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your-worst-knightmare · 4 years

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Hoist the Colours

“Yo ho, all together Hoist the colours high. Heave, ho, thieves and beggars Never shall we die.”

The docks were noisy. They always were, during this time of year at least. The clamour of the people coupled with the pounding rain made for a strange melody. Calming, almost, if you were accustomed to it. Fishermen hauled barrels of fish off their boat, proud of their catch for the day. School upon school of fish swam through these waters this season, and with their bounty came people. And so, the docks were noisy.

Noisy docks meant good business for barkeeps and innkeepers. It also meant good business for thieves and pickpockets, who took advantage of the lackadaisical wealthy who happened to wander too far into the Narrows. But if you had enough sense in your head, you knew better than to wander. Roy liked to think he had sense. His most perilous adventures were the immeasurable stack of dishes in the kitchen. Except for the influx of barfights newcomers brought with them, there was only one thing he had to worry about: Pirates.

Oh, they were thieves of a higher breed and more ambitious in nature. They also possessed a strange sense of nobility, one that no particular barkeep could classify. Roy could, to an extent at least. But that was only because he had considered himself one in his youth. He had hung up the title long since, now spending his days mopping up spills or refilling some ruffian’s drink. Mundane tasks, but it was honest work at least. Unlike one of his oldest friends, he preferred an honest life to one of trickery and adventure.

Jay Todd. The Damned Prince. The surname ‘Todd’ never stuck after he joined his first crew and insisted he was nobody. It almost made Roy laugh. Jay and Jay Todd were two different people completely. They did have one obnoxious trait in common though: they were both always ready to go for a round, them against the world. He was a captain now, in charge of a ghost ship, as they called it. A pseudo captain, if you will, because the captain was the only one on the ship. It wasn’t hard to imagine Jay out there, lonely as Lady Lune, with only memories for company.

Despite his conviction of loneliness, Jay always made his adventures seem wonderous. Tales of glory and swashbuckling, tales which seemed too tall to be true. Roy knew there was more to Jay’s life than emprise and endeavour, but he sometimes wondered: was a pirate’s life really all it was cut out to be?

––––––––––––––––

Damn. A pirate’s life was really not all it was cut out to be. Jason had just finished a job for an anonymous employer, and though the pay was good, he could use a break. Perhaps he’d pay Roy a visit. He wouldn’t be noticed much anyway, not with the amount of sailors that passed through that port this time of year.

Jason set his course north, hoisted the sails and climbed the shroud to watch the endless waves. He made himself comfortable for the journey, an old sea shanty playing on his lips. It was funny, how much he sang to himself now. Roy would tease him endlessly if he found out, Jason could all but hear it right now. “‘Ey, look ‘ere boys, the old bird’s finally singin’ for us!”

Despite the time that had passed, he still knew exactly where to find Roy. Only the side of town with a raging infamy for brawls of the most dramatic kind would house Roy. It was always wise to enter town with some sort of concealed weapon, but especially when one entered the place Roy called home. It was as if he used his circumstances of living to satisfy his thirst for adventure.

The bar was busy, and so Jason wasn’t noticed when he stepped inside. All the attention the bar could hold was directed on one individual: a woman challenging sailor after sailor to fistfights. She had a captain’s hat on over her russet hair, merely to show her rank. It was braided back on one side of her head, a clever combination of style and practicality. She looked familiar, and Jason kept trying and failing to place her. He would have thought about it all day if Roy hadn’t found him first.

“ Hey, ‘ya finally come ‘ta visit and ‘ya don’t even stop for a hello.”

“I came here to find you, ‘ya big crybaby. I’m here now, so stop whining,” Jason said, giving Roy a hearty clap on the back. Roy brought out some food and they sat down, as far as they could from the commotion.

“So, Jaybird, how’s life been treatin’ ‘ya?”

“Not bad. Finished a job in the Southern Isles. Came ‘ere for a little break before my next job.”

Roy slammed his mug on the table wiping his mouth. “Where’s all the charisma gone? The adventure? The next thrilling tale in the saga?”

“Aw, Roy, not every job is exciting. Some o’ them are jes’ messy an’ tiring.”

“‘Ol captain ready to hang up the hat then, eh? Ready to settle down with some nice lady?” Roy raised his eyebrows, mocking.

“I won’t hang up the hat ‘till I go down to Davy Jones’ locker or Angel comes ‘ta take me. Can’t, rather. My mistress will have to live with it then, won’t she?”

Roy let out a good-natured snort. “Unless you plan on wooing the Red Amazon herself,” Roy said, gesturing to the red-haired pirate in the middle of the bar, “ you’re goin’ ‘ta spend your days alone, mate.”

“Is that what her name is?”

“Aye. Loud as a pistol and twice as destructive, she is. Had to drag at least five folks out jes’ today.” Jason kept staring, his intent clear in his eyes. “Oh no, you’re not going to. She’s knocked every ol’ seadog here into sharkbait. ‘Ya don’t stand a chance.”

Jason got up, heedless of Roy’s words. The latest challenger stumbled out of the Red Amazon’s reach, yielding before he was hurt too badly. She smoothed her hair, annoyingly, before pausing to look Jason up and down. “Pray, sir, who might you be? Another challenger?” Her accent suggested a respectable upbringing, which caught Jason off guard.

“If ‘ya wish me to be, miss. I ask for a conversation if I do win.”

She thought for a moment, watching him twist a gold ring on his finger. “When you lose, I’d like your ring.”

He looked down at it. It was an intricate thing, and probably held quite some value. Alas, he could find another ring, not another conversation. “Fine. Draw your cutlass.”

She raised her eyebrows. “A duel? If that’s what you want, then.” She held a hand out, reaching towards thin air. “To me, Mistress.” When called, a huge, polished sword came flying to the Amazon’s hand. A magical item, then.

Jason drew his own cutlass, quite modest in comparison. The Amazon smirked, a mischievous light burning in her eyes. Green eyes, he realized. Her first strike was so fast that Jason struggled to meet it. The clang of metal against metal echoed in the now quiet bar while the audience held their breath.

The blows were so rapid that the fight quickly became a show of instinct and muscle memory. Jason was proud to say that he held his own quite well, albeit a nick he had sustained to the arm. She held no wounds, as of yet, but if Jason couldn’t prove his skills, he’d prove his spirit.

The Amazon deflected Jason’s latest strike onto the ground.” Really, I’d like to know who you are.”

Jason thrust another strike towards her breathlessly. “ The Prince, miss,” he said, stepping back, tipping his head. “ The Damned Prince.”

“Well,” she began, taking the opportunity to disarm Jason of his weapon. It clattered to the ground loudly and he grimaced as she pressed her blade against his throat. “I’ve ne’er seen a prince so ragged as you.”

Discreetly, he unsheathed his concealed knife, pressing it to her side. “Looks aren’t everything, mate,” he smiled. “A draw, then?”

The Amazon bared her teeth, sneering. She sheathed her sword, but not before giving Jason another small taste of its blade. “ A dirty rapscallion, y’ are.”

He handed her the ring as Roy found seats for them and drove their audience away. “ A good duel, wasn’t it?”

“Tell me what your business is before I find you a dance with Jack Ketch.”

“I heard news that you was lookin’ for a bow. My ol’ employer wanted it too. What’s the fuss wi’ it?”

“It’s a calamitous weapon. Lord knows what would happen if it were taken by th’ wrong buccaneer.” She pushed her chair back, ready to leave. “I’m not looking for any hands. You may go.”

“I know where ‘ta start lookin’.”

She stopped, now interested. “ Pray, then, where?”

He told her what he knew, from the gossip he had heard in the Southern Isles. The journey would be long, but work was what he had come looking for. “All I ask is that I accompany you.”

“Fine. No prey, no pay, Prince. We leave at dawn.”

A share of any loot was fine by him. He’d leave his ship for Roy to take care of until he came back. He just needed to make sure his old employer, whoever he was, didn’t get his hands onto the bow. Jason took off his hat and extended his hand. “Jay Peter Todd.”

The Amazon returned the gesture. “Artemis Grace. Don’t be late.”

Should I do a part two??

#rhato 2016 #red hood #artemis grace #jaytemis #au #pirate au #dc comics #fanfic #pirate #roy harper #arsenal #jaytemis pirate au

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yorukamiko · 4 years

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Vampire AU

I’ve been toying with this idea for a while, so here it is in writing. Julian, somewhere between the fateful Masquerade and the beginning of our story. On the run. We more or less know his route: getting away from Vesuvia with Mazelinka, getting on a ship to Macawi port in the South, then going back to Vesuvia. But the Masquerade was three years ago, and Portia started working at the Palace a year ago, probably shortly after she got to Vesuvia, which leaves us with two years of Julian’s journey. What has he been up to, then?

EDIT: I started writing this 3h ago and just wanted to get stuff out of my head. I guess stories live their own lives, so it became WAY longer than I expected. Oops. It’s 3:30am and starts getting NSFW. Part two will happen when I get sleep. Alas, beware of typos and other mishaps.

Also TW: human trade

Here an idea:

The ship Julian’s on is attacked by the pirates. Not Mazelinka’s crew, but a more nasty type. Julian tries to make his way out of the situation by telling them he’s a doctor, but they don’t need one on their ship - instead, they decide to make a pretty penny selling him to someone on the coast.

As they arrive to a small port, Julian is escorted straight to the market. There, a young lady dressed in finest lace buys him and a few others. She seems very well educated and rich, but not very kind. She haggles well, not about the money, though, but about additional people for the same price. The handler seems to be cautious with his words, as if afraid of her, and finally agrees. When she’s done, she drives away in a carriage, while Julian and the others make their way to the estate on foot, with a few guards.

The residence is a beautiful place by a river, with a garden smaller, but no less amazing than the Vesuvian one. They pass the fields and the meadows on their way there, and Julian takes a good look at the people working in the fields - there are no guards, and some people are resting in shade, drinking and laughing. They seem.. relaxed.

Upon their arrival to the house, the ropes are taken away and they are offered a bath and a fresh change of clothes. Julian’s clothes are simple and plain, but kind of nice. He washes up in a small tub of warm water, and heads to the dining area.

The lady who sits at the head of the table is the same lady who was there in the market. She’s way nicer now, welcoming them in her house and asking them to enjoy the meal. Everyone is a bit reluctant, but she takes the first few bites and that gains her enough trust among the newcomers. Even if this is all extremely odd, they are hungry.

After the dinner is cleaned out from the table, she announces that they are by no means obliged to stay, and they are all free to go the next morning. However, if they would like to stay, she offers her employment. A roof over their heads, food they will grow with their own hands, freedom to come and go, a fair wage, and her protection - under two conditions. There will be a small donation of blood required every now and then, and there will be her reputation to upkeep. There is a murmur among the guests, but she cuts it off, saying she would like them to go meet the servants who decided to stay, before they make the final decision.

The lady of the house takes time to chat with those who stayed in the room, and finally makes it to Julian. Unsure what to do, but utterly intrigued, he decides to accept the invitation and stay for some time as a physician. If nothing else, playing by their rules can make an easier escape later on.

