#Kindness goes a Long Way | Pheasant of Positivity | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kaijurakunsobs · 3 years

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You will feel joy, one day

master list for this series

sorry for the wait y'all, I had to torture myself into listening to the same song to get the inspo I needed for this next chapter which is READYMADE - Ado (it has English subtitles btw)

Hope you guys enjoy this!

Summary: It's been clear from the start that you won't go down without putting up a fight, the tone in your voice and stand are nothing but infuriating for Heisenberg, just like his mere presence fills you with annoyance. The factory is enormous and whatever he's doing here could get you killed, but even in this kingdom of oil and rusted metal, there's a bit of kindness.

Right now, you would accept the title of naive, because you were when you thought this man would share his secrets with you, instead...he's giving you a fucking tour of the entire place, wildly pointing and all the doors and doing sharp turns, taking you up and down flights of stairs "I hope you don't get lost, darlin', we don't want you ending in the wrong place, right?" there's mockery in his voice as he speaks over his shoulder, halting to a stop and making you trip and crash against him.

"This is the boiler room, you might want to familiarize yourself with this place in particular" a snarky smile appearing on his lips

Peeking inside makes you go pale and sigh in frustration, it's a mess, you can see cables, crudely fixed with tape, more flammable materials, and so many oil spills on the ground, "I can also familiarize with the rest of the fabric because this dump could explode any day"

His smile falls and that expression of annoyance, that just seems to be for you, comes back in no time. Releasing a cloud of smoke he turns around and starts walking faster, slowly regaining his showman's voice and the exuberance of his movements renew with the occasional laugh, is enough to make you tune him out again, looking at whatever you find more interesting, nose scrunching up with whenever there's something that unsettles or makes you question this man's leadership and care for this place. If you do take the role of helping him, you know you're gonna exploited day and night.

He's not blind or stupid, he knows you are doing everything but listening to him, every time he looks over his shoulder to make sure you are following and paying him some god damn attention, he will always see you eyeing everything, dissecting the place, and doing a face that just speaks volumes of how unimpressed you are by his life's work, but it's not like he will tell you about his plans, it's too soon for that, what if you are just a little spy under Miranda's orders?

It rubs him the wrong way how adamant she was on you being under his orders, super-sized bitch didn't raised too much hell, which also puts him on edge, it just doesn't feel normal for him. In any other situation where Miranda has favored him over Dimitrescu, and it wasn't because "mother" gave her that heartfelt speech Karl being all alone on his iron tower, Moreau is the forgotten child of the bunch and has to beg for almost everything, Miranda is already pissed with Donna and her botanical gig, let alone, the way she uses her cadou to just make dolls move.

That left him in the position akin to a middle child, he's just there, occasionally remembered and rarely to give him treats or surprises. He's used to scavenging for materials, do the occasional grave robbing or take the corpses the other Lords leave behind.

So, why did she left you with him?

"Lastly but no less important! the living quarters"

You have been so lost in thought, you didn't noticed that his "fantastical tour" is over, and you are back to the front of the complex...shit, you didn't even paid attention to where everything is, you're gonna get so lost if you try to navigate this place on your own.

After entering the brute closes the door behind you and goes to the left office, you can hear him mumbling under his breath and things being moved around, you don't know how long he's going to be in there, so you turn your attention to the rest of the room.

From everything you have seen, this place is the cleanest one and it makes you think of the layout in your family's factory. It looks like he repurposed what used to be the waiting area, there's a kitchen in the right corner, a couple of sofas that had seen better days, a lot of blueprints have been left on the coffee table. To the left, it's the main office, a lot bigger and the tinted glass on the door has the name Heisenberg hand-painted on it, classy, you suppose that that's his room? you don't care, opting for getting close to the blueprints, his handwriting is atrocious and there are notes everywhere, how interesting, one of the workers used to say that was a sign of a brilliant mind.

"You are not allowed to go there, a'right?" hearing him so close makes you jump, when did he come back? from the tone of his voice, you might be right, it's either his bedroom "This one, however! this one is just for you" he says oh so sweetly when pointing at the smaller office to the right opening the door rather unceremoniously.

Now you get why the rest of this area is so clean and clutter-free, motherfucker pushed all the trash and old furniture in there, it's dusty and the air, somehow, is stale only in this place, you can see cobwebs "Since I'm being kind enough to let you sleep on this side and not in the cellars, I think is fair that you take care of the mess, don't you think?"

"Can't I just sleep in one of the couches?"

"Of course not, we don't want my precious mechanic to get sick, right?" condescending asshole, he even smiles at you, showing you his teeth in what you identify as an act of intimidation

"Of course we don't want that, my Lord! but, I do must say, you have been ill-mannered, showing me around your domain yet...you haven't told me your name when introductions were supposed to be made long ago" it's your turn to give him teeth flashing smile, his going a bit forced

"Well you see sweetheart, I would have done it earlier, but I came encountered a disrespectful brat that decked me in the face as soon as we met"

"Really now? Perhaps, this brat was done with being manhandled and reacted accordingly to how they felt" the sardonic smile on your face grows and you can see how much it pisses him off, and that shouldn't make you proud.

The man is looking, more like attempting, to look down on you, clicking his tongue loudly and in a dissatisfied manner, with complete derision, he gives you, the closest thing to a respectful bow "My name is Karl Heisenberg and I'm one of the four Lords working under Miranda's orders"

In response, you give him a curtsy and use your best sarcastic tone, just for him "It's such an honor to meet you, my lord. I must say I'm no noble but I do HOPE you may remember the name of this pheasant girl, Y/N, L/N Y/N"

He doesn't appreciate the way you talk to him or how you don't even try to hide how little you respect or fear him, but he needs you alive to accelerate and optimize the factory's production, under other circumstances? he would have thrown you down to let the Sturm have some fun, but he won't, at least for now.

"So, Miss Y/N...let me give you a...welcoming gift" he's harsh when trusting a bundle of crumpled clothes and old boots into your arms, pushing you back hard enough that you almost lose your balance "I don't expect you to always wear my hand-me-downs, this is a momentary arrangement"

"Oh my! so generous of you, to clothe this poor village girl with your own garments, I am so thankful for this, however, if I may ask for a tiny favor...can I know where your bathroom is? I don't what to soil this fine fabric with my dirty body"

You don't like the way he smiles at you, with one hand he grabs your shoulder and with the other he opens the door, pushing you towards what used to be the employee's showers, there's mold and broken mirrors, a lot of the shower heads are gone and the only one that seems to be functioning is leaking.

"Serve yourself, princess, just know this...there's only cold water, the hot water stopped working years ago and I haven't felt like repairing it, I hope you enjoy your shower!"

And with that, he leaves you, finally alone but unnerved on how easily he could come back and just stare at you like a creep. But you need a shower, there's grime and dirt caked to your body and it's starting to get disgusting and itchy. So you swallow your pride and leave the borrowed clothes over the small wall separating the showers from the rest of the place and brace yourself to what might be the worst moment of the day so far.

Later you are cursing him as loud as you can, he didn't lie when he said that only the cold water worked, but you would say it was freezing, his clothes are uncomfortably big on you, and smell of faint sweat and like these were left tucked away for a long time, the boots are the best part, these have been broken in nicely and they fit you...who are you kidding? the damn things are falling apart and you feel like a clown with how big they are.

