity, paralleling her own evolving relationship with her chalk research.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Moved to Tuscany after retiring from academia, pursuing independent research on chalk.
- Fondly remembers the creative writing she once shared with the group, though it now feels like a distant chapter of her life.
- Had a close but occasionally challenging relationship with Lucien and Amei during their younger years.
- Values intellectual connections over emotional ones but is gradually learning to reconcile the two.
Lucien
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Sends the letter that brings the group together at the café, though his intentions are unclear even to himself.
- In his Paris studio, struggles with an unfinished commissioned painting. Feels disconnected from his art and his sense of purpose.
- Packs a suitcase with sketchbooks and a bundle wrapped in linen, symbolizing his uncertainty—neither a complete departure nor a definitive arrival.
- Heads to the café in the rain, reluctant but compelled to reconnect with the group. Confronts his feelings of guilt and estrangement from the group.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Escapes Paris, overwhelmed by the crowds and noise of the Games, and travels to Lausanne.
- Reflects on his artistic block and the emotional weight of his distance from the group.
- Notices a sketch in his book of a doorway with a bell he doesn’t recall drawing, sparking vague recognition.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Once the emotional “anchor” of the group, he drifted apart after a falling-out or personal crisis.
- Feels a lingering sense of responsibility to reunite the group but struggles with his own vulnerabilities.
Amei
- November 2024 (Reunion):
- Joins the reunion at Lucien’s insistence, hesitant but curious about reconnecting with the group.
- Brings with her notebooks filled with fragments of stories and a quiet hope for resolution.
- Feels the weight of the group’s shared history but refrains from dwelling on it outwardly.
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Recently moved into a smaller flat in London, downsizing after her daughter Tabitha left for university.
- Has a conversation with Tabitha about life and change, hinting at unresolved emotions about motherhood and independence.
- Tabitha jokes about Amei joining her in Goa, a suggestion Amei dismisses but secretly considers.
- Past Events (Implied):
Tabitha (Amei’s Daughter)
- November 2024:
- Summer 2024 (Olympics):
- Planning her autumn trip to Goa with friends, viewing it as a rite of passage.
- Discusses her mother’s habits with her peers, acknowledging Amei’s complexities while expressing affection.
- Past Events (Implied):
- Represents a bridge between Amei’s past and present, highlighting generational contrasts and continuities.
Key Threads and Patterns
- The Bell: Acts as a silent witness and instigator, threading its presence through pivotal moments in each character’s journey, whether directly or indirectly.
- Shared Histories: While each character grapples with personal struggles, their paths hint at intersections in the past, tied to unresolved tensions and shared experiences.
- Forward and Backward Motion: The narrative moves between the characters’ immediate challenges and the ripples of their past decisions, with the bell serving as a focal point for both.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
The Bell’s Moment: Paris, Summer 2024 – Olympic Games
The bell was dangling unassumingly from the side pocket of a sports bag, its small brass frame swinging lightly with the jostle of the crowd. The bag belonged to an American tourist, a middle-aged man in a rumpled USA Basketball T-shirt, hustling through the Olympic complex with his family in tow. They were here to cheer for his niece, a rising star on the team, and the bell—a strange little heirloom from his grandmother—had been an afterthought, clipped to the bag for luck. It seemed to fit right in with the bright chaos of the Games, blending into the swirl of flags, chants, and the hum of summer excitement.
1st Ring of the Bell: Matteo
The vineyard was quiet except for the hum of cicadas and the soft rustle of leaves. Matteo leaned against the tractor, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
“You’ve done good work,” the supervisor said, clapping Matteo on the shoulder. “We’ll be finishing this batch by Friday.”
Matteo nodded. “And after that?”
The older man shrugged. “Some go north, some go south. You? You’ve got that look—like you already know where you’re headed.”
Matteo offered a half-smile, but he couldn’t deny it. He’d felt the tug for days, like a thread pulling him toward something undefined. The idea of returning to Paris had slipped into his thoughts quietly, as if it had been waiting for the right moment.
When his phone buzzed later that evening with a job offer to do renovation work in Paris, it wasn’t a surprise. He poured himself a small glass of wine, toasting the stars overhead.
Somewhere, miles away, the bell rang its first note.
2nd Ring of the Bell: Darius
In a shaded square in Barcelona, the air was thick with the scent of jasmine and the echo of a street performer’s flamenco guitar. Darius sprawled on a wrought-iron bench, his leather-bound journal open on his lap. He sketched absentmindedly, the lines of a temple taking shape on the page.
A man wearing a scarf of brilliant orange sat down beside him, his energy magnetic. “You’re an artist,” the man said without preamble, his voice carrying the cadence of Kolkata.
“Sometimes,” Darius replied, his pen still moving.
“Then you should come to India,” the man said, grinning. “There’s art everywhere. In the streets, in the temples, even in the food.”
Darius chuckled. “You recruiting me?”
“India doesn’t need recruiters,” the man replied. “It calls people when it’s time.”
The bell rang again in Paris, its chime faint and melodic, as Darius scribbled the words “India, autumn” in the corner of his page.
3rd Ring of the Bell: Elara
The crowd at CERN’s conference hall buzzed as physicists exchanged ideas, voices overlapping like equations scribbled on whiteboards. Elara sat at a corner table, sipping lukewarm coffee and scrolling through her messages.
The voicemail notification glared at her, and she tapped it reluctantly.
“Elara, it’s Florian. I… I’m sorry to tell you this over a message, but your mother passed away last night.”
Her coffee cup trembled slightly as she set it down.
Her relationship with her mother had been fraught, full of alternating period of silences and angry reunions, and had settled lately into careful politeness that masked deeper fractures. Years of therapy had softened the edges of her resentment but hadn’t erased it. She had come to accept that they would never truly understand each other, but the finality of death still struck her with a peculiar weight.
Her mother had been living alone in Montrouge, France, refusing to leave the little house Elara had begged her to sell for years. They had drifted apart, their conversations perfunctory and strained, like the ritual of winding a clock that no longer worked.
She would have to travel to Montrouge for the funeral arrangements.
In that moment, the bell in Les Reliques rang a third time.
4th Ring of the Bell: Lucien
The train to Lausanne glided through fields of dried up sunflowers, too early for the season, but the heat had been relentless. He could imagine the golden blooms swaying with a cracking sound in the summer breeze. Lucien stared out the window, the strap of his duffel bag wrapped tightly around his wrist.
Paris had been suffocating. The tourists swarmed the city like ants, turning every café into a photo opportunity and every quiet street into a backdrop. He hadn’t needed much convincing to take his friend up on the offer of a temporary studio in Lausanne.