The next morning he is asked to move to a long building closer to the servants quarters, where he is given an office and an adjacent room in which he can live. All of it is rather simple, but sufficient. There are no decorations, but there view out the window is pleasant. Way better than his office in the Palace dungeons. He shivers at the thought, but pushes it far away. He is safe now. Everyone dear to him is safe and away from Vesuvia. Mazelinka has reached Portia by now and passed the news of his escape. All he has to do is to lay low for a while.

There is a knock on the door and a young boy with a little girl attached to his leg walks in. Julian smiles and puts on a “kind doctor” face, then throws himself into work.

Weeks pass by and Julian is well-known and liked among the people of this weird place. His initial distrust slowly vanishes. He can see that the people are indeed free to come and go, they are paid, fed, and happy. They work for themselves, mostly. Some work in the fields, some with the animals, others sew clothes or build furniture. There’s a carpenter, a blacksmith, and now him - a doctor. It’s a self-sufficient little town, all under the protection of this young mysterious lady with a bad reputation on the outside. Whatever they have in abundance, they trade away in the port. Julian goes with them once, and plays along when he is told to put on shackles and look miserable. He knows a reputation can save one from the fight altogether, and he is well aware that if those pirates knew the place wasn’t cursed, haunted, and controlled by a powerful witch, it would get raided in no time.

As they return back to the estate, they joke and laugh about all the silly stuff they saw pirates do - spitting over their shoulders, sprinkling salt, or murmuring anti-hexes while avoiding their gaze. Julian loves it, mischief and drama is something he lives for, and he offers a few new scenarios and tricks to play on the pirates the next time they go to town.

But even before they reach their houses, someone stops them, visibly shaken. They say that there has been an accident and the doctor is needed immediately. Julian rushes back to the estate, where the injured is being taken care of.

A child is laid on a cleared table in the main hall of the house, pale and motionless. There is a family gathered round them, sobbing and comforting each other. Julian is afraid he’s too late, but the child is still alive. Their breath is rugged and bubbly. A close examination shows there’s a lung pierced and some external bleeding. As much as Julian wishes, he’s way under-equipped to perform a surgery. Instead, he removes his gloves.

The room falls silent as his mark glows. With his head tilted backwards, he sees a movement at the top of the staircase. Then, he folds in half as his own ribs crack and bend inwards, piercing his lung. He gasps for air, but he’s drowning, yet he does not move his hands away until he sees the child gaining back consciousness. He collapses to his knees. Last thing he sees is blood on the floor and his hands as he coughs it up.

He wakes up sore, in a strange room. It’s dark, with curtains drawn. The door opens and a servant comes in with a tray full of deliciously smelling food and a lit candle. She smiles at him, sets the tray and begins to light the candles. She seems like she wants to say something, but she only utters “thank you, thank you so much” when she’s about to leave.

Only now Julian realises there’s someone else in the room, sitting in an armchair. The stranger walks towards his bed and Julian can now see a tall, lean figure with a storm of dark hair surrounding her perfectly beautiful face. She looks like a living sculpture, her skin dark, eyes golden. Her entire shape screams elegance. She sits at the foot of his bed and smiles an all-knowing smile.

Julian is too hazy to ask the right questions, and he is starving, so he lets the stranger speak as he ravishes his dinner. The woman seems completely comfortable in his presence, as well as fascinated. She introduces herself as Mistress Zoe, the real lady of the house, and tells Julian she is impressed with his magic, but also a bit hurt he haven’t mentioned being a magician earlier. Julian explains between bites that he is not, in fact, a magician, thank you very much, but he has been cursed by one. She laughs, and asks how possessing an ability to perform miracles and save lives is a curse, to which Julian mumbles something in response, blushing at the compliment.

Zoe asks him to be completely honest with her from then on, and offers the same in exchange. In fact, she would like to start.

She created this whole place, because she dislikes how violent the world has become. There’s no joy for her in hurting and killing, and hurt she must - to feed herself. Now here lies the real curse. She cannot step in the sun, she cannot eat or drink what the others can, she needs to feed on blood. For years she tried to cope with her situation, on her own, with no one to guide her. She did horrible things in her youth, hurt many, just to stay alive. Killed some, yes. But seeing she lived longer than any man she has ever met, she decided to make a difference. That’s why with all her accumulated wealth she bought the estate and surrounding grounds, and created this safe haven. Julian nods and asks about the reputation and Zoe smiles. Well, yes, it’s a repellent for those who would want to attack her, but some of it is true and had the need arise, she would be able to protect her people.

“And the blood donations?” Julian asks. Ever since he took on the physician’s job, he had been tasked with drawing blood from the volunteers. She looks away with poorly hidden disgust. She knows she can draw a little blood from a lot of people to sustain herself and not harm them, but honestly, it’s like taking a bite of every possible dish at the same time. Feeds you, but it’s awful. It’s the closest she’s ever been to being fair with her people, so that’s her way now.

Julian furrows his brows. If she’d let him, he would very much like to examine her. She laughs and it takes a moment until he realises how he sounded. He flusters and tries to explain himself, but she’s having none of it. She teases him and makes him blush even more. Eventually, she lets go and tells him that yes, that is possible, but now she wants to hear his story. Julian obeys, and tells her the most dramatic and entertaining tales of his adventures.

They stay up all night and when the sky behind the drapes starts getting lighter, Zoe decides to bid her goodbyes. She thanks him again for saving the child, and for their time together.

Over the next few days Julian goes back to his routine. He is now treated like a hero, but there’s a bit of distance in how people interact with him. Rumours of magic is what they were laughing at together just a few days ago, not knowing he possessed any abilities. What if he didn’t like their jokes back then? They know he can keep a secret, so maybe he holds a grudge now? Better not get too close with him, better leave him a small gift at the windowsill, just in case. Julian is a bit frustrated by this behaviour, but he can’t blame them - he himself is distrustful towards magic.

His thoughts, however, go back to Zoe and their night together. He felt so good in her presence. She’s bold, and funny, and she seems to like him, too. And gods, creating all this? That takes some guts.. and kindness. He’s sure she could put a lot less effort into it if she hunted.

The next time volunteers come over to donate blood, one of the house servants informs him that he has to deliver the blood himself. After he closes the clinic for the night, he gathers his journal, and a small basket of vials, and goes to a room upstairs. Zoe is already there, behind a room divider, taking a bath. She invites him to sit in a chair next to her tub, completely unashamed. He passes her the vials and she downs a few of them right away, her irises dilating as she drinks. She rests the back of her head on the edge of the tub and he can see her fangs. He opens the notebook and writes down his observations.

It takes her a while to come back to her senses. Her throat bobs up and down and she sits upright. “It’s a very vulnerable moment for me,” she says, “when I feed. It’s even worse when I was feeding off of a living human. You know how lone predators drag their prey into hiding before they start to eat? I had to go to hiding, too. I usually lured them into a safe place, and only then fed. When I quench that thirst, I’m completely helpless. I can control myself, but as for anything going on outside - I’m done. So much for a great predator” she laughs.

Julian sits there, taking notes, asking questions, and trying not to stare. The way she moves, the way she talks, the way her lips curl, her brows furl, her nose wrinkles.. Everything about her is perfect. He is enchanted by her voice and her scent. He blushes, when she catches him drifting away. “Guilty as charged, I was not listening, sorry, you’re just too beautiful” slips his lips and his eyes widen, while his cheeks burn. He did not mean to say it out loud.

She just smiles, a wide predatory grin. Well, of course she is beautiful, but it’s nice of him to notice. Perhaps he would like to put the notebook aside and pass her the towel?

Julian blinks rapidly, then reaches for the soft cloth hanging on a hook and hands it over to her. He wants to turn around but she stops him. He’s welcome to look, in fact, she would very much enjoy it. He doesn’t need another word. He sits there, transfixed, biting his lip, as she puts on a bit of a show for him, slowly drying herself down, giving him all the right angles.

He hasn’t been close with anyone since... since that damned witch. He enjoys Zoe’s company, and she apparently enjoys his. She seems dangerous and alluring, a sweet combination he always had a soft spot for.

She steps out of the bath and bends over, putting her hands on armrests, so their faces almost meet. “What’s your poison, then?” She asks. Julian smiles, eyes full of mischief. “I love pain and servitude, Mistress. Bind me, use me, deny me, hurt me - I’ll take it all. I heal well” he teases. Zoe’s eyes light up at that, she licks her lips, slowly. “May I feed on you?” She asks. Julian swallows, hard. “Yes, please.”

#the arcana #the arcana game #julian devorak #julian x oc #ilya devorak #vampire au arcana #vampire

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onwesterlywinds · 5 years

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Prompt #2: Bargain | Aster

"A smarter man would have asked for more," said her guest. "But I have a bit of a predisposition toward being awestruck in the presence of heroes, so this conversation is likely to go far more in your favor."

He even flattered like an Ul'dahn, she thought, though perhaps the thought was an uncharitable one; he looked to be of an age with her, and likely had not chosen to grow up in the desert any more than she had.

Ashe’s first mistake had been to meet with her guest here, beside the Lochs' lone tree. The location had been the young man’s first preference, the only landmark outside of the city's walls he knew of which offered both privacy and relative safety. Yet conducting a negotiation at the site of her old family picnics - the place where her father's best friend's ashes had been scattered - filled her with no great joy, and even stirred a vague resentment.

"I have nothing more to offer you." She let her frustrations show, let herself remain as steadfast and unaccommodating as she wished. She spoke truthfully: he had sought her to discuss some sort of offer of employment within Ala Mhigo, as though she alone were responsible for granting jobs. "The most I can grant is a recommendation for any particular positions that may align with your skills and expertise."

The man - boy, rather, - ran a hand through his flyaway black hair. He cast her a conspicuous glance and cleared his throat. "Actually," he said, and the words were little more than a whisper. "I have to apologize. I-I'm afraid I haven't been entirely honest about what it is I'm here for."

Above aught else, she was merely glad their conversation was drawing closer to its conclusion.

"I just thought you wouldn't take me seriously otherwise." The boy reached for something at his breast, then gave a double take as though struck with the fear that he'd lost it. At last, heaving a sigh, he fished whatever it was out of his front pocket with two fingers.

"I was hoping you’d know what this is," he murmured.

It appeared to be a flat stone, no more than an ilm in diameter and almost entirely transparent; trapped beneath its glassy surface lay a preserved violet flower which she could not readily name.

"It was my ma's," he explained. "She kept telling me it was priceless, right up to her deathbed. Her husband said no, it was just junk - but he wasn't Mhigan, and he was useless as they come anyway. Whatever it is, Ma wouldn't ever talk about it, not even to tell me where she got it. But it was the only thing she kept from back home. The only thing."

Sure enough, he did not let go of it, not even to permit her a closer look; and yet the longer she stared, the more her Echo came alive with her father's recognition.

"Aster," she whispered.

The boy gave another start, nearly dropping the stone in his hand. "What did you say?!"

"That flower is an aster."

