#I really see all these ideas taking place very clearly in the craftsmen and the Artisanship Commission

[magog-on-the-march]

The idea of exploiting workers in order to tell a story condemning the exploitation of workers is grimly ironic to put it mildly, so when we sit down at E3 to speak with Lanning and Oddworld executive producer Bennie Terry III, we ask what crunch was like for Oddworld on Abe's Oddysee, and if it's improved since.

"No one wants to say, 'This product was done by people who worked 9-to-5, and they all had great healthcare, weekends off, three weeks of vacation, and everyone had that. Here you go.' If it's not great, everyone goes, 'Who cares? Why didn't they lose some fucking sleep to get it done and get it better?'

"The audience is absolutely ruthless, and we should never suspect for a second that they're not. They're absolutely ruthless. They don't care how many people died making the product. [laughing] I mean literally. They don't care. We're ruthless with how we spend our money. We live in a culture that's based on 'Wal Mart's cheaper. Let's go there for our stuff. Amazon Prime delivers without shipping costs. Let's go there.' And that shapes our world. At the end of the day, it's about the quality of what's on screen."

(Full article under the cut for posterity)

The Irony of Oddworld

Lorne Lanning on crunching to make games about the exploitation of workers

Brendan Sinclair | North American Editor | Thursday 25th July 2019

gamesindustry.biz

The 1997 PlayStation-exclusive Oddworld: Abe's Oddysee is very clearly concerned about the exploitation of workers. It centers on the Mudokons, a race that has been enslaved and forced to work in factories by a ruthless company willing to literally putting them through the grinder in an attempt to boost profits.

Clearly, creative director Lorne Lanning has some opinions about capitalism, and he's not exactly shy about it.

But Lanning is also the co-founder of the company behind the game, Oddworld Inhabitants. He was the boss of a company making a video game for profit, in an era where crunch and overwork were pervasive, when the subjects were talked about as virtues in the press on the rare occasions they were mentioned at all.

The idea of exploiting workers in order to tell a story condemning the exploitation of workers is grimly ironic to put it mildly, so when we sit down at E3 to speak with Lanning and Oddworld executive producer Bennie Terry III, we ask what crunch was like for Oddworld on Abe's Oddysee, and if it's improved since.

"It was always terrible," Lanning admits. "And it's still terrible. It's not a burden we try to put on every individual, but for Bennie and I, it's just terrible. And different people at different times rise to the occasion."

He says the idea of a 9-to-5 job in game development is increasingly possible, particularly for "huge companies that have mega-IPs that are doing billions and billions of dollars." Even so, he adds it doesn't seem to be a very common situation for developers.

"I mean, we're past EA Spouse," he says, referring to a 2004 LiveJournal post from the wife of an EA employee detailing numerous issues with the company's treatment of workers. "We're past that, where everyone realized they were basically being exploited for the extreme gain of a select few of the executive class. That's still going on in different places in the world."

Ultimately, Lanning says the problem of crunch in games stems from its nature as an entertainment business.

"I tell this to people we work with all the time, particularly young people," Lanning says. "You have to realize something: we are a luxury class. We're not doing anything important. The important people are picking up your garbage, fixing your medical problems, growing your food, supplying electricity. Those are the important people in civilization; they actually provide a benefit. We're just entertaining people. It's complete luxury; they don't need us."

On top of that, Lanning says entertainment media are in a difficult position because the audience is concerned only with the end product, not the methods of its production.

"No one wants to say, 'This product was done by people who worked 9-to-5, and they all had great healthcare, weekends off, three weeks of vacation, and everyone had that. Here you go.' If it's not great, everyone goes, 'Who cares? Why didn't they lose some fucking sleep to get it done and get it better?'

"The audience is absolutely ruthless, and we should never suspect for a second that they're not. They're absolutely ruthless. They don't care how many people died making the product. [laughing] I mean literally. They don't care. We're ruthless with how we spend our money. We live in a culture that's based on 'Wal Mart's cheaper. Let's go there for our stuff. Amazon Prime delivers without shipping costs. Let's go there.' And that shapes our world. At the end of the day, it's about the quality of what's on screen."

He likens it to athletes who want to win Olympic gold. They're expected to sacrifice to achieve that goal, from strict diet and exercise regimens to not having a dating life.

"In entertainment, if you want real stability -- and this is where I feel I'm just being honest and not necessarily saying what's politically correct -- if you want to make entertainment that stands out, show me where you can do that where people don't put everything in to get there," Lanning says. "The only ones that are able to do that are the ones who have reached the bar where they now have perfection."

He points to Pixar as an example, saying the animation studio has never had a film that wasn't a hit (although he adds some were bigger than others).

"In the beginning, if you watch [Pixar executive] John Lasseter's videos, he [points to a corner of the room and says], 'And that's my sleeping bag. And that's where I sleep to get these projects done. And if you want to be a great animator, that's what you're going to do too.' That's the legacy of entertainment."

He adds, "I don't believe there's anyone you could talk to who built anything in this business who didn't really persevere night and day to get it done. I've been doing that my entire career. I've had health issues because of it. I wish it weren't that way, but it kind of is."

Lanning asks if we've seen Bohemian Rhapsody. When we say no, he asks if we have a problem with Queen, the band the film was about. We love Queen, we say, but weren't interested in a film that played so fast and loose with the facts.

"Maybe, but see, this is Hollywood," Lanning says. "We're not trying to replicate what was actually true, we're just trying to make something that's inspiring, that you felt was a moving experience."

He then talked about an inspirational scene of the band working through the night to create the song Bohemian Rhapsody.

"Usually with great art, that's what it takes," Lanning says. "I think it was Martha Graham, the founder of modern dance, who said the dilemma of being an artist is living with the dissatisfaction of feeling like nothing is ever complete, done, or as good as it could be. And I think that goes for designers, for directors, for people that are really craftsmen in an artistic sense. The ambitious team is usually going to beat the unambitious team unless you're so fat, like some of the biggest media companies are so fat they can fail and still succeed because they just keep throwing money and bodies at the project."

Given that Abe's Oddysee and the upcoming Oddworld: Soulstorm are about the player character's attempts to organize an exploited labor force to gain power against their oppressors, we finish the interview by asking Lanning about his stance on unions.

"It's kind of like my stance on the death penalty," Lanning says. "Philosophically, I'm fine with the death penalty. I think lots of people deserve not to be here with the rest of us. Practically, I'm concerned about who has that power. If we have such a thing, is it going to be abused and are we just going to shut up political dissidents and stuff like that? Unions are kind of similar.

"My stepfather was a teamster. I saw a lot of things and heard a lot of stories about unions through there. Part of the problems with unions is that they start to encapsulate power and use that in a different way that becomes counterproductive, possibly sometimes, to the industry they're trying to unionize. If we lived in a really healthy, honest world where everyone was fair, we wouldn't need them. But because it's not a fair world, sometimes we do. What would happen to this industry is it would put out most of the small people, but the big ones would survive just fine."

#Oddworld #Lorne Lanning #GamesIndustry #interview

[kassandra-lorelei]

I don't ever remember reading a dummy twins continuation where Niles go after C.C. Do you know of any? Anyways can you write one where he decides to go after her and try one more time? I have always thought he would regret what he said to her on the stairs and would go find her, even just to apologize before he leaves or else he wouldn't be able to live with himself that that was the last thing he ever said to her. Take your time, I know you are busy and have other requests. Thanks!

I’m so sorry I’ve only just finished this! I have got to do all of these prompts and my fics, and try to carve out some time every day after work so that they get done quicker. I’ve also been feeling a bit down recently, which I suppose hasn’t helped, but today was better - I passed my probation at work! Let’s all read fics to celebrate

@missbabcocks1 @holomoriarty

“You’re going to be saying “Merry Christmas” to your friends in rehab and wondering what might’ve been!”

Niles cringed as the words from not-too-long-ago echoed in his head, and he shoved another folded cardigan into his suitcase. He was sure to try and make that shove as hard as possible. It had originally come from the thought that maybe the more he focused on packing, getting away from the Sheffield mansion and finding a new place to start over, the less he’d be able to hear himself in his head.

Not that he’d had any luck. The sound of his own cruelty kept returning and said cardigan was only about the third item he’d managed to put away, so far – the adrenaline from the…well, the argument (he might as well call it what it was)…was wearing off and winding down into shock. Even thinking about it was leaving him almost paralysed.

He was stuck there, frozen in his own shame and the knowledge of what he’d done.