He reached into his bag and pulled out a sketchbook. The pages were filled with half-finished drawings, but one in particular caught his eye: a simple doorway with an ornate bell hanging above it.
He didn’t remember drawing it, but the image felt familiar, like a memory from a dream.
The bell rang again in Paris, its resonance threading through the quiet hum of the train.
5th Ring of the Bell: …. Tabitha
In the courtyard of her university residence, Tabitha swung lazily in a hammock, her phone propped precariously on her chest.
“Goa, huh?” one of her friends asked, leaning against the tree holding up the hammock. “Think your mum will freak out?”
“She’ll probably worry herself into knots,” Tabitha replied, laughing. “But she won’t say no. She’s good at the whole supportive parent thing. Or at least pretending to be.”
Her friend raised an eyebrow. “Pretending?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I love her,” Tabitha said. “But she’s got her own stuff. You know, things she never really talks about. I think it’s why she works so much. Keeps her distracted.”
The bell rang faintly in Paris, though neither of them could hear it.
“Maybe you should tell her to come with you,” the friend suggested.
Tabitha grinned. “Now that would be a trip.”
Last Ring: The Pawn
It was now sitting on the counter at Les Reliques. Its brass surface gleamed faintly in the dim shop light, polished by the waves of time. Small and unassuming, its ring held something inexplicably magnetic.
Time seemed to settle heavily around it. In the heat of the Olympic summer, it rang six times. Each chime marked a moment that mattered, though none of the characters whose lives it touched understood why. Not yet.
“Where’d you get this?” the shopkeeper asked as the American tourist placed it down.
“It was my grandma’s,” he said, shrugging. “She said it was lucky. I just think it’s old.”
The shopkeeper ran her fingers over the brass surface, her expression unreadable. “And you’re selling it?”
“Need cash to get tickets for the USA basketball game tomorrow,” the man replied. “Quarterfinals. You follow basketball?”
“Not anymore,” the shopkeeper murmured, handing him a stack of bills.
The bell rang softly as she placed it on the velvet cloth, its sound settling into the space like a secret waiting to be uncovered.
And so it sat, quiet but full of presence, waiting for someone to claim it maybe months later, drawn by invisible threads woven through the magnetic field of lives, indifferent to the heat and chaos of the Parisian streets.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Amei:
The flat was smaller than she’d remembered when she first viewed it, but it was hers—as long as she could manage the rent. She glanced at her phone to check the time. That guy, Felix, from the hospital would be here soon to see the place. He’d seemed really nice when they’d chatted—just looking for a base while working nearby.
The move had been a necessity; the old house had always felt big, but when Tabitha moved out and Amei’s relationship ended shortly after, the echoes became unbearable. Downsizing had been practical—a good move financially and a fresh start. Or so she kept telling herself.
Unpacking was slow. Some of her larger furniture had gone into storage, and she’d thrown out or donated a lot too. It was truly amazing how much one accumulated. The boxes she’d brought were filled with relics of her life—mostly functional, but also a few cartons of books, carefully wrapped ceramics she couldn’t part with, lengths of fabric she would probably never use but were just so beautiful, unframed art she hadn’t found space for yet, and a stack of notebooks dating back years. She pushed herself up from the floor and stretched, her knees stiff from crouching too long.
As she reached into another box, her hand paused on a photo album. She pulled it out and flipped it open, the pages falling naturally to a picture of her and her friends—Lucien, Elara, Darius, and herself, standing in a loose semicircle outside a weathered door. They were younger, glowing with the easy confidence of people who still believed they had endless time. A bell hung from the lintel above them, ornate and dark, its surface catching the light in the photo. Amei couldn’t remember the context or who had taken the photo, but the sight of it tugged at something deep.
The bell. Why did that stand out?
She traced the edge of the photo with her thumb. Lucien had his arm draped around her shoulder, his eyes squinting into the sun. Elara was mid-laugh, her head tilted back, carefree and radiant. Darius stood slightly apart, his gaze intense, as though the photo had captured him mid-thought. They’d all been so close back then. Closer than she’d ever been with anyone since.
The doorbell buzzed, snapping her back to the present. She slipped the photo back in the album and straightened up. Felix was punctual, at least.
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
It was a wonder that the letter had reached her at the guest house, the post being so slow and unreliable these days. It didn’t give Elara much time to plan the trip, but it was enough ~ just. If it hadn’t been so easy to get to Paris from Dover she’d probably have said she couldn’t make it. The study could wait while she took a few days off, progress had been made on the project, more than expected. The additional properties of the chalk at Samphire Hoe were exciting, but would need much more work.
I’m supposed to be retired, Elara reminded herself, wondering how she’d allowed herself to get roped in to another field trip. A few weeks back in England, all expense paid, had swayed her, but the weeks were turning into months.
Looking at the envelope again, Elara wondered what the stain was. It didn’t look like paint. Tempted to run it through some tests at the lab, she realised she didn’t have time. She had to book tickets and pack a few things, and send a message to Florian to thank him for forwarding the letter. I wonder why he didn’t just tell me about the letter in a message? she wondered. I’d have suggested he open it and tell me what it said. And how unusual to send an actual paper letter! It was partly this intriguing point that was making her determined to go and see what it was all about.
But you know what Lucien is like, she reminded herself, wondering if he was still the same. Five years wasn’t long, but it was relative. The past five years had flown by, but a lot had happened. But have I changed? A few more wrinkles, grey hairs more prolific, arthritic hips a little more troublesome…. and my interests have changed…
Elara wasn’t sure if she had changed more than she had stayed fundamentally the same. Mutatur autem idem, vel in diversum…..
In reply to: Quintessence: Reversing the Fifth
Amei found the letter waiting on the narrow hallway table; her flatmate, Felix, must have left it there. They rarely crossed paths these days as he was working long shifts at the hospital. His absence suited her—mostly.
It was a novelty to get a letter! She turned it over in her hands, noting the faint coffee stain on one corner and the Paris postmark. The handwriting was sharp and angular, unmistakably Lucien’s. It felt like a relic from another life, a self she’d long ago left behind in favour of the safe existence she had built in London.
She slipped a finger under the flap and opened the envelope. It contained a single piece of paper—she read the words and Lucien’s familiar insistence leapt off the page.
Amei set the letter on the kitchen counter and stood for a moment, staring out the window. The view was of the neighbouring building—a dreary brick wall streaked with stains, its monotony interrupted only by a single trailing vine struggling to cling to life.