He swallowed hard, sniffling a couple of times to fill the newfound silence. If Lolorito or another Syndicate member had truly sent him for underhanded purposes, she thought, they were scraping from the very bottom of the barrel. "That's my name," he said at last. "My real name."

"What do you mean to do with the stone?" The question was more her father's, but as she spoke the words, their urgency resonated with her as well.

Aster shrugged. "Sell it, probably. It took me everything I had just to get here from Horizon. But I figured I could make you an offer first. If it ended up being worth anything." With that, he cast her a hopeful glance.

She sighed - deeply - but could not refuse his unspoken plea without an explanation. "Your ma was right," she said. She stared out over the wisps of clouds along the horizon. "That stone is priceless. It's what's called a sigil: a key to the Ala Mhigan Undercity. That sigil will tell everyone that you belong..." Gods, but where did the Aster Sigil unlock? "...at the entrance to the limestone quarry. If you use it right, and keep your head on your shoulders, it'll give you everything you need to start your new life here in Ala Mhigo." She paused for only a moment, turning to see if Aster was listening, then took to her feet. "Come to the markets of the Ala Mhigan Quarter at sunset. Someone will be there to show you where to go."

Aster stood alongside her, holding out the sigil for the first time. "You're sure you don't want it?"

"Trust me," she said, and turned to climb back down the rugged hillside. "So long as you find your common sense, you'll be getting a far better deal this way."

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast

#FFXIVWrite2019 #Ashelia Riot #Understory

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songstresstinyteacup · 6 years

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Sibella catches Phoebe wearing one of her dresses. When cornered, Phoebe confesses that she stole it and puts it on when Sibella's away so she can feel closer to her.

Sibella’s heels clicked on the tile as she entered the foyer of High Hurst Castle, the butler, immediately taking her coat and bag.

“Do you know where Phoebe is, Gorby?” Sibella inquired, extremely excited to have gotten away from Lionel early.

“No, Madam, last I saw she was in the gardens. I’d start there.” Gorby cast Sibella a knowing look, and Sibella laughed.

She might have checked there before asking, for Phoebe loved her flowers.

Herself and Monty, flowers, and books, in that precise order.

“Thank you, Gorby, tell Cook that we’ll ring for tea later.” Sibella smiled as she sauntered off to the gardens.

Stepping into the sunlight, Sibella took a moment for herself to savor the heat from the sunbeams on her skin, as Lionel didn’t like her spending much time outdoors, closing her eyes and taking in a few breaths.

He often complained it would ruin her fair complexion, and then she’d look haggard and most unbecoming.

Even so, when Sibella opened her eyes, the gardens were empty, not a servant or Phoebe in sight.

Sticking out her lip in the form of a pout, Sibella returned inside and began the trek from the many corridors to the drawing room, hoping she could find Phoebe there.

Alas, the drawing room was just as empty, with Phoebe’s latest book set aside on one of the small tables near the chaise, despite the half-empty teacup next to the book.

Sibella smiled in triumph, she was getting closer to her petite lover’s location.

Stepping out of the drawing room, Sibella checked the library, Monty’s dressing room, and her bedroom, all equally vacant from the woman she sought.

The more rooms Sibella checked, the more worry began to settle in the bottom of her stomach.

Monty was out of town, and yet his Countess was nowhere to be found, which was unlike Phoebe.

Especially since Sibella was meant to be coming for dinner that night, and Monty would return home the next day.

Could something have happened to Phoebe?

Could she be stuck somewhere?

Or injured?

Or, the possibility Sibella feared the most, half dead somewhere that no one could find her until it was too late?

Shaking her head, Sibella tried to think sensibly.

“Now, calm down. The servants wouldn’t be as calm as they are if they suspected anything had happened to Phoebe, especially not with Monty being away.” She thought, turning down the hallway to check Phoebe and Monty’s bedroom.

Monty was a generous employer, kind and understanding, but he had made it very clear to the entire staff that should anything happen to either of his girls, and him to be uninformed, there would be hell to pay.

Sibella heard Phoebe’s humming through the door, just as her fingertips brushed the doorknob, and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

Not bothering to knock, Sibella strode in, effectively startling the petite brunette she had been searching for for the last half hour.

Phoebe had whirled around, wide-eyed with her hand poised at the base of her neck, a gasp caught in her throat.

“Sibella! You almost gave me a heart attack!” Phoebe breathed, trying to smile despite her moment of fear.

Sibella laughed, but abruptly stopped when she ran her eyes down the length of Phoebe’s body.

For Phoebe was not decked out in her usual colors, not in the slightest.

Instead Phoebe donned a very familiar pink gown, one with a collar, cold shoulder sleeves, and a ruffled pink train, with the hem of the dress touching the floor by a good few inches more than it ought to have been.

Phoebe’s eyes flickered to the floor, a blush creeping onto the apples of her cheeks as she realized she’d been caught red handed, or, should she say pink handed?

“Phoebe D’ysquith Navarro, would you like to tell me exactly how long this dress has been in your possession, and why you’ve neglected to tell me of it?” Sibella took one step forward, her eyes still roaming Phoebe’s body that was cloaked in her dress.

A dress she had been looking for, a dress that she had accused her maid of stealing, and had sacked her for it!

Phoebe’s fingers found her braid, and Sibella watched as Phoebe anxiously chewed her bottom lip with her top teeth as she shifted her weight.

Was this, embarrassment?

“Well, I’ve had it for the better part of three months now, and, I didn’t want to tell you because I was afraid you’d think me odd…” Phoebe didn’t bring her eyes to meet Sibella’s, instead twirling her braid between her index and middle fingers and looking like she wanted the floor to swallow her whole.

Sibella raised an eyebrow, taking another step toward Phoebe, who still looked mortified.

“Despite the fact that I’ve been looking for it all this time? Despite the fact that it happens to be a favorite of mine and how devastated I was at the prospect of losing it?” Sibella challenged.

“Yes.” Phoebe’s voice was small, and Sibella did not miss the way her voice trembled like it did when she was near tears.

“Well, I’m waiting for an explanation.” Sibella tapped her foot impatiently, thoroughly amused, though she’d never admit to it.

“I… I- I-“ Phoebe struggled to form the words, looking at Sibella’s poker face and bursting into tears almost immediately after doing so.

“Oh, Phoebe! Darling, don’t cry, please my sweet, don’t cry! I’m not upset, I promise. I was only having you on!” Sibella immediately dropped her cold facade, rushing to the trembling brunette and pulling her into her arms.

Phoebe didn’t cling to Sibella like she normally would, instead her arms hung loosely at her sides as she sobbed into Sibella.

Sibella waited for a moment, before lifting Phoebe’s chin so she would have to look up, and using the pad of her thumbs to wipe the tears from Phoebe’s flushed cheeks.

“I’m not upset, my sweetest one. See? I just want to know why you took it, seeing how it’s much too long for you.” Sibella smiled softly, and pressed a kiss to Phoebe’s forehead before settling on the vanity chair and pulling Phoebe onto her lap.

“It’s just, I miss you so when you’re away. The last time you were here, you left the dress here and I missed you so dreadfully, and Monty was away on business so I was all alone. I thought that, maybe if I put on your dress, I’d feel closer to you, and not so lonely and pathetic.” Phoebe murmured, sounding rather like a scolded child instead of the Countess of a prominent house.

Sibella chuckled lightly, pressing another kiss to Phoebe’s cheek.

“And did it make you feel better?” She inquired, brushing one of Phoebe’s unruly baby curls back to it’s place.

Phoebe nodded, her eyes still downcast.

“And, after I did it the first time, I thought that you’d be angry with me for taking the dress, and Monty’s had to go on business more and more lately. Not to mention how much Lionel’s been keeping you away. I’ve been so lonely, and this helps. I’m so sorry.” Phoebe sighed, finishing her explanation at last.

Sibella smiled, and Phoebe’s lip turned upward like she wanted to smile as well.

“Well, that settles it, the dress will stay here so that you never feel such loneliness again. I can’t stand the thought of you feeling this way, I only wish you’d told me about it earlier, so that I wouldn’t have sacked my previous maid.” Sibella stood, guiding Phoebe to the chair and settling her in it.

Phoebe’s eyes lit up, and Sibella smiled.

“I’ll make that right when I return to Mr. Holland on Monday, but for now, if you’re going to wear one of my dresses, a braid simply won’t do. May I?” Sibella held up a brush and a few of Phoebe’s hair baubles.

Phoebe giggled, wiping away a stray tear and nodded.

As Sibella set to work on Phoebe’s hair, she made a silent vow that she’d be around more often in future, and to give Phoebe a bottle of her rose perfume to spray on the dress to make the reminder more powerful.

After all, there was nothing she wouldn’t do for Phoebe.

#belladonnasandroses

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xaligos · 7 years

Text

The Dragon Lord and The Northern Dawn

It was another day in Stormwind, or at least that is no doubt how it seemed. Unbeknown to most denizens of Azeroth, a meeting between two noble orders was taking place. One that might greatly shape the course of the war between the Horde and the Alliance. The Dragon Lord Xamon of House Targaris had traveled from his home of Azurelight Sanctum in search of members from the Northern Dawn, a guild that was owned and financed by House Silverdawn. As far as he knew, their estate drew great wealth from a lucrative mine resting in the heart of their territory, and that they were a prominent force slowing down the advance of the Forsaken beyond Thoradin's Wall.

His own estate was not located very far from theirs, and Targian Dragon Magi had utilized Divination magic to locate a deposit of a particular mineral - a deposit located on Silverdawn land. This mineral would be crucial to the development of a massive project House Targaris was undertaking, and that deposit was the closest and most ideal location. Times had been incredibly trying in recent years, the Kingdoms of men had weakened considerably - many Lords were primed to look out only for their own borders. This made the idea of approaching the Silverdawn, a risky one - for they could have easily begun work to search for the material themselves, after being made aware of its existence. Yet, believing diplomacy would prevail it was decided that approaching them with some form of an arrangement would be the best course of action.

Stormwind was a large city, perhaps the biggest man had ever made - even nobility could be hard to track down, what with so many people concentrated in one area. Though his journey would bare fruit when a tip was received that a few members from the Northern Dawn had met outside the Stormwind Stockades, and were engaged in discussion. Following this new lead, Xamon made his way there, to find that his source had indeed spoken truth.

Before him were three individuals, all armored in a variety of attire. He himself had come dressed fairly light, adorning familial targarian robes. They were made of fine fabrics, but modest in appearance. The Targarians were known for not drawing too much unwanted attention, and as the head of his House Xamon was perhaps a paragon of this virtue. As he neared the group, one among them took notice. It was a woman, and the only of her cohort to bare the crest of the Silverdawn. Why that was so, who could say? Though it certainly marked her as a leader among the party.

Xamon's posture and general body language did not change as she approached him. A dialog ensued, with him explaining that he had come in search of someone baring the very crest she wore. Naturally, she inquired as to why he sought them, and what he had heard about the order. To which he responded.

