So, this is the absolute whopper of a 4k response I ended up typing a couple of weeks ago when I played the TTRPG ‘By the Sounding Sea’. I genuinely could not recommend this more – it’s got weird vibes, creative prompts, and a loose enough character creation scenario that you could mould it into pretty much anything you wanted (which of course meant I made it queer). I really ended up giving this a lot of thought when I was writing it, so I hope you enjoy it!
Day 1. The carriage ride to the steps of this estate was long and lonely. I was just able to start a fire by myself and now sit before it, writing as I do. Despite the fingers I already feel tugging at my mind, I cannot bring myself to regret my actions. I was aware what sort of attention it would bring me, even from those closest. I can only hope to God that my dearest Elaine escaped before they caught her…whatever misfortune this mansion reaps unto me would be nothing compared to the terrors she would be subject to. Lord Harneck, in his bloodied disgrace, would feel most entitled to whatever his vile mind could envision.
I cannot say that disappointment does not course through me, however, nor
it’s sister siblings despair and maudlin manner. I held hopes – foolish in hindsight that my family would understand me. Or accept me anyway, if that was a stretch too far. To see me in all my vulnerable honestness, in my uncovered love for my Elaine, and open their arms to my queer nature.
For all that I find myself here. This outcome is more than I could have hoped for, more than my heart’s would be should she not have headed my warning and fled. The house is dusty and lonesome and large, and I saw no neighbours around for miles. Perhaps the peace and quiet is just what I need. At least there are many chores to keep me occupied.
—
Day 2. Lighting a fire was easier tonight. Perhaps, the only bright spot of my day, the first warm touch I have felt in what feels like months, though I only departed less than two days ago. Dearest journal, beloved pen; it is no wonder my aunt succumbed in such a manor as this. The walls close in like the ancient stone tombs of the hills. The ocean a constant rush in my mind, in the back of my throat. It screams for me, every second of the hour; even now.
Fool am I, says the joker. Fool you are, says I back to the mirror. Yesterevening, before the coach could depart again from his rest, I gave him a letter, scribbled frantically after I told you yesterday’s thoughts. In it, I unburdened all which plagued me on the journey here. My hopes, my fears, my apologies but firm denial of recanting my actions. My pleas for reconciliation; my despair of this home. A letter arrived in the afternoon, tossed at me before the driver flicked his reigns and the horses neighed like thunder. No rest, today. No hope, for me either dear journal. In the sharp tongues my mother yields so well, she tore me down. I am no longer welcome in my childhood home, in society, in their arms. I am to stay here, like my aunt before me. What I carry is a disease, she says to me. A cardinal sin that by refusing to take back I am damning myself and all I know into. A doctor’s best practise for rotting flesh is to cut it off, you know.
It’s timing was almost worse for what my morning was. A small garden lies to the west wing of the manor; fallow and dry, it’s long dead but salvable I believe. I’m no gardener, but surely I had a thumb green enough for a project this small. In it’s centre lies an untamed blackberry bush. Boarded by sea-smoothed stone, my aunt probably used it for small pleasures in the harvest months. The early spring cold has rendered it barren, and lack of care overgrown; but a caring hand, and it would feed my desserts for many weeks. Is this bush not worth the care? This garden not deserving of understanding, that it’s no fault of it’s own it had no-one to prune it? Am I not worth the attention, the love, the touch of my own family; of my other piece to my soul? To my mother, perish the thought.
Perhaps she is right. Perhaps this blackberry is truly belladonna; my botanical knowledge is pitiful. After the arrival of the letter, I fled to the basement in a fit of rage, discarding the letter and taking vicious joy in grinding my heel into it as I stepped o’er. I…barely managed to crawl my way back up the stairs I so confidently descended. A lesson in humility I will take to heart, but something dark in my soul still lingers. There is no light, in pit; no vision. Only the ceaseless hum of the ocean, pounding against the cliff this mansion is crumbling on. Over, and over, and over. A constant allure in my ears, feeding that which drags my soul down to hell.
Oh, Elaine. Even in that darkness, your face lingered in my mind. The way you touched my skin, took me apart button by button and kiss by kiss. There was never anything but the sweet heat of you; and now there is nothing but the damp cold of this damned ocean. It’s all I see with my eyes open, the white peaks of those fierce waves, but with my eyes closed all I see is the look of horror on your face as I told you we were caught.
Forgive me.
