Valentine

From Changeling Venue

Contents 1 Prologue 1.1 Datafile 2 Chapter I: A Minute of Reverie 3 Chapter II: The Mien Behind the Masque 4 Chapter III: Dramatis Personae 5 Chapter IV: Fragments of the Mirror 5.1 The Manual of Perfidy 5.2 Meletomicon 6 Chapter V: Chronicle of the Sojourner 7 Chapter VI: Memoires of the Bard 8 Chapter VII: Sooth Sayings 8.1 Repartee 8.2 Riposte 8.3 Florentine 9 Chapter VIII: Dance of the Masquerade 10 Epilogue 10.1 OOC Information

Prologue

Or; the part wherein it is expressed the reason for this chronicle.

What follows is my narrative. It is the pretty, little lie that I have cultivated to explain who it is that I am. What follows is not a reasoned excise of my being, but rather a petty little monologue to amuse myself and collect the many shards of my existence.

I confess, that what I tell you is no more true than an errant and erstwhile reverie. My entire history is the fictitious recollections of my disturbed delirium. Yet, we are the sum of our dreams, the composite of our memory and thought. To suggest that this fiction is no less true, is to deny its movement on the waters of my mind. I am this fiction come to be, the truth within the madness.

Datafile

Keeper	Rose Red
Title	Many
Birthname	Unknown
Aliases	{{{aliases}}}
Identity	Faerie Godfather
Birthplace	London
Seeming	Fairest Flowering
Court	Spring Court ••••
Entitlement	House of Rhapsody
Freehold	Sydney (was Maleperduys)
Motley	The Blackguards
Society	The Velvet Underground
Journal	none
Player	Angelus Morningstar

Inspirations: Steerpike (in Gormenghast), Miranda Priestly (in The Devil Wears Prada), and Havelock Vetinari (in the Discworld Series).

Storytelling Hints: Valentine is a classic story of tragedy. Everything he has held dear has been sundered or brought low, yet despite this he has learned from his time with the Duchy of the Icebound Heart to not be betrayed by his own tragedies. He has turned to the philosophy of the Court of Spring to replace this desolation with something new, hoping to bring his estate back to something that it once was, restore his wife to her proper form and otherwise exact unmerciful justice on those who betrayed him.

Mien: Valentine’s mien is blessed with a strong sexual magnetism. There is some undefinable attribute about him that is genuinely desirable, either his a beguiling smile or entrancing eyes. With decidedly feminine features, Valentine posses a roundness that softly exudes warmth. Throughout Valentine's Valentine is known for always wearing a mask made of mirror, that distracts and confuses people from understanding his true motives. About himself, he wears a long tatterdermallion coat made of blue rose petals. At his side hangs a pair of blunderbusses infused with clockwork device and mechanism.

Mask: In his mask, many of Valentine's features translate across. His features are pleasant, but not particularly noticable seeming to be just another face in the crowd. It is only when he directly interacts with you that you become caught up in his charm and guile. His clothing shifts as well, his mirrored mask appears as a pair of mirrored shades and his tatterdermallion coat transforms into a bright blue frock coat. There is a certain Baroque style, with traces of the Victorian era.

Where I've Lived:

• London - where Valentine was born
• Sydney - The place where Valentine currently resides.

Backstory:

• House of Rhapsody - looking for other members who seek to have also been members of the House of Rhapsody, including potential founding members.
• Blackguards - looking for other members who took up the Blackguard agenda. There is still openings for two of the original motley, as well as later memberships.
• Velvet Underground - looking for others who want to be part of this syndicate of the faerie underworld.
• Maleperduys - this is an historical freehold that is scheduled to be destroyed in a raid at the end of the year. This story will be told over IRC sessions, but it's important to build up what this place was in the minds and hearts of changelings.
• Solstice Twins - looking for people who were kept changelings of either twins.
• Lonely Hearts Club - looking for people who were once conquests of Valentine.
• In my Travels - people that Valentine has met and had personal accounts with over the years.

Chapter I: A Minute of Reverie

Or; the part wherein the muse waxes eloquently on the world at large.

Once upon a time. These are incredibly important words; they are like the incantations of a magician before he performs his act. You know that upon their utterance, marvels will unfold before your eyes. Such words as these are not magical as anyone can tell you, instead such words as these allow us to cast magic upon ourselves. It is a magic of belief, a magic of suspense, beauty, passion and cruelty. It is an art of fiction that opens our minds to incredible possibilities. Once upon a time, and turn the page.