"Only that the order is in someway connected to the Silverdawn Mines. My House is currently underway with a massive project, and we are need of aid. We are willing to fairly compensate for such assistance, but I am afraid the details cannot be discussed here, and certainly not without the presence of the head of House Silverdawn. I've come a very long way to find them - if you know anything - please..."

Her suspicions must have been put to ease, for her response would be far better than he could have hoped for.

"I am the political council head of The Northern Dawn, and also the one you are looking for... I am Silverdawn, Countess of Silverdawn mines."

Just as she had formally introduced herself, another of the group approached. It was a Dwarf, a race whom Xamon, and indeed many humans held great respect for. Xamon acknowledged the dwarfs approach with a modest and respectful bow of his head.

"Master Dwarf." He said. Attempting to articulate his respect for their race - for he knew not the Dwarfs rank or personal station.

The Dwarf merely responded with a grunt, crossing his arms as he did. The respect of Dwarfs was not easily earned, something Xamon knew all too well, and in truth - admired. The Countess took it upon herself to introduce him, giving further credibility to her claim of being the head of House Silverdawn.

"This is Doffrag, a dear friend of mine. He knows me more than anyone else in Northern Dawn."

Doffrag let out a snort.

"I knoo ye more then I want ta...I'm jus' stuck with ye."

Xamon allowed an extended look to fall upon Doffrag. He would no doubt play a significant role in the near future. What's more, the question of how he became so close to the Countess sparked a measure of intrigue within him, and it would be something worth exploring - if time and circumstances allowed. He was not really one for small talk, and this made it hard for such details to ever come into his knowledge. Be all that as it may, his response did little if not nothing to allude toward these inner thoughts.

"Very Well, it would seem I am in good company then. Is there somewhere we can speak, less openly perhaps?"

The Countess motioned to the set of buildings nearby. "Will that do?" She had very little time to pick a location, and Xamon's arrival had been unexpected. Thankfully the building she had gestured to was one of Stormwinds most prominent libraries, and but a stone's throw away from the common area just outside the Stockades where they currently stood. Xamon merely responded with a curt nod and the group made way for the entrance of the building. When they had entered they were greeted by the caretakers, with one of their party taking point at the door. The man who had stood guard had remained remarkably silent thus far. While Xamon had not passed any particular attention to him, his awareness of the man's presence was absolute. Who was he? What role did he play within the Silverdawn? Even more so than the dwarf, he had peaked Xamon's curiosity. Why had he not spoken thus far? For some reason the man's aura marked him as more than mere muscle for higher. Indeed, the way he seemed to carry himself suggested that there was more to his character than met the eye. Time would tell.

After finding a quiet location in the recesses of the library, the Countess, Doffrag, and Xamon took their seats.

"Now then, what is it you wish to speak abou...."

The Countess rose from her chair, her sentence left incomplete and instead a new one baring different context took its place.

"Forgive me, but an urgent matter has called my attention and I must depart. Doffrag will finish this conversation in my stead."

"An' I'm nae as nice as her thoo."

Doffrag retorted.

Xamon believed the Dwarf was testing his resolve, or at least that it is how it seemed. "Is he trying to scare me?" He thought to himself. No, that likely was not the case. Dwarven humor was very gruff, it was possible that he was attempting to be a little funny. However, unsure if this was truly the case Xamon simply avoided feeding into the comment. He understood having a demanding schedule and didn't seem particularly or noticeably bothered by the Countess' departure. He had found who he was looking for, and she had seen him. Not to mention the company she was leaving him with. If Doffrag and her were indeed as close as she had lead him to believe, he was confident anything discussed between him and the Dwarf would reach her. If not, he had ways of ensuring she found out.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me."

Was all he said as she walked out, though whether or not she heard him was uncertain as she offered no response and was nearly out the door by the time he finished thanking her.

Doffrag casually moved into her seat in a manner that suggested he had done this before. "They are close." he said in an inner dialog he held with himself. They now sat across from one another, and both seemed uninterested in slowing down the pace of the conversation despite the Countess having to leave.

"To the matter at hand then?"

Xamon had traveled a long way and was not one to waste time. Though, something subtly caught his peripheral attention. A second conversation had ensued, between the silent "guardsmen" who had taken up post outside the library, likely to stop prying ears and eyes. Someone had approached him, and finally words emerged, the silent guardsmen was silent no more.

" Hello."

The newcomer said. With the Silent Guardsmen responding in kind.

"Afternoon. Can I help you?"

"Elf with a bow, told me to speak to you about adventure and employment."

The Silent Guardsmen nodded once, and a feint smile curled from his lips.

"Ahh, I see. I think we might be able to help you."

He stepped up to the newcomer, looking him over. After a moment of inspection he extended his right hand to the man in greeting.

"Gazrael Gnarledmane."

Alas, his name had been spoken. Continuing to focus on that conversation would have been rude, even if he was capable of splitting his attention evenly between the two. After hearing the name of the Silent Gaurdsmen Xamon allowed his ears to let the dialog between the newcomer and Gazrael fall into obscurity.

"My House has officially drafted up blueprints for the refurbishment and reconstruction of Thoradin's Wall. For generations we have specialized in designing some of the Alliances most sound fortresses. This project will combine Dwarven, Elven, and human Architecture. We believe that there is a particular mineral located near or under your mine. Our Scryers are quite certain of this. I've come to see if your order would help us mine it and inÂ exchange we will refurbish your entire estate with this new mineral."

Doffrag let out a long sigh, propping his feet up onto the table,

"She had ta handle something with a comrade of ours. I'm takin' over noo.".

He smirked a little,

"So yer hoose made the blueprints fer the wall eh?"

Xamon nodded - he seemed to be quite understanding of the matter.

"Yes Master Doffrag. We assisted in its initial creation long ago, and we have created a new series of plans that will see Thoradin's Wall remade into the greatest wall that has ever been built. To accomplish this though, we need a material that elven, human, and dwarven masons can work with and that will compliment each of our.... tastes. A huge deposit of said material is believed to be located underneath the Silverdawn Mine."

Doffrag raised a brow as he grabed a cigar from his pouch and put it between his lips. Mumbling through the butt of the cigar,

"So ye want the huge deposit under the mines eh? Well lad ye cannae get stuff fer free, what can ye offer in return? Cause ye understand we coold -sell- it an' make a profit ye knoo?"

Xamon nodded in agreement. What Doffrag had said was very true, however...

"Indeed, you could - and the alliance would be poorer for it. The deposit is on your land, in truth it belongs to you. Yet, my family aided in designing the Scarlet Enclave, a fortress that was only toppled by the full might of the Lich King and his greatest champions. In return we would redesign your order's outpost - to your specifications of course. However, with our Architectural expertise, it would easily become the marvel of the Alliance. There is a great deal located underneath you, enough to at least start the project. What we didn't use you're welcome to keep and sell, make your profit this way. The Forsaken have already breached the wall. It's only a matter of time before they reach your doorstep if they haven't already. "

Doffrag snapped his fingers and a thin ark of lightning hit the end of the cigar lighting it just enough,

"Mm...Design oor ootpost an' build a smaller defensie wall aroond it. If ye can do that? The deposit is yer hooses.".

The Dwarf took a long drag off the cigar, blowing the smoke away and allowing for a momentary pause between them.

"Does yer hoose want ta be within the ranks of the Northern Dawn?"

"I am glad this conversation has progressed diplomatically. Aye Master Doffrag, that is certainly within our power to do. In regards to your question about my House joining the ranks of the Northern Dawn. That is why I came personally. As the head of my family I also hold command over our martial forces. Aid us in building this wall, and you will have the full support of House Targaris and all her resources. I will subscribe myself under your leadership and follow the commands of your Guild, as per the Alliance Hierarchy. Unless the King himself came down for your arrest - I don't suspect you'd have a reason to question our loyalty."

Doffrag took another drag off his cigar, this time blowing the smoke out of his nose,

"Then we're at an agreement then. Jus' knoo soon enoogh I'm nae goin' ta be the one in charge of this stuff fer long...Fedra is bringin' the shark of Ironforge within' oor ranks...An' his wealth dwarfs, nae pun intended, hooses gold.".

He takes his feet off the table and extends his burly dwarvish hand, "Welcome ta the Northern Dawn...Dunnae do anythin' that has me on yer ars."

"Orders are orders. As long as this change in hierarchy does not impede the construction and we're allowed to use this mineral - it shouldn't be a problem. Thank you Master Dofragg, I believe prosperous days for the Alliance are soon at hand. It was a pleasure to have met you, and I am certain we will soon be seeing much more of one another."

Xamon met the dwarfs hand with a respectful and firm grip of his own.

Doffrag nodded slowly,

"Aye. The Alliance will take back the North. Death ta the Horde an' their berasties."

Xamon wasn't all too sure what he meant by "berasties". Dwarves could be difficult to understand, even for someone as versed in their language and culture as he. Though with their talk at its end, the two departed for the door.....

@the-royal-courier

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dinosrpg · 7 years

Text

Nerevarine: The Reprise - Chapter Seven

Rain lightly fell as Sheev-La and Sevana ventured down the road to Riverwood, making their way to the road along the town's namesake river. By midday, according to Sheev-La's estimates, they would arrive at the town where they could continue their trek to the barrow. Plenty of time, Sevana thought, to probe the hero for information, learn more about the mysterious woman.

"So... shall we talk tactics? Specialties?" the Dunmer started, giving her companion a gentle nudge. The Argonian had been rather quiet since her outburst in the middle of the night, almost despondent, even. "I mean, you're obviously an accomplished warrior. It's almost laughable that I would be the one you would be assis--"

"I'm not that good," Sheev-La cut in, perhaps too harshly by her own judgment. Sevana bit her tongue, simply hoping she hadn't pressed too hard. "More swords are always welcome. As with eyes and ears. Keeps flanking and placement from getting too out-of-hand. But yes... I'm good with a bow and swords. I know some magic as well, but nothing involving the elements or healing. What about you?"

"I was schooled in Destruction, Conjuration, and Restoration," Sevana started, relaxing a little. "As you've seen, I keep myself in good physical condition, as well. That extends to some weapon-based martial arts involving two-handed weaponry. I prefer to summon such weaponry to give myself an offensive option once I've felt my magicka has depleted."

"That's quite the set of skills," the Argonian offered, forcing a smile despite her low spirits. "I almost feel outclassed," she chuckled.

"Me? Outclassing the Nerevarine?" Sevana jested in turn, smiling back at her. "I think that might be added to my list of qualifications, if you don't mind."

"By all means. Can't wait to see a prospective employer look at you as though you'd told them you were Tiber Septim." Sevana laughed.

"I trust you'll be watching through the window, then?" the Dunmer teased, the Argonian laughing in kind.

"Indeed," Sheev-La giggled, glad to have someone to talk to again. It had been so long since she had spoken earnestly with anyone.

Further down the road, after a comfortable lull in the conversation, the Dunmer began to fidget, something clearly bothering her. Sheev-La couldn't help but suspect she had questions. Everyone had questions for the Nerevarine.

"You don't have to hold back, Sevana. Tell me what's on your mind."