—
Day 3. I woke this morning with clothes on my mind. Gowns, and frocks, and reams of linen petticoats. Lacey corsets that sit atop my shift. What use have I, for those trappings? In this manor, above this grey ocean? If it took me, I could walk the halls naked. Feel the salt air crust on my skin, give my family something to truly shame over if they ever caught of it happening. I wouldn’t, of course. But it’s a scintillating thought, so startling and wonderful after my last night, that when I thought of it cleaning away my morning fire I burned my arm.
My body has never been my own, never sparked recognition when I caught a glimpse in burnished metal. Elaine, my love, grounded me when we were together. The brush of her fingers over my stomach made me feel connected, whole. The way she would glance her hands over my shoulders with fondness. I realised as I was dressing myself that I have no need for the same clothes my mother bound me in. I brought some riding clothes, and working trousers I stole from my older brothers; wearing those, feeling the rough cotton thread over my skin, I feel as though the muscles and sinews that build me up are truly
mine for the first time in my 20 years in this world. God help me; men’s clothes, another straw in the haystack of my sin.
My new strange pleasure carried me. Despite the rejection of my mother, I wrote to my older brother whose trousers I now don. I ventured into the basement – fool, is that you? – this time armed with more than brash anger; a candle, tall and yellow. I found a stuffy, small study with a carved fireplace that must have been my aunt’s retreat, and penned it there. It is nothing like what I wrote to my mother, much less leaden with my heavy thoughts. An inquiry into his health and own family. I’m hoping for a response – fool, there you are. The study, however, merits much more detail, dear journal. I say it must have been a retreat for it bore the most private of my aunt’s things and writings.
A crystal decanter full of now-moulded rum, and a shattered glass; pages full of my aunt’s scribbled despairs and waning health. The shelves on the walls were full of oddities and knick-knacks, brightly-shining sea shells and old dingy mint boxes. It startled me, to see books I had read, laying open on her desk. To be confronted with the fact that my estranged, mysterious aunt was as human as I was, as susceptible to hurt and love and longing. No wonder she kept it hidden, away from the manor that was a reminder of our families disdain. But it reminded me of happier days too, of reading those same novels curled up in front of my own fireplace. That is no longer possible but…perhaps I can create new memories in this manor.
In the evening I walked back to that small garden, to take my meal outside. The sea moved as ever below, but above a flock of stark white birds had flown overhead, vivid against the coastal sky. I wonder now, the moon shining in their place out my window, where they had gone. Where I would go given the chance. Would I stay here? Make this my home? Yesterday was work, but today gave me joys in ways I could not have before. Even the sound of the ocean seemed softer, welcoming me. Am I home?
—
Day 4. I never met my aunt, not properly. By the time I was ten she was already locked away in this place, her personal prison. I can’t help but wonder if she was lonely – did she, too, feel as though the manor was a place betwixt and between the real and the imaginary? Who was here when she eventually gave into herself – and who, I fear, will be here for me? I visited her study again, if you could not guess. This time I lit the fire, and sat in her chair, imagined the play of my fingers over her desk was her hand instead of mine. A longing for a connection I never had.
The light of the fire eventually alerted me to the discrepancy of the stone bricks on the right wall. Fool, fool; I never know when to keep to myself and when to prod. It had only took a few steady heaves to remove the false cover. What awaited me…it sends dread down my spine even now. Heavy manacles, weighted by metal balls, like the sort prisoners of the worst kind wear. Oh, where did my aunt get such a thing? I needed not to speculate on what they were for. Sand and salt crusted on the rusted metal, and the constant push and pull of the ocean calls every moment one spends in this house. What was welcoming yesterday is ominous today; is my aunt’s body somewhere in those endless depths?
And yet, still it appeals to some wicked part of me. I stood before the waves, after finding my aunt’s shameful secret, leaning into the sea winds over the cliffs. I spoke into it my own queerness; a vulnerability for a vulnerability. The way those currents churn and pound against the rock, relentless and energetic, is something I cannot deny to be marvellous. The sea is not human. It’s not bound to fallible emotions and petty, polite society desires. It physically cannot reject me, cannot toss out my body as I sink into it’s embrace. It would simply…hold me. Or drag me down, like it did my aunt, cradle her body and pull her to it’s soft, sandy bottom.
These are dangerous thoughts, my dear journal. As I write, I can see the light of a carriage pass on the cliff road, faint lanterns bobbing through the night mist. Do strangers think these things too? Or is this defect only relative to myself and my aunt, the queer daughters of a strong line. This driver will keep his secrets, in any case; it turned towards the town, away from this manor.