That has left you with the shining crown of the shit show that's been this whole day! the trash in your new room, you had to box so many useless papers, look everywhere to find one measly broom, and use the remains of the gown you came in with to keep your hair out of your face and as a bandana to cover your nose and mouth.

From all the old furniture in the room, the only useful stuff is the old desk, a sofa that somehow survived without being eating by termites but might be infested with cockroaches, and a lamp. It's not much, but it's something.

All this moving around now has brought a new problem.

You are starving.

You can't remember when Miranda took you, let alone when was your last meal or if you were fed during your time in the cell. But Heisenberg's fridge is empty, there's only a handful of onions and those have roots and sprouts coming out already. There's nothing substantial in the cupboards or anywhere for that matter.

You doubt there might anything to eat in this place, but, you better give it a try, better die trying than going to sleep with a grumbling stomach, right? But, you didn't learn jackshit from him and you can't remember anything from the directions Heisenberg gave you.

Fuck it.

Slowly you creep out of the small apartment and peek outside, looking around assures you that the coast is clear. This could be a great learning experience! no matter how much of a dick this man is, there's something of value in his words and maybe, just maybe, you should pay more attention when he talks...MAYBE.

The place is a labyrinth of stairs, broken walls turned into hallways and sealed doors, you do have half a mind to remember which doors and areas he pointed as "out of bounds" for you, which is a surprise, seeing how massive the place is.

Under the stench of grease and smoke, you notice, the tasty scent of stew...close, very close, your poor stomach twisting painfully and mouth rapidly filling with saliva, you start following the heavenly aroma until you reach an old cargo lift, a large man sits there and for a moment that makes you stop in your tracks.

The man is surrounded by bags and crates filled with stuff from fruits to what you guess are various pieces of machinery and other objects hard to identify in the low light "Aaaaah...a new customer perhaps? You must be Lord Heisenberg's new assistant, are you not?"

He smiles with true kindness and something similar to pity, meaty hands adorned with gold rings beacon you close "Come come, miss...?"

"Uuuuuuuh...I'm Y/N, nice to meet you..."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance miss Y/N, you may call me The Duke"

There's something infectious in him that makes you relax your shoulders and walk closer to him "So...what do you do here Duke?"

"What? well, I'm nothing but a humble merchant, occasionally I set up shop here in the factory, especially when I have a delivery or things that may spark Lord Heisenberg's interest, and now that you are here, I will make a note to bring stuff you could use too"

"I...I would appreciate the gesture, thanks" the small sincere smile in your face drops when your stomach decides to grumble loud enough to be heard by the Duke, the man laughing at the sound, making your embarrassment worst.

"Would like to accompany me with dinner, dear? I have made plenty and this could be a small...celebratory feast for you"

"Celebratory? no offense, but...there's nothing to celebrate"

"Aren't you alive and able to walk?" he's so careful when serving some stew in a bowl, making sure not to spill a drop "I think that surviving whatever happened to you, is worth celebrating"

The bowl is warm in your hands and the smell is just divine, you take a seat on the floor waiting for the Duke to serve his bowl and then you dig in, sighing in appreciation when the rich taste of the broth fills your mouth, the softness of the meat and the carrots. You can see the Duke smile with pride when you compliment his cooking, enjoying each spoonful to the fullest.

"It's getting quite late Y/N and Lord Heisenberg is one to rise early, I suggest you go to bed or you end up feeling too tired tomorrow"

"Yeah...thanks for the meal Duke, I really appreciate it"

"Don't mention it and remember, the Duke's Emporium is here to satisfy all your shopping needs!"

You bid the man farewell and do the trek back to your room, taking time to memorize the way to the lift and the living quarters, the man might be a merchant but you want to get to know more about him, he seems nice, he's been the nicest one so far.

The living area feels cold and so terribly empty, there's no sign of Heisenberg anywhere, which you are thankful for. Only after entering your room and laying on your "bed", waiting a bit to hear any sound that might belong to the Lord, when only the sounds of the factory echo back to you do you dare to cry.

It starts slowly, your eyes fixated on the ceiling, then the flood gates open and you start to sob and scream, tears running down the side of your face to get lost in your hair leaving wet patches in their wake. But your crying evolves into fear, panic, raged breathing, and asking hands, all the weight of what happened today swallows you whole.

You don't know where to start, the way you growled at Heisenberg in the church, HOW he was able to move heavy metal without touching it? and all those corpses suspended ton hooks...the howls and things banging against the doors, the cruelty in how Heisenberg tossed you around and screamed in your face. How do you even managed to put and kept that brave face on when you were so scared is beyond you, you did it and that's enough.

The rapid and irregular movement of your chest does nothing but make your side hurt, the pain shoots up and down your body, making you curl on your side to alleviate the pressure if only a bit.

You want to die...but not like this, not terrified for your existence, not at the hands of a volatile man that can crush you with his hammer any day.

You want to live, but to live with your life depending on how well you perform your role? that's not a life at all.

Exhaustion and fatigue eventually take you away into a dreamless sleep, your last thought is...what's going to happen tomorrow?

You don't know, but as the Duke said, you survived whatever Miranda did to you and you will survive this too, no matter what, you will live.

#karl heisenberg #resident evil village #karl heisenberg x reader #re8 #x reader #the duke

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stusbunker · 4 years

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An Olive Branch and a Crossroads

For Better or Worst Series: Chapter Ten

Gif found on Tenor

Featuring: Sam Winchester x Emery Simmons-Winchester (OFC)

Other Characters: Castiel, OC Bandit

Series 14 AU

Word Count: 2196

Summary: Castiel interrupts, Sam questions and Emery reveals.

Series Masterlist

^*^*^

Urgency hung in the air as Castiel roamed through the crowds, his eyes somehow his strongest asset in a search now. Time marched on and he grew older and Heaven’s light waned from his being more rapidly than both, exponentially so. He was anxious because he had been on the West Coast when the news came through and he didn’t want Sam to be subdued again. They couldn’t keep dragging their feet, not with real progress after so long without answers. He was overdressed in the bright sunlight, trench coat earning him glances he was once unaware of but had long since minded. The booths were filled with every local delicacy, smells and voices overwhelming in their temptations. He misheard his name with every cash only vendor and each whisper about finding an ATM.

Eventually, he felt he had lost his chance, having searched through every face in the sea of affluence. Dejected, Cas stepped out of the stream of foot traffic to text on his phone just to be jostled by someone as they collided with his sturdy frame. A canvas bag fell at his feet and he bent to pick it up.

“Uh, here, you dropped—.” His body instantly stopped moving, thoughts rolling in panic.

“Sorry, God, I’m so sorry,” exclaimed a hand covered mouth beneath mischievous eyes. Castiel softened as he saw how worried she was, sensing honest concern in her.

“It’s alright, Emery, no harm no foul.” He shook his head, brushing off the awkwardness, holding her nearly empty bag out genteelly.

She hesitated, before taking the bag and tucking it back onto her shoulder, brow knit in confusion. She crossed her arms, “I’m sorry--- do I know you?”

Cas swallowed, just as he was about to take his turn with apologies, Sam caught up with them. Eyes darting amongst them until the tense moment evolved into a nervous stalemate of confusion and disastrously avoiding setting Sam off.

“Uh, guys?” Sam’s deep voice shattered the bubble of quiet.

“Sam—” Cas began.

“What’s up? We just bump—” Emery started explaining.