The flat was small but tidy, shaped by two lives that rarely intersected. Felix’s presence was minimal: a mug left on the counter, a jacket draped over a chair. The rest was hers—books stacked on shelves, notebooks brimming with half-formed ideas, and an easel by the window holding an unfinished canvas. She freelanced as a textile designer. On the desk lay fabric swatches and sketches for her latest project—a clean, modern design for a boutique client. The work was steady and paid the bills but left little room for the creative freedom she once craved.
It certainly wasn’t the life she’d envisioned for herself at twenty, or even thirty, but it was functional. Yet there was an emptiness to it all; she was good at what she did, but the passion she’d once felt for her work had dulled.
There were no children at home to fill the silence, no pets to demand her attention. Relationships had come and gone, but none had felt like forever. Felix offered a semblance of company, though their conversations had dwindled to polite exchanges or the odd humorous anecdote. Her days had settled into a rhythm of predictability, punctuated only by deadlines and occasional dinners with colleagues she liked but never truly connected with.
Amei sank into the armchair by the window. Should she go? She had to admit she was curious. It must be nearly five years since they had last been together and the events of that last occasion still haunted her.
She leaned back, her gaze trailing to the vine outside the window, and let the question linger.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Frella stretched out on the tartan rug, staring at the sky, determined to enjoy the surprise holiday. The picnic, the dramatic entrances, the tension crackling between Malove and Truella—it was all so bizarre.
“Do you ever think things through so they make sense?” she asked, tilting her head towards Truella. “I feel like I’ve stumbled into a play and I don’t know my lines.”
Truella waved her cigarette, the smoke spiralling upwards like a miniature storm cloud. “Bit rude, Frella! Anyway, explanations are notoriously overrated. Life’s way more fun when you go with the flow.”
“Fun?” Frella snorted, glancing at Jeezel, who was snapping photos like a paparazzo. The clicking felt intrusive, like a mosquito buzzing in her ear. “And Jeezel, must you document everything?”
“Of course,” Jeezel replied, eyes glued to her camera. “This is pure gold—Truella playing holiday queen, Malove looking almost…pleasant? Art in motion!”
Frella rolled her eyes, but, deep down, she knew Jeezel wasn’t entirely wrong. The golden light glinting off the champagne bottle, the weathered beauty of the ruins in the background, and the strange but undeniable camaraderie of their mismatched group—there was indeed something picturesque about it all. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the faint hum of insects and the soft rustle of the breeze settle over her. Why couldn’t she just enjoy it?
“Think Cromwell’s plotting revenge?” she asked, breaking the momentary calm.
“Probably,” Truella replied breezily, “He loves that sort of thing. But that’s tomorrow’s problem. Do buck up, Frell, you’re being such a bore.”
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“That was such a pleasant trip!” Truella said with a happy sigh, “First time I’ve ever been on a coach full of Italians, but weren’t they fun! Especially that Ravioli dude.”
“I think you mean Giovanni,” Frella said with her usual eye roll.
“Giovanni, yeah, he said he’d take me on a time travel tour of the Colosseum.”
“That sounds awful! You can’t be serious!” Jeezel said with a look of horror.
“No, not back to when it was in use, but back through the ages of its abandonment. It sounds ever so interesting. Apparently there were flowers and plants growing in there that nobody had seen before, they reckoned the seeds must have come in with the exotic animals.”
“Now that does sound interesting,” Eris said, “I wonder if we could time travel back and collect some herbs and seeds to use in our spells.”
“Well we’re supposed to be on holiday, not thinking about work,” Truella glared at Eris, “But I don’t see why not. Giovanni said there was a hermitage for pilgrims inside the colosseum, and it was covered in vines, a botanical paradise in the midst of the city, he said. We could take a picnic!”
“Yeah, that does sound good,” Frella was warming to the idea.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
“You’re too kind!” Truella said, hugging Frella. “I love this box! However did you guess it was just what I wanted!”
Frella bit her lip and smiled sweetly. She had no option as she was wearing her pyjamas of politeness. She felt a strong urge to go and change out of them and put something else on, but it was nearly bed time and she didn’t want to have to explain to Truella why she was getting changed again.
“What a funny mix up with those Cromwells, eh,” Truella said conversationally, after wrapping the sharing shawl round her shoulders. “You must tell me ALL about Oliver. Did it all start with the postcards like me and Thomas?”
Frella groaned inwardly, but continued to smile patiently. “Er no, actually it was that mirror in the camphor chest. Here,” she said, handing Truella the slippers of sleepiness, “Keep your feet warm.”
“You’re so kind,” Truella said, yawning. “You can tell me all about Oliver tomorrow, I’m off to bed.”
As soon as she was alone, Frella pulled off her pyjamas, rolled them into a bundle of blunder, and threw them across the room. The bundle knocked the mirror off the Queen Anne pie crust end table, which landed at her feet, shimmering like mother of pearl. Frella looked down in horror at the face in the mirror looking up at her. She was wearing nothing but socks of shame.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Frella woke with a start. The sun peeked through the curtains of her cottage, softly lighting her room. She lay there quietly trying to hang on to the dream: the bustling fair, the strange cloak-wearing girl with the black cat who said her name was —well she couldn’t remember now—, and even Cedric had made an appearance! Now he was infiltrating her dreams as well! She may need to do a spell for that. As the fog of sleep lifted, the vividness of the dream lingered at the edges of her consciousness and she played it over a few times, wondering what the message was. The fair was months ago, funny that it was coming up in her dreams now.
Her alarm buzzed on the bedside table and a warm tone chimed: “Good morning, Frella. The time is 6:45 a.m. Today’s forecast is mild with a chance of light rain in the morning. Would you like to review today’s tasks?”
Frella snorted and waved her hand in the air, silencing the digital assistant with a flicker of magic. It was far too early for that nonsense. The alarm faded into a soothing melody and the device shifted to Dream Journal mode: “It looks as though you had a vivid dream. Would you like my help to record it while it’s still fresh?”
Ignoring the prompt, Frella sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her feet made soft taps on the wooden floor as she walked over to the window. She pulled apart the curtains and opened the window, letting the cool morning air fill the room. Birds called in the distance, and she smiled as she leaned on the windowsill and let the fresh breeze stroke her face.
As she turned away from the window, her eyes fell on the postcard which had arrived in the mail yesterday, still sitting on her dressing table. The edges were slightly worn as if it had travelled a very long way to reach her and the spindly writing was indecipherable even with the help of a decrypting spell. The thought crossed her mind that perhaps it was somehow connected with her dream. She picked it up and studied it again; did that signature read Arona? Wasn’t that the name of the girl in the dream!