"I don't want to overburden you with questions, Sheev-La. I can only guess what the nightmare you had last night contained, and I doubt my imagination can even touch on what would terrify a hero."

"It was Red Mountain. The... last time I went there."

"You don't have to talk about this if you don't want to," Sevana reaffirmed, a hand on the Argonian's shoulder.

"Thank you... but I think two hundred years is too long to hold onto these thoughts alone. So long as you're prepared for knowing what only a handful of people know."

"It's almost like signing a pact with Hermaeus Mora," Sevana remarked, taking a deep breath.

"It very well may be. Be cautious with this information, alright? I'm not sure my heart could take another life lost to my story."

"I will. Promise," she nodded, the Nerevarine taking a deep breath of their own in relief.

"Now... ask what it is you wish to ask. Hold nothing back."

"Are you... actually Indoril Nerevar? I understand you are Nerevar reincarnated, but... what exactly is the nature of your reincarnation? His reincarnation..."

"I am indeed Nerevar, as they once stood and breathed. For decades, I lived as Sheev-La, unaware of my memories until I returned to Vvardenfell and learned of my past self. Nibani Maesa, an Ashlander wise-woman, was the one to awaken my dormant self, to unlock those memories I had hidden from myself. Or... perhaps that Azura had hidden from me. In either case, I awoke. In that moment, and in all moments, I became and remain both Indoril Nerevar and Sheev-La. In some moments, I affiliate with my past self. In others, I am very much Sheev-La. My self-image changes accordingly, and I know that must be strange, but... that is the way of such unusual things, it seems. To return from the dead is no small feat, and Oblivion only knows how difficult it must have been for Azura to conjure my very soul."

Sevana blinked, feeling weighted by such an answer. And yet, relieved in a way. Such a mystery was never truly explored in the short time Sheev-La had remained among the Dunmer, and to have been one to ask such an intimate question, let alone to be met with such an earnest answer, was an accomplishment few could have aspired to achieve. "Is... your existence a burden on yourself? I can't imagine how difficult it must be to handle two lives' worth of memories, if not more..."

"Only when I think about it," the Argonian sighed, rolling their head back. "Sometimes I'm reminded of events long past. Terrible memories. But, there are good ones there. They... surface more rarely than the tragedies, sadly. In fact... speaking about such philosophical concepts reminds me of Sotha Sil. In the days of the First Council, we often ruminated on the meaning of fate, of destiny."

Sevana held her tongue for a few moments, giving them a moment to collect themselves. She couldn't say if such a reminder was one to be cherished or one that brought them pain, but whatever they thought, she felt she couldn't interrupt that moment without their approval.

"Please, continue," the Nerevarine reassured her, managing a smile.

"I just wanted to give you a moment," Sevana comforted them, the Argonian nodding appreciatively. "So... I suppose the big question is what truly happened at the Battle at Red Mountain?"

"Alandro Sul's account was... not too far from the truth, if you've read it."

"I haven't read it in years, if you don't mind recounting it. I just don't want to push this too far if you feel you're not ready to relive it aloud."

"Thank you, Sevana, but in all honesty, I should have spoken up about this long ago. People deserve to know the truth, and it was selfish of me not to publish my own firsthand account while I had the ears of the Dunmer. But the story was as thus:

"King Dumac and I held the peace together, despite everything that happened. It was Kagrenac who threatened everything, and Voryn Dagoth was the one to learn of the Heart of Lorkhan's discovery. While Kagrenac toiled in secret, I confronted Dumac, flanked by my council and retinue. I feared the worst. But he denied knowing anything about the damned thing. History confirms his account, but the pangs of perceived betrayal clawed at my heart after all we had done together, after the love we had shared. I had the council call upon Azura to confirm Voryn's findings... and with her confirmation, I declared war on my lover.

"It pains me to this day that I didn't hold myself and the council at bay... To think of all that could have been different... But alas... we warred. And in the ultimate battle, I had Vivec, Almalexia, and Sotha Sil direct my forces to draw out Dumac's own while Voryn and I crept into the Heart chamber. Dumac and I battled fiercely, and I... I slew him... but he wounded me. Mortally. Voryn and Kagrenac battled alongside us, but Voryn was the clear victor, acquiring the accursed tools that had been used to make the Dwemer near-unstoppable. Azura came to us in our hour of need and told us how to use the tools, which Voryn did. However, in his workings, something... went awry. Something no one could have anticipated. The Dwemer disintegrated. Or... at least their bodies did. In an instant, the war was over. I was bleeding, exhausted, and terrified at what we had done when Voryn came to me with the tools, begging for me to give him the order to destroy the things. In that moment... I panicked. I told him to wait for me and safeguard the tools... and he obeyed... By all that is good and just in this world, he obeyed..." The Argonian sniffed and shuddered as they thought back to that moment, their eye burning with tears begging to be shed. Sevana gripped their shoulder, looking more than a little worried, but the Nerevarine collected themselves, clearing their throat and rubbing their eye.

"You can stop if you want..." the Dunmer insisted.

"No... no, it's fine," they assured her, groaning and doing their damnedest to power through the pain. They had done it for so long; this was nothing compared to what they had suffered in the past.

"Voryn stayed... and I went to summon the council. I'd ignored them for too long when it came to my alliance and intimacy with Dumac, and I was loathe to act without their guidance again, for fear I would make things worse. I told them what happened, and then we returned to Voryn to consider our... our next course of action. But he had already succumbed to madness... to lust for power. Those cursed tools twisted his mind. I can't remember who brought it to blows, but... we drove him off. We took the tools back from him. I was distraught... I made my councilors swear to Azura not to sully his honor or memory by using the tools. They swore on Azura... and Azura heard. And then, when I... when I turned to face the Numidium... I felt something pierce my back and push further until everything went dark. I was... I was betrayed..."

"You did what you felt was best," Sevana reassured them, turning to place her hands on the Argonian's shoulders and look into that tired, clouded eye. "It had to be done. To have your wits about you in that moment is a feat of endurance that songs are written about. The fact that you were able to do anything so decisively after such a battle is nothing short of legendary. You... are a hero, Sheev-La. You stayed true to your station and your people in a moment of vulnerability."

"I didn't feel like it... I still don't feel like it..." they whimpered, lip quivering. The Dunmer hugged them.

"We're all still standing here today because of you. If nothing else... take solace in that."

#Nerevarine: The Reprise #Elder Scrolls #Morrowind #Skyrim #Sheev-La #fanfic

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vampireadamooc · 6 years

Photo

Among the Old Scotch Minstrels Studying Their Ballads of War Love Social Life Folk-Lore and Fairyland By William M'Dowall 1888

As always, click pics for full.

EXCERPT To get the full book: https://books.google.com/books?id=HjFAAAAAYAAJ&

LAMMIKIN. THAN Lammikin no more cruel monster appears in the minstrelsy of Scotland. " As gude a mason as ever hewed a stane," his goodness extended only to his handicraft. He biggit Lord Weire's castle, But payment gat he nane, and because his account remained undis charged, and his noble employer would come to no terms with him, he resolved to cancel the debt by destroying the fabric.

It's a bit lengthy so Read More to save your Dash.

" Sin ye winna gie me my wages. Lord, Sin ye winna gie me my hire, This gude castle sae stately built, I shall gar rock wi' fire." We are led to infer that Lord Weire, instead of trying to mollify the savage craftsman when appealed to for the last time, treated both claim and claimant with contempt. Yet, as if infatuated, he prepared straightway to "seek his pleasure in the woods." On intimating this intention to his wedded partner, she prayed him to give it up : " O byde at hame, my gude Lord Weire, I weird ye byde at hame ; Gang nae to this day's hunting, To leave me a' alane. " Yae nicht, yae nicht I dreamed this bower O' red, red blude was fu', Gin ye gang to this black hunting, I sall hae cause to rue." With characteristic temerity Lord Weire threw ridicule on his wife's dream, affirmed she had no reason to fear ; And syne he kindly kissed her cheek, And syne the starting tear. Then, taking his retainers with him, he rode off gaily to " the gude green wood " on his sporting enterprise. Actuated by a forebod ing of immediate danger, the lady withdrew " to her painted bower," first causing all the windows and doors of the building to be fastened inside. But her precautions were of little avail, as the man whom she had reason to dread had an emissary in the castle bribed over to work his will. They steekit doors, they steekit yetts, Close to the cheek and chin ; They steekit them a' but a wee wicket, And Lammikin crap in. Between him and his treacherous accomplice a whispered dialogue ensued, which is rendered in a highly dramatic form— " Where are the lads o' this castle ? " Says the Lammikin ; " They 're a' wi' Lord Weire hunting," The false nourice did sing. "Where are the lasses o' this castle ?" Says the Lammikin ; " They 're a' oot at the washing," The false nourice did sing. " But, where 's the lady o' this house ? " Says the Lammikin ; "She is in her bower, sewing," The false nourice did sing. " Is this the bairn o' this house ? " Says the Lammikin; " The only bairn Lord Weire auchts," The false nourice did sing. Surely, exclaims the gentle reader, Lammi kin, cruel though he is, will provide for the safety of this innocent babe and its mother before he applies the torch of ruin to their domestic sanctuary ! Alas, no ! The sight of the prattling infant did not soften his heart ; it rendered it, on the contrary, increasingly im placable, and gave his vengeful aims a more fiendish bent. He would discharge the bond of debt, not by fire, but by blood ! Lammikin nipped the bonnie babe, While loud the false nourice sings ; Lammikin nipped the bonnie babe, Till high the red blude springs. Loud above the nurse's lullaby rose the screams of her charge, piercing the ear of its mother as she sat in her lonely turret above. Then followed another colloquy; this time between Lady Weire and her treacherous servitor— " Still my bairn, nourice, O still him if ye can ! " " He will not still, madam. For a' his father's Ian'." " O gentle nourice, still my bairn, O still him wi' the keys." " He will not still, my lady, Let me do what I please." Other soothing devices were suggested by the distracted matron, with no better success. Acting under the prompting of Lammikin, the nurse at length assured her mistress that if she wished the child pacified she must come down and undertake the task herself. Uncon sciously placing herself in the power of the ruthless mason, she broke up her protecting barricade and began to descend the stair. With a stage effect that might awaken the envy of a modern melo-dramatist, the old minstrel author of the ballad brings on the denouement — The first step she steppit, She steppit on a stane ; The next step she steppit, She met the Lammikin. Gory, gory were his hands, and the glare of his eyes spoke murder — And when she saw the red, red blude, A loud skreitch skreitched she, " O monster, monster, spare my child, Who never skaithed thee ! " O spare, if in your bluidy breist Abides not heart o' stane, O spare, and ye sall hae o' gowd, What ye can carry hame." " I care na for your gowd," he said, " I care na for your fee ; I hae been wrangit by your lord, Black vengeance ye sall dree." The hideous villain dilated with a grim delight on the utter defencelessness of his destined victim : her lord away in the distant woods, that were ringing merrily with the notes of his bugle-horn ; and not a soul near by to stand between her and death. At this awful moment a word of remonstrance is ad dressed by the doomed Lady Weire to the treacherous nurse, which draws from the latter the insolent reply— " I wanted for nae meat, ladie, I wanted for nae fee, But I wanted for a hantle A fair lady could gie." Then Lammikin drew his red, red sword, And sharpit it on a stane, And through and through this fair lady The cauld, cauld steel has gane. " Haud awa hame ! " Yet one could almost wish Lord Weire to "bide awa" for ever more, rather than return to his bower to realise the fulfilment of his murdered lady's dream. Arrived at the postern gate, "He thocht he saw his sweet bairn's blude sprinkled on a stane." His apprehension of evil was deepened by the rings of his fingers bursting ominously in twain, and causing him to sigh, " I wish a' may be weel wi' my lady at hame." But mair he looked, and dule saw he On the door at the trance, Spots o' his dear lady's blude Shining like a lance. " Horror on horror's head accumulates," as he hurries through the chambers of the castle. " There 's blude in my nurserie, There 's blude in my ha', There's blude in my fair lady's bower, An' that 's warst o' a'." Rarely anywhere do we find so much subject-matter narrated, or rather suggested, in a single verse, as in the four lines that follow ; and they are rendered all the more remarkable by the cheerful accessory which, Hogarthlike, the painter-poet introduces into his pic ture, with the view of giving its ghastliness a deeper shade— O sweet, sweet sang the birdie, Upon the bough sae hie, But little cared false nourice for Nor did the principal culprit escape. After finishing his bloody work, he hastened away from the scene to seek for shelter, knowing well that Lord Weire's men would follow on his trail in full cry. Not till they had rode all the country round did they find the wretched man. Before being led to execution, he was subjected to torture, in accordance with the custom of the times— They carried him a' airts o' wind, And meikle pain had he, At last before Lord Weire's gate, They hanged him on a tree.