Sam’s eyebrows did the thing where his forehead jumped two more inches, though he leaned in so far, he effectively shrank. “Cas, what are you doing here? Is everything alright?”

Cas focused Sam with his quintessential exasperated expression and sighed, “I don’t know, Sam. Is it? You texted me.”

Emery bit her lip as she watched the men huff at each other and communicate so thoroughly without saying anything of consequence. Sam ran his hand through his hair and the man in the jacket stood impatiently. She was almost concerned, if the whole thing wasn’t so suddenly intense; she found it all funny by sheer bafflement.

“Did you---?” Sam held up his hand waiting to see what had transpired before his arrival.

“No,” Castiel said flatly. “I didn’t say anything, in fact, she ran into me.”

“Well, you did say my name, so that was a bit of a faux paus,” Emery muttered, sneaking in a slight challenge as she raised her eyes at Castiel’s renewed annoyance. Sam bit his lips and slammed his eyes shut.

“Fine, whatever. Emery, this is Castiel. Cas, this is my-- wife,” Sam spat the last word at the angel like it was his fault.

Cas nodded at Emery. “It’s nice to meet you, finally.”

Sam shook his head at Cas’s words, but Emery perked up, holding out her hand for him to shake.

“I don’t understand, I thought--,” Cas smiled despite himself at the warmth in Emery’s eyes.

“Oh, he’s still pissed. But, it’s nothing new for me. Now, how do you know Sam?” Emery leaned in to conspire with Cas as they walked out of the farmers’ market.

“Well, uh, we go way back. You could say we used to work together?” Castiel suggested feebly.

Emery laughed out loud, “No. But, really? I mean, he’s texting you, risking a whole fucking lot, in the process. Who are you?”

“Guys? Maybe we should have this conversation in private?” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, the telltale headache that Cas’s presence brought flaring up again.

“Sure can! So, Cas? How do you feel about pheasant?” Emery chirped overtly cheeky.

^*^*^

An hour later, the at odds couple and the persistent angel were seated in the den. Bandit lay, unimpressed, between Emery and Cas on the large sectional. Sam sat on the steps, forearms resting on his knees as he didn’t drink his beer.

“What do you remember?” Emery shoved the ball into Sam’s court, fierce and frank, cherry bombing them to the crux of the conversation. He inhaled and closed his eyes, “I remember a lot, Emery, but most of it isn’t real. I remember us dating up to proposing on Christmas Eve. I remember you getting the offer to move here. Our whole relationship, before.”

“Where would all of that come from?!” Emery stared back at Cas, shocked. Before circling back to Sam. “Do you remember the real stuff too? The deal, Naomi, the wedding? Any of it?”

Sam cleared his throat and stretched his neck, “Yeah, that’s there too. But some of it hurts? Like it’s been buried.”

“We need to know more about the deal, Emery. Why did Sam have to leave? What exactly are the stakes?” Castiel leaned in, squinting as Emery tried to keep herself calm.

She nodded, smiling sadly at Sam. “I don’t know what Sam promised, exactly. I just know that neither of us could go back to our old lives, if we went back, even one of us, everything was lost. No do overs or take backs. They bound us together, to keep us accountable. Because we would have already sacrificed ourselves as the means to our ends. Depending on each other kept us each invested. I feel like I’m not being very clear. But, um, so, whatever Sam needed help with was huge, right?”

Sam and Cas shared a look, but Sam answered with a tight, “you could say that.”

“Okay, me too. But they knew we wouldn’t stop badgering them--,” Emery gave a knowing look to Sam. “On our own, so to keep us in line, they stuck us together. If I go back or after them, or anything like my old life. Sam could die. If Sam goes back or starts nagging them or whatever his equivalent is, I could. It’s all soul deep stuff, instant repercussions without them having to be here to witness it.”

“True marriage?” Cas said softly. “A soul bond? That is very old magic.”

“Can it be undone?” Sam asked Cas, ignoring Emery’s slight intake of breath.

“Not by any means I know of,” Cas answered with wide, pressing eyes. “If the deal is fulfilled, perhaps, but I don’t know how they did it in the first place.”

“Hold on!” Emery sat up; arms raised to the men on either side of her. “The deal isn’t the problem, that we both agreed to. The problem is Sam doesn’t remember what’s real. He doesn’t--- we don’t--- we need to sort out what or who is messing with his head. And why.”

Sam watched Emery as she finished off her wine, setting the empty glass on the coffee table with a tightness in her every move, snapping back into the corner, watching the entire room.

“Were you a hunter?” Sam’s question landed heavy, deflating their momentum.

Emery’s eyes dilated, but her voice came out evenly, “No, what does that have to do with anything I just said?”

Cas watched them, untold emotions warring within each Sam and Emery, and with their untrusted halves.

Sam shrugged sarcastically. “I was. And I’m not talking Bambi.”

Emery stabbed her tongue into her cheek and glared at Sam, “I know what you meant, Sam. We’re having drinks with your buddy the renegade angel. I get the whole spectrum of things that go bump in the night, okay? Stop treating me like a victim. You don’t have to ease me into it. I’ve been here.”

“When did Sam, stop acting like himself?” Cas broke in before they raised their voices. “Did something happen? Did you meet someone new? Have any uninvited guests?”

“You mean stop acting like an asshole?!” Emery replied tersely. “Because as soon as that spell was set, wooo, let me tell you, he picked up a bottle of Johnny Walker and didn’t look back.”

“Not exactly,” Cas floundered.

“It’s okay, let her get it out. Maybe she can remember when I started acting like a love drunk teenager. So demented that I suddenly became—”

“Kind? A gentleman? Not some bitter slob, who needed to blame everyone but himself. Even Heaven, you know, the ones who were just trying to help?!

Sam stood up, bracing himself for a thorough verbal onslaught. Emery tisked at Sam’s position as an overreaction and rolled her eyes.

“When, Emery? Don’t worry about him,” Cas pressed, arm out as if to restrain Sam. They bore into her with attention as she looked forward, and unfocused her eyes. Slowly she relaxed and just when she couldn’t seem to place when the shift had occurred; everything fell into place.

“Our anniversary,” Emery spoke into her fingertips, like a kid catching themselves do something wrong. She looked up to Sam, who waited for more, clearly not remembering what she had. “It was one month here, and I didn’t know why, but you remembered. Surprised me with a gift but never mentioned it. From then on, you were different. Nice even.”

Cas glanced over to Sam, who was visibly swallowing, throat tight. “I don’t remember buying you anything.”

“What was the surprise, Emery? Where was it?” Cas asked softly, the realization clearly affecting her.

She looked up at Sam, eyes glistening with tears and attempted to smile. “Perfume.”

Sam slammed his eyes closed and nodded. “Of course, God, yeah, that’d do it. Fuck!”

^*^*^

Emery had surrendered their bedroom to a thorough investigation by Sam and Cas before they delved any deeper. Cas promised to have the perfume examined to see if its origin could be established. Finding nothing else sinister, they gave in and humored Emery by sitting down to dinner. Hesitant, yet desperate, Castiel approached Emery’s loyalty to the deal.

“I know you want to believe they are helping you, but I assure you, Naomi only does something if it benefits her cause,” he warned.

“Castiel, I know you have your own history with Naomi. But I have to believe this will work. If everyone benefits, why question it?” Emery had the soft forgiveness to her expression that Sam had grown to love and hate in equal measure. Perhaps not hate so much as envy, he longed for her blind faith like a child missed a cherished blanket.