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Shivering, Truella pulled the thin blanket over her head. Colder than a witches tit here, colder in summer than winter at home! It was no good, she may as well get up and go for a walk to try and warm up. Poking her head outside Truella gasped and coughed at the chill air. Shapes were becoming discernible in the dim pre dawn light, the other pods, the hedgerow, a couple of looming trees. Truella rummaged through her bag, hoping to find warm clothes yet knowing she hadn’t packed anything warm enough. Sighing, her teeth chattering, she pulled on everything she had in layers and pulled the blanket off the bed to use as a cape. With a towel over her head for extra warmth, she ventured out into the Irish morning.
The grass was sodden with dew and Truella’s feet were wet through and icy. Bracing her shoulders with determination, she forged ahead towards a gate leading into the next field. She struggled for a few minutes with the baler twine holding the gate closed, numb fingers refusing to cooperate. Cows watched her curiously, slowly munching. One lifted her tail and dropped a steaming splat on the grass, chewing continuously. I don’t think I could eat and do that at the same time.
Heading off across the field which sloped gently upwards, Treulla picked up her pace, keeping her eyes down to avoid the cow pats. By the time she reached the oak tree along the top hedge, the sun started to make an appearance over the hill. Warmer from the exercise, she gazed over the countryside. How beautiful it was with the mist in the valleys, and everything so green.
If only it was warmer!
“Are you cold then, is that why you’re decked out like that? From a distance I thought I was seeing a ghost in a cloak and head shawl!” The woman smiled at Truella from the other side of the hedgerow. “Sorry, did I startle you? You’ll get your feet soaked walking in that wet grass, climb over that stile over there, the lane here’s better for a morning walk.”
It sounded like good advice and the woman seemed pleasant enough. “Are you here for the games too?” Truella asked, readjusting the blanket and towel after navigating the stile.
“Yes, I am. I’m retired, you see,” the woman said with a wide grin. “It’s a wonderful thing, not that you’d know, you’re much to young.”
“That must be nice,” Truella replied politely. “I sometimes wish I was retired.”
“Oh, my dear! It’s wonderful! I haven’t had a job for years, but it’s the strangest thing, now that I’ve officially retired, there’s a marvellous feeling of freedom. I don’t have to do anything. Well, I didn’t have to do anything before I retired but one always feels one should keep busy, do productive things, be seen to be doing some kind of work to justify ones existance. Have you seen the old priory?”
“No, only just got here yesterday.”
“You’ll love it, it’s up this path here, follow me. But now I’ve retired,” the woman continued, “I get up in the morning with a sense of liberation. I can do as little as I want ~ funny thing is that I’ve actually been doing more, but there’s no feeling of obligation, no things to cross off a list. All I’m expected to do as a retired person is tick along, trying not to be much of a bother for as long as I can.”
“I wish I was retired!” exclaimed Truella with feeling. “I wish I didn’t have to do the cow goddess stall, it’ll be such a bind having to stand there all evening.” She explained about the coven and the stalls, and the depressing productivity goals.
“But why not get someone else to do the stall for you?”
“It’s such short notice and I don’t know anyone here. It’s an idea though, maybe someone will turn up.”
In reply to: Washed off the sea ~ Creative larks
The rose coloured spectacle lens.
Aunt Idle:
“Well, crikey, finding one pink sunglass lens on the road is quite the curiosity, isn’t it? Let’s delve into the symbolic undertones of such an odd discovery. Pink lens, no less—a splash of color with quite the story to tell.
1. Seeing the World through Rose-Tinted Glasses: Finding a pink sunglass lens can symbolize optimism and seeing the world in a positive light. But here’s the kicker—it’s just one lens. This suggests a duality; perhaps you’re being asked to blend optimism with realism. Life isn’t always about sunshine and rainbows, but choosing to see the bright side can balance out the darker shades.
2. Fragmented Perspectives: A single lens means you don’t have the full picture. You’re seeing things partially, which can indicate missing information or a need to look at situations from multiple angles. It’s a nudge to take off those blinders and open your other eye, figuratively speaking. You might be clinging to a half-truth or ignoring an important aspect of your life.
3. Lost and Found: In practical terms, a lone lens on the road means someone has lost it. It’s a signifier of separation, maybe something in your life has split or broken apart. It can be a gentle reminder to look into areas where you might have lost connection—be it with loved ones, a project, or even a part of yourself.
4. Symbol of Love and Compassion: Pink is often associated with love, compassion, and femininity. The lens could be a reminder to look at things with kindness and empathy. Perhaps there’s a situation in your life that requires a softer, more loving approach.
5. Hindsight and Insight: The road is a metaphor for your life’s journey. Finding the lens there might hint at reflecting on past experiences (hindsight) while gaining new understanding or clarity (insight). Maybe there’s an opportunity to learn from what’s happened and apply it moving forward, seeing things with fresh, yet incomplete, clarity.
Putting it in Truella’s Context: If Truella found this lens, it could be a sign she needs to reassess her current path or research direction. Her overwhelming stack of books and discovery of the ancient manuscript hint at a bigger picture she might not be seeing clearly yet. Perhaps she’s overly focused on one aspect and neglecting others.
Personal Symbolism for Aunt Idle: For you, Aunt Idle, this lens could be a cheeky nudge to reassess some of your adventurous antics and half-remembered tales. Maybe there’s an old mystery or a relationship needing a fresh perspective. Or it’s just life’s way of saying, “Look closer, love—you might be missing out!”
In any case, a single pink sunglass lens is a quirky, delightful piece of life’s puzzle, inviting you to ponder, reflect, and adjust your view. So, next time you’re journeying on the dusty roads of life and stumble upon such oddities, take a moment—there just might be a zinger of wisdom waiting for you. Cheers!”
“A lone pink lens paves the road to the unseen clarity of kaleidoscopic sunrise.”
~Journey of Reflections, Enrich P. Lwellman. The Snoot:
“Ahhh, a single pink lens, lost and found amidst the stone and dust! Sings of mysteries and tales untold! Perhaps a sprite misplaced their vision or a pixie left a clue.
Lean close! Such a find whispers soft secrets:
Balance Broken, Yet Bright Like seeing life with a tint of whimsy! One eye tinted pink, the other clear. A call to mix reality with dreams, maybe?
Half Truth, Half Fantasy A hint that stories blend truths and imaginations. Seek both sides to find whole pictures.