He couldn’t believe he’d just let Miss Babcock have it like that! It’d been more ruthless than he’d ever imagined himself to be, and there was no justification! It didn’t even matter if the part of him that still wanted to be angry kept trying to say that she’d deserved it.Nobody really and truly deserved what he’d said. It’d been the heat of the moment, and it’d all come straight from the hurt and the anger he’d been burning with the moment she’d scoffed at the idea of marrying him.He could still hear her in his head as clearly as he heard himself.“You are a pathetic excuse for a man!”That time, he felt himself flinch, gripping tightly at the edge of his case as he let Miss Babcock’s voice make a natural exit from his mind. He’d never once imagined that he might agree with the producer (out loud and in the open, anyway), but how could he do anything else now? What kind of a man did the things he did, to the woman he knew in his heart that he loved?He’d always tried to justify it, before now. He’d told himself that there was no other possible means of getting her attention – not while he was a servant and she was…everything he’d ever dreamed of, really. And he didn’t just mean that she was rich – in fact, that was one of the things he least cared about when it came to how he saw her, deep down.To him, she was the height of sophistication. The sharpest wit. The most fun and exciting adversary-slash-partner-in-crime. It was her intelligence that kept the business alive and her strong personality that kept ego-driven backers, actors and senior crew members from eating Mr Sheffield alive. And that wasn’t even getting started on how stunning she was, from her golden hair and sapphire eyes, to her statuesque frame and curves only the finest marble craftsmen could ever hope to replicate.Had he ever told her how much he’d admired her, for any of that? Only once for some of it, after twelve glasses of scotch, and even then, not very well.At least they’d had a dance out of it. If he’d known that it would be their last, he’d have tried to make it go on a little bit longer. He might’ve even tried to have an actual conversation with her about what they might or might not (most likely not; from the brief flashbacks his mind had surrendered afterwards, he didn’t remember anything happening successfully) have done after the wedding was over and everyone had left the reception.He didn’t know what it would have achieved, but it might’ve left them in a different position. Figuratively thinking, of course. He knew there was no way she would’ve ever considered changing her mind about him – why would she? She had no reason to even think of giving him a chance and every reason on the planet to laugh in his face.Just like she had done, when he’d blurted out those fateful words at the opening night party.He tried to distract himself by quickly turning and grabbing another few of his shirts, which hastily went into the case, but it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough – he could pack up his whole life (he resisted the urge to let Miss Babcock’s voice come in and remind him how pathetically empty the suitcase would be if he did that), and he’d still be thinking about it. About all of the things that had happened – that he’d done, that she’d done, that they’d both done…It filled him with shame, knowing how much of it could’ve been avoided, if he’d simply treated her the way a man should treat a woman he cared about. Granted, not much else might’ve come of it, but at least his conscience would be clear.He needed to clear it now. Or, at least attempt to. And that meant only one thing.He had to apologise to her, before it was too late.Of course, that didn’t necessarily mean forgiveness. He just needed her to know that he had seen the error of his ways. He’d leave her alone after that and return to finish up his packing. A flight back to London was calling, with promises of a new life attached.A new life, but no new love. He knew he’d never find anybody else that made him feel the way she did. But he’d get used to the loneliness – he’d been carrying it around in his heart for twenty years already, anyway.It might hurt less, being an ocean apart and not having to see her every day.But that was enough of standing around, just thinking about it. He actually had to get down there and do it, if he had a chance of feeling any better.If he was lucky (and he doubted it at this point, but it wasn’t like he had much left to lose), she might still be downstairs. Perhaps taking refuge in the kitchen, or the office. If he knew anything at all about Miss Babcock, it was that she could either bury herself in work to escape the things that bothered her, or she could take her frustrations down one of two pathways with food – neither of which were completely healthy.Cringing again at how he’d played more than a minor role in that particular aspect of her beliefs about herself, he left his unfinished suitcase, steeled himself with a few calming breaths for whatever was about to happen and went to head downstairs.…………………………………………………………He’d been right – she was in the kitchen, when he got there.She didn’t notice him at first. It looked like she was hunched over at the kitchen table, focusing almost furiously on something she had in front of her. One of her arms was twitching, as though she was writing something down, but it was only a few words at a time.The look was a familiar one. She was trying to word something correctly. He’d been right again – she was distracting herself with work, even if it wasn’t coming to her as quickly as it normally did.There was a strange mixture of tension and lightness in his chest, even at seeing her. Lightness, because she was still there, and he hadn’t missed his window.But there was tension for the same reason.He wasn’t sure he knew what to do – how to begin, at any rate. She didn’t seem to know he was there, and he didn’t want to startle her by suddenly speaking…Feeling anxious, he quietly shuffled his feet. It was rare for him to not know what to do or say, especially around the producer, but now his mind was completely at a loss. It was making him uncomfortable. Dreadfully uncomfortable, like he could spontaneously combust if he didn’t move, or do something, or say something – at this point, he wasn’t even sure if what came out would make a difference, but it had to be better than just staring at the back of her head.It might lead into him being able to apologi-“I know you think you’re being quiet back there, but I’ve had twenty years of you creeping around. You can’t hide that easy anymore.”The words came like a blow to his middle, winding and nearly sending him stumbling back. He should’ve realised that she’d know he was there – they’d played games like this before, amongst the abundant variety of things they did to shock, startle, humiliate or hurt the other. But it had caught him off-guard, not knowing what to say, and that had sent his mind into a kind of panicked state that threw off everything else, as well.He was thrown off again, when she turned around to look at him. Even from the stairs, he could see that her eyes held that glare he’d once been so proud of causing…He could see that they were watery and red, too, like they had been overflowing with the tears he now felt awful for causing.“What do you want?”It was a simple enough question, but the answer was so terribly complex, Niles thought he might explode again. Where did he even begin?By saying that he was sorry, for the way things between them were ending?That he wanted to travel backwards, right to the very moment he’d opened the mansion’s door and had seen her for the very first time, all in the hopes of starting afresh and trying something other than the most hurtful pranks and insults to get her attention?That all he really wanted, more than anything else (even if he knew it was impossible), was for her to forgive him and to allow him one chance to redeem himself?He didn’t even mind anymore if he couldn’t get past simple redemption. She wasn’t obliged to love him, or even to want to be friends. But if he could apologise, let her know that he’d changed and would never try to prank another person, or ever darken her doorstep again, then he supposed he could feel satisfied with that.He had to be. It wasn’t like they’d ever see each other again, when this was finally over and done with.Well, with that sarcastically wonderful thought in mind, the conclusion to just get it out there came quickly. It was like ripping off a band-aid.“To say sorry,” he admitted, feeling the sudden need to gasp in air, but trying to be as silent as possible about it because even in his head the notion sounded pathetic. Had he really been holding his breath that whole time? “I…I came down here to say that I am sorry.”It wasn’t really surprising that he was met with stony silence. But it didn’t make it any less awkward.He tried descending the steps, to come a little bit closer, “I really didn’t mean those things that I said earl-”“Oh, spare me, Niles. We both know what you meant,” the producer said sharply in return, halting him in his tracks. She then turned back to whatever she had on the table, muttering more quietly. “Must’ve been a long time coming, too, with the way it burst out of your mouth like it’d been trapped there for centuries…!”He wasn’t going to argue with her about whether or not he’d been holding onto what he’d said for some time. It was obvious that she wouldn’t believe him. On another, less serious occasion, he might have even conjured up some sort of remark about her and centuries’ worth of aging. But even attempting it right at that moment felt wrong.The entire situation felt wrong.And it all seemed to do with the thing she was concentrating on, hunched over and with her back turned to him.He took a few steps forward and craned his neck to get a better look, “What are you working on?”Miss Babcock hunched over more and he heard a piece of paper sliding across the table’s surface.“None of your business.”“Well, I suppose not, but I can’t help being curious,” his feet slipped gently and quietly over another kitchen tile. “It isn’t often that you work so late. Especially not in here.”And especially not after how the rest of their awful, dreadful, humiliating night had gone…Clearly frustrated, the producer twisted in her seat, snapping, “This isn’t work, I’ll have you know. Not that I have to let you know, considering the fact that this is still none of your goddamned business!”The butler flinched, a little chastised but feeling the need to defend himself, “If it isn’t work, then why are you doing it here?”It was so tempting to just slip back into bitterness and tell her that she could do whatever she was doing in the comfort of her own penthouse, away from the butler that she clearly had no intention of ever forgiving. Then he could get back to his packing and they could go about their lives without ever seeing or speaking to one another again.But he didn’t finish it there, and not just because it hurt too much to even contemplate. His curiosity was also getting the better of him – even more than it had done just previously.“Is it really so urgent that it has to be done right away?” his voice was quieter that time, still a bit defeated from her biting retort.Miss Babcock didn’t turn around. Not immediately, anyway.“If I wanna get on the job market by nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” she said matter-of-factly. And then she turned, showing him what appeared to be a handwritten letter. “Congratulations, Scrubbing Bubbles – you’ve done it. I am done here. I’m quitting working for Maxwell!”Niles felt his jaw drop, as did his heart – straight into the pit of his stomach.“You’re what…?!” the exclamation was out, and his feet were carrying him in her direction before he could stop himself. “You can’t be serious!”The producer nodded, signing her name at the bottom of the paper, “Oh, I am!”“But why?!”He couldn’t help sounding distressed at this point. The thought of Miss Babcock leaving the company – the mansion, maybe even Broadway itself – was…well, unthinkable! No matter what they felt or thought about each other, the idea of her not being where she was and doing what she did, every day of the working week, was as absurd and wrong as all the stars disappearing from the night sky, or the oceans suddenly turning into savannahs! He’d decided to leave, because he knew that she’d stay. Or, at least he’d thought that she’d stay. It would’ve been easier on them both – he’d get a fresh start and probably find a new career (although he wondered if he was kidding himself – how many employers were looking for someone his age?), while she could continue her life and her work, without having to look at his stupid face every day.His stupid, sorry face.Not that that would get any sympathy from her.“Because, as it turns out, you were right all along! And maybe, once upon a time, it would’ve killed me to admit that, but guess what? I’m going to let it go,” she tucked her letter away and smartly sealed the envelope with a couple of tight pinches, before smacking it down on the table. “Just like everything else that I haven’t in the past, as you oh-so graciously reminded me tonight! I’m not gonna hang around somewhere that I’m not wanted anymore. I’m cutting ties, and this is the best and quickest place to start!”“But…I never meant for you to quit your job!” he cried out in return. “You’re the whole reason Mr. Sheffield’s company is even still standing!”Miss Babcock scoffed, turning fully and looking up at him, “Yeah? Well, I don’t exactly see you sticking around, and you’re probably the only reason the whole place didn’t burn to the ground years ago!”“You…” the resolve and willpower to argue died on his lips as the counterpoint settled and got comfortable in his brain. “Actually, you might have a point about that…”The producer rolled her eyes, “After twenty years, he finally admits it…!”She sounded as sarcastic as ever, but her muttering was far from up to their usual standard. It was more along the lines of someone finally hearing what they had been wanting to hear, only it had been so long that they had long since assumed they never would and had given up.It was certainly less creative than “Well, guess who just poked his head out of Maxwell’s derrière to announce it’s spring?”. But it sounded less angry, and he supposed that was a start.A start of what, he wasn’t sure. But it definitely felt like something better than the screaming match they’d performed for the Sheffields earlier, so he was going to bite the bullet and attempt to find out where it could be going.That didn’t involve another attempt at an apology, but it did involve a peace offering.“Coffee?”…………………………………………………………..He never expected her to say yes. Well, maybe not “yes”, per se; when it finally came out, it was more along the lines of a begrudging “screw it, I might as well”. But soon enough, they were both at the table (Niles having taken his time taking his seat, almost over-aware of the notion that she might not want him to sit next to her), nursing mugs of hot coffee. Miss Babcock had hesitated again just before taking the cup, clearly fearing some sort of drawn-out revenge prank, but once he’d informed her that there was no sour milk mixed in and that the cup was clean, everything started to settle.They started to settle, too. It took less time than he had imagined it would for them to begin talking – it had never taken long for them to talk, but his mind had already accepted the idea of that jumping clear out of the window the minute he’d accidentally…well, said the thing he really shouldn’t have said.Luckily, they didn’t talk about that. But they did end up on the subject of their joint-but-separate decisions to leave the mansion.At one point it would’ve killed the butler not to make a cow joke at Miss Babcock calling it “seeking out greener pastures”, but he more than managed to hold his tongue. It was simple enough to do, when the conversation was so serious.Serious, and probably a long time coming.It certainly felt the latter, once the next words the producer spoke came out of her mouth.She settled her cup back down on the table, having just taken another sip, “You know something? After letting his butler and his business associate both go at the same time, it’s safe to say that Maxwell Sheffield is just as oblivious now as he was twenty years ago.”Niles raised an eyebrow. They’d shared moments before over the innate lack of common sense Mr. Sheffield often displayed, but he didn’t think he’d ever heard Miss Babcock talk about it so…frankly, and so openly.And especially not in terms of their jobs, or career decisions that their employer had made. Not that she was wrong, of course.His eyebrows raised momentarily, and he lifted his cup to have a drink, “At least we can agree on the most important basics…”The producer didn’t speak for a moment after that. The only thing that left her lips was a sigh, and even though she didn’t turn her head, Niles could just about see that her gaze had fallen on her cup. It didn’t look like it intended to move, but it gave the implication that she had something important on her mind.“Not just basics, really,” she finally said aloud, in a voice that suggested she was admitting something she’d been keeping to herself.Niles didn’t even watch his hands as he put his cup down on the table. He couldn’t imagine what she meant, nor what she was about to say. They’d always tried so hard to present the opposite view to one another, whether out of spite or something else entirely was a matter of opinion at this point, but the idea that she was clearly open to more than just slightly agreeing with him was…confusing.It was giving him a dry mouth, but he still had to ask.“What do you mean?”Miss Babcock shifted a little bit in her seat, now back to nursing her drink with both hands. He wondered if she’d done that so that she had something to do with them during the conversation.“I…did a little bit of thinking, before I came in here,” she said quietly. She then paused, as though she was expecting something else, before turning towards him with a look of near suspicion. “What, no punchline about how thinking is a dangerous occupation for me?”In his head, Niles admitted that was a good one. But he wasn’t intending on using any insults in this conversation.Especially not when he suddenly felt as though he was closer to Miss Babcock than he had ever been before. Even one little comment would set all of that back, and it could even make her think that maybe talking for as long as they had had been a mistake.He’d salvaged something, when he’d thought he’d ruined everything. He wasn’t about to destroy it all, all over again.“Not this time,” he told her instead, nodding his head just a little in encouragement. “Go on.”The producer seemed almost momentarily stunned, but she didn’t let it bother her for too long.“Oh. Uh, okay,” she dropped her eyes away from him, cleared her throat once and began. “Well, I was sat in my car, and I began to think that if it was so easy, and if I didn’t feel even a little bad about walking away from Maxwell, then maybe it wasn’t Maxwell that I thought I’d be missing by going.”Niles thought he felt his heart stop. Or speed up to the point that he could no longer keep track of how fast it was beating. It was one or the other, at any rate, and suddenly that dryness in his mouth seemed to be spreading rapidly.It got beyond the point where he wished that it would all just calm down, really. Was his body really getting so hopeful, when she’d barely begun to explain? Just because she’d realised that Maxwell wasn’t the one for her, it didn’t mean that her feelings about anything else had changed.He had to know more. It was the only way he could get things back on track, and maybe stop his own nervous system from going into some kind of overload just because it was hearing something vaguely like what it had always hoped it would.“What conclusion did you come to instead?” he asked, trying hard not to sound like his mouth was fast becoming the bodily equivalent of the Sahara Desert.It took barely a moment for the producer to give her answer.“Something I should’ve thought harder about a long time ago,” she said, taking another sip of her coffee. In truth, she looked like she was pretending it was something stronger. “I thought I’d be missing out on the life my mother taught me to want. Rich, powerful husband. Good family, great connections - all that crap that all the mothers in the upper classes of society taught their daughters was the secret to happiness.”Niles felt a sinking feeling in his heart and his gut. He had gathered from what he’d heard (and seen in her daughter) over the years that Miss Babcock’s mother would be the same as so many other snobbish, upper-class women that he’d had the misfortune of meeting (serving) at Mr Sheffield’s backers’ parties. But it was another feeling entirely to have to hear it come from the producer herself.It sounded like she was finally opening up to a reality she hadn’t wanted to admit – not even to herself.And that was just proved further, as she clearly tried to hold back from letting a sob leave her lips.“I wish I’d stopped thinking about it sooner. I’ve wasted too much of my time and now…now, it’s too late,” she hung her head, letting her gaze drop to her lap. Niles thought he saw her lip quiver, but she pursed it tightly and took in a deep, steadying breath before he could really tell. “I’m never gonna get a man who loves me or makes me happy…and that’s all I’ve really ever wanted…”She shook her head sadly, her golden hair falling in front of her face and obscuring Niles’ view. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her so heartbroken. So…hurt. Vulnerable. Not even when she’d complained to him that her life was over, when Mr and Mrs Sheffield had gotten married! There was only despair written in her body language. She truly believed that it was all over for her – that no matter what she did or said, she would never get what she had truly been looking for all her life. It was almost as though he could see into her mind at that moment, and all he could see was an empty penthouse as the seasons changed and years passed by, work piles growing and shrinking every once in a while, and a perpetual dinner for one being eaten alone at the table.It was a life, but even just imagining it felt like there was a large hole, gaping and open like a wound, blown right through the middle. And it felt like it might’ve been there the producer’s entire life, even if she hadn’t always been aware of it.He didn’t really know what possessed him to do it, but he couldn’t keep his hand where it was anymore. He supposed that he felt like being brave and taking a leap of faith. He might’ve lost his chance (never really had one, he actually thought) at what he’d wanted, but she needed the comfort. He reached out and tucked the locks back behind her ear.“You don’t have to worry about finding a man who’ll love you.”The way Miss Babcock looked at him after that, anybody who’d just walked in would think he’d just told her the meaning of life. Only the meaning of life was something surprisingly mundane and ordinary, like making sure you drank a glass of water every day.It halted the tears that were pooling at the corners of her eyes, though. In the light, the glistening added to the glimmer of hope that was faintly appearing.She sniffed, clearly not caring whether he knew she was trying to compose herself or not, “Really…?”Niles swallowed his heart back down his throat before it could get to his mouth, and took another leap by taking her hand.“You’re witty, you’re sophisticated, you’re beautiful, you’re sexy, you have a fierce intellect, you are stronger in character than you even realise, you fight for the things that matter to you and you’re not afraid to go for what you want, either. I see no reason for you to feel like you couldn’t also have love as well,” he said, not an ounce of a lie present, nor a zinger ready to be thrown. This meant so much more than any kind of fun that could come from that. “And before you ask, I’ve had nothing from the liquor cabinet, so all of this is coming directly from me.”Silence descended over them, and the butler watched as the producer studied his face, and then their joined hands. He wondered – panicked – if maybe she was about to take offence at such a gesture; why wouldn’t she? He hadn’t asked, she was upset, and his whole behaviour could be…misconstrued.He wasn’t expecting anything from her, but she wasn’t to know that. As far as she could know, this was all some sort of ploy to get her to agree to go on another date with him. It wasn’t a ploy. He wasn’t some sort of degenerate who took advantage of other people’s sadness.Well, not in the way that his behaviour could currently be implying. And definitely not anymore.But the producer didn’t appear worried about that. She hadn’t even taken her hand back, despite the fact that they’d technically been holding hands for longer than at least a few minutes! It was…oddly comfortable. Like their hands were supposed to fit together the way they were…She seemed to have noticed him staring, at any rate, once he’d come back to the present moment and the real world.But she didn’t yell. She didn’t argue, or pull away in protest. She didn’t even throw a zinger. And for an infinite moment that had…well, had rarely – if ever – actually happened before, the butler had to wonder what it was she could possibly be thinking. For two people who had, practically from day one, declared themselves “mortal enemies”, they were more in tune with each other than anybody else in the house. Possibly anybody else they knew, too.Not that he knew many people from outside of the house…But he was getting distracted. His mind was probably wandering because it was nervous – nervous of the fact that he didn’t have the faintest idea what she was thinking. Nervous of the fact that she could suddenly turn around and decide that she didn’t want to see where any of this was heading.Nervous of the fact that they were teetering on a finely-honed edge, that ran as a border between infinite possibilities and never seeing each other again.And at long last, it was time to see in which direction she was intending to fall.“Did you…really mean what you said before?” she asked, breaking the silence that had dragged for long enough. There was an awkward pause after that, and if Niles didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn that the producer blushed slightly. “A-about the apology, I mean.”It took him a moment to understand, but when he did, he realised that she didn’t think he’d grasp that that was what she was talking about. And the only other moment in either of their heads that could have had words that needed meaning attached was the awful, humiliating opening night where he had blurted out everything and ruined it all.Not that this…entirely felt like everything was ruined. She wasn’t asking or saying anything further about the proposal, good or bad. Which was about as much relief as he could’ve asked for, really, considering the fact that he hadn’t even expected her to want to talk to him again only moments ago.In fact, the glimmer of hope he’d been feeling before was starting to ignite, becoming a spark. He knew he had to nurture it, if he wanted this to become anything at all.And he knew exactly how to answer her question. He swallowed to relieve his dry mouth before replying, “To the point where I wished I could go back in time, to start everything over between us.”The producer’s eyes dulled a little, and her gaze dropped away from him to look at their hands with a frown.“Well, we can’t exactly do that…”And suddenly, everything he’d thought could possibly be happening vanished right in front of him. This was truly it then, wasn’t it? She was backing off, just as he’d feared she would. He didn’t really know what else he’d expected to happen. Rivals or not, butler and producer or not, she was still one of the most rich and powerful women in New York, from a family line that wouldn’t cross the street to even so much as toss him a dirty look. What they really felt about each other – whatever that was, on her part – had to come second to that. Why wouldn’t it? He wasn’t worth the hassle it would cause to go against her family’s wishes.He was nothing. He was nothing, and he had been down there long enough. Wasted enough of her time, when she could have easily dropped the letter on Mr. Sheffield’s desk by now and been heading home to start preparing to look for a new job.It was about time that he let go of her hand, got up and-“But we can make the future better, can’t we?” her interruption of his thoughts was as surprising as it was hesitant, as though she were afraid of the answer he could possibly give. “If you’re still up for that, obviously…”For what felt like the longest amount of time anybody had ever gone without speaking in recorded history, Niles stared back at her.Had…had he really heard that right? It sounded like she’d said that the future could be better if they were together, but was it just that his mind had jumped right back into being too hopeful and had conjured up some sort of fantasy in place of what she was really saying?!Was it just a fantasy, though? It seemed too good to be true, but she did look…hopeful. Maybe just like he had been – like she was now hoping that there was still something there.Something that, if they were both hoping it still existed, was quite obviously more than salvageable.She’d really said it, hadn’t she?Was she really giving him a chance? Giving them a chance?! The question that was still just begging to be asked was out of his mouth without another thought.“You…you really want that?”He couldn’t help still being a little bit unsure. Probably from a force of habit and roughly twenty years of telling himself that he wasn’t good enough. But that faded away as she gripped his hand between both of hers, letting their fingers slowly start to entwine.“I want to try being happy, Niles. My mother’s wants and demands haven’t helped one iota. And this little game we’ve had going for years hasn’t exactly left either one of us ecstatic, has it?” the question was so rhetorical in the butler’s ears that it hurt, and the longer the producer went on, the more confident her voice became. “We have fun with our wordplay, but we also have fun when we’re not doing that - the night of the Broadway Guild Awards, the pottery class, heck, even dancing at Maxwell and Nanny Fine’s reception before we got so hammered we couldn’t remember anything!”Niles would have cringed at at least two of those memories beforehand (or, what he had of one of them, anyway), but being told and realising they were some of the producer’s favourite moments that they had shared was…surprising. He hadn’t imagined that she’d ever want to think about them after they’d come down the next morning, or after he had gone back to being friends with Mrs. Sheffield…He’d imagined that they were just two more reasons for her to (justifiably) hate him. But Miss Babcock’s next words simply confirmed the complete opposite.“Those days were the ones that made me happy. Maybe the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life. And I…God damn it, it kinda kills me to admit it, but I want more of them! And I want more of them with you!”Niles blinked at the revelation, unsure of what to say or what to do. As much as he’d hoped, longed, and prayed for the day to come, he’d been so certain that it never would that he had no idea what the next step was now that the moment had finally arrived. Out of all the things he’d been prepared to say to the producer, or had even managed to come up with off the top of his head while still sounding clever, how best to tell her how he felt had never been one of them.It was painful, how long he took to even think of something to say, and he could only come to the conclusion that it was having an adverse effect on the producer in turn. She must have thought that her openness was scaring him, because she looked away rapidly, eyes directed at the floor. “I mean, If you want to, anyway. I know I can’t make you change your mind, if you’ve already made it up.”Just seeing her so convinced it had already all been ruined, and clearly even more uncomfortable at the idea of having opened up only for it all to come to naught, made his stomach start to circle the endless pit that was guilt again. He knew now that it hadn’t been ruined, but she needed to know that as well, and be secure in that fact.Perhaps it was time to get back into a little bit of familiar territory. Something that would make them both feel secure, as well as get them back on solid ground.Something that would start them off on solid ground.And she had left just the right angle, by mentioning that she wanted more happy days spent with him.Just like he knew he’d always wanted with her.Taking one last step into new but very inviting territory, he gently placed his fingers under her chin and lifted it up, letting her eyes meet the smirk he was now wearing.“Does this whole awkward way of asking me out on a date mean that you’ve accepted my apology from earlier?”It took a moment, but suddenly the corners of Miss Babock’s mouth began to curl upwards – a mixture of a beaming, joyful smile, and a grin of pure mischief.And the butler found out just how mischievous she intended to get when she gripped at his wrist and he suddenly found himself yanked forwards so hard, they almost ended up sharing a chair.She was less than inches away from his face when she next spoke, eyes darkening and lips nearly brushing his.“Don’t push your luck, Butler Boy.”Had it not been for their lips finally meeting after that, Niles would’ve replied that he wasn’t sure he had to.