“Emery, there’s things you need to understand about us,” Sam started.

“I’ve lost too many brothers and sisters trying to fix Heaven’s injustices,” Cas’s voice was low, yet not quite patronizing. “I will not lose Dean, too, because you refuse to listen to reason.”

Emery recoiled at the suggested vengeance in Cas’s tone. Sam instinctively rubbed her back, trying to soothe them both. Emery didn’t miss that it was the first time he’d touched her in days. When he realized it, he pulled back in clumsy movements.

“Cas? Let me explain it to her?” Sam offered, waiting for Cas to understand what he was implying.

“You want to do that alone,” Cas surmised after a few beats. “Very well. But I’m not going to remain idle.”

“Nobody is saying you have to, man. As for us, Emery and I—.” Sam looked to his wife trying and failing to see any leeway.

“We’ll be in touch,” Emery finished. After Cas begrudgingly said goodbye, Sam and Emery sat eating with nothing but a faint playlist to break the silence.

“I’m going to ask, just because it will gnaw at us both if I don’t--- but, Em, you have to be straight with me,” Sam, who had been speaking at the lazy-Susan, finally met Emery’s curious stare. “Did you have anything to do with the love potion? Do you know anything about where it came from?”

Emery shook her head at Sam’s questions, eyes locked on his face, open, honest. He wanted to trust her in a way that made him frustrated to be inside his own skin. How could he be so upset and still determined to stick to her side? How long before he could trust himself around her again? Sam licked his lips and nodded, acknowledging her answers without pressing for more.

“Can you do me a favor while I clean up the kitchen?” Sam stood, stacking their plates.

“Sure? What’s up?” Emery perked up at the casual direction the conversation took.

“Mind taking a shower?” Sam requested. “It’s just--- I have a lot to tell you and I want to be sure that I get the reactions you’re having and not the ones I want to see.”

Though slightly off put by his diligence, she agreed, letting the last traces of the cursed fragrance disappear with a fresh bar of soap and plenty of hot water.

^*^*^

Read On: The Wife She Was Never Meant To Be

#for better or worst series #sam winchester fanfiction #sam fic series #castiel #sam/oc #supernatural fanfiction #sam x emery #sam winchester fic #sam fic #sam x ofc #simwin #s14 au #s14 fix it fic #spn fanfic series

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vaguely-concerned · 4 years

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I played Death of the Outsider finally and I have some Feelings about it

and most of them not very positive. nice stuff first tho!

THINGS I LIKED:

- billie is such a good character. still new to her old self and slightly tender from coming out of the protective shell of lies that was meagan foster, full of old scars and doubts and bitterness but trying for something better, something kinder even though she still doesn’t quite understand what she’s walking towards -- the genuine care and tenderness in her voice when she talks to daud or thinks about deidre. I love her.

all that and she effortlessly IS also the queer disabled woc the gamer bros refuse to believe could possibly exist. exquisite.

- the idea of ‘killing’ the outsider is compelling, but it’s the sort of idea that needs a full length game to support it and its implications. cool idea, completely wrong execution.

- saying that: I love that the injustice of the outsider’s creation being righted is only made possible by a long unbroken line of mercy and kindness. daud saved billie from the streets, corvo spared daud, daud saved emily and spared billie after her betrayal, billie tried to save aramis stilton and became entangled in the void, emily spared billie, billie took this job in the first place partly because she loves her dad daud and wants him to find peace. that idea is so beautiful that I wish the rest of the narrative was strong enough to hold it up lol.

there’s also something going on here with other people holding on to the important pieces of you -- that billie is ‘all that is left’ of daud after he’s dead. once he saved a child from true loneliness and gave her a purpose, made her feel seen again, gave her the closest thing she had to a home, and when he’s completely lost himself in the void... that kindness is still alive in billie, and she helps him find his way. again that is really touching and thoughtful and plays wonderfully into the chaos system in these games thematically! too bad about all the stilted dialogue and characterization messes and uh. everything else.

- most of all I love how clear it is that billie and daud love each other. it’s a quiet love that has nothing to prove anymore, it’s survived all the blood and the ugliness and everything they’ve done to each other and to the world, a love with no demands left. it’s not the sort of love you usually see, in all its unsentimentality, but it’s real. when daud tells her he’s proud of her and trusts her no matter what she chooses to do, you feel how much he means it. (making his insistence on trying to make her choice for her all the weirder -- see my long rant of lamentation about his characterization in doto below lol)

there’s something about daud’s undramatic yet complete acceptance of and respect for billie that... I didn’t know I needed this, but it was a nice gift nonetheless haha, thank you. (it’s similar to how good it feels in D2 when you realize corvo just likes emily a lot as a person, even aside from her being his daughter. a good series for father & daughter stories)

- this carries over from D2, but I think the journal/log entries are better written and more insightful than the stuff out in the world.

- it cannot be overstated how much the gameplay loop of these games is just... pure crack cocaine for my brain haha, very few things give me this specific kind of brain tingle. I love the sound of looting and I love the art style and ambiance and I love planning out a strategy after finding all the options and I love never being spotted or killing anyone and I love the puzzle elements they put into exploration sections and I love the feeling of how you move through the environment. it’s one of the few games where I routinely get so into it I end up with a crick in the neck because I’ve been so focused for so long and never noticed I’ve been sitting in a way that makes my entire spine hate me. I needed something to get me through the last few days and it did deliver that, at least. karnaca is pretty enough that I didn’t even mind that most of the levels were recycled from D2 either.

- I’m not quite sure whether I understood this right but there’s a woman standing behind daud in the void -- I wonder if that is actually his mother and he’s been so close this whole time? at first I thought maybe it was jessamine but god no I hope she’s finally at peace after All That Nonsense, she shouldn’t have to hang around there anymore. there’s also a figure near him I could swear was corvo with his mask on, but he’s not dead canonically so that would make very little sense. oh well I’ll take my feels where I can get them even if I have to make them up wholesale

- the bankheist was cool as fuuuuuck, that and the emotional impact of daud dying was sadly the height of this game for me, after that it all went mediocre real quick

- paul nakauchi as shan yun was, as I have said before, a blast. ‘ugh I cannot continue my throat is as raw as a plucked pheasant’ fsdkfhlsadjkhfas

- daud’s funeral is genuinely touching. she gave him the entirety of her old life for a sendoff, battered and worn and dear as they both were. someone hold me

THINGS I H A T E D:

- the stuff they did with daud’s characterization. I am so unreasonably angry over this haha, the more I think about it the more I hate it. I think there are paths you could go with his ACTUAL character to make this work, but this was not it. I’ve said this before, but his most iconic, most defining scene is him surrendering himself to corvo’s judgement without justifying himself or deflecting the blame for any of what he’s done. this isn’t even regression in his character, it’s just.. a different character altogether. they could have gone for the angle that delilah almost managed to end the world b/c daud showed mercy and that’s the reason he’s moved to action, I think that might be a more compelling motivation for him at least. OR have him be more conflicted about how to do things -- violence is still the only tool he knows how to use but it’s not what he wants to or even can be anymore and the conflict troubles him, ‘His hands do violence, but there is a different dream in his heart’. or even use a different character for the ‘kill kill kill’ angle, he didn’t need to be here for this dlc at all.

also, just on a purely practical level... for all his flaws and longstanding moral shortsightedness daud is not a stupid man. why the FCK would he be so sure that killing the outsider will fix anything? if I, dumbass extraordinaire, could within half a minute wonder if maybe something even worse would take the outsider’s place if you removed him... why does that never occur to the Knife of Dunwall tm, a man about Void for like half a century or whatever?? ugh fuck this, I’m having a hard time explaining exactly why it all feels weird and wrong to me, but know that it does and that I Do Not Like It lol. I feel cheated out of something important I thought I had.