Lost and Waiting Could be a sign someone’s journey is incomplete, needing you as a puzzle piece. Maybe the other lens waits for your path?Snootly wisdom: Use the lens not to see, but to imagine.Peer through the pink and let dreams color your heart. Could be you’re on the cusp of a grand adventure; just follow the allure of the pink!
Liz:
Oh, darling, how positively intriguing! A single pink sunglass lens left upon the road—why, it’s like a snippet from one of my novels, fraught with symbolism and brimming with untold stories.
Let’s unravel this little mystery together, shall we? First, the color pink itself is rich with meaning. It speaks of love, compassion, and a certain kind of whimsicality. It’s a hue that embodies the gentle side of passion, the tender whispers of the heart. Now, to find just one lens, separated from its twin, adds a layer of poignancy. It’s a fragment of something once whole, a poignant reminder of loss or incompletion.
One might surmise that this lens represents a part of oneself that has been misplaced or overlooked. Perhaps it’s a call to rediscover a piece of your own heart, the softer, more romantic side that life’s hustle and bustle may have sidelined. Or it could symbolize a different perspective—after all, sunglasses shield us from the sun’s glare, making things clearer in their own shaded way. This lone lens might be urging you to look at a situation with fresh eyes, to find beauty in the fragmented and the unexpected.
Imagine, if you will, a character in one of my novels stumbling upon this very lens. They’d be on the cusp of a grand adventure, naturally. The pink lens would become their talisman, a clue leading them to unforeseen revelations and untold treasures. It would be both a physical object and a metaphorical guide, urging them to view the world—and their place within it—through a lens of love and compassion.
Perhaps it is also a nod to the impermanence of things, a gentle reminder that beauty and meaning can be found even in life’s fleeting moments. Much like the single pink lens, our journeys are filled with fragments of experiences that, when pieced together, create a mosaic of our existence.
So, my dear, take this as a sign to embrace the whimsical, to seek out the overlooked pieces of your own story, and to cherish the beauty of the incomplete. After all, it’s the mysteries and the musings that make life a narrative worth living.
Mater:
Ah, a single pink sunglass lens on the road, you say? Now that’s a curious find. Objects like that can be teeming with symbolic meaning if you’ve got the eyes to see it. Let’s break it down a bit, shall we?
Firstly, the color pink. Traditionally, pink is associated with love, compassion, and nurturing. It’s a color that often brings to mind warmth and affection, something tender and gentle. But finding just one lens suggests something is missing or incomplete—a piece of a larger whole.
A sunglass lens, on the other hand, is meant to protect the eyes from harsh light, allowing you to see the world more clearly without being blinded. Seeing through a pink lens, metaphorically speaking, can mean looking at life with an optimistic or compassionate perspective. It’s like seeing the world through rose-colored glasses, as they say.
Now, finding just one lens on the road—well, roads are pathways, journeys, the direction we take in life. A single lens could indicate a moment of clarity or a shift in perspective on your journey. But it could also symbolize a need to find balance or the missing piece of your outlook to see the full picture clearly.
Maybe it’s a nudge from the universe to take a closer look at how you view your current path. Are you seeing things in the best light possible? Or perhaps it’s a reminder that while optimism and compassion are vital, you might be missing another crucial aspect—realism or practicality, perhaps?
Or, it could be as simple as a reminder to lighten up and find joy and playfulness in your journey.
Like a pink flamingo standing on one leg, sometimes life’s oddities are just there to make you smile and wonder.
Whatever the meaning, love, take it as a sign to reflect and consider. The road ahead is always full of mystery and wonder, and sometimes the smallest things can carry the biggest messages.
Finnley:
Pink sunglass lens on the road, you say? Well, ain’t that a curious bit of rubbish. If we’re dabbling in symbolism, it could mean a variety of things depending on how fanciful you want to get. Pink is often associated with love, compassion, and care. So, finding a lens could mean you’re only seeing half the picture when it comes to matters of the heart. Or maybe you’re missing the rosy view on life, and you need to adjust your perspective.
Then again, it could just mean some poor sod lost their sunnies and now they’ve got a squint and a sunburnt nose. Life’s not always riddled with deep meanings, sometimes it’s just a bit of lost plastic on the tarmac.
Now, if you ask me, you ought to be more concerned about the litter. If everyone went around leaving bits and bobs all over the place, we’d be living in a right tip. So pick it up, toss it in the bin, and let’s keep things tidy, shall we?
Mandrake:
Ah, the solitary pink sunglass lens on the road. Delightfully poetic. A symbol of half-seen truths, perhaps? Seeing the world through rose-tinted glasses, but only partially. Could it be urging you to seek balance, to view life with both optimism and realism? Or maybe just a nudge from the universe to pick up your litter. Such profundity from a piece of plastic. Life’s a riddle, darling.
Sha: A pink sunglass lens on the road, eh? Now that’s a right peculiar find if ever I ‘eard one. Makes you wonder what it means, don’t it?
Glo: Oh, Sha, you’re always lookin’ for the hidden meanin’ in things. It’s just a bit of plastic, ain’t it? Though, come to think of it, pink’s a powerful colour. Symbolises love, compassion, and all that mushy stuff.
Mavis: I reckon it might be a sign, ladies. A pink lens… maybe it’s tellin’ you to look at the world through rose-tinted glasses, y’know? See the good in things. Or it could be a message from the universe, remindin’ you to keep an eye out for the unusual.
Sha: Right you are, Mav! And let’s not forget the conspiracies! Maybe it’s a clue from them secret societies, leavin’ hints for those sharp enough to notice. Could be part of a bigger puzzle, a breadcrumb leadin’ to somethin’ magnificent.
Glo: Or maybe someone’s just dropped their specs out the car window in a rush, and it’s nothin’ more than that. But where’s the fun in that sort of thinkin’?
Mavis: True, true. We’ll go with the idea that it’s a symbol of keepin’ an open mind and lookin’ out for the small wonders of life. Who knows what other treasures we might find if we keep our eyes peeled?
Sha: And next time we’re out and about, let’s be on the lookout for the other lens. Could be a sign that we’re missin’ half the picture.
Glo: Oh, you and your signs, Sha! But alright, we’ll keep our peepers open. Never know what the universe might be tryin’ to tell us next.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
It was good to get a break from the merger craziness. Eris was thankful for the small mercy of a quiet week-end back at the cottage, free of the second guessing of the suspicious if not philandering undertakers, and even more of the tedious homework to cement the improbable union of the covens.