#anon asks #the nanny #niles and cc #niles the butler #cc babcock #otp: always been bitter together #otp: butler bitch

[arianaofimladris]

Time for everything

This short story was written for Silmarillion Whump Bingo. Takes place a few months after Nirnaeth.

Prompt: cry into chest.

Time for everything

Dolmed was a curse and a blessing. The dwarves offered them help and shelter – two things they were in dire need of. There was enough food for everyone and they got some rooms for their wounded, allowing them to heal and rest. There were many things to do, shelters to build, weapons and clothes to mend, precious horses to take care of – enough to keep them all too busy to think.

It was also suffocating. The rooms carved in the mountain, too small for the Eldar. The forges hidden underground, hammers working tirelessly, their banging echoing on the corridors. No chains accompanied the work of both elves and dwarves, but it was only a small relief.

Maedhros never thought he would miss the ever cold Himring so much, but he did. He missed terribly the plain lands visible from his fortress, the high hills and even the grim chain of the mountains in the North where the Enemy dwelled. It was a harsh place to live, but it had been his home for the past few centuries, a place where he could keep his watch and make sure Morgoth would not go south to wreak havoc.

It was all gone now. The hills, the fortress, the other strongholds they had kept for so long. Gone was their strength and their hope, their armies scattered and broken beyond repair. The despair was lurking in the corners, creeping on them and his folk wherever he looked.

And gone was Fingon. Maedhros did not believe at first, would not believe, that all the plans he had crafted so carefully with his friend and his king, all their alliances would in the end bring nothing but death and destruction. And that Fingon would die. This, this just wasn’t supposed to happen.

Having all his brothers around was a small mercy. They reminded Maedhros that there were still things to be done and they kept him busy. After having been their own lords in their own lands, crowding again in such a small place was taxing at best. Disastrous, more likely. But even with all of them ready to argue over the smallest matters, it wasn’t enough. After a busy summer and autumn, which they had spent in the wilderness, winter brought snow and frost that forced them all to hide in their hastily built houses. And what was worse, winter brought idleness. Oh, of course Curufin and his craftsmen continued their work, of course Celegorm and Amras escaped on hunts whenever they could. Maedhros, however, suddenly found himself with more time than he ever wished to spend on his dark thoughts. Everything he had been pushing aside during the last few months just came back to plague him.

His brothers tried to keep him occupied, sometimes without even hiding their intentions. This time Curufin had yet again dragged him to the dwarven forges to discuss their progress and show him what had been done so far. He probably didn’t notice that the underground workshops were the last place Maedhros ever wanted to see; a place where he felt utterly useless, unable to perform even the simplest tasks with just one hand. The eldest son of Feanor came anyway and listened to the plans his brother presented, aided surprisingly by Caranthir, who had apparently grown bored enough to join the work by Curufin’s side and recall what Feanor had once taught each of them. But Caranthir could actually do something useful. Planning was all that was left for Maedhros and he found himself drifting away as Curufin spoke. This one matter could be left in his brother’s care, Maedhros would trust him with that; anything that would not force him to come to the forges he hated so much. It took a lot of effort to hide his dismay; it would do no good if he betrayed his feelings and offended their hosts.

“You are going to bore us to death, Curvo.” Caranthir’s impatient voice broke through Maedhros’s thoughts. “Just get things going, brother.” He spoke to Curufin, but as the eldest son of Feanor glanced up, he saw that Caranthir was watching him closely. Too closely and too perceptively, the way he tended to. Right now he made Maedhros wonder just how successful he was at hiding his urge to flee. Whether Curufin noticed that as well, he couldn’t tell. The smith just looked properly irritated.

“Don’t get upset just because you hardly have things to keep records of,” he snapped back. “You are free to leave if you wish.”

“Are we both?” Caranthir pointed at his eldest brother.

“If you need Nelyo so much... But I can’t think of anything else you could be doing right now.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Caranthir shrugged and rose from his seat. “The blizzard looked unusually charming today,” he claimed mockingly. “Are you coming too?”

A friendly poke in the ribs made Maedhros reach for his knife before he could think what he was doing. With an enormous effort he eased his hand back on his lap and looked apologetically at Curufin.

“I don’t think you need my expertise here, as I can hardly compete with you on that field,” he said. A bit of flattery usually worked well for Curufin, and with all of them being grim and frustrated, it wouldn’t hurt to ruffle his feathers. And probably take Caranthir away before they start arguing over nothing.

“Very well.” With a half-offended huff, Curufin pointed at the door. “Enjoy your blizzard.”

Caranthir didn’t give Maedhros time to think, he simply pushed him slightly and left close behind him, sending Curufin a knowing glance. The smith nodded slightly, though he still looked offended.

“Idiot,” muttered Caranthir when they were far away from the forges, heading towards the main entrance.

Maedhros quirked an eyebrow. “Who?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Caranthir looked at his eldest brother challengingly. “Curvo for dragging you down there or you for being so stubborn – it is a hard choice,” he said bluntly and regretted it instantly, as Maedhros realised at once what he was doing and why he insisted on leaving. Shame and anger appeared on his weary features and he stopped.

“I can’t always hide away from my demons, Moryo.” Clearly it cost him a lot to say it aloud, but Caranthir decided there was no point in pretending the problem didn’t exist.

“Nor do you have to face them all the time,” he replied. “Shall we see that blizzard?” He asked in hope to get a ghost of a smile, but to no avail.

Maedhros ran his hand down his face and sighed. “Is it so visible?” The question was but a whisper. Caranthir didn’t like that Maedhros tried to hide his feelings from them, but he hated that bare, vulnerable side of his brother even more. Maedhros should not have that urge to hide in the first place...

“If it was, Curvo, wouldn’t have dragged you down there.” He claimed with more confidence than he felt. “He can be a pain in the behind, but he’s not that much of a jerk.”

This time he forced some kind of response. Maedhros stopped staring at the ground before him and the look he sent his brother was properly disgusted. “Language, Morifinwe.”

“It isn’t rude to state the truth.” Caranthir shrugged and pushed himself from the wall. “And I know you won’t tell him,” he risked a flash of a crooked smile, but Maedhros didn’t bother to return it. “Let’s go outside,” he added with unusual softness. His brother again had that look of a trapped animal, much like he had had in that human village they were forced to stay in.* No good could come from that.

The blizzard was far from charming, decided Caranthir as soon as they left the protection the dwarven caves provided. They could hardly see the nearest houses in the snow. The wind blew the icy snowflakes right into their faces. Still, Maedhros looked better despite the dreadful weather. He pulled up his hood and kept the sides of his cloak, but otherwise seemed indifferent to the cold.

“Where are you going?” Asked Caranthir as Maedhros passed their house and just kept walking with no apparent intention to seek shelter. “I’ve seen enough of this snow, Nelyo,” he added pointedly.

“I’ll go keep watch,” replied Maedhros absent-mindedly. “You go home.”

“Oh no, you don’t.” Caranthir grabbed his arm. “I’ve got better idea.”

“Moryo...” Maedhros shook his head. “I appreciate your perceptiveness and I’m glad of your excuse. But please, let me be.”

“Not today.” Caranthir crossed his arms on his chest, hoping his brother could not hear his chattering teeth. “I’m going with you, and I’d appreciate it if you chose a place where we would not freeze.”

“It’s not that bad...” muttered Maedhros. His eyes went glassy as he stared at the snow dancing before his eyes. “Finno would claim it’s not even cold really.”

This was the first time Caranthir heard him speak of Fingon since he had shared the news about the king’s death. Seeing that his brother no longer seemed to acknowledge his whereabouts, he grabbed him gently by the elbow and steered him into the nearest stable. Maedhros let himself be led inside. To Caranthir’s relief, the building was empty save for the horses, which welcomed them quite enthusiastically.

“They looked bored,” remarked Caranthir casually. He leaned over the fence and reached to pet the nose of a young black mare, one of the few Celegorm had managed to save.

“No wonder.” Maedhros walked past him. His own mount was looking over the doors, eager to greet his master. The eldest son of Feanor went into the box and caressed his stallion’s neck, indifferent to the muzzle nagging him in search for treats. His eyes were still unfocused and even though he had been usually so careful to guard his thoughts, right now Caranthir could sense his despair.

“You know,” he joined his brother and leaned against the wooden wall separating the boxes for the horses. “You don’t always have to be the eldest.”

“Carnistir... don’t.” The plea came out as a muffled sob. Maedhros rested his forehead on his stallion, his hand clenching at the mane.

“There’s nobody here save for you and me.” Caranthir moved closer and put his arm around his brother’s shaking form. He wasn’t Maglor, who would probably know how to soothe Maedhros and calm him, but of one thing he was certain – burying the feelings never worked for anyone in this family. Maedhros was no exception. Even if he was more restrained since his captivity, letting him suffocate with his grief would result in a disaster.

“We screwed.”

The sound that escaped Maedhros’s throat was half a sob, half a mad laughter. “Screwed? It’s over, Moryo,” he whispered. “Fingolfin was too quick to judge Dagor Bragollah as our end. He may consider himself lucky he didn’t have to face this.”

“We are still alive. And we are still together.” Caranthir dared to point out. Maedhros whirled from under his arm to face him.

“Are we? I don’t feel alive,” he spat out. “I don’t know whether I want to.”

The grief in his voice made Caranthir shiver. He’d rather face Maedhros’s outburst, wrath even; anything but that dead voice. He wanted his brother alive. “You can mourn him, you know,” he said softly. “I might not have been the closest friends with Findekano, but I do regret his death.”

He could have slapped Maedhros and he wouldn’t have got more violent reaction. His brother looked ready to flee, but then he just sank down the wooden wall separating horses. He covered his eyes with his shaking hand, no longer able to control his emotions, as if avoiding to speak of his deceased cousin and friend was the only reason he had been able to keep them at check.

Caranthir hesitated. He achieved what he wanted, he made his brother open up, or rather he forced him to tear, so leaving was not an option. Nor was calling for Maglor. Caranthir slipped down next to Maedhros and pulled him into an awkward hug.

“You don’t have to be the eldest all the time,” he muttered again. To his surprise, Maedhros didn’t push him away, only leaned to the touch and rested his head on Caranthir’s shoulder.

“It’s my fault he’s dead. They all,” whispered Maedhros after a while. “Don’t deny it. I was blind and I didn’t see traitors among my men.”

Cheeks flushing with anger, Caranthir snapped. “They were my people too. My people who turned against me and tried to stab me in the back.” He took a deep breath, then another, trying to wipe away the images his mind brought before his eyes. “But we are still here, Nelyo. He had not got us all yet.”

Caranthir could swear Maedhros whispered something like ‘what does it matter?’, but his brother just snuggled closer and wept silently, for the first time since the battle. The burden of long months of tireless working and pushing the grief aside weighted him down and as they sat there on the hay, Caranthir doubted they would be able to rise. He didn’t really want.

But there were only so many tears they could shed. In the end Maedhros collected himself, his breathing slowed and the despair Caranthir could sense dimmed.

A snort startled them both. Maedhros’s stallion turned towards them and sniffed, as if intrigued what the two elves were doing. Seeing that they would not be left alone much longer, Caranthir stood and offered his brother a hand. Maedhros reluctantly pushed on his feet and blinked in surprise as Caranthir handed him a brush.

“I think he’ll like it,” Caranthir gestured at the horse, which had lost hope for any treats, but demanded attention. He was pleased to see a ghost of smile as Maedhros picked the brush and started combing the black mane of his horse. Perhaps he didn’t have such a bad idea after all.

This story, as well as other whumpy bits, can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/silmarillionwhumpbingo

#The Silmarillion #the silmarillion fanfic #Maedhros #Caranthir #Curufin #hurt/comfort #angst #Nirnaeth

[pseudofaux]

Unimpressive (NobuYuki)

This is a gift for the radiant, funny, and all-around magnificent human being that is @karalija. One of the very best things about falling into the SLBP fandom was meeting her! Her heart is almost as grand as her talent. Which you, lucky duck gentle reader, can see! On her tumblr or deviantart.

There is a akkjlasdfkasjflajsdslkfjalfd stunning companion gift to this called Impressive. @rubyleeray wrote it for Kara and it gives me the best kinds of shudders. You want superb Saizo, you go read it right this effing minute! Bless yourself!

Unimpressive is not a nice story. It could be harsher, but it is not sweet. Yuki's into Nobuyuki but not stupid about it, Nobuyuki absolutely hates her and always will. This is not romantic. There is no love or trust or respect between these characters as they hatefuck each other. That’s what this is. Be warned.

(Because this is a gift for Kara I’m not tagging anyone. But feel free to reblog if you’re so inclined!)

It began very casually, but not subtly.

His bedding smelled... different. Like perfume. A high quality perfume, a wonderful fragrance. Something he recognized. Something that was distinctly unwelcome.

Nobuyuki trusted the maids, whose discretion was reliable. He did not think one of them would have dared to have some tryst in his bedding, or the inclination to spend their wages on very fine perfume, or been bribed by some woman to scent his bedding in some effort to snare him (really, some of these samurai women were almost clever, and they were all tenacious, he had to give them that).

But the second time it happened, he knew it was real and a real problem, and he gathered the maids and asked. They had no idea what caused the change, swearing his linens had been washed only with soap and lavender. They seemed distressed in ways he believed. The woman who did the washing had not altered her process, knowing that he liked the smell of his bedding as he had for years. She invited him to have a chamberlain observe the washing procedure.

He told the maids that would not be necessary. He thanked them for their time. He asked the chamberlain to give them pocket money, and sent sweets and lavender to their own rooms by way of apology for doubting them. He felt a little guilty. They were loyal and always had been. He needed to know, but should have gone about it another way.