- again, this should have been a full game. (I think it is sold as one already, but it just hm isn’t) there’s way too much shit of literal cosmic importance for the game’s universe being picked up here for something this short to cover. save this HUGE idea for a rainy day should you ever want to do another game in the series and do something else with the dlc, honestly.

- god but the outsider is insufferable in this. I don’t know what happened, but by the end I was like ‘*thoughtfully strokes chin* maybe daud has a point billie keep that knife handy’. he’s annoying and boring, which is wild to me because he was always a lot of fun in the other games.

for real tho I don’t know if this is just my atheist-but-still-angry-at-god-somehow??? talking, but daud HAS a point. people are responsible for their own actions, but the outsider didn’t have to do any of what he did either. he could have chosen to be bored through the centuries instead of seeing what people would do if you gave them such ~*morally neutral*~ abilities as y’know summoning a bunch of rats to eat other people. the game wants me to buy the ‘but really this black eyed boy is woobie tho uwu’ so badly and no I’m not buying that give me my refund I want my chaotic neutral bastard back pls. I’d probably be more inclined to want to help him like that. where’s his salt gone, arkane. if you didn’t want him to be edgy why did you make him look like that.

- this is the lamest possible version of the outsider’s backstory lol, it feels like the pearl clutching panic about satanic cults back in the day all over. listen if it’s this easy to make a god the thrill is sort of taken out of it, if these randos did it anyone could. also how the fuck are they just normal-ish people anyway? why do they follow modern fashions? haven’t they been hanging around for thousands of years, haven’t their culture changed in any meaningful way? (I realize these aren’t the same guys as back in the day but it’s just weird) why do they speak a language billie and the player can understand? why did anyone think ‘idk some cultists no one’s ever heard of before with no thematic significance whatsoever’ was the way to go world building wise? they’ve taken all the unknowable eldritchness out of the eldritch horror and we’re all poorer for it now haha

relatedly the last level is... just not very good. you come down from the awesome bank heist and then there’s... whatever the fuck this was.

- while I do like billie finding daud in the void and him remembering her I hate that he goes out still full of self loathing and rage when you talk him into the nonlethal option, that he can’t forgive himself or find any sliver of hope or peace. I wish there had been a few more moments for the two of them to come to peace with themselves before he gave the outsider back his name, some real catharsis. as it is I was annoyed when the outsider ‘woke up’ or whatever b/c it felt like he was stealing attention from what I was actually emotionally invested in and not done with.

they had n o t built up billie’s or my sympathy for the outsider well enough either. again this is something I think they could have done if they’d structured things differently, if they’d been more deliberate in making you understand he was basically a child and letting you dwell on it. because there is a parallell there between him and billie, and billie and daud, but I, how do I put this, did not give a fuck

in short this was really similar to my experience with D2 in that there’s enough good there that it’s all the more painful when it fails to deliver on it again and again, and it ruined things I already liked about this story from the first game (daud’s arc and everything to do with the outsider, mostly). give me some months of denial and hard core headcanon work and I’ll probably be able to live with it

#*shows up to doto years late with enraged takes and starbucks*#dishonored #death of the outsider #meta #I am ranting but it really is because I do love these games and it hurts me when they let themselves down like this lol

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lucyreviewcy · 5 years

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The Prequel Problem: A Tale of Solo, Grindlewald and Midsomer Murders

I recently watched two of the worst films of the last decade pretty much back to back. Fantastic Beasts: Crimes of Grindlewald followed in quick succession by Solo: A Star Wars Story. If you’d like to know the detailed specifics of what didn’t work in these movies, I’d recommend YouTuber Jenny Nicholson’s videos about both. In this article, I don’t want to review these two monstrosities, but I want to talk about why neither of these cursed pictures worked for me.

Prequels are always hard: you have to line everything up to fit neatly into an established story. It’s like trying to knit extensions to the sleeves of an existing jumper. Except you don’t have the same yarn that was used for the original, you don’t have the pattern for the original and the person you’re knitting it for is beginning to wonder why you didn’t just make an entirely new jumper. As exciting (and lucrative) as it is for fans of Harry Potter or Star Wars to be able to come back to the cinema time and again to learn more about their favourite universe, prequels often leave me cold.

Solo is preoccupied with maneuvering characters into position so that the ensuing adventures make sense. By the end of Solo, Han Solo is fully formed. He’s got the Millennium Falcon, he’s got Chewbaca, he’s got that weird gun. All the unnecessary characters are hoovered up so that he’ll never run into them again when he’s Harrison Ford. Here, it feels as if the creative team behind the picture completely misunderstood what is great about a character with an extended mythology.

Mythology matters. The Star Wars visual dictionaries are a great example of how building a complicated character through their costume and props should work. The visual dictionaries give detailed explanations of where each individual item of clothing came from, and what it means. They even explain why Queen Amidala has a white thumbnail in The Phantom Menace. These details add depth and texture to the character, and make them feel real.

Where you’re sitting, look at your outfit or your surroundings. Observe the possessions that you own. Each item of clothing or possession probably has a story behind how you got it. It might not be an interesting story, it might just be “I went to Next once.” You didn’t wake up one day and buy your entire aesthetic (unless you’re on the lam in which case do you have nothing better to do than read tumblr all day? THE COPS ARE ON YOUR TAIL.) When fans become attached to characters with specific, recognisable, detailed costumes and possessions, it’s because their imaginations are set alight by the possibilities. Did he win that jacket in a wrestling match? Does she use that knife because her brother used it to carve her a toy as a child? We want to pontificate on these symbols and explore their possibilities. Han Solo’s different signs and symbols make him look like he has lived a life.

Taking the example of the clothes I’m wearing right now. I’ve got on a sweatshirt I bought six years ago when it tipped it down while I was walking to uni and I had to buy an entire outfit from the campus shop, some porg-patterned shoes my boyfriend gave me for Christmas two years ago, and a headscarf my parents gifted me for my birthday this August. These are not blockbuster-movie-worthy stories. My point is that even my stuff has meaning, and was accrued over years. In Solo, Han goes from being a guy who looks a bit like Han Solo, to being a complete cookie-cutter cosplay of Han Solo over what appears to be a period of weeks. Potentially days.

As anyone who has ever rolled their eyes at a JK Rowling tweet will know, sometimes it’s better to be able to imagine the story than to be presented with it wholesale. Rome wasn’t built in a day and neither was Han Solo. Fans who might have spent years coming up with their own stories of what happened when he did the Kessel Run, or when he won the Falcon are presented in Solo with a wham-bam-thankyou-mam origin story that closes more doors than it opens.

Grindlewald on the other wizardly hand, has the opposite problem. In this film, Rowling runs around haphazardly throwing open doors into the lives of characters we never heard of in the original books or films, then abruptly closing them again. Credence isn’t a character who matters to those of us who cried when minor characters were killed in the battle for Hogwarts. We don’t want to know about his family. This movie is so preoccupied with creating a rich, integrated world that it manages to have simultaneously too much story and too little plot.