This is a work of fiction and, like all works of fiction, it is utterly true. Every single last word is ineffably sooth. We know the stories to be true, because we dare not let ourselves believe otherwise. In our vastly spinning cosmos, we are simply scattered stardust, come together in a single moment in the eternity of existence. To think we are a mote upon infinity and a mote no more, to look upon the cosmos and know that we are but finite things scattered before the abyss, would drive us mad.

So instead, we tell ourselves little lies, little stories about gods, heroes. We tell deeds of valour, tragedy and triumph. We make great wonders in our minds so that we can stare upon all of creation around us and not shatter our minds with its entirety. These are the little lies we tell ourselves to obfuscate from our thoughts the big truths, the big questions that we do not wish to turn to. Without fantasy, a human being is dust and water, a forgery of clay, a machine and nothing more.

Every fiction is true, especially the big ones and this is my story. The irony of this short narrative is that I am seeking a grain of honestly in the sanctuary of metaphor, that I am constructing one more mask for my apotheosis from words and numbers. One cannot deconstruct the individual, but this space attempts to do just that.

I am no creature, but rather a self-made machine seeking humanity. I take the dust of the earth and consume it as food. I take the drops of water and imbibe it as drink. I take the motes of air and inhale it as breathe. I clothe myself with a mask of flesh and delude myself with the recollection of the past twenty-five years. I drink deeply from this well of dreams and forgot for myself a mask beyond the flesh. In this delusion, I have convinced myself that I am more than just a simple speck of stardust. That I have dreams, hopes and ambitions and through my many masks, participate in this masquerade of society. That this becomes unconsidered, unspoken and unconsciously understood is perhaps the most astounding of all.

So where do I stand? Is it halfway between the construct of earth and clay and the burning angel of fire? I stand between the gates of rhyme and reason, between the unfettered desires of my passions and the calculated measure of my logic. In this place, I am given capacity of choice. To chose between the path of annihilation or transcendence. By my choice, I become more than just a machine or creature, I become a thing of sentient wonder.

Chapter II: The Mien Behind the Masque

Or; the part wherein facets behind the guise are revealed.

Nationality: The place of my naissance is none other than heart of the British Empire, Britannia. I was born and thrived in the streets of London. I knew England in the height of her majesty, under the rule of King George. As such, I consider those places that have maintained their allegiance with the commonwealth, however tangible, to be of an excellent caliber.

Family: The members of my immediate family have all passed away, buried in a family tomb in London. In my durance, I left behind my mother and father, my two sisters, my wife and son. Though they are gone, I have created a monument to them. In the current times, I have traced the lineage of my descent, my now living legacy from a time far gone to the climes of Australia. Though for the sake of their privacy, and to keep these pages of my history secret I shall not disclose their names.

Profession: It is apparent that I am a person of no mean wealth. This is, in part, due to the availability I have of certain assets, particularly that of Maleperduys and my various mercantile practices. Yet, all of these are simply means to money, which I do adore, but not the true heart of my passions. For you see, I am a man of some modest talent with device and engine, and I ply my skill to them for talent and desire.

Chapter III: Dramatis Personae

Or; the part wherein aspects of the character are explored.

I am, by nature, a storyteller.I collect and cultivate stories across the ages. I am a master of the art known by many as Perfidy, thus warranting my rank of Marquis over its estate. I helped developed the five Masques that the Demesne of Perfidy practices. Through the mediums of these Masques, we can explore Perfidy, and letting others known the nature of the deceit they are to be witness to.

Bone: The Masque of Bone is the aspect of the Scholar. It portrays the stories of tragedy, horror & historical accounts.
Bone is that of the abyss, the dark crevice of monstrous leviathans beneath the murky waters. In the deepest fathoms underwater one soon learns that often the quietest and most silent approach will get her results. In the still and silent waters of Bone and in the sunken hidden shadows, one finds simple comfort in the mortality of things. All things have an end to their coil and this is just one of those states of passing. There is no resistance, only change and transmutation, adaptation and stillness. Why cause ripples in the water when all one has to do is wait in quiescence for the flotsam to drift down from the surface.

Bronze: The Masque of Bronze is the aspect of the Magnate. It portrays the stories of fantasy, fable & homilies.
Bronze is that of the forge, the crucible that forges the might of glorious fire and the affluence of the wealth of the earth. Through the radiance of fire and the strength of steel, the lesson of Bronze is of triumph over adversity. Through the forge of Bronze all things are tempered and that which is not destroyed is made stronger by its might. For those who wear its nature are cloaked in the glorious nimbus of the sun itself in its entire terrible and wondrous splendor. It is also the Mask with the closest affinity to human institutions and behavior. Those well versed in the ways of Bronze bring nations to their knees and lead armies to the field.