—
Day 5. There is illness in this house. From me or from those manacles I do not know, but it permeates every corner, poisoning my mind with the words of my mother, the look of terrified disgust from my father. It took me hours to arise this morning. The sun was high in the sky when I finally dragged my body from the dusty covers. I could not dress myself with a mirror; the sight of fading bruises from Elaine’s mouth only fills me with self-loathing and pity in equal measure.
I whiled my daylight hours with the old stable animals, instead. Their simple eyes cannot hold me in judgement of God’s love. The old chickens clucked around the folds of my clothes for seeds, and the creaking cow, too old for dairy now, simply lowered its head at my entrance. The gentle nature of its eyes reminded me of Elaine; how she would hold my cheeks in the palm of her hands and look at me with the sun itself warming her lovely brown eyes.
Until this malaise passes, I will spend my time with my animals, caring for them in the absence of my aunt. Their benevolence cures me.
—
Day 6. This house is filthy from neglect. Everywhere I look, grime coats the surface of the walls, the floor. Did my aunt not clean this manor? I spent the evening yesterday shovelling debris and excrement from the animals stall, and they looked far more content when I finished. I’m hoping I can apply the same method to my own home, these falsely elaborate trappings. If my aunt lived in squalor, then I will drag the memory of her up from the mud, even if the process leaves me bare to my own thoughts.
I cleaned the second floor bathroom, when I forced myself to arise in the early hours. It was a chore; dirt caked the walls implausibly thick, and every wet swipe of the cloth only spread it over my skin and clothes. How could she have lived like this? The dirt felt grainy and rough, like black sand. A constant reminder of the ocean. My aunt must have lugged it up by the bucketful and bathed in it – an odd holistic treatment. I didn’t bother to change when I left to visit my animals, trekking faint smudges of it down the foyer, and it almost felt as though a chill followed me, prying eyes tracking my movements. Asking me what am I doing, in her home?
Who am I, to clean up her despair to mask my own? I cannot imagine my aunt was a dull woman – I would consider myself quite sharp, and many of the books I read I can see echoed in her study. Surely she cleaned her home too, scrubbed at tiles until they gleamed and she was left with the gaunt reflection of her face. Already, my complexion wanes. Six days flies when you are with company, but alone here, abandoned to my thoughts and the tide, it feels like eons. Elaine never leaves my mind. Is she alive, well? Did she escape before she could be caught? It agonises me to not know her fate.
I don’t know why my aunt was exiled here. What atrocity she committed, to earn the ire of our line. In the end it doesn’t matter – she folded into herself until she was no more. How could I be any different than her, keep myself above the water, when this manor sings with such melancholy?
—
Day 7. The basement calls to me, for all that it offers such strange, conflicted emotions. I vowed to clean her study, tidy the shattered glass; sweep the evidence of her fragile state. She was not pleased, I suppose. In my weird eagerness to go there once again, be surrounded by this woman I’m connected to by blood and place, I ran down those slippery steps and fell. Twisted my ankle, and made a bloodied mess of my chin while I was at it. A lethargy seized me, lying on that cold floor; I have not shook it quite yet. I found myself thinking torturous thoughts, the darkness enabling those queer, shuddering urges I have repressed all my life until Elaine. She was my first love, my only love. A delicate tear in my defences, that allowed me to act on every thought I had about the curves of a woman.
Staring into that void, my ankle throbbing and copper slick filling my mouth: shameful secrets consumed me. Even writing this now feels forbidden, but God save me I could not help but bitterly think of a world where my love and lust was accepted. Where I could kiss the arch of a woman’s throat in the shadowed alcoves of our homes, offer her delicate flowers and warming poetry; what a world it would be, to be able to offer a woman the protection of my body.
I’m writing today in a small, weather-worn gazebo just a little jaunt away from the animals. Ginger tea, for my pain – my mother always swore by it. The cool evening sea breeze mixes oh-so-pleasantly with the sweet grass and spiced drink. I have brought that world into existence, I think. Not for every woman like me no, nor any man who feels as queerly as we. But for Elaine; for me, I have made that world. If only society wouldn’t hold us back so, and I would give her my entire self.
—
Day 8. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve read it. Fool, fool, fool – do I believe him? Do I dare hope for reconciliation, forgiveness for my helpless sin? My brother wrote me back. Impossibly, he has promised to visit, to bring with him my father and other brothers. His own wife and child too. I forgive you your sins, he says to me. You cannot help what faults God has written in you.