Jude Law’s performance as Dumbledore is excellent. This is potentially because he’s the only proper link in the story to the wizarding world we know and love. We’re presented with new characters willy-nilly and asked to care about their emotional baggage. Interestingly, there is a place for this kind of writing, where lots of characters are introduced in a short space of time and immediately spend five minutes discussing their backstory and place in the plot. This is perfect writing for Midsomer Murders. Hollywood movie fodder, it ain’t.

In a long-running TV series like Midsomer which takes place in a world that is moderately similar to the real one, characters can spew exposition while they angrily reposition hay bales/brush horses/pluck pheasants because this is how the plot unfolds. Every person’s story links in to the central whodunit, every line of dialogue is a relevant clue. At the end of the episode, everything is resolved neatly. By contrast, there are inherent loose ends in a cinematic prequel which need to be tied into the main body of the original films/books. Grindlewald is really heavy on exposition for new characters, like Midsomer, but there isn’t a through line as clear as a “Whodunit” to bring the film to a satisfying conclusion. The introduction of a raft of new characters in Grindlewald would work better if, instead of a search for Credence, this film was a straightforward wizarding murder mystery where Newt must figure out who killed Credence. As it is, characters like Kama or Leta Lestrange are given a big portion of screen time, without having a lasting impact on the resolution of the story. The big reveal feels overly contrived to be as twisty as possible, and to link in some way to the original Harry Potter stories. The awkward and confusing conclusion is not a satisfying payoff for what feels like a three hour wizard history lesson.

Prequels have a unique power to either expand or contract their universe. Solo makes Star Wars feel like it is unfolding on a much smaller scale, while Grindlewald weighs down Harry Potter with unnecessarily dark narrative baggage. Despite Hollywood’s consistent desire to make them, prequels are often a sure-fire way to disappoint fans. Allowing fans to imagine their own myths and legends within a universe may not make as much money as whacking out a lacklustre prequel, but maintaining a little mystery can keep the movie magic alive.

#movie #prequel #crimes of grindelwald #fantastic beasts #solo a star wars story #star wars #midsomer murders #han solo #jk rowling #film #barnaby #inspector barnaby #neil dudgeon

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mable-stitchpunk · 4 years

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Sir Morrick: A Character Questionnaire

Here we are with yet another character sheet on another member of the main cast of A Fool’s Endeavor and A Fool’s Golden Cage. The last of the main three of the first novel and one of the main five in the second: the knight, Sir Morrick.

Short Description: Name: Sir Morrick (Morrick is his last name, but he uses it as his first as well.)

Pronounced: More-ick.

Age: Mid-twenties to late-twenties.

Extra: Nickname: None.

Occupation: Knight of the Royal Guard

Species: Human

Gender: Male

Physical Description: Morrick is tall with a muscular build and a Caucasian skin tone. His hair is dark brown, edging on black, and is kept at chin length and pulled back. His eye color is blue and he has a noticeable scar on his chin, but his other scars are hidden under his clothing.

Personality: Morrick is devoted, loyal, proud, and at times deeply stoic. He takes a great deal of seriousness in his responsibilities and the oaths and laws he has agreed to. He idolizes the ideals of a knight and thus attempts to live up to them with success, but holds himself ruthlessly accountable even when he isn’t at fault. His standards in himself are ruthless, his standards in others are almost just as high. Morrick, while proud of his title and unafraid to exert the noble blood he was born into, is respectful towards others if they show the same level in return. He is willing to charm others if it is needed and is capable of bargaining well. That being said, Morrick is not afraid of work, and if put in the situation will turn to hard labor for the short term if it means success further on. But there is another side of him that is guarded exclusively for those who become part of his inner circle. Morrick can be compassionate and concerns himself greatly over the well beings of loved ones. He’s also protective, but unabashedly blunt. He will tell them things they don’t want to hear if it is to protect them in the long run. He will also confront battles head on if it means to protect said loved ones or the royal family.

Fandom: A Fool’s Fables (A Fool’s Endeavor, A Fool’s Golden Cage, ect.)

Voice: Deep, gravelly, warm.

Backstory: Morrick was born of noble blood and had a comfortable childhood. At a young age he was sent to Acalathoy to become a squire, and served until he was appointed a knight. He was in the early years of knighthood when the attack on Castle Acalathoy transpired.

Ongoing Story: During the attack on the castle, Morrick was one of few knights that survived and was kept captive at a camp to be questioned. After being freed by Lure and Balsam, he is so struck with survivor’s guilt that he goes along with them, even though he doesn’t believe they will survive. Over the events of the book, Morrick is a key member in Lure and Balsam’s survival, and becomes more hopeful and determined in their journey. During the second book, Morrick will again accompany Lure and Balsam on their journey. Though this time out of a more personal obligation than due to his title.

Likes: Stability, chess and cards, tasks that calm him- such as cleaning his blade, teaching- such as in combat or other tasks, reading and writing poetry, aged wine, having control of a situation, feeling like he is a benefit to the kingdom, and jestering.

Dislikes: Loss of control, seeing those he cares about getting hurt or knowing he cannot help them, getting injured or ill- anything that effects his performance, Lure or Balsam needlessly risking their lives, being treated beneath his status, and the rejection of common sense.

Strengths: Morrick is skilled in both swordplay and hand-to-hand combat, though would much prefer the former to the latter. Being a knight, he is also adept in archery- though doesn’t prefer it- horseback riding, hunting, and swimming. He is also well-read and is skilled in strategizing.

Weaknesses: Morrick is frequently willing to put himself on the line to protect others, which may put him in danger more often than not. Especially when he feels that, as a knight, he is obligated to step in and help the innocent and defenseless. He is frequently reigned in by these oaths and rules that he has given himself, which could put him under too much pressure in the long run. Morrick simply carries more weight than he should on his shoulders.

Favorite color(s): Red, gold, and blue.

Kind of clothing: When in the castle, Morrick dresses in typical knight garb. In his quarters he will wear nicely tailored tunics, typical to nobility, and elsewise is known to wear light armor just in case something happens. However, during the length of A Fool’s Endeavor, Morrick is stripped down to little more than a simple tunic and pants, with his only armor being on his boots. He goes through the entire journey making this work. In the second book, Morrick travels in more fitting clothing.

What element would they be?: Probably Earth, as he is very grounded.

Hobbies: In his spare time, Morrick enjoys games of chess and cards, reads, and writes poetry, though keeps hushed about this. He also trains squires, including his own, and participates in jousting tournaments for his kingdom.

Special skills/talents: I think I’ve covered most of them.

Patience level: Varies. In situations that are stressful, Morrick’s patience wears thin quickly. Such as in circumstances where someone neglects their duties or he sees them as dismissing an important matter. During the events of the first book, he is especially testy because he is wracked with guilt and handling everything poorly. That being said, he works well with squires, and is firm without being strict. He also tends to take Lure’s eccentricities in stride, unbothered by them unless they lead to danger.

Regrets: Morrick is very regretful that he didn’t do more doing the attack on the castle. Even though he did all he could, he doesn’t consider it enough.

Favorite places: Other than places such as the study and his quarters, he enjoys spending time out in the courtyard.

Role model: He has always revered the kings of Acalathoy. He thought highly of the fallen king and still speaks of him with respect and adoration. He also looks up to the tales and successes of the former king, the Golden Eyed King, who was the father of the queen.