Glass: The Masque of Glass is the aspect of the Bard. It portrays the stories of comedy, odysseys & mystery.
Glass's ways are subtle and quick to follow, for they are part of the very ways of the mind and the ephemeral consciousness of Faerie itself. It is the Mask of the stormy clouds with lofty breeze and thunderous lightning. Those who call upon its influence give their minds wings to dance above the clouds of imagination on flights of fancy. Its lesson is that knowledge is power, and that through wisdom comes great strength. In this world of ideas and exchange also flows such as currency, language and education. Those who command its lessons walk through life with great powers to summon forth illusions, a mastery of all communication and to submerge into the world of dreams and fantasy itself.

Stone: The Masque of Stone is the aspect of the Cavalier. It portrays the stories of tribute, saga & thrillers.
Time feels slow for Stone. Here one feels the backbone of the mountains lies heavy with the mantle of hoarfrost. It is a Mask of stasis, immutability and unyielding temperament and its outstretched rule instills a terrible wrath. It is the crushing rock and avalanche and its lesson is that might makes right. Though its movement may be slow and ponderous, when it picks up pace is it a tumbling roar of might. It is the immovable object and the irresistible force at once and will break against all resistance. I move and the very firmament quakes leaving a trail of carnage and broken opposition. Through its severity and discipline one may hone cold rage with strategic planning.

Wood: The Masque of Wood is the aspect of the Courtesan. It portrays the stories of ballad, drama & erotica.
It is the verdant primal wilderness that is Wood. Caressed by the warm rays of the sun it is a Domain of plant-life, fecundity and the wide pastures. It is the dynamic energy of the birth and renewal, the wild and unrestrained growth of the deepest wilderness. The lesson here learned is that life is far older than mankind, from the firmament all things are born, and to its embrace all things returned. Humans, like all transient things of the living realms will eventually fade away. Those who are wise in the ways of wood are the paths of forest and field. It is the blood, the flesh, the seed and womb of life and Mother Nature red in tooth and claw.

Chapter IV: Fragments of the Mirror

Or; the part wherein philosophies and aspects are reflected upon.

Of next, I would impart pieces of my collected wisdom; knowledge that I have earned through the daring culmination of my life. To whit, what follows is a selection of my works that I have elected to disseminate through the many and varied changeling community.

The Manual of Perfidy

Here I present my Magnum Opus, the Manual of Perfidy, for it underscores the very essence of my philosophy. Read it and I will tell you seven great truths and one big lie to make it all better. It is a pretty piece of purple prose, a deftly drafted doctrine of dissembling. If only every lie could be such a wonderful fabrication.

Destiny – Determination is a lie.
It is possible to be caught up in the supposition that we have free will, empowered to make choices. Yet, all things have been seen, measured, weighed and determined. All that is exists is a simple consequence.
For each sentient being is a story that unfolds, a fable written on the pages of the world; each struggling for ascendancy to become a legend larger than the being itself. Here lies celebrity, where the legend subsumes the smaller narratives through sheer strength of will. Our little accounts bound to stories much greater than ourselves.
Each single being is a victim of its society. Each society is a victim of its history. History itself is a victim of the world. The world is a victim of astronomical chance. We would believe that such chance exists without purpose or guidance. Every action is the consequence of some prior movement.

Death – Life is a lie.
Such creatures as we suffer the stay of the mortal coil. For all our triumph and misery, we are naught but dust and rot given a stolen moment of motion. In all of eternity, we live one brief glimmer and fade with final breath. Our monuments grind to dust, our tributes bequeathed to myth, and our innovation faded to obscurity.
We are misshapen clay, struggling in the light to scorch our struggles and harden our into form; to catalyse our frenetic endeavours of urgent survival into the illusion of progress and evolution. In such, we hope to convince ourselves of purpose and deny the eventual knell of our trivialities. All eventually turns to finality, to struggle, to stutter, to stumble and fall to silence.

Dream – Reality is a lie.
We see the world as real, but it is a composite illusion; captured and subjected to any number of perceptual blinds and cognitive filters before it can tangibly register in our thoughts. So, we participate in this illusion of sensory exploit, accepting it with little question.
It is not seeing that is believing, but believing that is seeing. We create context and substance from the chaos around us. We render the unimaginable infinite into a limited perception, diluted and distilled to a mundane form. We find boredom in our lives when the cosmos turns every moment beyond our notice. Then, to placate the malady of banality we invent new unrealities to subsist on. What we witness is subject to our whim, our petty dissembling of the cosmos until we can no longer divide the zero between Lao Tsu and the butterfly.