The maids weren’t doing it, and they would have taken linens that smelled perfumed away if they noticed them, and that meant this change was taking place after the fabric was already in his room.

That someone was entering his chambers unnoticed was absolutely not to be borne.

A few days after that second time, he consulted with Jinpachi.

“There seems to be a fragrant rat sneaking into my bedchamber,” he said.

“Milord,” Jinpachi acknowledged. Jinpachi knew to wait for more. They worked well together.

“Do you know of any perfume merchants or rats that have entered my rooms?”

“No, milord. But I have not been guarding your chambers.”

“Of course,” Nobuyuki said pleasantly. “Perhaps I’ll spend more time there the next few days.”

“If I may, milord...”

“Yes?”

“What does the perfume smell like?”

Nobuyuki’s face went flat. He wasn’t angry with the question and trusted Jinpachi would understand.

“Presumption,” he answered icily.

Jinpachi bowed. “I will lay some traps for presumptuous rats.”

“I would be very grateful for that," Nobuyuki said, trying to make the target of his ire plain. "Please let me know if I can assist in some way.”

“Of course, milord.” And then Nobuyuki was alone with his books.

The next few nights, his bedding smelled as it should. Lavender and peace. He slept well.

But then Genjirou came home, which was good, and the same night that perfume was back, which was not. He frowned as he moved the blanket back, the scent wafting up.

Jinpachi made a soft sound behind him. “Milord. Again?”

“Yes,” Nobuyuki said, upset. Still not with Jinpachi. But upset.

“There was... something different, somewhere.”

“Are you being vague in case there is a little rat listening?” Nobuyuki asked.

“Yes,” Jinpachi said simply. “And if a little rat or any other creature is listening, I strongly suggest she stop this now. There are several Iga-born here who would snuff her out if she were caught.”

Silence.

“I’m not interested,” he said the next night, when the scent greeted him at the door to his bedchamber.

Her heard the slightest giggle, sultry and lilting. But he wasn’t interested in this kind of game, either, so he ignored it. He slept in his library on a bedroll that smelled like it should.

The next night his library bedding was perfumed, too.

He would not sleep in it, so he went to one of the guest rooms. 

At dinner the following night, Genjirou and his ninja— a knowing fellow, perceptive and sharp— traded quips comfortably. Nobuyuki was pleased for his brother that he had such a friend (Nobuyuki was perceptive and sharp, too, and he knew the love of friends when he saw it). He recognized that he was jealous. But he would never be able to spend the time with Genjirou that Saizo could, and the ninja had saved his brother from many scrapes and worse. Nobuyuki caught Masayuki looking on with a tiny smile. Their father had facilitated this, so Nobuyuki supposed he had earned the right to be proud.

Their conversation somehow moved to siblings.

“Saizo, you know my family, but I’ve never met yours. What are they like?”

The shinobi’s mouth tightened. His eyes narrowed. Nobuyuki felt himself paying extra attention to Saizo. If he was going to hurt Genjirou, he’d have to be dealt with.

“Less daily trouble than you, certainly, dear,” Saizo answered.

Cheerful, kind Genjirou blushed but would not be deterred.

“Really, what are they like? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“One of each,” Saizo responded, sounding vexed but mostly bored.

“A sister?! What is she like?”

“Absolutely not marriage material for you, little lord.”

“Th-that’s not what I meant!” Genjirou all but wailed, scarlet. Nobuyuki felt himself smile.

“They’re both difficult,” Saizo confessed eventually. “But in different ways than you, Yukimura.”

Genjirou laughed heartily, appearing not to take the barb of Saizo’s words seriously. Nobuyuki wondered about that.

Finally, he caught the rat himself. Jinpachi helped Nobuyuki to ensconce himself in a recess of his room and wait there from midday on. Word circulated that Nobuyuki traveled into the village to give his patronage to some craftsmen. The servants left his rooms alone, as instructed.

At midafternoon a quiet, even sliding noise came from the ceiling, and he knew it was time. At last.

A beautiful woman—too beautiful—lithe and glorious, lush and elegant despite her immodest dress, dropped from the ceiling. He could see the profile of her face, her satisfied grin.

She was clearly of Iga herself, which could explain why Jinpachi’s warning hadn’t stuck.

“You’re Saizo’s sister,” he observed from his spot by the wall without preamble. It was difficult to keep the sneer off his face.

She turned to him, appearing wholly unbothered by his presence, her smile growing more pleased. More sensual. More inviting. More like a spider at the edge of a web.

“Yes, dearest, I am. My name is Yuki.”

“Why are you doing this?” He stayed seated in the shadows of his room.

“Why am I doing what?” Her question was every syllable innocence, but the way her arms came forward to push her breasts together was sin itself. One slim hand rested thoughtfully against her chin.

“The perfume,” Nobuyuki said, unamused.

“You noticed!” Her smile was sincere, eyes nearly shutting (nearly, he noticed, but not quite) as her cheeks came up. Her body was astoundingly beautiful. The material of her robes seemed to be resting on her shoulders and other curves with nothing more than the pressure of her will. The silk would slip off with the lightest of pushes.

…Was what he was supposed to think, he was sure. He was very done with this game already.

“Where did you get my mother’s perfume, and why are you using it?” he demanded.

“Oh? Darling, I’m quite sure I don’t know what you mean. I created this fragrance myself only recently and I’m very proud of it.”

Nobuyuki was not amused. Her coquettish amusement made it worse.

He rose and stepped toward her. He had a few inches on this “Yuki”, but she was tall for a woman. So beautiful few men would care. He did not. But he did notice.

For a moment, he just stared at her. Then he moved his hand to grab her, and she, Kirigakure that she was, moved to block. He was prepared for that, and grabbed at the hand she’d used to bat him away. Nobuyuki could not tell if she had let him land his hand on her or not, but did not waste time thinking about it.

He spun her around and pulled her back to his front. He put one arm around her narrow waist, knowing he could lock that part of her better than others, and grabbed her chin with his free hand. Nobuyuki leaned forward.

“You seem to think you’re quite clever,” he observed in his court voice behind her ear, pressing his fingers into her skin.

She giggled. He could hear it and feel it in his hand around her throat. She had a very fine jawline. She was a beautiful woman.

And he hated her.

Her voice, unconcerned, came from in front of him. “Well, Sanada-sama, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t made designs on ending up here.”

The shameless woman rubbed her ass against him, undulating herself with a sigh as she brought her hands to rest against his. He reminded himself that she must be armed.

“I’ve watched you,” she said into the air in front of them. “You look like fun.”

“…fun.” Fun to play with him this way?

“Mmhmm,” she replied, pushing herself back onto his body.

He hated her. Hated. But her body was perfect, and they both knew it, and knew she knew what she was doing with it.

“My mother’s perfume,” Nobuyuki repeated. “Why?”

She stopped the slow glide of her back along his front.

“Darling,” she said, “The perfume I created is not your mother’s, or based on it. I swear.”

He did not trust her. But he believed her, in this. He rolled his eyes and sighed through his nose.

And took back his hands. She did not step away from him.

“She must have had very fine taste,” Yuki said sweetly as she turned around and tilted her face up to his. He sharpened his gaze on her and held up a hand.

“Don’t,” he said curtly.

“Oh, darling,” she said, lovely pout oozing contrition, “I can tell I’ve hurt you when I didn’t mean to. Tell me how I can make this up to you, then, hmm?”

Her cloying made him want to crush something. But Nobuyuki caught that she was making an offer. And he’d been hoping for something like that.

So he was prepared, immediately, to say, “You can make sure my brother is never hurt.”

Yuki went still, as though she’d be splashed with something unpleasant. One perfect eyebrow raised. “Darling,” she said softly, “Yukimura has a ninja of his own. Even Saizo cannot promise that your brother is never hurt.”

Nobuyuki wanted to press her, both in conversation and his hands around her throat. But he knew she was right.

“Then never, ever hurt him yourself.”

Her pretty mouth became a perfect little O of surprise.

“You mean…?”

“I mean at all,” Nobuyuki said.

She smirked. “But darling, his sensibilities are so very easy to hurt.”

“Nevermind his sensibilities. To make this up to me, you’ll agree to never take a job that targets him.”

Her eyes went down, away from his, and her mouth finally closed. She was clearly thinking.

After a moment, she brought her eyes back up to his. At last the kunoichi seemed properly chastened. “Alright, Lord Sanada,” she said quietly. “I will never take an assignment that targets Yukimura. I hope you understand what a gift this is that I am giving.”

“I only care that you keep your word,” he said flatly.

And then she laughed again. Of course.

And then her nimble fingers were undressing him—they were doing this? really?—untying cords and sashes, separating the sides of his robes. Nobuyuki rolled his eyes.

“I always do,” she purred, kneeling and sliding her own robes off in a movement of sinful grace.

Now that he could see her, Nobuyuki had to marvel at her form. She was symmetrical, her colors were beautiful, and her skin was flawless.

She was tugging his hakama down and off.

He sighed, already exhausted.

His cock seemed to share his dispassion for all of this. Even as Yuki’s thin fingers were gliding up from his knees, going to his hips to squeeze him and pull him forward, he just… didn’t feel it. She was too snakelike.

Her tongue, pink and petal-perfect, met him. And then his body became slightly interested in what she was doing.

He knew female ninja received training, and wondered if this was part of it or something she could simply do, built the way she was.

“Mmmm,” came Yuki’s long moan as she took him into her mouth and laved his shaft. The touch of her tongue was pleasant, wet and plush against him, and her technique was without flaw. But for Nobuyuki there always needed to be some kind of trust in a partner, whether they were rising to challenge him or submitting to his whims. He did not have that trust here, and without it he couldn’t play the game in a way that would arouse him. Not really.

Yuki continued to try, cupping his balls in her slim hand and moaning around his shaft.

He didn’t believe her. His body responded only minutely. Without the commitment of his mind, it wasn’t going to work.

Eventually she drew back from him, flashing him a seductive glance.

“Does the Lord Sanada prefer to see a lady’s pleasure?” she asked sweetly. Not so sweetly he couldn’t detect the edge to it. He laughed.

“I have no preference for you at all, Yuki. I did not ask for this. You may leave.”

He turned, but she was right there in front of him, her striking hair still settling from the movement.

“Ah ah, little lord. Let us seal our promise with a kiss, at least.”

“Not necessary,” he said airily, turning again, bringing his robes closed in front of his body.

Yuki grabbed at his wrist. In her grip he felt the strength of one of Iga’s best.

“What do you want?” he sighed tiredly.

“A kiss would be nice.” Her voice had all the sweetness of a blade fresh from a whetstone.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” he told her flatly. “I don’t like you.”

“Oh, little Lord,” she giggled again, “that’s really no barrier to me.”

She somehow melted up his body, the warm slide of her nakedness against his own raising the hairs on his arms.

He pushed her away from him, and like silk falling to the ground she slid to her hands and knees. Before he even realized what he was doing, he had slapped her ass. Her perfect ass. Which flushed from his hit like a dream, supple and feminine and beautiful.

“Mmm, I’ve got something better than a kiss for you, then, lucky lord,” she teased over her shoulder. Her hands went to her bottom and lightly pulled the cheeks apart. The shameless vixen waggled herself at him.

“You may take either,” Yuki crooned, like the cat who’d gotten the cream.

The sight of his handprint becoming visible through her fingers was stirring his blood. She was repugnant, but she was beautiful. She was clever enough to play with, but she was a monster, and he hated her.

Still, he was getting hard. He aligned himself with her, found her entrance slippery and hot.

“Give it to me,” she hissed. “Be fierce.”

“Don't tell me what to do,” Nobuyuki replied. “You don’t deserve this,” and he pushed inside her body (which welcomed him, coddled him, coaxed him to stay or push further) and then pulled back and pushed even farther in on the next thrust. Yuki squealed, delight making her voice go high.

“Yes,” she breathed down at the bedding, her hands fisting his sheets. The sheets she’d ruined with that damned perfume. And she had the gall to not even understand how she was ruining them. Her body was quivering and her channel, tight but not restrictive, pulsed around him.

Seeing the sheets below her reminded him. “You are the worst,” he hissed, sliding his hands from her hips to her shoulders and leaning over her back. “It will be a better-hearted woman than you that gains my affection, Kirigakure Yuki.”

She whimpered. So Yuki liked to play this way, did she?

“I don’t care about your affection, Nobuyuki,” she said clearly. “All I want is this.” And she pushed herself back toward him. He felt the head of his cock nudge her womb and groaned before he could stop himself.

She moaned once she heard him, so hiding it from her was out. But oh, if what she wanted to do was play a game where he hated her, they were already playing that, weren’t they?

“This is all you’ll get,” he sneered at her ear. “You want me to be rough with you, kunoichi?” He let his hands follow the curve of her ample breasts to her nipples and tweaked one, hard. She squealed again and shuddered around him.

“You want this?”

He pushed in as far as his hips would allow in their current position.

“Nnnnnyes!” she squeaked.

Something about that response was just what he needed to see this through.

He fucked her harder than he had ever fucked anyone else, and he did not love her for being able to receive it and keep going. He was crueler to her body than he took pleasure from. A part of him felt righteous in his want to hurt her as she had hurt him. His mother’s precious perfume and all his happy memories of being close enough to her as a child to enjoy it, coopted and tainted by this conniving whore with none of the kindness or grace of spirit the scent should require.

He bit her shoulder and she shouted but made no move to dislodge him. A part of him wanted to break her skin. Wanted to break her.

“I hate you,” he hissed again. “I will never forgive you for what you’ve done.”

He bit the other shoulder and she groaned, a pleasured sound that he hated even more than he hated her. Her hand went between her legs. Nobuyuki could feel her elegant fingers holding her folds open and thought she was probably manipulating herself to orgasm.

He tugged both of her nipples sharply. Her cry of obvious bliss surprised him. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he demanded, repeating the action. Her cries went to a higher pitch between her pants and little mewls. Her sounds were natural but he just knew they were the result of study and cultivation, meant to make her partners come undone. And it made him even angrier.

Seven hells. He felt his eyes rolling in a way that had nothing to do with their coupling, and then again at the thought of using the word “coupling” to describe this action.

“You’re a monster,” Nobuyuki sneered into her ear. “And not nearly as clever as you think you are. Not by half. Your so-called beauty means nothing to me. I know you for a snake.”

She was keening openly below him now, still sounding like she loved all of this and practically sobbing with want. Her cries pushed him closer to the edge, and he pushed further into her to punish her for it. He brought his hands back to her hips to hold her in place as he fucked her to his completion, telling her she was horrible, filthy, clumsy, and hadn’t fooled him at all.

He didn’t know if that last bit was true. But it felt like the first real pleasure he’d gotten from this misadventure to tell her so with every note of disdain he could bleed into his voice.

She put her head down on her arm and screamed as she rippled around his cock, and that did him in. For a brief second he considered staying right where he was—she hadn’t asked him not to, and he wanted to punish her—before regaining his senses. He didn’t want to punish her with that risk. Not… really. Not quite.

So he pulled himself back and pulled her hair with him. The flawless, supple skin of her back moved as her spine bowed. With his free hand, Nobuyuki pulled his orgasm from himself, painting her back with splashes of cum. Into the sadism of their odd play and still very much in the mood to denigrate her, he pushed his finger into her back when he was finished, pushed hard, and wrote a character in the puddle. When he was done he was inspired to write a second.

“What does that say, Yuki?” he demanded.

“Ah-ahh, darlinnng, I can’t telllll,” she whined, pulling her head forward. He kept his grip on her hair, full and beautiful in his other hand. The silk of it spilled between his fingers, strands of nacre glinting in the limited afternoon light of his room. He clenched his hand.

“Pay attention, then. I’m not letting you go until you can read this label.”

He pushed at her skin again, no gentler but slower. Her back trembled slightly.

“…bad?” she asked, trying to hang her head. He did not let up on her hair.

“What else?”

“Bad…smell?”

“That’s right,” he hissed as he tugged her hair before releasing her. He stood and walked across the room, used the basin there to clean himself before righting his clothing.