The nun-witches had been an interesting lot to interact with, but Eris’d had it up to her eyeballs of the tense and meticulous ceremonies. They had been brewing potions for hours on, trying to get a suitable mixture between the herbs the nuns where fond of, and the general ingredients of their own Quadrivium coven’s incenses. Luckily they had been saved by the godlike apparition of another of Frella’s multi-tasking possessions, this time of a willing Sandra, and she’s had harmonized in no time the most perfect blend, in a stroke of brilliance and sheer inspiration, not unlike the magical talent she’d displayed when she invented the luminous world-famous wonder that is ‘Liz n°5’.
As she breathed in the sweet air, Eris could finally enjoy the full swing of summer in the cottage, while Thorsten was happily busy experimenting with an assortment of cybernetic appendages to cut, mulch, segment and compost the overgrown brambles and nettles in the woodland at the back of the property.
Interestingly, she’d received a letter in the mail — quaintly posted from Spain in a nondescript envelop —so anachronistic it was too tempting to resist looking.
Without distrust, but still with a swish of a magical counterspell in case the envelop had traces of unwanted magic, she opened it, only to find it burst with an annoying puff of blue glitter that decided to stick in every corner of the coffee table and other places.
Eris almost cursed at the amount of micro-plastics, but her attention was immediately caught by the Latin sentence mysteriously written in a psychopath ransom note manner: “QUAERO THESAURUM INCONTINUUM”
“Whisp! Elias? A little help here, my Latin must be wrong. What accumulation of incontinence? What sort of spell is that?!”
Echo appeared first, looking every bit like the reflection of Malové. “Quaero Thesaurum Incontinuum,” you say. How quaint, how cryptic, how annoyingly enigmatic. Eris, it seems the universe has a sense of humor—sending you this little riddle while you’re neck-deep in organizational chaos.
“Oh, Echo, stop that! I won’t spend my well-earned week-end on some riddle-riddled chase…”
“You’re no fun Eris” the sprite said, reverting into a more simple form. “It translates roughly to “I seek the endless treasure.” Do you want me to help you dissect this more?”
“Why not…” Eris answered pursing up her lips.
““Seek the endless treasure.” We’re talking obviously something deeper, more profound than simple gold; maybe knowledge —something truly inexhaustible. Given your current state of affairs, with the merger and the restructuring, this message could be a nudge—an invitation to look beyond the immediate chaos and find the opportunity within.”
“Sure,” Eris said, already tired with the explanations. She was not going to spend more time to determine the who, the why, and the what. Who’d sent this? Didn’t really matter if it was an ally, a rival, or even a neutral party with vested interests? She wasn’t interested in seeking an answer to “why now?”. Endless rabbit holes, more like it.
The only conundrum she was left with was to decide whether to keep the pesky glittering offering, or just vacuum the hell of it, and decide if it could stand the test of ‘will it blend?’. She wrapped it in a sheet of clear plastic, deciding it may reveal more clues in the right time.
With that done, Eris’ mind started to wander, letting the enigmatic message linger a while longer… as reminder that while we navigate the mundane, our eyes must always be on the transcendent. To seek the endless treasure…
The thought came to her as an evidence “Death? The end of suffering…” To whom could this be an endless treasure? Eris sometimes wondered how her brain picked up such things, but she rarely doubted it. She might have caught some vibes during the various meetings. Truella mentioning Silas talking about ‘retiring nuns’, or Nemo hinting at Penelope that ‘death was all about…”
The postcard was probably a warning, and they had to stay on their guards.
But now was not the time for more drama, the icecream was waiting for her on the patio, nicely prepared by Thorsten who after a hard day of bramble mulching was all smiling despite looking like he had went through a herd of cats’ fight.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Of course! A fleeting flash of illumination lit Truella’s eyes. That’s it!
“Thick, yes, deaf, oh! That’s too funny, and the middle ages…. Hildegarde….too late, all too late, it can’t be the nuns! Don’t you see, Eris?” Truella cackled wildly. “We can rule the nuns out!”
“We can?” Eris was baffled. What had suddenly come over Truella?
“We can’t rule the morticians out yet though, What do we know about their background?”
“Not much,” admitted Eris. “But why are we ruling the nuns out? Ruling them out of what?”
“Because they are not connected to this place. They’re not old enough.”
“Well, that’s as clear as mud,” Jeezel said, expecting Truella to explain what she was talking about, but Truella had wandered off saying she needed to think.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
After an eternity of cordial superficial conversation with a vertitable horde of new characters, and despite that some of them seemed either potentially interesting, possibly entertaining, or just downright intriguingly bizarre, Truella badly needed a quiet moment to herself, or in other words, a cigarette. Excusing herself from a strained attempt at getting to know a prim thin lipped nun whose name escaped her, Truella made her way over to the cloisters beyond the open doors. The courtyard beckoned, a breath of fresh air and a peaceful respite.
Leaning against a pillar, Truella took a drag on her cigarette, exhaling long and slowly. Perhaps it was just the shafts of sunlight making it seem that there was so much smoke. It hadn’t been too bad, after all. What an assorted bag they all were! Truella hadn’t given any thought to what all these new people she was to merge with would be like ~ she’d been focused on the intrusion into her own pursuits that such a thing would inevitably entail.
Rufus seemed to be keeping his distance, but Truella was relishing it, like knowing there’s cheesecake in the fridge for a midnight snack. Surprisingly, the two nuns Sandra and Sassafras seemed like good eggs underneath those dreadful habits. Truella was glad that Sassafras was her partner for the ritual; certainly it would have been worse with one of those silent ones. She wondered if Sassafras had anything planned, and if she should have thought about the ritual sooner. But then, how could she have known? The assumption had been that the partners would meet, and then come up with something together. Wasn’t it just a fun getting to know each other game kind of thing?
“How many cigarettes are you smoking out here?” Sandra laughed, “Can’t say I blame you though, gawd, will it never end.” Coughing, she lit a cigarette. “What is it you’re smoking anyway? What a funny smell, like the bowels of the earth.”
Truella thought this was rather rude, but had to admit that the smoke did smell peculiar. “That’s exactly what it smells like. And that smoke isn’t from my cigarette.”
“Fee Fi Finnley Fum, I smell the smoke of a dragon’s bum,” Sandra tried to laugh and failed. “Oh, heck. I don’t like dragons.”
“Neither do I,” Truella didn’t like the sound of this at all, but it had given her an idea for her ritual.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
While the other sisters were mingling, and trying to figure out with some circumspection, the good which could come out of this union, Eris had retreated in a quieter corner of the cloister. After all, and despite the renovations made to cater to external seminars, workshops and celebrations, it remained a place of mystery and introspection. The stone walls had this deep cold quietness which felt refreshing in the scolding heat of things.