Desire – Love is a lie.
Love described is an impossibly pure perfection. It is pursued by many, claimed by few and attained by none. It is not a thing to be captured, and is the name we gift to our unspoken petty yearnings. We seek security and call it love, the addiction of euphoria and call it love, the indulgence of an ideal and call it love. All constructed desires are naught but blissful fabrications we exploit to compel us into each other's company.
We are compounded by complex strings of wants, cravings, compulsions and neuroses. We call it many things, but balm the burning flame of longing with the waters of reason, giving purpose and meaning to our wants beyond simple instinct and gratification.

Despair – Faith is a lie.
There is an underlying belief in a sense of justice in the world. That there is some great purpose to the suffering and tragedies we behold. We build gods in our image to give names to the dark, shapeless chaos. In effort to appeal and reason with the chaos we build houses for our prayers and aspirations. We suffer the tenets of age old doctrines, in expectation that there will be a reward.
We participate in one massive delusion of faith, justice and equity so that we can excuse the acts we commit in its name. We commit great atrocities for the greater good, in the belief that our actions, however reprehensible, have some purpose beyond the mindless turmoil we inflict upon each other. And so, we surrender the greater part of our minds to a will that is not ours such that we can absolve ourselves of our moral questions and our sins.

Destruction – Perfection is a lie.
We suggest that we are urged by a generative urge, that there is some small dedication to capturing the mystery, the majesty and wondrous part of us all. We seek to encapsulate our precious majesty and nobility in works of art, passion and celebration. Through these moments of transcendence, we divert our gaze from menial and mundane. They are transitory escapes from the mediocrity of our existence and true brilliance is rare. Yet, such perfect moments are static, they do not truly exist. For we live in a state of entropy, and to achieve perfection is to be outside of such change.
Great moments does not come from isometric forms, but from the fractal disarray or imperfection. Great moments of nobility comes not from unfathomable strength, but from the precocious fragility of our existence. Every piece of creation is born from destruction, and we must change or we are destroyed.

Delirium – Reason is a lie.
Society is rules through the principle of words. In the Logos, the art of naming, we bind the thing in by its word. Society cultivates a veneer of civility through the codification of laws and scripture over reckless barbarism surging beneath. People bind themselves through sacred vow and pledge, through songs, sonnets and poems of our myths to tell us who we are. Through truth and fact, we hold back the chaos.
We rest on laurels of reason to guide and illuminate our path. Eons bent towards philosophy and science to triumph over the bedlam of our beings. Yet names are but illusory constructs, bridges over a bottomless void of entropy, towers of Babel that we might touch heaven. They are naught but curious little fictions that make us coherent, reasoned and good.

Deceit – The sole remaining truth.
Cut away all the Dross that we subsist on and you will finally find the cold, searing, endless truth. Like the storm, it crashed upon us and we are exposed to ultimate oblivion. To stare into the eye of infinity and find madness.
So the only truth we seek are the big lies, the ones that let us comfortably exist from moment to moment, that let us eat bread, and drink wine without forethought to how they arrive. To preclude from our conscience the injustice our privilege grants us, and that we believe that good things happen to good people.
We need all these things, to believe in the testament of words, good will and illuminated genius. So, we can pretend that we are more than just the summation of clay and circumstance. To lie is the very essence of being human, and my greatest gift to them.

Meletomicon

This is a collection of random thoughts and ideas on the nature of changeling existence.

Wyrd
The flow of the Wyrd marks all us Lost denizens. Whereas humanity accounts events through the linear progression of time, the march of seasons, the turning of years and the stay of the centuries, we, like all creatures from Faerie, are imperceptible bound up in the flow of Wyrd, rather than history.
Wyrd is the measure of events through the course of destiny and fate, not the measure of their pace. We live according to facts of narrative, progression, events, and fortune. Essentially, Wyrd is the account of events as told through the medium of story. It is the weft of fate that guides and directs us.
Herein lies the difference. Whereas humanity suffers the durance of time, crushed beneath its turning axis, we can surely master the measure of our sojourn. Whereas humanity, flounder down the course of the river, inevitably caught up amidst its eddies, the Lost are captains that master their course upon the river, to set ourselves a course for destinations unknown. This is what it is to be a changeling, it is to be free from the shackles of the steady toll of hours and made to be a master of your own destiny, captain of our fates.
We are empowered to forge our own path into the world and shape the world around us in our image. In this way, one figure may steer the course of history. One solitary figure can call out to the hearts and minds of those around them to sway and move masses. Such changelings as we are can grasp the pen of our imaginations and write our fiction upon the pages of the waking world.