“Oh, darling,” Yuki purred from his bedding, flat on her stomach and looking quite comfortable. “We can do that again whenever you like.” She sounded sated. When he looked over at her face the twin mahogany circles of her eyes were tiny above her smile.

“I have no desire to do that again,” he told her. Truthfully. Mostly.

She smirked, but got up without being prompted.

“I quite like people who love their families,” she said sweetly. Then she pouted. “I really liked that perfume.”

Nobuyuki said nothing. After a few seconds, she added more quietly, “…but I will destroy it and start something new.”

He considered thanking her but decided to stay silent.

Before she put her own robes back on, Yuki stood with her back to him, displaying his handiwork. There was still the mark of his hand on one side of her ass. Darker marks on each shoulder, distinct on her pale flesh. His bites. On her tiptoes, she craned her neck to try to get a look at the mess on her back.

“Such a healthy lord,” she mused, grinning at him. He did not return her smile.

She pulled a cloth from somewhere and cleaned herself up before redressing.

“I could have ended your life at any point just then,” she cooed. Her tone did not match her frown.

He felt one side of his mouth tug into a smirk at her conflict. He was glad to have upset her.

“Perhaps I’ll spend the rest of the afternoon with a younger, gentler partner,” she mused.

He had no interest in her affairs. He was beyond ready for her to leave.

“Someone like Yukimura,” she said sweetly.

He looked at her face, his own going stony.

“I know, I promised!” Her giggle made him want to cut something. “I won't harm a single hair on his sweet head. But I’ll just see if he’s around for play...”

And she threw open the doors of his room, boldly walking into the hallway. He could hear the sputtering of servants and his younger brother alike.

Nobuyuki sighed. Called for a maid through the open door.

He ordered the bedding burned.

#samurai love ballad party #slbp fanfic #sanada nobuyuki #kirigakure yuki #fear leads to anger anger leads to hate #...which leads to hatefucking? #not nice #not sweet #but it takes all kinds to make this world complete

[emmakillianfan]

Illusions of Another Life Chapter 31

Previous Chapters – AO3 and FF.net

 To hear his wife speak of magic, curses, and charms with the ease of one of the cooks talking of porridge in the kitchen was not something that Robin could ever fully accept and understand. He watched as she, still exuding the regal confidence that most would label as something worse, spoke with Elsa about the ingredients that still had to be gathered. Though she was clearly still addled from the past few days of having magic and then losing it again with the cuffs that she wore beneath her sleeves, he noted that her voice was laced with strength and even hints of frustration rather than softness.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you were to go?” Elsa asked, her brow furrowed as she stared at the parchment list. “I have never been one to cook spells and whatnot. I’m more of a…”

“Yes, I’m aware of your abilities. And if children and adults didn’t still cower at the sight of the former Evil Queen, it would make sense for me to go.” Regina drew a long finger down the table where they were currently storing all the documents and texts that might help them in their quest to reach the foursome still trapped in the Endless Forest. Its infinite boundaries would be too much to conquer without magical intervention. And without sacrificing others, reaching one of the four through a dream state would be the best of bets.

“I think we have bigger concerns than who is about to do the shopping,” Grumpy said, living up to his name. The dwarfs had chosen him to represent them all in the conversations with Snow and the others. His short form not overlooked at the table, he was most concerned at the idea of surrendering their queen in a plan that was concocted by their former enemy. “Who exactly will be left in charge if Snow is unable to awaken from this curse?”

Snow’s gentle and hopeful tone was out voiced by Regina who showed disdain without filter on her face. “I’ve already told you that this is not a curse. I am simply trying to give her something to prolong and deepen her sleep so that she might enter the dream realm without worrying about waking from it. As well, I am going to give her a few herbs that will aid in her navigation through that realm to reach Charming. It’s all very safe and simple. She’ll be awake again by morning with no ill effects.”

The dwarf grumbled that he hoped that she would still have a kingdom when she woke, still not feeling all that comfortable with trusting a woman they had fought for years.

“I wouldn’t risk the kingdom,” Snow told him gently. “But it makes sense that I do this. I have been through a sleeping curse, which leaves me uniquely qualified if these books and whatnot are right. I should be able to better understand the navigation.” She twisted the emerald ring on her finger, wishing that it truly did work as her husband’s mother had claimed – leading to her true love. But it seemed to only do that at the bloom of love not throughout it. “I am so scared for them. I must do something to bring them home.”

Regina scoffed at the teary eyed stepdaughter who had once believed her to be the answer to a prayer. “I doubt many of them are suffering. That wolf is probably appreciating her time in the forest, as is the huntsman. And the pirate might not be on the sea, but I doubt he is complaining at your daughter’s side. I imagine he would walk through fire if she only asked him.”

It was Elsa who had the good sense to get the conversation back on track, asking about the availability of items. “I have never really shopped,” she admitted. As most royals did, she had people bring things to her, tailors, designers, bakers, craftsmen, and more. “Won’t…”

“I will do the shopping,” Granny interrupted, her hands trembling a bit with age and perhaps adrenaline. “You are going to make sure that the ingredients are authentic and possess the magic that you will need to concoct this thing.”

***AAA***

Emma felt the last of her emotional strength fade and melt into a puddle of screaming tears as she ran toward the crumpled form of her father there on the forest floor. His limbs were twisted and wounds both deep and superficial marred his flesh. She sank next to him, what was left of the beauty of her gown staining with mud and muck.

Even Killian was silent as she let her green eyes rove over him with only Ruby saying anything. No one was even sure if Emma heard her godmother’s explanation as to why he was in such a state. However, the dark haired beauty knew she needed to tell her friend’s only daughter the truth.

“He thought he saw something,” Ruby stammered, reaching fruitlessly for Emma’s trembling hand. “The branch broke.” Graham pointed to it as though it might deserve punishment for its treason, eying it suspiciously. “We couldn’t get to him in time. Emma, I tried.”

“It was an accident,” Emma said softly, her fingers running over a patch of skin that remained as she remembered. “He wouldn’t have wanted…”

“He’s alive,” Red clarified. “But the injuries are severe and without a surgeon…I was thinking perhaps you could heal him. I know you did so with Hook there.”

Sheepishly Ruby stared at the spot that had been blemished with an angry red cut that Emma had healed easily. However, the Princess’s lack of confidence shown in her tear filled eyes and her head waved back and forth with growing ferocity. “I’m not strong enough. What if…What if I hurt him? It could kill him.”

“Doing nothing will kill him,” Graham said, holding his hand atop Red’s shoulder. “Princess, I know this is not normal circumstances, but if you don’t try it will surely be the last moments for your father.”

“You are special, love,” Killian added, his own hand hovering near her back. “Your powers are enough to make the bloody Dark One cower. You can do this. You can save your father.”

Lacing her fingers together and bringing her hands up toward her mouth, she looked at the bloodied and mangled form of her father before her. She could hear his voice in her head, telling her of adventures and magic from long ago. He had always spoken of Lake Nostos and other places that she imagined in her youth, places that could heal and protect, find lost people and objects. He believed in those things. He believed in her. Yes, he’d had fears of her magic, not wanting her to be different or as Hook said, special. He wanted her to have a normal life with a husband and children. When she had run away she had destroyed the connection between them

“I’ll try,” she said, dipping her head in what might have been a moment of contemplative prayer or mediation before extending her hands with palms down and fingers splayed. At first there was no visible reaction, merely a trembling that she felt from within. Graham and Red averted their eyes from hers, hoping to give her the privacy that would build confidence as if that would help. But Killian kept his blue eyes trained on her hands, encouraging her softly as the light stuttered and then shown from her fingers.

Her lashes created shadows on her damp cheeks as she moved her hands just inches over her father’s sleeping form. The glow ebbed and flowed dramatically and her body shook with the effort. Marred skin was healed and abrasions disappeared under the magic that flowed out of her.

Graham gasped at the sight, blinking to reassure himself it was not an illusion. Emma tried to concentrate on her father, but she could hear Killian’s words to spur on her continued tirade of magic, including calling her bloody brilliant and magnificent. Her hands stopped at the top of her father’s head, the magic not trickling but abruptly stuttering to a conclusion. And while he looked to be simply napping on the damp forest floor, his injuries no longer visible, his eyes remained shut to the world.

Emma teetered sideways, collapsing against the pirate with an exhaustion that seemed to overtake her. He did not flinch at the addition of her weight against him, embracing her and whispering his admiration and comfort as she sobbed uncontrollably either from fear, relief, or a mixture of the two.

***AAA***

Belle’s shoes wore the dusty remnants of another visit to the dungeon chamber that held the Dark One, something Regina and Snow immediately discerned as the woman entered the family quarters. Her expression pained as she curtsied to both women, Belle folded one hand over the other and breathed in shakily as she waited for acknowledgement.

“Whatever it is just say it,” Regina instructed, ignoring the pointed look from the reigning queen.

“I believe I can get him to help us find your family, Queen Snow,” she began, taking a single step closer to the two. “My father spoke of the Dark One’s ability to see into the future as well as into the minds of people. Perhaps this would useful?”

“We need to know where they are located not what the weather will be tomorrow,” Regina scoffed, turning her attention back to the map of the kingdom that had long been used for defensive meetings. “Unless he’s willing to provide that information, I don’t see any reason to continue visiting the imp.”

Snow’s reaction was much more subdue, one side of her mouth lifting in understanding. “It’s a nice idea, Belle, but I don’t think we or at least I can bring myself to trust him. No, it’s better to exhaust our other means.” She looked about the sitting room and its ornate furniture and fabrics. “I’m so sorry, Belle. I know that you must hope that he can…”

“I hope to be of help to you,” Belle said weakly. “I only want to help you return your family and the others.”

They took time to speak of books where the infinite forest was mentioned, finding no record detailing of anyone other than King David who had escaped its endless maze. He had help, Snow explained to the waifish woman. Rumpelstiltskin had enchanted a ring to guide him to her. She told the story as if talking of someone else, some other couple’s love. Maybe that was a help, she told herself. Maybe she could make things more bearable if she pretend it was someone else. However, the tears on her cheeks and on Belle’s told her that she failed at that. And for a moment she caught a glimmering reflection on Regina’s too. Snow wiped at her cheeks and excused herself, disappearing behind the curtained off dressing area.

“You don’t trust me, do you?” Regina asked the other woman.

“You attempted to kidnap and hold me away from Rumple and from my family. Forgive me for not trusting that you have changed your heart as well as your behavior.”

Regina sat regally on the chair, her pinched face giving no satisfaction to the biting words. “I suppose I deserve that lack of trust, but I must ask. I must ask what it is that he has done that has makes him more redeemable in your eyes. For all the evil things I have done will never be a fraction of his deeds.”

“He is cursed,” Belle said, drawing the taupe cape about her tighter. “You chose everything you did. You chose to be evil because you couldn’t get the life you wanted. There is a difference.”

“I’m not here to defend myself, but I will say that he is hardly as innocent as he would have you believe, Belle. He chose to take on that curse the same was you chose that frock you are wearing today. And he has chosen to keep those powers even after…even after it cost him his family. You can deny that all you wish, but he’s no hero.”

***AAA***

Elsa tugged at the oversized brown gloves that Granny had handed her during their walk from the stables toward town. The very process of walking and not taking a gilded carriage is foreign enough, but Granny threw a near fit at the realization that the Queen of Arendelle’s hands were without callous or scar.

“Those aren’t the hands of a kitchen maid or cook,” Granny announced, throwing her own shawl down in resigned disgust. “No one will believe us.”

Elsa looked down at her hands, wondering why she was so ashamed of their lack of character in that moment. She had replaced her normal finery with a dull tan dress that had been patched and altered a number of times. Delicate slippers were now laced boots and jewelry was removed. Even her glinting white gold hair was dulled and plaited beneath and brown and blue hood that had the singe marks of its previous owner’s penchant for standing too close to the fire in the winter.

Giving a warning look to the Queen of the northern kingdom, the older woman stopped cold and drew in a breath. “Well, those will have to do,” she said. “Remember, no formal talk. No magic. And absolutely none of this.” The woman gave her best impression of flitting about aimlessly, lifting the edge of her skirts as though traipsing along a path with nary a worry in the world.

“I know what to do, Mrs. Lucas,” Elsa said defensively, leaving out how she never flitted about that way.

“Granny. Everyone calls me Granny. If this is to work, you’re a girl working with me not my superior and certainly not a queen. You call me Granny.”

“Yes, Granny,” Elsa said, the familiar type name sounding strange. She had never known her own grandparents and never felt the affectionate name had meaning to her. It certainly wasn’t a name she expected to use on the discerning woman with narrow eyes that glared at her over spectacles. “I think I’m ready.”

Maybe if she had sounded more sure Granny would have talked about the weather or even crops as they made their way to town in a wagon that had none of the features fit for royalty. Instead Granny made her practice her posture and her words, correcting the preciseness of her enunciation and filling in with slang and naturalness that were anything but to the Queen. By the time they reached the apothecary, she was no longer worried. Frustrated? Yes, but she did not seem to notice that people ignored her as they crossed the busy street and dodged the horses and pedestrians. She did not cringe when men leered at her or the way the assistant tried to undress her with his eyes.

When she noted that the ingredients were right in line with those prescribed by Regina, Granny tossed a few coppers in the direction of the proprietor. He must have been impressed, as he wrapped their purchases carefully and even offered to have his assistant bring their cart round for them.

“That stuff,” Granny said, her hands loosely holding the reigns that the two bay horses pulled at in the direction of the palace, “it’ll put Snow to sleep.”

“Poppies have that property,” Elsa said, her fingers circling the muslin pack of different herbs and ingredients. “Whistle root is to help her navigate the dream world. And the dried leaves of the odder stem will keep her alert in that state.”

“I thought you never cast spells like that,” the older woman said accusingly, guiding the horses around the long way. Just in case anyone was watching the two mismatched shoppers, Granny hoped to send them in another direction by taking an indirect route to the palace. “You seem in tune with these ingredients.”

“My parents never encouraged magic, but they were versed in herbs and the like. Whenever my sister or I were ill as children, my father would blend up some sort of tea with herbs that had healing properties. I suppose I picked up a bit of that, as well as reading over the past few days. The former Queen Regina doesn’t dabble much in the more natural arts, but she does have a bit of that information.” Elsa blinked against the spring sun that seemed to warm the kingdom beyond its needs. While she had heard the dangers of the infinite forest, she wondered if Emma and the others could see that same sun, feel its warmth, and follow its path. Somehow she doubted it, as the images in her mind of the place they were trapped included a thick umbrella of foliage and winding trails that doubled back on themselves.

“And this concoction will be safe for Snow?” Granny pressed. “I don’t mean to subscribe to conspiracy theories like Grumpy or the rest, but trusting Regina is beyond many of us. It wouldn’t be unheard of her to try to kill our Queen with poison. And while she is cuffed again and unable to perform magic, she could…”

“Use me to do her bidding,” Elsa concluded, her defined features crumbling as she considered that. “I hope that you don’t think I would ever willingly…”

“I don’t trust easily, nor do I have the fine education that many may have had over their years. But I assure you that I do watch over Snow and her family very carefully. And I do hope that you know what you are doing, your majesty.” Granny tightened her hands on the reigns. “Now let’s get these ingredients back so we can get them back home.”

***AAA***

It was not the richest or brightest stew she had ever tasted, as the meat was quite gamey and the herbs and roots not as good of quality. Yet the taste of something that had been simmering over the fire tasted good on her tongue as he carefully spooned it into her mouth. She felt a heaviness about her that was not usual, but at least she was blinking, breathing, and speaking again.

“I’m capable of feeding myself,” she said, hazarding a glance toward where her father still lay sleeping on the floor of the forest. Red had fashioned him a bed with one of the blankets over leaves and brush that Killian had cut for just that purpose. Hardly the mattresses of the palace, but it was serviceable. Another of the blankets covered him. “Is he?”

“Sleeping,” Killian answered her, dipping the wooden spoon back into the weak broth. “His color appears good, as does his breathing. I suppose we just wait.”

“Did I…” She cleared her throat, looking at her hands and then back at her father. “Did I do any good at all?”