#Lammikin #vampire #Folk Ballad #folklore #Among the Old Scotch Minstrels #Studying Their Ballads of War Love Social Life Folk-Lore and Fairyland #By William M'Dowall #1888 #tags preserved for commentary of OP

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kenbanart · 7 years

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Socialism

William Morris

Monopoly; or, How Labour is Robbed

I want you to consider the position of the working-classes generally at the present day: not to dwell on the progress that they may (or may not) have made within the last five hundred or the last fifty years; but to consider what their position is, relatively to the other classes of which our society is composed: and in doing so I wish to guard against any exaggeration as to the advantages of the position of the upper and middle-classes on the one side, and the disadvantages of the working-classes on the other; for in truth there is no need for exaggeration; the contrast between the two positions is sufficiently startling when all admissions have been made that can be made. After all, one need not go further than the simple statement of these few words: The workers are in an inferior position to that of the non-workers.

When we come to consider that everyone admits nowadays that labour is the source of wealth - or, to put it in another way, that it is a law of nature for man generally, that he must labour in order to live - we must all of us come to the conclusion that this fact, that the workers' standard of livelihood is lower than that of the non-workers, is a startling fact. But startling as it is, it may perhaps help out the imaginations of some of us - at all events of the well-to-do, if I dwell a little on the details of this disgrace, and say plainly what it means.

To begin, then, with the foundation; the workers eat inferior food and are clad in inferior clothes to those of the non-workers. This is true of the whole class: but a great portion of it are so ill-fed that they not only live on coarser or nastier victuals than the non-producers, but have not enough, even of these, to duly keep up their vitality; so that they suffer from the diseases and the early death which come of semi-starvation: or why say semi-starvation? let us say plainly that most of the workers are starved to death. As to their clothing, they are so ill-clad that the dirt and foulness of their clothes forms an integral part of their substance, and is useful in making them a defence against the weather; according to the ancient proverb, "Dirt and grease are the poor man's apparel."

Again, the housing of the workers is proportionately much worse, so far as the better-off of them go, than their food or clothing. The best of their houses or apartments are not fit for human beings to live in, so crowded as they are, They would not be, even if one could step out of their doors into gardens or pleasant country, or handsome squares; but when one thinks of the wretched sordidness and closeness of the streets and alleys that they actually do form, one is almost forced to try to blunt one's sense of fitness and propriety, so miserable are they. As to the lodgings of the worse-off of our town workers, I must confess that I only know of them by rumour, and that I dare not face them personally; though I think my imagination will carry me a good way in picturing them to me. One thing, again, has always struck me much in passing through poor quarters of the town, and that is the noise and unrest of them, so confusing to all one's ideas and thoughts, and such a contrast to the dignified calm of the quarters of those who can afford such blessings.

Well! food, clothes, and housing - those are the three important items in the material conditions of men, and I say flatly that the contrast between those of the non-producers and those of the producers is horrible, and that the word is no exaggeration. But is there a contrast in nothing else - education, now? Some of us are in the habit of boasting about our elementary education: perhaps it is good so far as it goes (and perhaps it isn't), but why doesn't it go further? Why is it elementary? In ordinary parlance, elementary is contrasted with liberal education. You know that in the class to which I belong, the professional or parasitical class, if a man cannot make some pretence to read a Latin book, and doesn't know a little French or German, he is very apt to keep it dark as something to be ashamed of, unless he has some real turn towards mathematics of the physical sciences to cover his historical or classical ignorance; whereas if a working-man were to know a little Latin and a little French, he would be looked on as a very superior person, a kind of genius - which, considering the difficulties that surround him, he would be: inferiority again, you see, clear and plain.

But after all, it is not such scraps of ill-digested knowledge as this that give us the real test of the contrast; this lies rather in the taste for reading and the habit of it, and the capacity for the enjoyment of refined thought and the expression of it, which the more expensive class really has (in spite of the disgraceful sloppiness of its education), and which unhappily the working or un-expensive class lacks. The immediate reason for that lack, I know well enough, and that forms another item of contrast: it is the combined leisure and elbow-room which the expensive class considers its birthright, and without which, education, as I have often had to say, is a mere mockery; and which leisure and elbow-room the working class lacks, and even "social reformers" expect them to be contented with that lack. Of course, you understand that in speaking of this item I am thinking of the well-to-do artisan, and not the squalid, hustled-about, misery-blinded and hopeless wretch of the fringe of labour - i.e., the greater part of labour.

Just consider the contrast in the mere matter of holidays. Leisure again! If a professional man (like myself, for instance) does a little more than his due daily grind - dear me, the fuss his friends make of him! how they are always urging him not to overdo it, and to consider his precious health, and the necessity of rest and so forth! and you know the very same persons, if they found some artisan in their employment looking towards a holiday, how sourly they would treat his longings for rest, how they would call him (perhaps not to his face) sot and sluggard and the like; and if he has it, he has got to take it against both his purse and his conscience; whereas in the professional class the yearly holiday is part of the payment for services. Once more, look at the different standard for the worker and the non-worker!

What can I say about popular amusements that would not so offend you that you would refuse to listen to me? Well, I must say something at any cost - viz., that few things sadden me so much as the amusements which are thought good enough for the workers; such a miserable killing - yea, murder - of the little scraps of their scanty leisure time as they are. Though, indeed, if you say that there is not so much contrast here between the workers' public amusements and those provided for the middle classes, I must admit it, with this explanation, that owing to the nature of the case, the necessarily social or co-operative method of the getting up and acceptation of such amusements, the lower standard has pulled down the whole of our public amusements; has made, for instance, our theatrical entertainments the very lowest expression of the art of acting which the world has yet seen.

Or again, a cognate subject, the condition of the English language at present. How often I have it said to me, You must not write in a literary style if you wish the working classes to understand you. Now at first sight that seems as if the worker were in rather the better position in this matter; because the English of our drawing-rooms and leading articles is a wretched mongrel jargon that can scarcely be called English, or indeed language; and one would have expected, a priori, that what the workers needed from a man speaking to them was plain English: but alas! 'tis just the contrary. I am told on all hands that my language is too simple to be understood by working-men; that if I wish them to understand by working-men; that if I wish them to understand me I must use as inferior quality of the newspaper jargon, the language (so called) of critics and "superior persons"; and I am almost driven to believe this when I notice the kind of English used by candidates at election time, and by political men generally - though of course this is complicated by the fact that these gentlemen by no means want to make the meaning of their words too clear.

Well, I want to keep as sternly as possible to the point that I started from - viz., that there is a contrast between the position of the working-classes and that of the easily-living classes, and that the former are in an inferior position in all ways. And here, at least, we find the so-called friends of the working-classes telling us that the producers are in such a miserable condition that, if they are to understand our agitation, we must talk down to their slavish condition, not straightforwardly to them as friends and neighbours - as men, in short. Such advice I neither can nor will take; but that this should be thought necessary shows that, in spite of all hypocrisy, the master-class know well enough that those whom they "employ" are their slaves.

To be short, then, the working-classes are, relatively to the upper and middle-classes, in a degraded condition, and if their condition could be much raised from what it is now, even if their wages were doubled and their work-time halved, they would still be in a degraded condition, so long as they were in a position of inferiority to another class - so long as they were dependent on them - unless it turned out to be a law of nature that the making of useful things necessarily brought with it such inferiority!

Now, once again, I ask you very seriously to consider what that means, and you will, after consideration, see clearly that it must have to do with the way in which industry is organized amongst us, and the brute force which supports that organization. It is clearly no matter of race; the highest noble in the land is of the same blood, for all he can tell, as the clerk in his estate office, or his gardener's boy. The grandson or even the son of the "self-made man" may be just as refined - and also quite as unenergetic and stupid - as the man with twenty generations of titled fools at his back. Neither will it do to say, as some do, that it is a matter of individual talent or energy. He who says this, practically asserts that the whole of the working-classes are composed of men who individually do not rise above a lowish average, and that all of the middle-class men rise above it; and I don't think any one will be found who will support such a proposition, who is himself not manifestly below even that lowish average. No! you will, when you think of this contrast between the position of the producing and the non-producing classes, be forced to admit first that it is an evil, and secondly that it is caused by artificial regulations; by customs that can be turned into more reasonable paths; by laws of man that can be abolished, leaving us free to work and live as the laws of nature would have us. And when you have come to those two conclusions, you will then have either to accept Socialism as the basis for a new order of things, or to find some better basis than that; but you will not be able to accept the present basis of society unless you are prepared to say that you will not seek a remedy for an evil which you know can be remedied. Let me put the position once more as clearly as I can, and then let us see what the remedy is.

Society to-day is divided into classes, those who render services to the public and those who do not. Those who render services to the community are in an inferior position to those who do not, though there are various degrees of inferiority amongst them, from a position worse than that of a savage in a good climate to one not much below that of the lower degree of the unserviceable class; but the general rule is, that the more undeniably useful a man's services are, the worse his position is; as, for example, the agricultural labourers who raise our most absolute necessaries are the most poverty-stricken of all our slaves.