Reverie
Ah, to dream, to indulge in reverie; is it not the finest of the arts? To plumb the depths of the mind and bring forth such splendours as unknown to this world. Surely, therein lies a testament to the depths of the unconscious mind, that what is unreal has more power over that which is real. To dream is what makes us more than mere beasts of unreasoned mind. It displays abstract and complex thought.
Yet, we changelings are the dream makers, the dream bringers, the dream drinkers, and dream destroyers; the very living dream in mortal guise. We are walking daydreams, which promenade through the waking world. We are not the dreams of flight and whimsy, of innocence lost and wonder, no we are the dreams of the strange un-wondered things. We are avenues into the subconscious of the human psyche, the tumultuous surreal chaos that lies beneath the veneer of conscious thinking.
It is from dreams that we draw our sustenance, our little psychic vampirism that dips into the well of the human psyche to draw forth our nectar and Ambrosia that we call Glamour. Each small measure is rhapsody of ecstasy flowing through our veins, a white–hot liquid fire burning our minds, a kiss that runs through our very being like the caress of a tender lover. It is seductive, it is addictive and it is a dangerously vital force of madness that cannot be ignored or kept sedate.
So, rejoice in your reverie, trip the light fantastic and rise above the mediocrity of the day.

Rhyme
We creatures of Faerie have not the luxury of reason, for our simple minds of logic have been unmade and shattered by durance in Faerie. We are living proof that there is thought beyond reason, for we are reason undone. Logic requires careful limitations through which it can deduce its purpose, but not for creatures such as we. Beyond the logic of reason lies the semblance of rhyme, the litany of every maddening urge and question. The overarching quest of changelings is one of deviance. No longer constrained by moderate conventions we are deviant, and supposedly dysfunctional. Ours is a search and a question of identity, as we must reconcile the opposing forces of her stolen human identity and her Faerie nature. Caught in the middle of this complexity a changeling struggles to find a balance. Yet, we must; for unless they find equilibrium between chaos and stasis they will are naught but madness itself.

Chapter V: Chronicle of the Sojourner

Or; the part wherein the annals of living memory is scribed.

What follows is a true story, and by that I mean it is an entirely fictional annal. I will attempt to chronicle the events that have thus far shaped my life and liberty.

Childhood: The first chapter of this narrative begins, like all stories do, at the beginning. I will recount these years in brief, because their events are so distant, that they are a fugue within my mind. I cannot recall the years that transpired. All I have are simple moments of refrain that come bubbling up at unintended moments. I glimpse of a girl I think was my sister. I remember the strict and 'moral' upbringing of my parents, but neither their names or faces. Most of all, I remember the fragrance of roses on midsummer’s night, but not why.

Adolescence: As a child in the era of the bomb, I have vivid memories of the swinging sixties exploding across and through my mind. I found something carnal and wanton in its liberation, the sexual undertones, and the flashes of hot passion; all in the center of a world wide nuclear nightmare. My adolescence was marked by my parent's austerity and my burgeoning urges of puberty. Though I never really understood the motivations of the anti-war movements (not in any truly sophisticated way), I was enamored with the lifestyle and freedom. I wanted to run away from the world that my parents offered me into something with little or no responsibility. Of course, now I almost regret that.

Adulthood: Upon matriculating from high-school, my father made me promise that I would escort the daughter of one of his business associates to the homecoming. Her name was Verity, and that name and face I will never forget. I knew of Verity through her reputation at high school, she was a varsity girl and far more popular than I ever was. Prim and proper, she was everything I dreaded about women. Though I knew it to be a feather in my cap, I loathed demands it would place on my behavior.

Rather unexpectedly, my father's plan backfired. Beneath the facade of debutant girl was a spirited woman of mischief and adventure. It was the beginning of a profoundly loving relationship. We eloped later that year, giving secret and sacred vows in the heart of a labyrinth of red rose hedges, Midsummer's eve, 1962. Three years later, we had a child called Victor, and both brought me joy.

Abduction: In my twenty fourth year I was doing a degree of fine arts at college, finding quiet happiness in wedded bliss. Though we still suffered the disapproval of our parents, we were long estranged from their influence. The flurry of the 60s was in its height and we were still young. To mark our second year anniversary, we picnicked to the site of our wedding for Misdummer. I took up my easel and began capturing the radiant rose bushes with my brush; the flowers were in full splendor and bloom, and the fragrance of roses wafted low. It was to be our anniversary present.

Half-way through the wok, I realized I was not alone. Standing in the very center of the grove was a woman with petals in her hair bearing a gown of deep red crimson. She came and spoke of many things to me; how the grove watched us gives vows of fidelity, how I had stolen the trees beauty in my canvas and what it would take to have these things from me. I descried that neither paintings nor my gifts of affection were mine to give away, that they were Verity’s alone. In turn, she promised me things, all manner of unearthly delights if I but lay with her in that grove on that eve.

