Thursday, April 21, 2016


Five years. I spent five years having doctors tell me my war against the Faceless was all in my mind. Five years maintaining a facade, putting on a mask and pretending that yes, of course, they were right, and I needed help. I spent five years with many sleepless nights, gazing out a barred window and seeing the nemesis to all humanity standing outside the institution, writhing tentacles reaching through the gate, quivering with longing. Five years hearing the screams of the irreversibly-broken as they, too, laid eyes on madness itself.

These are not five years I will look back on in my golden years with fondness and nostalgia. Even now, I wake up every morning and slip on a mask. Just the quiet girl whose doctors are helping her. That's who my neighbors see--a murderer trying to reform, to put her life back together. In a way, they're not wrong. I realize now, in retrospect, how far I'd fallen and how many cognitive biases I'd erected, barriers hastily cast to shield myself from the reprehensibility of my deeds.

There's a word that eludes me, that ultimately led to my current situation. The Lovecraftian urge to continue writing even as one is being devoured, against all logic. I posted public confessions to unthinkable crimes. How could the police not act when they were inevitably sent in? I was on the run with a small group when the police came for me. The others escaped. I had neither the energy nor the will to evade both man and abomination.

I don't know why the Faceless did not come for me during my brief stay in prison as I awaited trial, or in the institution while I wore a mask and played the part of the tragic protagonist in a play gone horribly wrong.


I'm stalling. I finally mustered up the courage to read the final posts on Re... Ray's blog. I don't know why. Even when I was permitted supervised time on the internet, I avoided his blog like the plague. I knew through other means that he'd died. I didn't want to know the specifics. How do you make yourself read how your best friend dies fighting the monster you've run yourself ragged fighting, then skirting outside the notice of, then fighting again?

But Dr. Connell is right about one thing. I don't get better by shielding myself from the truth. I don't heal by maintaining the masquerade, dancing with my partners and insisting I'm something I'm not.

It's time to put the mask down.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016


Don't mind the removed posts. False starts, misled journal entries from a time when I wasn't myself.

It's been years. I don't know what possessed me to look this blog up again. What drives me to resume painting my thoughts on a blank white canvas, when simply logging in invites risk. Mayhap there's a story to tell yet.

Maybe I just can't let well enough alone. Maybe none of us can, and that's what drew us to the board in the first place, six years ago.

Sunday, March 6, 2011


Life in the Sullivan household has been quite hectic of late. Cathy, Ava, Reach, and Tony, all under my roof, apparently with an old friend on the way.

That being said, not all is sunshine. I've been helping a lot of runners out far more than I used to. That's a double-edged sword, especially with the current upheaval in the Black Knights' power structure. If I help one side, I have to help the other.

So far I've been able to keep the impact to a minimum, because the direct aid I've offered has been kept to a minimum. I won't be able to play my hand that close for some time.

I say what I'm about to say fully knowing the impact it will have on your trust in me, presumed reader. Due to offering several runners and fighters shelter in a house free of the Black King's presence, Eulogy--a Black Knight mentioned in the White Rook's blog, during our transcribed discussion--paid a visit and demanded information on Jeff and Cheska's whereabouts. A deal is a deal, and that meant being balanced in all things.

I'm sorry, Cheska. Unlike the last Knight-Commander, I can't doubletalk my way past Eulogy's inquiries. That's how they found you.

Friday, February 18, 2011


Long has Roanoke been a mystery. Theories abound, from alien abduction to outbreaks of the undead.

Roanoke was once, according to the memoirs of one James Raleigh III, Labyrinthed and the site of a war between the Black King and the colonists.

According to his memoirs, it began when one Rudolph Winston Church was tried and convicted for the brutal abuse and murder of the Carlston twins, Rebecca and Dorothy. Half-Mad, he was led to the gallows screaming about "the faceless man, I swear on the Lord's name it was him!" He continued to rant and scream until the rope stretched taut.

However, the next night, one Ester Church, the late Rudolph's wife, reported their seven-year-old son Johnathan missing, and he wasn't found for several more days. Mr. Raleigh described the sight in his memoirs as "absolutely horrendous, the work of a man possessed by Satan or worse. The boy had been opened from chest to stomach, his entrails spread about the ground, and his body impaled upon a tree. Ester fell to her knees with a wail," and funeral arrangements were made, slowly.

A courier was sent to the nearest garrison to seek aid from the King's Men, only, two days later, the courier came riding up to the colony from the opposite side, seeming confused. There were no redcoats with him.

More will come as I read through his memoirs, to be sure.

Wednesday, February 16, 2011


Not intentional at all, simply a matter of having had quite a bit to do recently.

The Spectator ran into the Fallen Queen at a supermarket. The Queen showed no hint of recognition, the Spectator felt it best not to see how thorough the Black Bishop's shoddy work is. There was no trace of the Black King, which leads the Spectator to believe that at least for now dear Shayde hasn't been brought back onto the board.

The Spectator has a new guest. Cathy, the mother of the young Pawn causing so much uproar of late. We've cuddled a fair bit while studying up on the Black King. I've begun researching various plays written by those haunted by the Black King to see if I can be of any help to the Knight of a Dead Tongue. And just to indulge myself some, she is extremely comfortable to hug for long periods of time.

Monday, February 7, 2011


A crimson light in the dark approaches the Fallen Queen. An offer accepted, the Fallen Queen follows the Black Bishop off the board.

The Grey Rook has gone silent, the Librarian's grief fuels her resolve.

The Spectator has seen the Black King, in town on other business. Sometimes, she would catch a hint of mist pouring from one side of his face.

The clock ticks, mist rolls in. Square by square, the board becomes harder to see.

Thursday, February 3, 2011


In light of recent events (fret not, the bargain is still in effect, so far. The Spectator has simply had quite a bit on her plate to deal with, not least among them a 1920s hard-boiled detective novel), the Spectator thought it best to record the events leading up to, and the details of, her bargain with the Black King.

The Spectator and (as followers of the Grey Rook's chronicle have noticed) the Grey Rook himself had met after a... long period where the Spectator was the last piece on the board, a White King battered from all sides. Before checkmate, the Grey Rook approached her with a bargain--cease all direct opposition (that is, actively fighting the Black King) and she would be allowed to live. Obviously, the Spectator has been pushing this wording as far as she can--an oversight several of the Knights have found useful, I'd wager. However, events earlier this week had placed the bargain in jeopardy, at least until one of the Black Rooks approached the Spectator yesterday and informed her they would continue honoring her bargain. The Spectator is looking into why, though she's not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.