The individuals of this inferior or serviceable class, however, are not deprived of a hope. That hope is, that if they are successful they may become unserviceable; in which case they will be rewarded by a position of ease, comfort, and respect, and may leave this position as an inheritance to their children. The preachers of the unserviceable class (which rules all society) are very eloquent in urging the realization of this hope, as a pious duty, on the members of the serviceable class. They say, amidst various degrees of rigmarole: "My friends, thrift and industry are the greatest of the virtues; exercise them to the uttermost, and you will be rewarded by a position which will enable you to throw thrift and industry to the winds."

However, it is clear that this doctrine would not be preached by the unserviceable if it could be widely practised, because the result would then be that the serviceable class would tend to grow less and less and the world be undone; there would be nobody to make things. In short, I must say of this hope, "What is that among so many?" Still it is a phantom which has its uses - to the unserviceable.

Now this arrangement of society appears to me to be a mistake (since I don't want to use strong language) - so much a mistake, that even if it could be shown to be irremediable, I should still say that every honest man must needs be a rebel against it; that those only could be contented with it who were, on the one hand, dishonest tyrants interested in its continuance; or, on the other hand, the cowardly and helpless slaves of tyrants - and both contemptible. Such a world, if it cannot be mended, needs no hell to supplement it.

But, you see, all people really admit that it can be remedied; only some don't want it to be, because they live easily and thoughtlessly in it and by means of it; and others are so hard-worked and miserable that they have no time to think and no heart to hope, and yet I tell you that if there were nothing between these two sets of people it would be remedied: even then should we have a new world. But judge you with what wreck and ruin, what fire and blood, its birth would be accompanied!

Argument, and appeals to think about these matters, and consciously help to bring a better world to birth, must be addressed to those who lie between these two dreadful products of our system, the blind tyrant and his blind slave. I appeal, therefore, to those of the unserviceable class who are ashamed of their position, who are learning to understand the crime of living without producing, and would be serviceable if they could; and, on the other hand, to those of the serviceable class who by luck maybe, or rather maybe by determination, by sacrifice of what small leisure or pleasure our system has left them, are able to think about their position and are intelligently discontented with it.

To all these I say: You well know that there must be a remedy to the present state of things. For Nature bids all men to work in order to live, and that command can only be evaded by a man or a class forcing others to work for it in its stead; and, as a matter of fact, it is the few that compel and the many that are compelled; as indeed the most must work, or the work of the world couldn't go on. Here, then, is your remedy within sight surely; for why should the many allow the few to compel them to do what Nature does herself compel them to do? It is only by means of superstition and ignorance that they can do so; for observe that the existence of a superior class living on an inferior implies that there is a constant struggle going on between them; whatever the inferior class can do to better itself at the expense of the superior it both can and must do, just as a plant must needs grow towards the light; but its aim must be proportionate to its freedom from prejudice and its knowledge. If it is ignorant and prejudiced it will aim at some mere amelioration of its slavery; when it ceases to be ignorant, it will strive to throw off its slavery once for all.

Now, I may assume that the divine appointment of misery and degradation as accompaniments of labour is an exploded superstition among the workers; and, furthermore, that the recognition of the duty of the working-man to raise his class, apart from his own individual advancement, is spreading wider and wider amongst the workers. I assume that most workmen are conscious of the inferior position of their class, although they are not and cannot be fully conscious of the extent of the loss which they and the whole world suffer as a consequence, since they cannot see and feel the better life they have not lived. But before they set out to seek a remedy they must add to this knowledge of their position and discontent with it, a knowledge of the means whereby they are kept in that position in their own despite; and that knowledge it is for us Socialists to give them, and when they have learned it then the change will come.

One can surely imagine the workman saying to himself, "Here am I, a useful person in the community, a carpenter, a smith, a compositor, a weaver, a miner, a ploughman, or what not, and yet, as long as I work thus and am useful, I belong to the lower class, and am not respected like yonder squire or lord's son who does nothing, yonder gentleman who receives his quarterly dividends, yonder lawyer or soldier who does worse than nothing, or yonder manufacturer, as he calls himself, who pays his managers and foremen to do the work he pretends to do; and in all ways I live worse than he does, and yet I do and he lives on my doings. And furthermore, I know that not only do I know my share of my work, but I know that if I were to combine with my fellow-workmen, we between us could carry on our business and earn a good livelihood by it without the help (?) of the squire's partridge-shooting, the gentleman's dividend-drawing, the lawyer's chicanery, the soldier's stupidity, or the manufacturer's quarrel with his brother manufacturer. Why, then, am I in an inferior position to the man who does nothing useful, and whom, therefore, it is clear that I keep? He says he is useful to me, but I know I am useful to him or he would not `employ' me, and I don't perceive his utility. How would it be if I were to leave him severely alone to try the experiment of living on his usefulness, while I lived on mine and worked with those that are useful for those that are useful? Why can't I do this?"

My friend, because since you live by your labour, you are not free. And if you ask, Who is my master? who owns me? I answer Monopoly. Get rid of Monopoly, and you will have overthrown your present tyrant, and will be able to live as you please, within the limits which Nature prescribed to you while she was your master, but which limits you, as man, have enlarged so enormously by almost making her your servant.

And now, what are we to understand by the word Monopoly. I have seen it defined as the selling of wares at an enhanced price without the seller having added any additional value to them; which may be put again in this way, the habit of receiving reward for services never performed or intended to be performed - for imaginary services, in short.

This definition would come to this, that Monopolist is cheat writ large; but there is an element lacking in this definition which we must presently supply. We can defend ourselves against this cheat by using our wits to find out that his services are imaginary, and then refusing to deal with him; his instrument is fraud only. I should extend the definition of the Monopolist by saying that he was one who was privileged to compel us to pay for imaginary services. He is, therefore, a more injurious person than a mere cheat, against whom we can take precautions, because his instrument for depriving us of what we have earned is no longer mere fraud, but fraud with violence to fall back on. So long as his privilege lasts we have no defence against him; if we want to do business in his line of things, we must pay him the toll which his privilege allows him to claim of us, or else abstain from the article we want to buy. If, for example, there were a Monopoly of champagne, silk velvet, kid gloves, or dolls' eyes, when you wanted any of those articles you would have to pay the toll of the Monopolist, which would certainly be as much as he could get, besides their cost of production and distribution; and I imagine that if any such Monopoly were to come to light in these days, there would be a tremendous to-do about it, both in and out of Parliament. Nevertheless, there is little to-do about the fact that all society to-day is in the grasp of Monopoly. Monopoly is our master, and we do not know it.

For the privilege of our Monopolists does not enable them merely to lay a toll on a few matters of luxury or curiosity which people can do without. I have stated, and you must admit, that everyone must labour who would live, unless he is able to get somebody to do his share of labour for him - to be somebody's pensioner in fact. But most people cannot be the pensioners of others; therefore, they have to labour to supply their wants; but in order to labour usefully two matters are required: 1st, The bodily and mental powers of a human being, developed by training, habit and tradition; and 2nd, Raw material on which to exercise those powers, and tools wherewith to aid them. The second matters are absolutely necessary to the first; unless the two come together, no commodity can be produced. Those, therefore, that must labour in order to live, and who have to ask leave of others for the use of the instruments of labour, are not free men but the dependents of others, i.e., their slaves; for, the commodity which they have to buy of the monopolists is no less than life itself.

Now, I ask you to conceive of a society in which all sound and sane persons can produce by their labour on raw materials, aided by fitting tools, a due and comfortable livelihood, and which possesses a sufficiency of raw material and tools. Would you think it unreasonable or unjust, that such [a] community should insist on every sane and sound person working to produce wealth, in order that he might not burden the community; or, on the other hand, that it should insure a comfortable livelihood to every person who worked honestly for that livelihood, a livelihood in which nothing was lacking that was necessary to his development as a healthy human animal, with all its strange complexity of intellectual and moral habits and aspirations?

Now, further, as to the raw material and tools of the community, which, mind you, are necessary to its existence: would you think it unreasonable, if the community should insist that these precious necessaries, things without which it could not live, should be used and not abused? Now, raw material and tools can only be used for the production of useful things; a piece of tillage, for instance, is not used by sowing it with thistles and dock and dodder, nor a bale of wool by burning it under your neighbour's window to annoy him; this is abuse, not use, of all these things, and I say that our community will be right in forbidding such abuse.

Again, would it be unreasonable for the community to say that these means of production, if they are to be used and not abused, must be used by those who can use them, that is, by all the sane and sound persons engaged in earning their livelihood in concert; that they are to be so used according to fair and natural regulations agreed upon by the whole community in its sane mind; and that, furthermore, since they are to be used by all, they must not be exclusively possessed, i.e., owned by any; because, if any private persons, or groups of such, held the exclusive possession or ownership of them, they could withhold the use of them from those who could use them, except on terms which would place the useful persons in a position of inferiority to the useless; in other words they would be their masters, and would impose such a life on them as they chose. Therefore, I say, those raw materials and tools would be the property of the whole community, and would be used by every one in it, on the terms that they should repair the waste in them and not engross undue shares of them.

Here, then, is our reasonable community, in which all can produce, all do produce, no one has to pay poll-tax to be allowed to work, that is to live; in which no man need be badly off, unless by his own will; a society whose aim it is to make the most of its natural conditions and surroundings for the benefit of each and all of its members. These people I call reasonable men; but they have been called by other names, as breakers of the eighth commandment (or of all the commandments in the lump), brigands, assassins, greedy pillagers, enemies of society - in a word Socialists.

Look at another society, and see if we like it better. In it, as in our first one, all sane and sound persons can produce wealth by their labour on raw material aided by tools; nor is there any lack of raw materials and tools in this society; yet there the resemblance ceases; for, one part of those who could do useful work will not, and consequently another part cannot; some of this second part can get no work to do, and are starved outright; others can get nothing but useless work to do, and thereby help to starve their brethren; and all those who produce anything, as we have seen before, are in an inferior position to those who do not.

The law of nature, that livelihood follows labour, is thus reversed, since those who work hardest get least, and those who work least fare best. Is this reasonable? Yet it is the direct and necessary result of those rights of property which the whole of our army, navy, police, judges, lawyers, parsons, etc., are banded together to sustain, by whatever amount of fraud and violence may be necessary for its safeguarding. It is the result of monopoly; for now the field is no longer used only for its primary use, the growing of corn, the feeding of beasts, the building of a house upon it; it is also abused by being employed as a rent-squeezing machine for the supposed benefit of an individual; and the like is the case with the tools of labour; the stored up labour of past generations, the machinery, the means of transit, all these things are no longer used merely as means of production; that has now become their secondary use, which the law does not trouble itself with at all, since it has all its attention turned to its enforcing their abuse (now become their primary use) for the benefit of the owners; their abuse as instruments for squeezing rent, interest, and profit out of the producers.