For each no, she drew me further into the grove. Finally, she said that if I but gave her a kiss, a small token of love, she would disappear and never to be seen by me. If I refused, then she would tell me her name, and all that I owed would become hers by right. I said no and she told me. From that moment, I was hers. She owned me in a way that Verity never could, in a way no mortal person can. The woman in front of me was the Crimson Lady of Eternal Summer.

She took me one last step through the last arch of boughs, and the delicate fragrance of roses grew dour around me. The trees around me were no longer those of the rose bushes but the brambles of the Hedge. I followed her, bound by shackled far stronger than any forged.

Durance: She took me through the Hedge to the Summerlands. A place where the reign of Summer lived eternal. Nothing was permitted to fade or die, or ever be weak lest it be banished from her domain. Before us lay her rolling estate and gardens of Summer, where all her victims of Summer were arrayed. It was a garden of earthly and torturous delights, with pretty maids planets in rows and no storm clouds to be seen.

Upon arriving she declared I committed three acts of treason against her. I had given vows to another in a place sacred to her. I had attempted to steal her grove’s beauty. Worst of all, I had refused her. She said that I would be hers, but never with her and that she would take the last inch of me that I might never escape; so she kissed my forehead. It burned like the Summer sun, and seared away who I was, all memories of my wife and child gone. All that I was, faded into the flames of Summer. She placed me then, in her garden and bade me to tend her pretty flowers, and ensure that their beauty would never fade to offend her. She laid down one proscription, however, that I must never tend the heart of the garden where she lay.

Homecoming: Seven years passed, and I felt a strange peace and contentment. My lady was beautiful, graceful and masterful and had given me eternal beauty, youth and wonder. I never erred nor wanted for anything.

In this time, I got to learn about the other companions that my mistress kept. There was the wolf that tended the garden’s border; the child of summer who gave his warmth; the soul behind the mirror that watched everyone, the rolling rock, sworn to protect the garden, and the blind servant that saw the future.

In my second year, the blind servant visited my garden and told me a time would come when we would leave the garden. Yet, before I could leave I would recover something in the heart of the garden.

In my third year, the wolf came to visit my garden and spoke to me of the things beyond the garden, of a world called Earth and people who once knew us there. He said to go there, I could find a map in the heart of the garden. I told him that nothing beyond the garden could ever fulfill me.

In my fourth year, the rolling rock came to visit my garden and said that my mistress had delivered final judgment for my crimes. That I was to be eaten by the rock as forfeit. Clemency could be shown if I only begged for forgiveness at her lap in the hear of the garden. I told him that the will of my mistress was true justice.

In my fifth year, the child of summer came to visit my garden and told me that I was dismissed, that my mistress had no need of my services. If I questioned the dismissal, I could visit her directly and see for myself in the heart of the garden. I chided the child saying that my mistress would not so quickly abandon me.

In my sixth year, the soul behind the mirror came before me and told me that my mistress was in danger. I rushed to the heart of the garden without a moment's thought and entered through gates of bone and horn. I passed into a garden of rose bushes and the kiss seared on my forehead. Memories of my childhood, and my wife and child came back to me. I broke down and cried.

Despite the beauty, youth and splendor, I knew I could not stay here. It was all fake; stagnant and devoid of true warmth. So I fled, I ran from the garden into the wilderness beyond and the wild thorns of the Hedge. Following me were the wolf, the child of summer, the soul behind the mirror, the blind woman, the rolling rock and the child of Summer. Though I knew not the way, the smell of roses guided me. Whenever I thought I was lost, it showed me true. Eventually we would stumble out of the Hedge into maze of rose bushes where first I had entered.

Resurgence: We had returned in the middle of 1992, into a world where the Cold War was over. Ages had gone and the world changed without us. I returned to my wife, to find a Fetch in my place; now a woman in her sixties, and my son an adult and living in Sydney. Victor was successful, Verity was happy, and I couldn’t take that from her.

Four years passed. I watched my wife and sought out news of my child to be sent from afar. During this time I built myself the foundation of a changeling empire. The motley I escaped with became the infamous Blackguards, the Hollow I had made would be the notorious Thornwall. I joined the Winter Court, to hide from my Lady as far as I could from the Summer, and eventually join the Duchy of the Icebound Heart, sworn to never let love have power over me again. I broke many hearts, to earn repute as the Knave of Hearts.

In our sordid adventures for fame, fortune and wealth, we frequently earned the ire of more than one changeling, eventually pitting out wits against a loyalist called Crazy Jane. Though we thwarted her plans to sell out the Freehold, she would often undermine our own place in the world.