Favorite foods: Roasted boar, venison, or pheasant, or roasted and seasoned vegetables are in his favorites. He also enjoys aged or spiced wines, sweetened mead, or ale that isn’t overly strong tasting. He is very fond of the taste of honey.

Favorite book: Morrick has few book preferences. He enjoys reading and isn’t picky about the contents.

Mode of transportation: Prefers travelling on horseback than on foot, but frequently gets stuck travelling on foot.

Weapon: Morrick has a few different blades that he switches out between. He still holds onto the one he acquired during his first travels, though uses it less than the ones he has of higher quality. He also carries a dagger on his belt.

Smells like: herosmellslike.com claims Morrick smells like ‘thistles and delight’. Not sure what delight smells like, but I assume it’s good.

How do they feel about love: His views on love were originally very simplistic, believing that companionship and marriage were more of business than pleasure. While he still somewhat believes this, having a taste of genuine romantic love is beginning to change his perspective.

Least favorite color: Green.

Home town/Where they live now: the Kingdom of Acalathoy

Makes a living by: Being a knight of the royal guard.

Fears or phobias: Other than an unreasonable fear of failure, not really.

Race, ethnicity and nationality: Morrick is a citizen of Acalathoy with Caucasian skin who was born to a noble household. Music they listen to: He prefers standing harp music but will listen to anything with little complaint.

Bad habits: He has a tendency to be stubborn, especially if he knows his judgement is sound and that someone is trying to change it. Though he may eventually listen to reason, this can cause temporary issues and disagreements.

What turns them on: While stoic and at times somber, Morrick takes to those who have a more positive disposition. He almost craves it, and he desires to be challenged and uplifted.

What turns them off: He is not fond of meekness in romantic partners. It is fine in friends and those working alongside him, but quietness stifles his curiosity.

Religious and to what extent? Any spiritual beliefs?: Morrick believes in God and considers any oath that he makes ‘under’ God to be just as viable as one he makes ‘to’ God. That being said, he does not frequently pray and hasn’t been known to push these beliefs upon others.

Pet peeves: When he witnesses someone of power failing in their position, especially if it is something he feels like he could do better.

Personal problems: He is severely allergic to certain kinds of uncommon fruit.

What ONE item would they take to an uninhabited island: Probably a flint and steel or some other way to start a fire. He has made weapons on the fly in the past, but fire wouldn’t be as easy.

Outlook on life: While having his ups and downs in the past, Morrick is currently content and aims to keep it that way.

Most important person in their life: It should be Princess Vivianne, but it clearly is Jester Lure.

What was your character like as a child: He was rambunctious when he was young and very close to his parents and siblings. Once he became a squire, this excitement was reigned in and he took to his tasks as best as he could, eager to become a knight.

What is something other people assume about your character?: Either that he is the perfect image of a knight, or that he is massively stubborn and completely humorless. Though spending any amount of time with him starts to shed this image.

Do they like the name they were given: Morrick wasn’t fond of his birth name, so he dropped it in favor of just using his last name.

Nervous habits: None.

Siblings: He has a brother and a sister. His brother is a monk while his sister still lives at the family estate.

Wears jewelry: None.

Have they ever wanted to commit suicide: The closest Morrick got was after the attack on Acalathoy. Left with nothing, he joined on Lure and Balsam’s quest believing it would kill him. Not exactly suicide, but desperation causing him to latch to the only option and uncaring whether it would kill him. The further they got, the more determined he was to survive.

Close friends: Morrick and Lure originally started out at odds with one another, both dealing with their own issues and frustrations. However, they slowly begin to bond through mutual interests, and eventually allowed one another to venture into their comfort zones. While he doesn’t always agree with Lure, he begins to respect him and his opinions, which then grows into admiration. It was only a matter of time before their unexpected friendship wasn’t enough.

While Morrick originally saw Balsam as more of an attendant than much else, he grew to respect him for his skills in alchemy and his rationality. Though he still clearly sees Balsam as a youth, he considers him a friend and a much needed ally.

Morrick was originally wary of Yves, believing him to be a spy. After the events of the journey, he no longer suspects this and is now on good terms with him. While Yves has not admitted to it, Morrick seems aware that he came from a wealthier household than he has admitted to.

He also admires Captain Filomena and is impressed by the tight ship she runs and the effectiveness of her crew. They are on good terms.

First kiss? (when and with whom): Please read the Lure questionnaire, as I go into full detail there. *Wink*

Views on gambling, lying, killing, etc…: Morrick is strict in his beliefs that gambling, thievery, and trickery are wrong. However, he does not see Lure’s smooth talking as being in the same vein. H won’t hold a grudge if there is a understandable reason the crimes were committed either. Morrick’s view on killing is much different. He stands by killing in self-defense, even when he has been known to show mercy.

How much do they value money: Morrick doesn’t have much need for money in his already comfortable situation. Though he is looking forward to earning a fief.

Wants to get married: Originally just out of obligation.

Wants to have kids, raise a family: Again, originally just out of obligation. Feelings are now mixed.

Sworn enemy: He still holds a grudge against the Kingdom of Olaylark. Not exactly the citizens, but cabinet members, any remaining royalty, and those who protect them. Those making the decisions are those he looks down upon.

Is their name a pun of anything: A corruption of Maurice and Merrick, which is already a corruption of Maurice. Chances are, Morrick’s name might actually be Maurice Maurice. XD

Most traumatic experience: Being the sole survivor of the battle between Acalathoy and Olaylark. Ironically, his survival with few wounds left more scars than if he might’ve been truly battered. While he has recovered since and found a new calling to provide for his kingdom, that loss weighed on him heavily for some time.

Favorite holiday: The Feast of Fools. Lure gets a kick out of it, so Morrick does too. He is also fond of Blessed Sunday, a religious holiday in the summertime, as that’s when he makes an annual pilgrimage to visit his family.

Well, that’s it for now! Hope you enjoyed!

#A Fool's Endeavor #A Fool's Golden Cage #Sir Morrick #Janetje Amabilis #self-published #fantasy novel #medieval fantasy #The Knight #the death tarot card #Character Study

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tokyotwosome · 5 years

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England: ”This Earth of Majesty”

7/26/19 - ENGLAND. The mother to the modern world’s business tongue. A country within the United Kingdom within Great Britain and none of us can make any sense of what the heck the difference is. This wondrous place is an island I’d always dreamed of visiting from the first time I picked up The Chronicles of Narnia. Or Pride and Prejudice. Or Harry Potter. The list goes on. From its rich history, its captivating architecture, and the many famous humans that have walked these streets, England is not a country to be missed.

We arrived in London on a Friday evening. The summer in the U.K. is much like Seattle; the sun is fickle and the rain needy. Seeing the countless parks throughout the city, not to mention the luscious greenery throughout the countryside, it’s no wonder it rains so much here. On Saturday morning, we met up with a friend to do a proper tour of the city. For the day, we purchased a “London Pass” which gets you into over 75 attractions as well as access to the Hop on Hop Off bus. We swiftly made our way to the top of the double decker, not caring that the open-roof was a bit damp and paying notice to the “mind your head” signs up the stairs. As we embarked through the city, a man with a microphone prompted us to grab headphones and listen to his countless facts about London.