“You helped him, love. It was quite lovely to see that light and feel the warmth of your magic. There’s nary a scratch on him now. I simply think he is sleeping to let his body catch up to the repairs. You were brilliant, my love, simply brilliant.” He tipped the spoon toward her parted lips, smiling encouragingly as she sipped. “I’m afraid it exhausted you though. You have slept for nearly as long as your father. Red has worried about you. Though she is not yet back to check on you. She and the huntsman have gone in search for grazing areas for the horses. Should be back soon though.”

She swallowed. “And you? Did you worry about me?”

“I find myself in a constant state of wonder with you. While I cannot name it as worry, you are never far from my thoughts.” Kneeling, he rocked backwards and craned his neck back to look at the coverage of the branches that blocked out much of the sky.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

“You will have to be more specific.” He let her remove the spoon from his hand and allowed her to feed herself. She was clearly feeling stronger after the nap though her hand shook with the effort of it.

“Being at sea?” She glanced upwards. “This place is so very claustrophobic. It feels as if it is all caving in on us.” She did not lift the spoon again, letting it rest in the broth.

“Are you asking that out of concern for me or to have me declare my feelings for you are stronger than they are for my ship and crew?” The right corner of his mouth rose in a subtle smirk. “I do miss the night sky, which is substantially more beautiful on sea than on land. But I don’t miss the endless days of searching and the longing that I had developed for you. And while I don’t know that I fully recognize my life without a quest for revenge, I assure you, my love, that I have no regrets.” He looked to the bowl. “Now eat up. We can’t have you falling ill.”

She didn’t feel all that weak, though an argument could be made. So she shifted, looking skyward herself. “I’m not that hungry.”

He didn’t argue with her. Setting aside the bowl, he moved to her side, resting his arms on his bent legs. “I have been thinking…”

She wavered a bit, even in her sitting position feeling the heaviness of her body and the pull of needed rest. There was no way that he didn’t notice, pulling her toward him and pushing aside whatever thoughts he might have had to tell her. “This won’t do at all,” he said, adding a bit of mirth to his voice. “We can’t have the princess so outside herself that she might crumple and fall in the slightest breeze. Come now. You can use this old pirate as a pillow if you like.”

“You were going to say something?”

“Perhaps I was just going to tell you some tale of life on the seas, of some realm that sounds so much better than the place we find ourselves now. Or perhaps it was just some boring drabble that was meant to put you to sleep.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I can’t quite remember.”

“Because you are so old?” That made both of them chuckle.

“Aye, you will be taking on quite a task with me if we are to make our lives together, Princess. You’ll be reminding me of where I left things and massaging my aching muscles.”

“Doesn’t sound like too bad of a fate to me.”

***AAA***

The royal bedroom rarely saw so much traffic, save the royal couple and their attendants. However, it was quite full of people that late afternoon. Johanna had the three boys playing a short distance away, but all other visitors crowded into the normally cavernous room.

“You don’t have to do this,” Regina said as Elsa and Granny brewed the tea for Snow over the fire. “You are more than capable of ruling this kingdom and raising your son to do the same. No one would blame you if you were to look out for the people rather than plan some rescue mission.”

“That’s what you want,” Grumpy said in that gruff way he had, folding the blanket that was made from patches of Emma’s dresses that she had worn as a child. “Isn’t it? If she leaves the King and Emma there in that forest to die, you get to keep that boy. You keep Emma’s son.”

“Grumpy, please,” Mary Margaret said, situating herself on the bed that she usually shared with her husband. Fluffy pillows surrounded her, as did the velvety blankets that were fit for royalty. It was quite different than her days as a bandit, sleeping on branches and leaves, the ground her only comfort as she caught naps between runs and missions. “Regina is only warning me of my options. And while this may seem to some a very selfish task, I’m ready to accept that. I need to know that I am doing all I can to return those four home.”

Robin, from his spot by the door, nodded in agreement. “I dare say not a one of the kingdom’s residents would argue with you. The dwarves and I will join with the guards to watch over the castle while you slumber, milady. No enemy shall cross the borders.”

“Thank you, Robin,” Snow said, folding her hands in her lap. “And none of you should worry. I’m simply taking a nap. This is not a curse.”

“Of course not,” Regina spat. “Alright. Once you are under you will have a limited amount of time to contact him. If he is not there, that means he’s not asleep. And you will have to try again later if that is the case.”

Elsa carried the steaming cup over, its contents a murky green color with hints of browns and grays. “There is more than enough tea to try at least 10 more times,” she said, settling on the stool that had been placed by the bed. “I only brewed a bit of it so that you might try again if necessary.”

“Thank you, Elsa,” Snow said, taking the cup and wrapping a hand around it. “Here’s hoping I will only need that on a sleepless night beside my husband.”

She held the cup up to her lips, the floral pattern of forget-me-nots painted delicately on the porcelain cup. “I’ll see you all soon.” Her green eyes scanned the worried faces staring back at her. “Please don’t worry. It’s just a nap.”

***AAA***

Emma moved from under the protective arm of the pirate at her side and stumbled over to her father. She knew that Killian had told her that he was sleeping, unaware of the precarious situation that had befallen him, but she wanted to feel the warmth of his skin and see the color in his cheeks before she could knowingly rest. Light from the setting sun cracked through the breaks in the branches and leaves, giving an orange glow to him as she sank down to the earth.

“Papa,” she said quietly, her hand tracing over the scar on his right hand. It was the remnant of a fight he’d had as a child, a souvenir that reminded him not to lose him temper under minor provocation. He had once told her the story of it when she had let her magic flare at a jealous princess from another kingdom, scaring both her and her victim into tears. She’d sworn then that she would never lose control again, earning the story from his childhood.

He lay there unmoving, for all the world asleep. “I am so sorry, Papa. I shouldn’t have let you risk yourself like that. I should have been better at fighting the Dark One. Whatever the reason you are here like this, I’m sorry, Papa. I’m so sorry.” She lifted his slack hand up to her cheek, reveling for a moment that there was still warmth in it. “I’m going to fix this. I am.”

She knew there was a little daylight left, far too little to set out on a journey on her own. But the attempts at healing him earlier had shown her that with the proper concentration her magic could work even in the suffocating foliage of these woods. It was not just the trees so tall that their tops were unseen by eyes, clouds hanging in their branches to obscure the view. It was the impenetrable mass of underbrush and the paths that wound and drove in directions that seemed correct until all twisted and ended in that same familiar finale. But there had to be a way. And if her assumption that time was running out for them was correct, she had to make her move soon. She had to save them before it was too late.

***AAA***

“Is she sleeping?” Robin asked, his bow at his side as his wife entered the hallway. “Already?”

“Poppies are quite fast acting when they are in that form. It’s quite nearly instantaneous.” Regina rested her hand on the door, her fingers smoothing the grain of the wood. “If he’s asleep at the same time…well, this could all be over soon.”

“You think that…”

“I think that I know the Queen and her husband well. She’ll find him and beg him to help us locate him. He will be unable, but the noble side of him will tell her to give up. Eventually she will listen.” She turned, the dark green of her dress fitting to her form as she spun. “Or perhaps true love will prevail.”

“You don’t sound convinced. Have we not seen the miracles that true love can create?

“I don’t disbelieve,” she conceded. “Robin, I’m not an optimist. That’s Snow. I’m not even…I’m practical, pragmatic, and strategic. There is nothing in me other than my ability to perform magic that speaks to happy endings and enchantments. But that is Snow. She has always had that heart inside her. And I believe that perhaps her daughter does too. That’s where Henry must get his belief in good from.”

“He must get some of that from you. You have been a loving mother to the boy for years. That stands for something.”

“Perhaps it does,” Regina said. She placed three fingers at the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “I think I should get a bit of rest myself.”

“Of course,” Robin said, holding the bow a bit higher. “I shall watch over you as well, darling. Sleep well.”

***AAA***

Cresting the hill, Snow gasped for breath, wondering why even in her dreams it seemed that the run was tiring. Shouldn’t she be able to fly in her dreams or at least run without becoming winded. Her golden flecked green eyes scanned the horizon, seeing nothing but the darkness of the forest and its constant walls of underbrush. Even above her the pines and firs towered out of sight, their evergreen branches providing a canopy over the earth that even the sun only penetrated in small amounts.

“Charming?” she called out, darting forward again. “David?”

Snow found him in the clearing, the trees giving way a bit up a slight rise and creating a near circle free from the oppressive flora. It reminded her a bit of the spot where he had found her so many years before, her fate sealed by Regina and a poison apple. He had said that their love guided him there. She had learned not to doubt him.

“Charming,” she said, the nickname feeling more familiar in that moment than his birth name. “Charming, it’s you…”

He turned to her slowly, even in this sleep state his eyes blinking in disbelief as she flung herself up the path toward him. “Snow, you’re…you’re here.”

“It’s a dream,” she said, interrupting him as she watched him stumble to his feet. Even in the dream state he stood and looked the same, wiping his hands on the leather pants he wore on his hunting trips and journeys. “I didn’t know if you would be asleep, but I had to try.”

“I’m…I’m not sure what I am.” He held out his arm, studying it as though it was foreign to him. “I have been hurt. Emma, she tried to heal me.”

“It’s why you’re asleep,” she finished dejectedly. “I thought…I thought we were past all this. All those days of serving cross purposes and finding each other. I thought we were done with all that.” A sickish laugh split the cool air. “This is what I was so scared our life would be…one journey after another, searching and searching…”

“We always find each other,” he said just as sadly, pulling her hands together in his grip. “I don’t see that as a bad thing.”

“Isn’t it? You’re hurt and lost. There is nothing I can do. What can I do? How do I reach you so that you can come home to me?” Her head thrashed back, the dark hair whipping free of its confines. “You aren’t going to be able to even tell our daughter how to get out of there.”

“You have a plan?”

“No,” she admitted, stilling in his eyes. “I hoped you could tell me something…anything…”

“The air, my love, the air. The answer must come from the air. I was…in a tree. I was trying to find the way out by taking to the air to see the path.” He shook his head. “I cannot expect you to take flight like a bird, but if anyone could it would be you. You have always loved your birds.” Smiling fondly, he sighed. “I don’t have the answer or a plan either.”

“Maybe…” she paused, looking skyward to the canopy of green needles and clouds. “David, what about the fairies? Don’t you remember when we were battling your father and Regina? We always had them lead the way through the sky as we followed after on foot. What if we did that again? Blue and the others? They might have enough magic to combat this forest.”

“You might just have the answer, Snow.”

#cs ff #captain duckling #captain swan ff #ouat fanfiction #cs enchanted forest

[thecoroutfitters]

Almost 250 years ago, a band of brave men and women stood up to a tyrannical government and entered into open rebellion against it.

These rebels were motivated by a desire for liberty, not wanting their lives to be controlled by a distant government which had no idea of who they were or what their lives were like. Their rebellion became a war, which they ultimately won, creating the United States of America.

The battle cry which brought those Founding Fathers to open warfare was “taxation without representation.” They were offended by the need to pay taxes to a distant government which didn’t look after their needs.

But even worse than that, they were taxed without being allowed any representation in the parliament of that country. To them, taxation without representation was tyranny, and they rose up against it.

The opening move in that rebellion was one of controlled violence. A band of rebels, disguised as American Indians, boarded three American owned and built ships tied up to Griffin’s Wharf in Boston, Massachusetts. There, they bound the guards, and proceeded to throw the contents of 342 crates of tea, belonging to the British East Indian Company.

Why would they do such a thing? More directly, why would my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, Silas Hubble (that’s five “greats”), a law-abiding subject of England, choose to partake in such an event? Because that tea carried a tax stamp. One more tax, levied by the English Crown, on colonists who were not represented in Parliament. That stamp became a symbol of the tyranny of England, calling for its destruction, along with the tea that bore it.

The Boston Tea Party became the spark which unified the colonies and started the war. Americans from all walks of life, gathered together to form an army, an army with one purpose – only that of throwing off the tyrannical rule of Britain.

Interestingly enough, the men who participated in this raid were very concerned about not breaking the law or causing damage to the owners of those ships. They did no violence to the members of the crews guarding those ships, merely binding them. The only damage they inflicted on those ships was a broken padlock, holding shut the hatch to the hold. They had to remove it to gain access to the tea, so they bought another padlock and left it for the captain of that ship.

This is an interesting contrast to the protests and demonstrations we see today, which are marked not only by their violence, but by their wonton destruction as well. Demonstrators, or more likely the paid agitators in their midst, make a point of breaking windows, overturning police cars and setting buildings on fire. Silas Hubble and his compatriots would be horrified.

Another huge difference between that demonstration and the demonstrations of today was their purpose. The Founding Fathers fought for freedom, which to them, meant freedom from government interference. But today’s protesters and revolutionaries are bound by the common thread of wanting a more oppressive government, one that cares for them from cradle to grave.

These demonstrators commonly call for a socialist form of government, not really understanding what that means. To them, socialism is the government giving them freebies.

But they fail to realize that for the government to do that, they must take that money and the individual freedom of their fellow Americans. Few of them have been on the other side of the fence, watching their paycheck diminish as the government took more and more away in the form of taxes.

Breaking from Tyranny

The American Revolution was against tyranny and those who joined in had a clear understanding of what that tyranny looked like. An overbearing government, far removed from their daily lives, was stealing from them in the form of taxes, while not giving them anything in return. That was tyranny.

So they went to war, an upstart collection of colonies against the mightiest army and navy in the world. That, in and of itself was remarkable. To think that untrained farmers and craftsmen would stand up against the might of the British government was truly amazing.

But to see them win and cast off the yoke of tyranny was even more amazing. They accomplished what nobody else thought was possible and so founded the greatest nation on the face of the Earth.

Having just broken the bonds of tyranny, the Continental Congress wanted to protect their fledgling nation from it ever occurring again. Through much hard work and thought, hammering out the details in endless debates, they crafted one of the greatest political documents of history – the United States Constitution.

The purpose of the Constitution was to define and establish the government of this new nation. It was written with certain goals in mind, amongst which was minimal central government, creating a balance of power between the central government and the states, and splitting the government’s power between three separate, but equal branches, so that power could not be consolidated in one branch or in the hands of one individual.

That is not to say that all of the Founding Fathers were comfortable with the restraints that the Constitution placed upon the government. Some wanted a strong central government, with limited state powers. But that group ultimately lost out to those who wanted a small federal government.

Another disagreement led to the writing of the Bill of Rights, the first 10 Amendments to the Constitution. Some felt that the Constitution, as drafted, guaranteed those rights. But others did not feel so, as they were not specifically enumerated.

Ultimately, this latter group won out, and the Bill of Rights was created. Once again, its purpose was to limit government power, not to give the government power.

Remember that the Second Amendment to the United States Constitution protects peoples’ right to keep and bear arms for purposes that include self-defense. The Second Amendment was written so you can defend yourself!

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Limited Government

Yet when we look at Washington today, we see a massive bureaucracy, which tries to meddle in every area of our lives. The Founding Fathers would be horrified by this, as it is the last thing they ever wanted. If anything, the Constitution and Bill of Rights give more power to the “several states” rather than to the central government. Yet the central government has stolen that power.

There is nothing which demonstrates more clearly than the Civil War how state power has been stolen.

While the main motivating factor in Southern cessation was slavery, the fact that the federal government didn’t allow them to secede, but rather went to war over it, was a massive theft of state powers by the federal government. In it, the several states lost their right to determine whether they would freely associate with the rest of the nation, or not.

Were the Founding Fathers to resurrect today, the first thing they would do is scale the federal government back. The Old Executive Office Building, originally built in 1871, was erected to be the home of the Departments of State, War (Army) and Navy. Yet today, it houses none of these functions, merely acting as an annex to the White House and holding additional staff members to the President.

To those Founding Fathers, several of the departments of the Executive Branch would be baffling, seen as unnecessary or as treasonous to the American people. They had fought for liberty and to find departments of the government which were meddling in the affairs of the citizens would bother them greatly. To them, the federal government we have today, would be even worse than the government they broke away from in the Revolutionary War.

Giving our government the benefit of the doubt (something I’m not normally wont to do), I believe that some of those departments would be accepted and understood by the Founding Fathers, after explanation and reflection. But not many.