It came apart in the seventh year, when I received word that my Fetch had suffered a terrible accident and was in hospital and under intensive care. My wife sat over his bed and wept tears for him, this thing of no consequence. I walked in one night, under the visage of a doctor, and pulled his life support. He withered away and left nothing but summer leaves and a rose fragrance.

My wife was distraught, and I glutted myself on a surfeit of her sorrow. Yet, under the surface of sorrow I felt something move me. The strains of long forgotten love blossomed from the bare earth of ice, like a flower in spring. I could not deny the true feelings in my heart that was growing within me. My only concern was my wife. I renounced my title, and abandoned Winter all together.

I took my wife and spoke hidden love to her, swearing the Oath of the Rose and the Thorn. To my distress, it undid her. The realization that she had loved nothing but a simulacrum broke her mind and became mad with grief. I took her away, to reside with me in Thorn Manor, lest she do something vicious or tragic. I could do nothing but watch my wife slowly degenerate and waste away.

Upon the ninth year, after two years of watching my wife age and grow mad, I thought that if old memories were stirred her reverie would be broken. On our fortieth anniversary I returned to the place of our marriage and spoke my vows to her again, this time swearing the Ancient Pact. It was, of course, a terrible mistake and as I spoke the final words, I felt the warm scent of Summer nights and roses. She was here and I was mortally afraid.

She was livid with wrath and fury, denouncing me for daring to transgress against her again on her night, in her place and after I forswore her service. She saw my wife and extolled vitriol, that such a shrivelled old thing would ever be of greater import than herself. She delivered a verdict, that though she could not take me that night again, she would come back to me one day after I had spent a duration of suffering the duties of my former role. The Lady turned back to my wife, where upon she pricked her finger upon the thorns of the roses and fell into a deep enchanted sleep.

I brought her back to Maleperduys and, determined to not wallow in sorrow and instead find new life in the depth of tragedy, I commissioned a glass coffin to be made by Nathan Glass one of the residents. The coffin would become a Token that provided the defences of Thornwall and the Gloaming. In this place, I built a garden of Hedgefruits and oddments. Like my Keeper, I now had a heart of rose in my garden.

Yet, this was not the final tragedy. In escaping our encounter with my Keeper, rumor spread that I was in her employ. The Blackguards, unbound by pledge or oath, earned an ominous reputation, and the enmity of other changelings. One by one, their mistrust grew until one sold us out, giving our erstwhile adversary, Crazy Jane, the keys to the Wards of my Hollow. Stealing in upon us, she summons a Faerie hunting party through the arts of an illegal Goblin Contract. I fled into the Thorns, not knowing what happened to my compatriots, whether taken by the Fae or fled like myself.

Profoundly lost, I wandered for seeming several days, until the wafting scent of roses came to me and guided me back to my Hollow. When I emerged, I found months had slipped by, lost amongst the briars. My empire collapsed, my manor in ruin, no news of the Blackguards, no favors or pledges to call upon; I was a broken man with one small living relative, remaining.

I spent the last of my power, forging a Door from this place to the place where my son resides. I walked into the mists, with nothing but my wits and the will to rebuild. Perhaps the Court of Spring can teach me how to fill an empty heart with something new.

I hate the smell of roses.

Chapter VI: Memoires of the Bard

Or; the part wherein tales of adventure are recounted.
OOC NOTE: I will be creating a number of little short stories surrounding how I acquired these titles. I would like to tie them into stories with other characters before chronicle start both nationally and internationally.

Marquis of Perfidy:
This is Valentine's primary title, he is the founder of the House of Perfidy, a custom Entitlement that focuses on the use of Deceit and Lies, through which he has developed his five Masks. Tie ins to this title will be for other duplicitous Fae who either studied with, under or taught him. I'm also considering having a few adventures to recover the five masks he wears and would be interested in making back history stories with these. If you want to be tied into these stories of adventure, please put your character in the link above.

Captain of the Blackguards:
Valentine's original Motley is described somewhat in the character's history. Their disappearance is such that it is possible for them to appear at any point in chronicle. If you have a character that fits the types presented, and would like to have been a member of the original Blackguards, please put your character in the link above.

Host of the Thorns:
Valentine's primary estate is known as Maleperduys, or more colloquially as Thornwall. It was a manse inside his Hollow, wreathed by blue roses and contains the grove with my rose bushes. Valentine is looking to rebuild this estate to its former glory, if you would like to be involved in the rebuilding of Thornwall, please put your character in the link above.