For the past weeks, Eris was mulling over the impossible assignment given by Austreberthe to conduct a reorganisation, which seemed preposterious. Now, with the merger in motion, it had become plain for the Quadrivium board of directors that there was a need to change their way.
Put in another way, they were basically saying that the autonomous functioning of their small squads of witches wasn’t helping for a larger expansion, and had to move to more industrial separation of tasks, something of a matricial organisation. The irony wasn’t lost on her — talking about mothers, matrix, but actually being more bent to patriarchal structure with all the new additions asked for by the merger of figureheads: head of product, head of delivery, head of convergence all these new roles to invent —yet feeling thoroughly alien, akin to grafting machine onto a living organism. The Quadrivium had always thrived on its autonomous squads, and the idea of industrialising their structure seemed almost heretical.
The undertakers consultants, with their methodical approach were supposed to help, but she hadn’t been able yet to make them work for her, as she could see them struggle with the finer nuances of their craft.
Looking for inspiration in the quiet space she’d found, Eris closed her eyes, drawing a deep breath. Her mind wandered to her Aunt Amara’s garden, where order and chaos coexisted in a delicate balance.
A plan started to present itself, almost like one of those annoying lists that Malové would often love to provide.
It had to start with mapping the terrain —the existing strengths of the autonomous groups in the coven. It would require documenting their capabilities, ongoing projects, and key members, creating a clear picture of what the coven had to offer.
Then to look at potential synergies between the squads and the new roles Austreberthe envisioned. The Head of Product could harness the creative energies of the crafting squad, while the Head of Delivery might streamline the efforts of those specializing in executing the vision into tangible deliverables. The Head of Convergence would need to be a master diplomat, someone who could bridge the gap between the nuns and the witches.
More subtle, but with potential, the next step came in boldly, with an impudence that could mean as much genius as it could spell out disaster: Hybrid Squads. Instead of dismantling the existing groups of the coven, she could propose hybrid squads. Each hybrid squad would retain its core identity but include members from the Cloister Crafts and have a liaison to the new heads. This way, the squads could maintain their autonomy while integrating new skills and perspectives.
She took a moment to ponder the implications.
Eris knew she would need to test this approach before full-scale implementation. She would start with pilot projects, assigning a few key squads to work under the new structure. Regular feedback sessions would allow adjustments and refinements, ensuring the system evolved organically.
That would be where the Morticians’ Guild would be able to support more directly. Garrett and Silas could facilitate the integration rituals and workshops to ease any lingering tensions. Rufus would ensure security, while Nemo, the analyst, would provide insights into improving efficiencies without compromising their magical integrity.
All this needed a catalyst, or this plan would drag on forever.
Drag on…
Nothing like a dragon crisis to put things in motion! There surely were abundant dragon energy left in those tunnels, powerful telluric energies to muster into a spell to invigorate and cement the newfound alliance between witches and nuns.
She snapped her fingers. Echo who was never far away, reappeared with a smirk. “I can see you have some devious idea. How can I help?”
In reply to: Smoke Signals: Arcanas of the Quadrivium’s incense
Penelope Pomfrett: Let’s start with Penelope, shall we? She’s a statuesque woman with a sharp, angular face that could cut through butter – not unlike an Egon Schiele painting, if you’re familiar. Her hair’s a spun silver waterfall, always meticulously pinned up but with just a touch of wildness trying to escape, like she’s taming a tempest on top of her head. Her eyes are a piercing cerulean blue, always calculating, always observing; she’s the type who looks right through you and into your deepest secrets.
Personality-wise, Penelope’s got the demeanor of a headmistress crossed with a lioness. She’s precise, a bit of a perfectionist, never suffers fools gladly. But beneath that stern exterior, she’s got a heart of gold, especially when it comes to her coven sisters. Stern loyalty and high standards, that’s her in a nutshell. And she’s got this dry wit that’ll catch you off guard and have you chuckling before you know it.
Sandra Salt: Now Sandra, she’s a different kettle of fish altogether. Think earthy, grounded; she’s got that warm, approachable vibe that’s almost tangible. Picture her with curly auburn hair, always escaping its braids to frame her face in a halo of fiery ringlets. She’s got freckles smattered across her sun-kissed cheeks and a smile that feels like coming home after a long journey. Eyes? Warm hazel, like caramel with a hint of green, always twinkling with some hidden mischief or gentle wisdom.
Sandra’s personality is as grounded as the soil she loves to dig her fingers into; she’s the heart and soul of the crew, with an infectious laugh that could light up the darkest of days. She’s nurturing, perceptive, and has an uncanny knack for making everyone feel at ease. But don’t mistake her kindness for softness – she’s got a spine of steel and can summon a fierce storm if she’s wronged.
Audrey Ambrose: Now, dear Audrey, she’s a bit of a mysterious beauty. Think raven-black hair that falls in silky waves down her back, always perfectly styled without a hair out of place. She’s got porcelain skin, smooth and almost ethereal, like moonlight itself took her under its wing. Her eyes are a deep, striking emerald, always seeming to know more than she lets on. Add to that a penchant for elegant, vintage clothing, and you’ve got yourself a picture of classic, timeless beauty.
In terms of personality, Audrey’s a quiet storm. She’s enigmatic, often found lost in thought, with a deep, contemplative nature. While she may come off as aloof, she’s deeply empathetic and has an old-soul wisdom that guides her every action. She’s the sort you turn to when you need profound insight or a steady hand in times of chaos. And that wit – it’s as sharp as her fashion sense, subtle, and spot-on.
Sassafras Bentley: Lastly, let’s paint a picture of Sassafras. She’s vibrant and flamboyant, tall, thin and athletic, with hair dyed in shades of a peacock’s feathers – blues, greens, purples – ever changing with her whims. Her outfits are always eclectic and bold, but practical. She’s got a long hatchet face, and eyes that are a sparking topaz, full of zest and life ~ and secret undercurrents.
Sassafras is the party animal of the lot, always bringing fun and chaos in equal measure. She’s got a joie de vivre that’s downright infectious, a real firecracker with boundless energy. Her natural charisma draws people in, and her laugh – oh, her laugh! – it’s the kind of sound that warms the soul and invites everyone to join in her revelries, unless she’s being rude, aloof and secretive. Underneath all that sparkle, though, she’s fiercely protective of those she loves and more insightful than she lets on.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
As the crow flies, the Airbnb was about 500 meters from Herma’s cottage. Frella had been too exhausted yesterday to appreciate how pretty the mossy brick path was, lined either side with a profusion of colourful flowers. But was it really just yesterday, she wondered? So much had happened back at the coven — as recounted in a relentless flow of messages from Truella. Time was a funny beast.