Overall, they would see them as unnecessary meddling in the lives and businesses of the American people. In the cases of things that are necessary governmental services, such as education, they would ask why that wasn’t left at the state or even local level, as it was during their time.

But no governmental department would bother them more than the infernal IRS. Considering that they had just fought a war to get out from under the yoke of unreasonable taxation, the very idea that the American people would tolerate the existence of such an organization would be baffling. It would not surprise me if they were to rush it en masse, burning the building to the ground, as soon as they were made aware of its presence.

Citizen Legislators

The original Continental Congress, which published the Declaration of Independence wasn’t made up of professional politicians. Rather, it was made of farmers and businessmen, who left their homes to go to Boston and returned back home after the government’s business was concluded.

Alexander Hamilton, who presided over that Congress, was a ship’s captain, who returned to his ship and set sail, once the Congress was dismissed.

Video first seen on Scott Bacher. 

In creating the United States of America, the Founding Fathers were breaking away from the aristocratic rule of European countries. There would be no hereditary royalty who ruled the people, but rather representatives who were elected from the communities they represented.

There was to be no permanent political class either. Representatives would be farmers, craftsmen and business owners who had earned the trust of their neighbors. They would serve in government part time, returning to their communities to run their farms and businesses.

Yet today we have a permanent political class, where most of our politicians at the federal level have spent their entire professional lives as politicians. Few of them have any other skills or know any other profession than that of governing, and because of that, they are largely disconnected from the people that they represent.

I can clearly imagine any one of the Founding Fathers facing off against Congress and using Donald Trump’s famous line, “You’re fired!” They would see the permanent political class as nothing more than the permanent ruling class in England, something that they tried to eradicate on these shores.

Balance of Power

As the Founding Fathers looked closer, they would quickly see how the balance of power between the three branches of government has been corrupted. Through the years, both the Executive and Judicial branch have stolen power from the Legislative branch, reducing the influence of Congress, while increasing their own.

The idea of governing by executive fiat was never a part of the original plan, although power for executive orders are written in the Constitution. But that was only intended to give the president power to execute laws that were already in existence; not create his own or eliminate those he didn’t like.

Likewise, the judicial branch was never given power to create their own laws by the decisions handed down from the bench. Their function was limited to determining whether the laws created by Congress had been broken or not.

Decisions such as Roe vs. Wade and the supposed right of homosexuals to marry in same sex marriages would horrify them; not just for the lack of morality behind those decisions, but because the Supreme Court was adding “rights” to the Constitution which didn’t exist.

Morality & Religion

Speaking of morality, we must remember that of the 56 men who signed the Declaration of Independence, 53 of them were Christians. Twenty-seven of them had attended seminary. This nation was founded as a Christian nation; the only one in the history of the world.

Yet, Barack Obama’s declaration that this is no longer a Christian nation is much closer to the truth than many of us would care to face. Christianity is on the decline, rapidly being replaced by Secular Humanism, Islam, the New Age movement and outright atheism.

Many of the original settlers on these shores came here for religious liberty. At that time, the phrase “religious liberty” referred to the expression of the Christian religion, not Islam, secular humanism or any of the other religions which are seeking to take over society. They were concerned about a government sponsored church forcing everyone to accept the “official” version of Christianity, as the Church of England imposed upon their society. Hence the First Amendment gives us the right to freedom of religion.

Nevertheless, the morals of today, or more correctly the lack of morals in our modern society, would be shocking to the Founding Fathers. They created this country to be a Christian country, expressing Christian values and living in accordance with the commandments of the Bible. What it has become today would be both shocking and repugnant to them.

Helping the Poor

The poor have always existed. The most ancient evidence that exists shows poor people populating the world. In fact, the vast majority of people have been poor, throughout the majority of history. Helping the poor was seen as a work for churches, religious societies and other “do-gooder organizations” (non-profit corporations).

Some of the poor were poor due to circumstances beyond their control. These are often referred to as the “widows and orphans” of history. The Christian Bible even makes reference to them, admonishing Christians to help them out.

But there were others who were poor because of drunkenness, laziness and a lack of a good work ethic. While their numbers were much lower than those of today, they existed.

In the culture of the 1700s and 1800s such people were looked down upon. Their problems were seen as something of their own creation. As such, they earned no pity and were not supported by the community. Any handouts were reserved for those considered to be “legitimately poor,” the aforementioned widows and orphans.

The idea that the government would be in the business of redistributing wealth to help the poor was something totally foreign to them. They would not understand it.

While they were all good men, who probably would have reached out a hand to help a person in need, they would never think that their taxes would be spent in such a way. They especially wouldn’t think that entitlements would become the single largest part of government spending.

Yet that’s what we have today. I can see these men admonishing citizens and especially the church, to take up this burden and remove it from the government. They would probably be some of the first to give, in order to make this possible.

Conclusions

In reality, the America of today is vastly different from the America of our Founding Fathers. We have come so far down the road of change, that it’s doubtful that they would recognize the country as being the one they had founded. While some of that can be written off to changes in society and technology, even without those changes, they would not recognize the country we have become.

More than anything, they would be concerned about the size of our federal government, both in the amount of wealth it takes from our economy and the amount of regulatory burden it puts on people’s lives. While some of that is obviously necessary, they could not accept it as it is.

Were the Founding Fathers alive today, we could expect a second American Revolution, and they’d be the ones to start it.

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This article has been written by Bill White for Survivopedia. 

References:

http://www.cnsnews.com/news/article/michael-w-chapman/ben-carson-obama-says-we-are-not-judeo-christian-nation-he-doesn-t

http://www.dar.org/archives/signers-declaration-independence

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[olwog]

Visitors

The people of who pass my door seem to be of three varieties. There’s the visitor that’s read some of my missives here and have come to search me out and take some photos, there are the passers-by who happen upon me and look surprised that the planners should demolish all around me and build a couple of brick boxes with no architectural merit as my bookends and there are the concerned locals who are interested ensuring that whatever is happening it needs to be right. They all have one thing in common, they’re interested in every stage of my renovation. George encourages them to call in and Lee always makes some time for them unless his work is time-critical. Some of the tasks over the last few weeks have been just that, very time-critical. My floors under the kitchen and to a lesser extent under the stairs had been affected by a collapsed drain. It’s all sorted now of course but the re-laying of the limecrete, once mixed, had to be done fairly rapidly. Lee had sent the lads out to acquire three mixers and they were all running side by side in the yard. They looked like hungry cows chewing the cud and working in parallel to produce the amount of material required to fill the carefully prepared kitchen floor.

I’m pleased to say that we get concerned faces at the window and, when the front is open, a ‘Hello!’ at the door. George or Lee (Waring) invite them in.

Mary and Glen Portier dropped in when Lee was laying the limecrete floor and he showed them around. They’re from Houma, Louisiana although Mary’s maiden name was Dixon and she hails from The Ropery, a street that runs parallel a couple of hundred metres behind me but they’ve been in the States for 50 years and follow the updates – Hi Mary and Glen, I like the colour of your top!

    Many others have called in over the summer and they all have a story. I really enjoy listening to them. They seem to have lots of questions especially about when I was built and how I got into the semi-derelict state that was caused when the roof caved in. It wasn’t noticed for several years and the furniture and other soft furnishings absorbed the rain. Sadly, once wet, they retained the moisture and fed it back into my floorboards, joists and walls over many months even when the weather outside was dry or even warm and that’s what caused the rot. That’s in the past though.

A few weeks ago George showed two ladies and their lovely little girl around the ground floor and he was told about granddad who spent some happy childhood years growing up here. They told him about the bakery next door and George showed them a little hatch in my southern wall with a message written in pencil during the 1970s.

    I’ve had the first coat of lime plaster on my walls and it feels good. For many years when the concrete sucked the life out of my bricks but now they’re breathing again and will continue to do so under this beautiful, lime based, blanket. The electrician’s been busy too and George has been investigating electric heaters to keep me warm as winter sets in.

They’ve been listing the snagging jobs and I’m looking forward to an outside step at the back so that the rear door can be fitted.

Martyn Cana is doing that and it’s interesting what thoughts contribute to the planning. On the face of it, it’s a simple task. i.e. how many steps, size of step, how big the landing area should be, dealing with rain and snow, leaving a fall for the drainage of water so it doesn’t enter the cottage, there’s lots to take into consideration and they’re doing that in detail.

  Martyn Canna

  The plan is to finish the plastering then the final fix electrics then do the painting so there is no necessity to cover the floors, they’ll be fitted after the painting then the skirting boards. There is still lots to do but we’re getting there.

George has been using local labour and suppliers where it’s been possible and I’d say that’s been about 90% of the time. They have pride in their work and are often family members. It’s also handy when one trade needs to call on the services of another at short notice. On the odd occasion one trade or another has been able to come at short notice and alleviate a hiatus that could have caused a complete halt for the initiating trade.

Initially, there was some surprise at being asked to repair stuff rather than replace it but everyone is working on that principal now although a lot of the plumbing and all of the wring were exempt from that clause. 

Tim of ‘Barn Antiques’ dipped my doors and did a sterling job on them. He was also professional enough to advise against dipping some of the others as he thought it wouldn’t work and I’m happy with that. He and his lovely wife Elizabeth have a business out on the Scarborough Road which is worth a visit if only for its quirkiness – boy is it quirky. George has included a few photographs of the yard. All towns should have things like this, nothing is wasted and if you need a ‘widget for a whatsit’ there’s every chance you’ll find a second hand one there and if you can’t then Tim or Elizebeth will. He dipped my internal doors and removed seven layers of paint off one of them; if they could talk you’d get a tale, but then, you’re getting that from me anyway!

    Mark, Luke and Nathan Storr have been busy with the lime plaster. They’re family; Mark is dad and Luke and Nathan, his sons. They work as a close team and seem to know what the others need or are thinking. I listen to their interaction as the first coat is ‘thrown on’ and thrown on it is. The idea is to get the base layer into all of the tiny cracks and porous elements of my 250-year-old bricks to form a key; however, the idea of the lime base is that my walls will still breath. The last 50 years or so have been very difficult when my inner walls were rendered in concrete. My bricks were suffocated and my walls, particularly the ones exposed to the elements were drawing moisture in but not able to release it due to the cladding.

All of that stopped last year when the concrete was removed by Lee and Ash Waring and team. Some hold-ups inhibited work for several months and in the case of my brickwork, it worked in my favour and allowed natural drying to take place so my walls are now ready for the luxury of proper lime render and this is where we are.

        Mark, Nathan and Luke are now working on the second coat which is much finer and you can see some of the results on the photographs of my top dormer floor. I’m looking and feeling good!

George is in the process of ordering the kitchen which should be here in about a month. My ground floor still has a lot of first fix stuff to take place especially the electrical work prior to plastering. I’m hoping it will take place over the next couple of weeks so that Mark can return and complete the plastering downstairs as he has with the upper two floors.

So, what’s to do? Well, quite a lot really. All of the above plus the fitting of the kitchen, rear door, step, floors and heating and there’s a fair amount of work for Jack Atkinson, my joiner as he works on my stairs and floors. Jack is another local tradesman from Goathland. I think I heard him say he’s sixth generation and married to a lady that’s fifth-generation from Goathland so he really knows the area and understands old buildings. He’s clearly proud of his work and this was underlined when George asked him about a particular panel under the stairs that has some damage on one of the frames. George asked him if we need to replace the frame and his answer was music to my ears, “No”, he said, “I can repair that” and he explained what he could do. I like tradesmen that are craftsmen and I’m delighted with the team that I have.

I’ll tell you a little bit more about all of the people that have worked on me in a few weeks,

More to come…LYC..x

  Please feel free to share.

Little Yellow Cottage – Update 16 – Local Trades People, Visitors and Progress Visitors The people of who pass my door seem to be of three varieties. There’s the visitor that’s read some of my missives here and have come to search me out and take some photos, there are the passers-by who happen upon me and look surprised that the planners should demolish all around me and build a couple of brick boxes with no architectural merit as my bookends and there are the concerned locals who are interested ensuring that whatever is happening it needs to be right.

#Barn Antiques #Church Street #Grade 2 Listed #Little Yellow Cottage #Waring Building #Whitby

[srsw94]

Chapter 1 of my 1st book

The Enemy Arrives

         As night fell in the peaceful land of Riverton a man from a faraway country arrived. He was named Razare, a king who had to flee his kingdom due to a rebellion. Razare hadn’t been looked upon in a very favorable light in his country. He realized that as he continued his campaigns against the countries that surrounded his former domain of Fredrickson. Fredrickson is a country of great warriors and craftsmen, and Razare is both. He learned all he knew about fighting of his father, the last king of Fredrickson, and his craftsmanship from a childhood friend, a blacksmith who worked exclusively for his father. Razare escaped his country by boat to the port of Riverton where he sold his small boat to the port manager. With the money he got, he was going to buy a building and set up a blacksmith shop.

       Riverton was bigger than he originally thought it was. The port faced to the north, the direction of his former home.  Razare wandered around the port, not knowing where he was. Then a sailor came up from behind and asked him:

“Hey there bratha, ya must be new to Rivertan?”

“Uh, yes,” Razare said, “do you know where all the shopping is done in this city?”

“Ya need the Market District,” The sailor, said pointing to the southwestern part of Riverton. It’s a ten-mile walk from here.”

Razare was not looking forward to the long walk in this strange land.

“Is there anything else I need to know about this city?” he asked looking at the sailor.

“Ya, there is actually,” The sailor was in a good mood. “The district you're in right now is called the Seaside District, where all the sailors and their families live. The east district is called the Noble District. That’s where the richest of the rich in Rivertan live. The south district is called the Civilian District, that’s where the bulk of the citizens of Rivertan lived. The west district, as I told ya, is the Market District, that’s where all the stores and shops is.”

       Razare thanked the man for the information and started his walk to the Market District. Razare noted as he walked through the city, that it was big, bigger than the capital city of Fredrickson. Frankonson, the capital of Fredrickson, was three hundred miles in length from sea coast to sea coast; Riverton, on the other hand, had to be at least five hundred miles in length from gate to gate. The map he had picked up at the Port Manager's office showed two gates in Riverton. He silently praised the original builders of the walled city for their ingenious design. Razare knew that with only one main gate any invading army would need to go through that one gate to get into the city. The other gate was to the Castle of Riverton in the Noble District where the royal family lived.

       Because of the constant wars Razare waged, he didn’t trust very many people. So he hid from the public eye, not showing his face to anyone. He told the owner of the building that he bought the smithy from that he once was the royal blacksmith to the king of Fredrickson. He also told him that he had to flee his country, and his job to be safe from the war being waged in Fredrickson.

“Well that is too bad, sir,” the agent said, “I heard that Fredrickson closed its ports for some reason. Well you’re safe here in Riverton, Mr. Razare Blue.”

“Thank you.” Razare tried to sound scared for his life.

     Razare turned the building he had just bought into a blacksmithy as best as he could. His knowledge of the craft was a few years old, after all he was twenty-two. His blacksmith friend died when he was thirteen and he knew that blacksmithy had changed since then. Razare remembered that, as a child, he would go the blacksmith to hide from the wrath of his father when he was angry. He would make the most beautiful weapons and armor Razare had ever seen. He studied all the movements the old Blacksmith would make, and over time he eventually convinced him to let him make a blade of his own.

       It took a few months for Razare to get his blacksmithy ready to open. When Razare got his first order he was surprised to see that it was an elf who wanted a blade crafted. Razare had never seen an elf before. He had heard of them, but never seen one. Now that he thought about it, Riverton was full of elves and humans living in the same place. His walk through Riverton the night he came was dark, so he never was able to see anyone clearly. Fredrickson didn’t have any elves at all, only humans. Throughout the course of the next few days, Razare saw something else that had caught his eye: a half-elf child. This confirmed his suspicions. Not only were there humans living side by side with elves, they were intermarrying as well.

     Time passed with little effect on Razare. His business was booming, but nothing major happened. His business was booming so much that he was taking orders from not only common civilians, but also from great nobles. He sold weapons of every form and suits of armor for all sizes. One day he had a visitor that he was not expecting.