Chandler of Vice:
Valentine's primary occupation is that of a merchant of people's vices and cravings. He goes out of his way to peddle drugs, supplies, women and all manner of indulgences to others. If you have a player that would like to be involved in business dealings or part of the trade network with Valentine, please put your character in the link above.

Knave of Hearts:
Valentine was once a member of the Duchy of the Icebound Heart with a reputation for being an incorrigible rake. I'm looking to create a history of torrid affairs, broken hearts and perverse romances. If you would like to have been one of Valentine's past lovers, please put your character in the link above.

Chapter VII: Sooth Sayings

Or; the part wherein the musings of madness unfold.

Repartee

Quotes from Valentine.

"The only reason you say that is because you govern your reason no better than you govern your tongue."
"It is better to have a broken heart, than a frozen heart - for a broken heart will mend, but one frozen stays forever trapped in torment."
"According to my detractors, my dietary requirements apparently includes the blood of virgins, baby tears and seminal fluid. I think, for sanity's sake, you can exclude them from the picnic."

Riposte

Quotes by others about Valentine.

• The Self proclaimed King of Hearts, Hmph! That bastard has the gull to humiliate me and then betray the winter court...still, the best revenge is always hidden behind the shallow facade of a broken heart. ~ Dahlia Mask
• Is he a bastard of a man, most definitely. That does not make him a loyalist however. It simply makes him a man. ~ Gaea
• Fuck off, Valentine! Wait wait, don't point the gun at me, i'll go, geez, you're a fucker... ~ Mouse
• He no longer has the strength to endure sorrow and has given himself over to desire. Maybe for him there can be a Spring after the Winter... only time can tell. ~ Nathaniel Fellows
• Yes I know who Valentine is. The question is do you? He has feasted on Winter's sweetest sorrows and now has turned to the renewing embrace of Spring. Where his path will lead him, I do not know. Watch him and you may learn something. ~ Nathaniel Fellows
• He introduced me to the art of Dreamcrafting... so you have him to blame. ~ Nycto Feraz
• Valentine falls somewhere between employer and friend. What does he desire? That's between him and me, but I know when I fulfil it, he'll pay whatever price I ask. That's how deeply he desires it. ~ Sora
• Always moving, always thinking, always acting...never sleeping, never idle, never doubting. Maybe he's one of Them... ~ Vestigere the Usurper
• Maybe truth and beauty really are the same thing, like I used to believe. Valentine certainly seems to lack both equally. ~ Firebrand

Florentine

Rumours about Valentine.

Valentine has sacrificed other changeling to the Fae in return for them letting him continue living free.

Chapter VIII: Dance of the Masquerade

Or; the part wherein the other actors in the fable are described.

Motley:

• Anastacia Argent - lived under the same Keeper.
• Draco Archer - lived under the same Keeper.
• Selene Brooks - lived under the same Keeper.
• Malic Stitch - later member of the Blackguards and close confidant of Valentine.

Allies:

• Alex Crutach - fellow member of the House of Rhapsody.
• Althea Sexton - On a table by a window that looks out to the sea, there is a blue rose in a glass dome. This rose is known to have come from the rose bower in Maleperduys and given to Althea as a token of esteem. What service that Althea provided Lord Valentine is unknown, but it was said to have moved his icy heart while still a member of the Duchy.
• Amnis Persilicis - was the chief of staff for Maleperduys and a later member of the House of Rhapsody.
• Barbas - a long time associate through his time spent in Maleperduys.
• Jandori - a frequent fence for some of Valentine's more delicate merchandise. A later associate with the Velvet Underground.
• Joseph Knecht - original mentor of Valentine.
• Mouse - a changeling discovered in Maleperduys when Valentine returned from the Thorns.
• Nathaniel Fellows - long time fellow traveller and sharer of stories.
• Nycto Feraz - Valentine's student in the art of Dreamweaving.
• Ozwald Savile - the fashioner of many fine garments and vestments for Valentine and his estate.
• Rufus Arrowny - fellow associate of the House of Rhapsody.

Adversaries:

• Dahlia Mask - a woman once scorned by Valentine who now shows him her fury.
• Khamûl
• Marrow
• Nathan Glass - once a lover of Valentine's, then commissioned to make the Glass Coffin.
• Vestigere the Usurper

Pledges:

Vendettas:

• Brand - Brand seems to dislike everything Valentine stands for. Valentine in turn, has no real like for the self-righteous knight. Last time they met, Brand vowed to bring Valentine to justice for his crimes.

Epilogue

Or; the part wherein final words are presented.

OOC Information

Player Name: Angelus Morningstar

VST:

Venue:

Domain: Harbour of Darkness (Sydney, Australia)