Mother will not come with them, is still stewing her anger but – I find I cannot
be stung by her rejection. Not with the salvation my sweet brother has offered. Hope, and family, and companionship in this lonely manor. Distraction from the sea and the shadow of my aunt.
It will be a while until they arrive; they must tie up their affairs before
departing for so long. But, oh – it doesn’t matter ! The thought of seeing my niece’s young face fills me with such joy. Is this how my aunt felt, seeing me before she was exiled here?
I swear – I swear, if I leave, I will not forget you too, will not put you through that humiliation a second time, my beloved Aunt.
—
Day 9. Waking this morning felt like dragging myself through tar. The crash after the elation the night before – did I truly believe that they had changed their mind so quickly? My aunt was stranded here for years of her short life. I was – I am – filthy, covered in the dirt and sweat of nine days without reprise. I had cleaned that bathroom and not thought to use it; the feel of oil and dried sweat on my skin felt strangely fitting in the morning hours. What puppet I was, what unfavoured courtly jester, to be so susceptible to the words of my brother.
I have no way of knowing their truth. It felt, to me, as though the filth of my skin echoed the sin of my mind. The black smudges on my hands eerily placed to where I had held Elaine’s soft body against my own. I wallowed in pity and disgust and shameful guilt until, journal, I realised: finally, I cannot hide who I am. Glancing in the mirror on my bedroom wall, I looked as queer as my inner thoughts were. As queer as the polite society at my old home now knows I am. This…this is something I do not have to hide anymore. There will be no cowering behind petite dresses and curtseys and plaintive smiles at noble land lords.
I have kissed a woman on her mouth. Felt the dry heat of her skin, the natural taste of her being. Of course I’m queer. I am not – bound by the ideals of the polite society my mother is slave to. I am free. The ocean cannot have me, this house cannot drag me down to it’s watery grave like it did my aunt. The moors are broad, behind the house. Expansive, purple with heather and so soft-rough against my naked skin.
I am no one’s pet, no one’s slave but my own.
—
Day 10. Elaine still tethers me to this world. I am not so sure that it is a good thing, anymore. Surely…surely if she was alive, if she loved me like I do her, she would have writ me. Everybody knows where I am, I’m sure. Everybody knew where my aunt had gone when she was hidden away like some shameful secret. Pacing the corridors around her study offer me no relief; the hallways seem to stretch endlessly, keeping me suspended in time. The memory of Elaine…oh, it is addictive. Grounding, but my heart bleeds each time I open my mind to see her playful smile.
My aunt bled too – another sordid tale for us to hold. The chair in the drawing room seemed soaked in the viscous red of it. When I stood from it, it coated my hands in phantom sympathy to my dilemma. If Elaine is not alive –
No.
There is a storm, now. I have found myself wondering what drew my aunt down in its watery debts, and I’ve concluded that it must be raw energy of it – how it makes us feel alive, in a way nothing else in this manor can. Breathing in the ozone soaked air, it sends shocking thrills down my spine.
I do wonder what it would feel like, to be surrounded by such fierce waters and winds. If it would clear my mind of thoughts of her.
—
Day 11. This house used to have a pulse. It’s been in the family for generations, and used to function as a holiday retreat, before cliffside residences went out of fashion. I have never experienced them, but I know the soirees it held were sickening in its opulence, catering for every noble family my own had their little fingers in. I entertained daydreams today, polishing cutlery and imagining myself in a svelte gentlemen’s tux, Elaine on my arm in a layered ballgown. I would dance her around the court, introducing her to all the noble men green with envy.
Silly notions. I find my mind wandering more than not, these days. There was a cracking, wet thud against the window that startled me out of those fantasies. Do you know, do you understand, the horror of finding a bird struggling frantically on the ground? Tiny heart pumping out precious red liquid with every flap of its crooked wings. It scalded my hand, when I snapped it’s neck. Stilling under my fingers, fragile and dead.
There was a deer, too, near my precious animals. Head crooked; long neck covered in viscera and puncture marks. I’m helpless to the darkened thoughts that plague me now; what would it be like, to be the vicious beast that rends? To corrupt, pervert the innocent around me into a queer rendition of themselves; unrecognisable from before my mark. There’s dirt under my fingernails. The memory is a black hole in my mind, but when I came too I had scrabbled uselessly at the ground surrounding the deer, digging a shallow hole around its rotting corpse.
What had I hoped to find? To achieve? My humility, humanity? I am a perversion of myself; I have killed my love through my queer, vile nature. There was never any hope for her, for me. The boiling, roiling sea below calls to me on this cliff.
I have missed my aunt so.