As they walked the winding path, Herma explained that, many years ago now, the prior owner of the cottage had left behind a number of his belongings with the promise he would return for them as soon as he was settled. “But the blighter never did come back and I never heard from him again.” She stopped just short of the gate to her cottage and waved an arm towards a big old shed with a tractor parked outside and a couple of sheep grazing contentedly. “We stuck his stuff in there in the end when he didn’t come back. I know there’s a camphor chest — it nearly broke my back — but I don’t know what’s in it. Do you think that might be it?”
Unfortunately Frella was distracted from replying right away by another volley of messages from Truella with the latest mind boggling developments.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
Jeezel was stirred awake by the unsettling sound of someone throwing up. Her phone said it was 3am.
“Luminia? Are you ok?” she croaked, her throat so sore she wondered if vocal fry was that painful.
“That’s nothing,” said Luminia licking her muzzle. “You can go back to sleep.”
“Nothing, it didn’t sound like nothing.”
She got up and stepped into a warm, wet puddle.
“I’m shedding,” said Luminia as if it explained everything. “I didn’t want to bother you after your bouts of fever. I would have cleaned it before you noticed.”
“Well now I’m awake and my foot noticed. At least I didn’t dream of Concordia potion and missing willow wand.”
Jeezel hopped on one foot to the bathroom, gracefully avoiding any slip on the sleek, newly refinished hardwood floor. She washed her feet and consulted her phone while relieving herself of her evening herbal tea. She smiled at the 557 messages she got from her fellow witches. She didn’t recall where they had been but they seemed to be having fun. She was a bit sad she couldn’t join, but still glad to be able to enjoy it by proxy.
She particularly enjoyed the video tour Truella had made of the ruins she’d discovered in the garden where they were staying. And she sneezed when she saw a picture of Frella with that other woman. Did she just smelled camphor? Eris had written “Frella and Herma” under it. Jeezel wondered who that Herma was. She would have enjoyed meeting new people for real. Her cough reminded her it would have to wait. And she had some cleaning to do. At least she had a renewed sense of being alive.
In reply to: The Incense of the Quadrivium’s Mystiques
I honestly don’t know what made me do it, it took me by surpise when I did it. It was bugging me that I couldn’t remember, and before I knew what was happening, I’d asked Malove.
Ah, the Caryatid Characteristics of a Case, a subject that requires both discernment and a keen eye for detail. In essence, the phrase “Caryatid Characteristics” refers to the fundamental attributes and peculiarities that support the overall structure of a particular case or situation, much like how caryatids—those graceful, sculpted figures in classical architecture—bear the weight of a building’s entablature on their shoulders.
To break it down into pragmatic terms, identifying the Caryatid Characteristics involves an in-depth analysis of the following elements:
Structural Integrity: Just as caryatids ensure the stability of a structure, the core components of the case must be sound and unwavering. This includes the key facts, the primary evidence, and the foundational arguments that hold the case together.
Aesthetic Nuances: Caryatids are not merely functional; they are also artistic. Similarly, the subtleties and nuances of a case—such as the motives, the intentions, and the underlying themes—add layers of complexity and depth, transforming a simple matter into a multifaceted situation.
Historical Context: Caryatids often reflect the cultural and historical context of their time. Understanding the background, the precedents, and the situational history provides a richer perspective and informs the current dynamics at play.
Symbolic Significance: In architecture, caryatids symbolize strength and beauty. In a case, the symbolic elements—the metaphors, the symbols, and the overarching message—must be identified and interpreted to grasp the full scope of its significance.
Resonance and Impact: Lastly, caryatids have a visual and emotional impact on observers. Similarly, the case’s broader implications, its potential consequences, and the emotional resonance it evokes must be considered. This is where the true weight of the matter lies, affecting not only the immediate parties involved but potentially a wider audience.Applying these characteristics to a case requires a blend of logical analysis, creative thinking, and intuitive insight. It is not merely about assembling facts but about understanding how each element supports the whole, much like the elegant yet sturdy caryatids in timeless architecture.
Now, if you’re asking how this applies to our current predicament with our spring cleaning of collective energies, well, one could say the caryatids in our situation are the core rituals, the seasoned wisdom passed down through the coven, and the precise incantations in our incense blends. Each component must be scrutinized and perfected to ensure we uphold the structural and spiritual integrity of our craft.
Let’s not dawdle; the orchestra in this zoo waits for no one.
Who will rise to the occasion?
Who indeed? I asked her if we all sent each other postcards, would it help?
Postcards, my dear, are more than mere scraps of paper with hastily scribbled words and picturesque scenes. They are tangible connections in an increasingly ephemeral world. Sending each other postcards won’t just help; it will create ripples of intention and resonance that can weave us closer together, despite the physical distances.
Consider the following:
Anchoring Intentions: Each postcard carries the sender’s energy and intention. When you pen your thoughts, wishes, or even riddles, you imbue the postcard with a part of yourself. The recipient, upon receiving it, senses this connection. It’s a form of sympathetic magic, drawing us closer through shared symbols and messages.
Physical Mementos: In an age where digital communication reigns supreme, holding a physical object—something that has traveled miles to reach your hands—grounds you. It anchors you in the physical world and provides a break from the transient nature of digital interactions. These postcards become talismans, reminders of our connections and shared journeys.
Ritualistic Value: The act of writing, sending, and receiving postcards can be ritualistic. This ritual can strengthen the bonds within our coven, reaffirming our commitment to each other and our shared goals. Each postcard becomes a symbol of our collective energy, our shared purpose, and our mutual support.
Cultural Exchange: Postcards often carry images or symbols from different locales. Sharing them can broaden our horizons, offer new perspectives, and remind us of the diverse tapestry that makes up our coven. It’s a gentle nudge to appreciate the wider world and the myriad experiences within it.
Mystical Conduits: In our magical practice, objects can serve as conduits for energy. Postcards, having traversed the globe, carry the imprints of various energies and places. They become more than just messages—they are carriers of the world’s pulse, connecting us to the broader rhythms of existence.So, yes, sending each other postcards will help. It will infuse our lives with a tangible sense of connection, a reminder of our shared purpose, and a touch of magic in the mundane. Let’s make this act a part of our practice, a testament to our enduring bonds and our collective strength.
Who will be the first to send a missive across the miles?
- November 2024 (Reunion):