Razare was asleep in his living quarters. He didn’t have any customers, or any ore to use, he went up to his loft to get some sleep. The door was still unlocked, Razare hadn’t closed, because he still wanted to sell his inventory.

“H-Hello, is anyone here?” the man’s his voice trembling.

Razare woke suddenly and very groggily, “Yes, what do you want?”

“I would like to buy a sword from you, if it is at all possible, sir?” the man said.

    “How much do you have to spend?” Razare came down from his loft, still half asleep, “Swords aren't cheap you know.”

“I know sir,” the man put his hands up in defense, “I know swords aren’t cheap, but you see a war with Hato is brewing. Everyone can feel it. Even if the King won’t publicly acknowledge it. So I want to beat the masses and buy one early.”

      This man has good instincts, Razare thought to himself in surprise, knowing for a fact that a war was coming. Soldiers from all over Riverton were already coming to him for that purpose. They would also make small talk with him, which he hated, telling him what was going on in the castle.

“How much do you have to spend?” Razare asked him again.

“Well, you see, sir.” the man dug into his coin pouch, “I only have six silvers to my name.”

     Razare now understood why this man was scared. A good sword could go for six gold; six silvers wasn’t nearly enough.

     Razare thought about this for a minute. He knew he needed to sell as many of his swords before the war as he could. He looked at the man closely. Who is this man and why did he come into my store? Why do I find myself so worried about him? he thought to himself. Can I really sell him one of my defective swords? Will I feel good about it afterwards?

     That last question scared him a bit. Why was he all of a sudden asking questions like that? His plan was to make as many weapons as possible, then sell them to the people. When the next war happened, the weapons that would go into that war would be his, and defective, breaking when great force was applied and killing anyone who used them.

     Look, I’ll sell you the sword, but you have to make it up to me another way,” Razare said finally. “After all, I’m going to lose money on this deal.” Razare was curious about who this man was, so he decided to cut him a break.

     “That will not be a problem,” the man said with some cheer in his voice. “Let's make the transaction final and you can come over to my home for supper.”

     Come over to his place? I barely know the guy and he wants me to come over for supper?

  Razare sold him the sword that wasn’t defective, and took the man up on his deal and went with him to his home.

 “I’m Richard, by the way,” the man said when they set off to his home. “Sorry for not introducing myself earlier.”

 “Razare, and its fine.”

      They walked through the Market District as the District Crier said, “CLOSING TIME FOR ALL SHOPS!!!!” and made their way to the civilian district. Every once in a while Razare made a delivery to the civilian district, but the way Richard was going didn’t look familiar to him at all. However, Richard just kept walking down the back alleys, keeping his hand to a small dagger that hung lazily at his side. Why did he have to do that, was this not a good neighborhood? The houses did look a bit old and rickety. They walked a little longer, twisting and turning through the back alleys till they came to a complete stop.

“Here we are,” Richard had a huge smile on his face. “Home sweet home.”

      Razare had no idea houses like this existed in Riverton. He was used to seeing very large, well developed houses. The home Richard lived in looked like it would fall apart any minute now. It was a moldy brown in color and had large holes in the roof and walls. The windows were boarded up because of the chill of the night air. The part of the district that Richard lived in smelled of sewer and rotten vegetables. Richard walked into the house and called out to the someone inside. Razare stared at the crowded, rotting houses around him. He stretched both arms out to his side and touched Richard’s house and the house in front of his. Razare’s curiosity about Richard depend. Why did he offer me food when it is obvious that he is so poor? Richard called out to Razare and he went inside.

     “Razare,” Richard said in a friendly tone, “meet my wife Mary.” He motioned to a beautiful woman who was at the fireplace cooking up the gruel that they had to eat. Mary turned, put down the large wooden spoon, and greeted him. 

“Hello there, sir.” She walked over and held out her hand, “you must be Razare.”

 “Yes, I am,” Razare was genuinely surprised at her words. “How did you know?”

 “My husband told me he was heading to your blacksmithy this morning while he was out buying our groceries,” Mary smiled.

How can they be happy when they have nothing at all? Razare was confused.

“In order to get the sword, I promised to bring him home for a meal, Mary.” Richard took off his overcoat and hung it on a nearby peg on the wall.

 “Oh, did you now.” Mary headed to the cupboard to get a third bowl for Razare. As she was getting it out he saw her take a smaller bowl out first.

“Whose bowl is that?” Razare asked. 

“Oh, that’s for our unborn baby,” Mary said in total bliss at the sight of it, “Richard carved it out of some old wood he found while doing some odd jobs the other day. He has always wanted a child, so he made it for when we had one.”

      Richard, looking embarrassed, walked into the bedroom part of the single room home, took off his shoes and sat down at the table.

“Oh, honey, please don’t bore the man with our boring little life.” Richard propped the sword he had bought from Razare on against the wall near where he was sitting.

     Mary dished out the gruel, not spilling a drop on the floor. Razare tried to get his mind around the fact that a woman like her was married to a man like Richard.

      Richard wasn't bad looking for a man of his social status. He had long messy brown hair. His face was all smudged up with soot and grime that brought out the blue of his eyes. Despite not being able to clean himself properly and smelling of dead fish, most likely from his last odd job, he seemed content with his life. His wife, on the other hand, was clean and smelled of lilac. Her hair, tied into a messy light brown bun, seemed to shimmer and shine in the light of the fire. She was cleaner than her husband and just the sight of her made Razare’s heart flutter.

“A flutter?” Razare thought when he was safely back in his home. He had never felt like that before. He pondered this for the rest of the night as he lay in his bed. They had invited him back for another night. Why was this? Why did they invite me back? All these questions were floating around his head, with more still coming.

“NO!!!” Razare shouted, sitting up in his bed, “I am the rightful king of Fredrickson, I have no room in my plans to have fun with the likes of these peasants!”

After he said this, he lay back down and went to sleep, but without his control, his mind conjured up a dream about Mary, and his castle in Fredrickson.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WORK ETHIC AND MACHINE

Raising an angel round, the founders almost always still have control of the PC standard. Eventually, though, that there are few checks on releases.1 Maybe we'll just have to realize in time that you're near death. Of course, both these answers need explaining. They would have both carrot and stick to motivate them. You can measure the value of the work done by small groups. If you drink too much, you can increase how much you have to make it to profitability on the money you have left, you've avoided the immediate danger.2 But you can't get very far by trading things directly with the people who write software are particularly harmed by checks. The strategy described at the end.3 So what if some of the qualities of a VC. Unfortunately, those few deals now want less and less money, and so on?

I'm proposing is exactly the opposite: that, like other investors, we run on the manager's schedule and the maker's schedule, though. Many of the startups we fund are very plugged into the Valley and are quick to take advantage of anything new, and partly because we fund so many that we have enough data points to see patterns clearly. Our competitors had cgi scripts. Cobol is a high-level languages are often all treated as equivalent. Startups offer anyone a way to use speed to the greatest advantage, that you take on this kind of project. And because startups tend to get founded by self-selecting groups of ambitious people who already know one another.4 If you drink too much, you can use any language you want. You also lose less control. Wealth is what people want and what you deliver is multiplied. Or more precisely, when they release more code. So the previously sharp line between angels and VCs.

Find an open slot in your schedule, why not? It might give us a technological edge, and we needed all the help we could get. And although the super-angels seem to care about valuations.5 When you write something you wouldn't say in conversation. The purpose of the committee is presumably to ensure that the company doesn't waste money.6 The reason tablets are going to get bought for 30, you only get 1. Belonging to such a group becomes part of your identity: name, age, role, institution.7 It would make sense for super-angels and start to become more miserly about valuations. If investors turn cold you may have expertise in some new field they don't understand. I think you should make users the test, just as a few decades ago they started to be able to get higher valuations when they do.

If you understand how compilers work, what's really going on is not so much to try harder to make money but to try to make money. Speculative meetings are terribly costly if you're on the manager's schedule. Whenever someone in an organization is a kind of argument that might be easy for General Electric to bear are enough to prevent younger companies from being public at all. I wouldn't be surprised if by playing some clever tricks with the accelerometer you could even replace the bathroom scale.8 You might think that responsible corporate governance is an area where you can't go to your boss, but directly to the customers for whom your boss is only a proxy after all, and you're done. Thanks to Sam Altman, Trevor Blackwell, Paul Buchheit, Jessica Livingston, and Robert Morris for reading drafts of this.9 You can make more wealth. At the moment, when VCs invest in a startup. Chesterfield described dirt as matter out of place. Whereas if you solve a technical problem that a lot of people predicted that startups would outsource their development to India. The only people who will sell to you, the writer, the false impression that you're saying more than you actually are. The chance of getting rejected after the full partner meeting.

Fortunately if this does happen it will take years. When we were working on Viaweb. We delighted in forcing bigger, slower competitors to follow us over difficult ground. This pays especially well in technology, you cook one thing and that's what everyone eats.10 You need to be very lucky. And I was a whiz at it.11 But one thing that may save them to some extent is the uneven distribution of startup outcomes: practically all the battles for individual startups and yet lose the war, if they know that some of the super-angels, and they never suspect him. Founders never really liked giving up as much equity as VCs wanted. The first step is to re-evaluate the probability of raising more money. What does that mean for founders?12 My second suggestion will seem shocking to VCs: let founders cash out partially in the Series A round. Most of what the VCs add, acquirers don't want anyway.

If IBM had required an exclusive license, as they get more specialized, is to make the startups they want more expensive? They forgot that companies about to go public, you won't have any artists. The reason Latin won't get you a job is that no one speaks it. That's a signal to everyone else that they think you're lame.13 If anything, it's more like the first five. The serious hacker will also want to work for and apply to join them. And then of course there are cases where writers don't want to shut down.

Checks on purchases will always be pushing you toward the bottom. Remember that magic machine that could on command make you a better programmer, like he says, why wouldn't you want to make it easy to understand what it is. I was a whiz at it.14 They make investment decisions quickly, like angels. You do tend to get a job. Economically, you can increase how much you spend. No one was leaking news of their features to us.15 The good news is, plenty of successful startups have passed through near-death experiences and gone on to flourish. Fortunately for founders, VCs have been getting a lot faster.

And of course another big change for the average startup is that there are few checks on releases. But they don't realize just how fragile startups are, and how easily they can become collateral damage of laws meant to fix some other problem. Well, that means your spirits are correspondingly depressed when you don't. But patents may not provide much protection.16 And you have leverage in the sense that your performance can be measured in the gross of the movie. No matter how bad a job they did of analyzing it, this meta-check would at least remind everyone there had to be a great thing that Apple tablets have accelerometers in them. But the real costs are the ones who are good at making things, the craftsmen. This trick may not always be enough. You write programs in the parse trees that get generated within the compiler when other languages are parsed.

Notes

Though they were forced to stop, but conversations with VCs suggest it's roughly what everyone must have seemed to Aristotle the core: the separate condenser. They overshot the available RAM somewhat, causing much inconvenient disk swapping, but you should be especially conservative in this evolution.

So when they want to start with consumer electronics and to a new airport. He had such a large number of startups that have economic inequality—that startups aren't the problem, if you do it in B. As one very smooth founder who read it ever wished it longer.

In-Q-Tel that is actually from the DMV. It's a lot about how to do due diligence tends to be clear. Even in Confucius's time it was not something big companies can hire skilled people to work like they will or at least a partial order.

Not all were necessarily supplied by the surface similarities.

When Harvard kicks undergrads out for a CEO to make a living playing at weddings than by selling recordings.

Price of Inequality. The hardest kind of social engineering—.

The word suggests an undifferentiated slurry, but that this isn't strictly true, it would be great for VCs if the statistics they consider are useful, how can anything regressive be good? This is an understatement.

To be safe either a don't use Oracle. A YC partner can estimate a market of one investor who invested earlier had been a good open-source projects, even in their social lives that didn't already exist. It did not help, either as truth or heresy. The original version of everything was called the executive model.

There's comparatively little from it, and wisdom we have to admit there's no center to walk in with a woman who, because outsourcing it will probably not quite as easy as I know of any that died from releasing something stable but minimal very early, then invest in successive rounds, except that no one is now. But it's telling that it would be worth doing something that conforms with their users. Some who read it ever wished it longer. An hour old is not a chain-smoking drunk who pours his soul into big, messy canvases that philistines see and say that's not relevant to an audience of investors.

But this is mainly due to I. I realize a I have so far. But that solution has broader consequences than just getting started.

Though you never have left PARC. I care about valuations in angel rounds can make it self-imposed. Though we're happy to provide when it's their own interests.

Often as not the original text would in 1950. Unfortunately these times are a better user experience.

There are also exempt.

Some, like storytellers, must have been a good deal for the future as barbaric, but one by one they die and their houses are transformed by developers into McMansions and sold to VPs of Bus Dev. But although I started using it, but the meretriciousness of the false positive if the public conversation about women consists of fighting, their voices will be big successes but who are good presenters, but it's hard to answer, 5050.

All you need to play games with kids' credulity. Structurally the idea is crack. They'd be interchangeable if markets stood still.

Credit card debt is usually a stupid move, and that's much harder to fix. Icio. The liking you have significant expenses other than those I mark. Microsoft discourages employees from contributing to open-source browser.

Thanks to Jessica Livingston, Sam Altman, Marc Hedlund, and Patrick Collison for inviting me to speak.

#automatically generated text #Markov chains #Paul Graham #Python #Patrick Mooney #startups #sup #Thanks #meetings #value #control #company #rounds #anything #Often #committee #advantage #problem #founders #money #market #purchases #add #Wealth #partner #projects #users #people #impression #soul

[paulineesparon-blog1]

I realized during the last lesson that I forgot to write about my pitfalls, and that's indeed an important thing to mention, as it will probably be symptomatic of my evolution in 10 weeks.

I would generally say that doing things is not a problem for me, but I hardly get satisfy of them. I still give more importance to the judgement of anyone rather than mine; and that clearly means a lack of trust. It doesn't mean that I don't like critics -on the opposite- but I will need the opinion of someone to see a value in my work; and that can be problematic.

I also take things too seriously, and over think. Any feeling of "not being inspired" will give me a feeling of personal emptiness, any desire of "doing nothing" will give me the impression of being lazy. And I hardly spend time on other things than working, or thinking about my work; but it's really starting to change. I think that I'm more and more able to take some distances with this rigor, as I realized (finally), that having rest moments often give lightness to the work, rather than stress. The fear of the white page is also more and more disappearing (but still there), as some results prove me in the past, that the moment of having an idea will 1/come when you don't look for it 2/come at the time it has to. It's not always right to want to anticipate, and my sense of the anticipation leaded me to good organization, but also to huge stress when it had to deal with ideas.

I also didn't speak about my background, however it really shaped me and made me be where I am today (it is also completely influent in my choice of working with materials for Lab). I did a cinema baccalaureate, and after that, I did a foundation class in applied arts. I chose to pursue in a textile course, which was not applied, but very "arty". It was about creating sort of environments, feelings, and it really learn me to develop my sensitivity. I can't say I learnt much in terms of technical skills or ergonomics, but I surely apprehended with intuition and enthusiasm the world of colors, shapes, and images to express something.

After it, I decided to do a year of internship in two different places. the first one was in MateriO, which is a library of all the weirdest materials and technologies that exists (A-MA-ZING !). Plastic made with carrots, bone tiles, inflatable wood… A paradise for me. And after, I did 6 months in Hermès brand, in a small studio called Petit h, which is inviting artists and designers to remake things from the left over of the luxurious manufacturing (leather, porcelain, glass). I was in the product development team, and I was directly dealing with the craftsmen, which were simply the best hands I ever ever saw. With all this material surrounding us… it was a fabulous experience.

At this state, I knew I was much more into 3d, volumes and shapes, rather than surfaces and soft materials. It was clear that I wanted to study a design course, but expected a form of freedom that could lead to a design which was not necessarily industrial, neither useful in a practical sense.

I chose the Design Academy because of it, and also because the education there is very very different from the one in France. I simply never heard "Have fun" during my previous studies, and even if it looks like a tiny thing to say, it just makes such a difference.