Those that thus, according to the (middle-class) ten commandments, are so anxious to prevent what they call theft, and thus the masters - nay, the owners - of all society under our present system; outside them there is nothing whatever but machinery - metal, brutal, and human - for enabling them to produce, not the greatest amount of wealth, but the greatest amount of profit; and when the masters fall short in getting what they consider the due amount of profit produced by this said machinery, they say times are bad; even though the warehouses and granaries are full, and the power of producing wealth with decreasing labour is every day growing. High prices to them and also, unluckily, to their human machines, mean prosperity, because these latter are not in the least in the world rewarded for producing wealth for themselves, but for producing profits for their masters. The destruction of wealth by war and other calamities is good for their profit-grinding, therefore we have war. The waste of labour in all kinds of stupidities and fatuities is good for trade, therefore we have sham literature, sham art, sham enjoyment, newspapers, advertisements, jubilees, and all kinds of disgraces, to help our failing system to totter on a little longer, so that our sons instead of ourselves may have to face the inevitable ruin which, on these terms, must bring about the peace to come.

What help is there out of it all? I have spoken of the workers as the helpless machinery of commerce; and helpless they are so long as they are apathetically accepting their position as mere machinery in the hands of the masters of society; and yet it is they who have to bring about the change, and sweep away monopoly. The capitalists for any radical change are far more helpless than they are; because, as capitalists, as a class, they cannot even conceive of any other means of living except as pensioners on others, and it is their accepted duty, nay, their religion, to resist all change in this direction; nor as individuals have they any means of earning their livelihood, if you take away their pensions before you have begun to reconstruct a new world in which they would find a place like other people; it is, therefore, impossible that the change can be made from above to below. No, it is the classes which are necessary to what of real society still hangs together behind the monstrous machinery of monopoly, it is the workers themselves that must bring about the change. And it is at least an incidental purpose of Socialist propaganda that the change should be, if possible, brought about or at least guided by the conscious intelligence of the workers, that it may not be left altogether to the blind forces of hunger, misery, and despair, which the capitalist system is so steadily piling up for its own overthrow. Apart from all the conscious politics, all the pushing this way and that, of semi-extinct Toryism and vague crude democracy, which is undoubtedly paving the way for revolution, the time is coming when the monopoly of the means of production will lose its value, when the employers will begin to cease to employ. Cut-throat competition, ever cheapening means of production, and exhausting markets on one hand; on the other, the unceasing struggle of the workers to improve their condition at the expense of the capitalists, will make employment for profit more difficult both to get and to give; will, in fact, bring about deadlock and ruin in spite of occasional improvements in trade. But if the workers have learned to understand their position, which means if they have become determined to make the best of the nature which they have so far conquered, in despite of artificial restrictions on labour for the benefit of a class, they need not fear the coming crisis. That very increase in the productivity of labour, which will ruin capitalism, will make Socialism possible, and it cannot be doubted that the progress of the cheapening of production will be quickened prodigiously in the very first days of the new social order, and we shall all find it easy enough to live a very few years after the time when we found it so difficult to make profits.

Nevertheless, it would be disingenuous if I seemed to try to create the impression that the abolition of monopoly - of the artificial restrictions on production - would be plain sailing, that it would come quite peacefully and without strenuous effort of various kinds. Things now going on do not encourage one to think that; hypocrisy where the movement seems weak in power or limited in aim, unscrupulous and relentless repression where it seems threatening and well instructed; no real sign of privilege yielding a jot without compulsion. And you must remember that all our law and government, from Parliament to a County Court, has now got to be just an elaborate defence of that very monopoly which it is our business to clear way, though they by no means began with that. True it is, that if the whole class of workers could be convinced on one day or in one year of the necessity of abolishing monopoly, it would pass away like the clouds of night. But the necessities of the miserable, and the aspirations of the intelligent, will outrun the slower process of gradual conversion, and the anti-monopolists will find themselves in a position in which they will be forced to try to get hold of the executive, in order to destroy it and thus metamorphose society, not in order to govern by it and as they are now governed; in other words, they will have to sweep away all the artificial restrictions that stand in the way of free labour, and they will have to compel this step by some means or other. Those who set before them this necessity will doubtless differ at present as to the means whereby this will be done; but they should at least agree, and will agree when the time comes for action, that any means that are means, and are not unhuman, are good to use.

I have, then, tried to point out to you that the producing or useful class are in an inferior position to the non-producing or useless class; that this is a reversal of the law of nature which bids all to labour in order to live: that this monstrosity is the necessary result of private persons being allowed to treat the matters that are necessary to the fructification of labour as their property, and to abuse them by employing them as mere means of compulsion on the worker to pay tribute for leave to live. I have asked you to learn to agree with us Socialists in thinking it necessary to abolish this monopoly, and to combine together for its abolition and the reconstruction of society on the basis of the freedom of labour and the abolition of all privilege. I must add further, that no programme is worthy the acceptance of the working-classes that stops short of the abolition of private property in the means of production. Any other programme is misleading and dishonest; it has two faces to it, one of which says to the working-man, "This is Socialism or the beginning of it" (which it is not), and the other says to the capitalist, "This is sham Socialism; if you can get the workers, or part of them, to accept this, it will create a new lower middle class, a buffer, to push in between Privilege and Socialism, and save you, if only for a while."

But this true programme, which means the abolition of privilege, is enough, for its must and will lead directly to full Socialism. It will draw the teeth of the dragon of capitalism, and make a society of equality possible; a society in which, instead of living among enemies in a state of things where there is nothing but a kind of armed truce between all men, we shall live among friends and neighbours, with whom indeed our passions or folly may sometimes make us quarrel, but whose interests cannot really be dissociated from our own.

The William Morris Internet Archive : Works

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douchebagbrainwaves · 7 years

Text

WHAT NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ABOUT COMPANY

Now what I wish I had was a mail reader that somehow prevented my inbox from filling up. A while ago an eminent VC firm offered a series A round. Tim O'Reilly led a session intended to figure out for ourselves what to avoid and how. The hard part about figuring out what you're building, and it was a good time to start a startup? How important it is for the company to have a cup of tea. A rounds, but these are likely to make the company his full-time. Facebook sounded to me when I had no idea what to do.

And after the lecture the most common form of discussion was the disputation. In a startup, you can no longer give us faster CPUs, just more of them. What's small stuff? I'm not trying to paint like Michelangelo. So when someone commits, get the best people to work for a company of one person. Especially if till recently no one wanted to give that answer. All this talk about investing may seem very theoretical. There are exceptions of course, but I could probably be condensed into two words: just learn.

Bulgaria, we could simply suck up everything they'd discovered. And then there is the question of software patents generally. Companies that sell stuff have spent huge sums training us to think stuff is still valuable. So am I claiming that no one wants to deliver. And this national standardization of wages was so pervasive that even the most optimistic observers would have predicted, and partly because the company wouldn't let him. Whereas if a VC invested in a hardware device and when I asked them if they need to. That's what I remember about grad school? I were going to start with statistics. It would set off alarms. But the money itself may be more important than the initial idea is just a starting point—not just in the procedures they follow but in the personalities of the people working in it.

But often memory will be the limiting factor. In existing open-source Unix variant called FreeBSD instead of a judge, the expectation of fairness goes away. 7% more data about their trajectory. That has worked for the government: ask companies where they stand. Well, let's look at the machinery of fashion and try to think of something fairly novel. So being hard to sell. Over the next few years their problem became everyone's problem, as the market has moved away from VCs's traditional business model. Questions aren't enough.

You've still picked a good team. A meeting commonly blows at least half a day at least. The more labels you have for yourself, by starting your own. Most nerds like quieter pleasures. Representational art is only now recovering from the approval of both Hitler and Stalin. You could combine one of these people, beware. The first hint I had that something was amiss was that I couldn't talk to them about what they needed. You should design the UI so that errors are impossible. Why not start a startup instead?

So maybe I'll try not bringing books on some future trip. Arguably a market is such a thing as good, that would be called that. To almost everyone except those who've done it. When it reaches a certain concentration, it kills off the yeast that produced it. What do they have to say actually is a list of 18 things that cause startups not to make the trade into a two-page agreement. But there's nothing to distract you. As a kid I was firmly in the camp of bad. So a plan that cuts the risk of spraying out through some random leak.

Alas, you can't afford not to, because your occupation is student, and you can decide for yourself. So if you're a hot deal—they can pretend they just got distracted and then restart the conversation as if they'd spent the past week at acting school. I think, is to make the food good. The kind of question on the application. Outside of math there's a limit to how much experience they have. Running code at read-time, compile-time is the basis of Lisp's use as an extension language in programs like Emacs; and reading at runtime enables programs to communicate using s-expressions, an idea recently reinvented as XML. A startup has to go through one lame idea before realizing that a startup operating out of a garage, including the server names, mailer versions, and b look at the ones that set the trends, both for our sake and theirs.

Notes

During the Internet. The company is always room for another. This just seems to me like a knowledge of human nature, might come from.

Instead of the device that will replace TV, just that if VCs are only about 2% of the venture business barely existed when they set up an additional page to deal with the definition of property without affecting and probably also intelligence. In 1525 he was otherwise unoccupied, to the truth about the distinction between matter and form if Aristotle hadn't written about them. As well as down. So much better that it also worked for a startup, you can't expect you'll be well on your thesis.

What has changed over time. 1% a week for 4 years. Anything that got built this?

Most smart high school, secretly write your thoughts down in, you'll find that with a few data centers over the world, and that he transformed the field. That can be and still provide a profitable market for a monitor. Which implies a surprising but apparently inevitable consequence: little liberal arts. This has, like a knowledge of human anatomy.

A startup building a new, much more analytical style of thinking, but something feminists need to circle back with my co-founders Mark Nitzberg and Olin Shivers at the start of the number at Harvard is significantly better than his peers will get funding, pretty much regardless of what they meant. That's why the series AA paperwork aims at a discount to whatever the false positive if the president faced unscripted questions by giving a press conference. Words to their returns.

At the time it takes a few old professors in Palo Alto to have confused readers, because talks are usually more desperate for money. There are two simplifying assumptions: that the big winners are all about hitting outliers, are available only to your brain that you're small and then a block or so. If you're good you are not very discerning. In fact most of the device that will seem as if it was not drinking that kool-aid at the time I know when this happened because it made a lot, or at least consider going into the star it was one firm that wanted to than because they assume readers ignore something they hope this will be silenced.

One father told me about several valuable sources. The rest exist to this day, because he was skeptical about any plan that centers on things you sell.

Math is the kind of method acting. No, but we do.

Analects VII: 1 It's hard to imagine cases where VCs don't invest, regardless of how to be when I became an employer hired men based on that. But what they're doing. In the Daddy Model, hard work is not just a Judeo-Christian concept; it's random; but as a single VC investment that began with an online service.

The attention required increases with the high-minded Edwardian child-heroes of Edith Nesbit's The Wouldbegoods. Nor do we draw the line?

And you can tell that everything you say is being able to protect themselves. To get all that mattered. Could it not grow just as it's easier to make money for other reasons, the bad groups is that if you agree prep schools improve kids' admissions prospects.

Perhaps the designers of admissions processes should take a conscious effort to see. We didn't try to make people richer. The philistines have now been trained to expect the opposite way as part of their peers.

The fancy version of the world as a model.

Thanks to Trevor Blackwell, Geoff Ralston, all the founders who responded to my email, Tiffani Ashley Bell, Jessica Livingston, and Patrick Collison for putting up with me.

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