Did you know that there are actually two Londons? Greater London refers to the American definition of “London”. This is where the Queen hails and is generally what we think of when referring to London. There is also “The City of London”, a square mile within Greater London that can be easily identified by its dragon statues which guard its borders. The City of London is separately governed, collects separate taxes, enforces separate laws, has their own separate flag, and even elects their own Lord Mayor. Queen Elizabeth isn’t even allowed to enter the City of London without permission from the Lord Mayor. It’s all very scratch-head worthy.

There’s a laundry list of sites to see in London. There’s Big Ben (currently under construction), Westminster Abbey (filled with famous and infamous corpses), Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, Tower Bridge (much cooler than London Bridge), the Churchill War Rooms, Shakespeare’s Globe, and loads more. One would need to devote an entire week to site seeing just to manage it all in. Needless to say, we didn’t get to see everything, but we managed to get some good ones under our belt.

Our first stop was at the Tower of London, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from Tower Bridge on the north bank of the River Thames (pronounced “Tems”). The Tower of London is less of a tower and more of a series of towers that feel more like medieval grounds from something out of a storybook. Within each tower holds its own treasures and stories. There was original armor, crown jewels, the bloody tower (where two princes were believed to have been killed by their uncle so that he could have the crown for himself), prison cells (where names and images have been carved into walls)...and so much more. You could spend all day at this site alone, but we hurried on off to lunch after building up an appetite..must have been all the murder stories that did it. Speaking of murder - walking across the Tower Bridge, we found the street where many Jack the Ripper scenes were filmed. They even offer evening tours of all his murder spots (a big no thank you from me).

The food in England is a journey in and of itself. If you ask for pie, don’t expect something sweet. A traditional English-style breakfast consists of toast (seemingly the most important food group), beans, mushrooms and/or tomatoes, an over-easy egg, a hash brown, bacon (which is actually more ham-like), and sausage (tastes more like fake meat to me). We can’t tell you how many times we ate the same English-style breakfast, but it really was quite hearty. Brunch will sometimes include all-you-can-drink. And let’s not forget Sunday roast! Tea was also a staple for most, if not all, of our breakfasts - I like mine with two sugars and milk. In terms of stereotype foods, we didn’t see a crumpet in sight.

While London is a must-see when in England, it’s certainly not the highlight of the country. We rented a car and made our way north, with our final destination being Scotland. We’d arranged to have overnight stays in aribnb’s along the way, taking recommendations from our very own Rick Steves. The street signs were comical, seeing ones like “mind the gap” and “queues likely”. Getting used to the different terminology is a journey of its own. First stop was Stow-on-the-Wold; a quaint little market town with sandy-colored buildings, friendly town folk, and shops around every corner. We still aren’t sure what a Stow or a Wold is, but while we passed through, it was clear why it was a place outsiders wanted to visit. After spending a few days in the city, it was refreshing to be in a small town. We managed to only go down the wrong side of the street towards oncoming traffic once, so that’s a bonus!

Shortly following our pit-stop to Stow-on-the-Wold, we found our airbnb in a place known as Derbyshire, arriving promptly at 3:00 PM. A woman answered the door and greeted us by saying, “you’re positively punctual”. She sounded like Mary Poppins and I could’ve swore she was about to break out in song next and a bird would likely land delicately on her finger. That was when I really realized we weren’t in Kansas anymore. She took us upstairs to our room in her large, historical cottage. The backyard view reminded me of something out of a Jane Austen novel. I could imagine Mr. Darcy coming to our door by horseback. We had dinner at a local gastropub, just up the street. The server told us about a place to visit the following day, which we promptly agreed we’d do.

The next morning on our way out of town, we stopped by the recommendation from our server; a nature walk toward an abandoned water mill. During our walk, Rob stopped and asked that I take a picture of him in the grass. At the time, I had no idea why. Turns out he was envisioning a scenic view out of Gladiator and just HAD to reenact it. Making our way down a long drive, we saw a flock of pheasants that we thought were chickens. When we finally did make it to the water mill, we took in the beautiful views and imagined what sorts of things must have taken place throughout history here; a common thought through such a historical place. When we thought there wasn’t a living soul in site, a couple of women on horseback road passed. Such a slow, easy going lifestyle here.

Our next destination was what is known as the lake district; more specifically, a town called Keswick (pronounced Ke-sick). Keswick was by far our favorite stopping point. It had a German feel with British flavor. Lots of nature, lots of shops, and lots of kind people. This is a popular spot to visit in the summertime for Brits throughout the country. While rain was to be expected, we lucked out for the day we spent there and enjoyed a pleasant nature hike.

The day following our trip to Keswick, the weather took a turn for the worse. We were so fortunate to have such a beautiful day for our one day spent there. After our time in the lake district, our next stop was Scotland. Truly, Scotland is deserving of its own blog, so stay tuned for that next! Instead, I’m going to fast forward to when we trained back to London.

We’ve gone full circle and made it back to the city. Our train arrived at Kings Cross Station - so naturally we visited platform 9 3/4. After taking our obligatory Harry Potter photo, we decided to try to squeeze in any last minute sightseeing we may have missed. That’s how we ended up at the Churchill War Rooms. The underground tour is the original housing spot for Churchill and his men during WWII. They have kept the rooms in mostly the same condition with a full audio tour to really envision what it must have been like during the war. Trying to imagine being trapped down there while bombs continued to go off upstairs was a very humbling experience. For me, having been to the war museums in both Pearl Harbor and Okinawa, seeing the war through the British lens was a new perspective. On one of the original maps in the discussion room, you could even see a drawing of Hitler someone had done. A really remarkable site and I would highly recommend to anyone who visits London. Speaking of sights in London, did you know that all museums are free in the UK? That led us to the Natural History Museum! Among other things.

On 8/3/19, our 5-year wedding anniversary, we decided to treat ourselves to high tea. We had reservations at a delightful little spot in the city. The theme was Peter Rabbit and ohhhh was it good! We had mini-sandwiches, biscuits, jams, and treats to the max. Everything you see was edible, including the flower pots. I don’t think I stopped smiling once. When we had finished, we were stuffed beyond belief. Then the server comes over with a HAPPY ANNIVERSARY dessert. We couldn’t NOT eat it...so we stuffed our little bunny bellies. Another successful wedding anniversary outside of the states - once an accident, now a tradition. <3

If you’re considering a trip to the UK, I’d say go Nike and just do it! Some of our expectations were met and others were shattered, but that’s the joy of travelling. A place is never how you think it’s going to be, but seeking the different is what is exciting. Stay tuned for the next blog where we’ll share our adventures in Scotland - my new crush. Thanks for sticking it out and reading along!

#united kingdom #uk #travel #tea #explore #england

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quietdaysco · 4 years

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Primrose Path - Devlog #011

It's a brand new year and a brand new milestone! We've really missed you. Have you missed us? It's so great to be back!

Last devlog we said we were taking a break for the holidays. And we did, but between new jobs, family, college, and festivities, you couldn’t fully keep us away from the dream! All of December and January, we wrote. And now?

The common route first draft is finished!

For such a wide and important aspect of our project, this is no small feat. We've been at the script for six months counting, and it felt so good to get another step closer every single day.

Check the facts for yourself:

Main Game Progress

Writing

Common Route:

Rough Outline: 100% ✓

Revised Outline: 100% ✓

Draft Script: 100% ✓

Words: 128,164

Scenes: 99* / 99

*Scenes are counted when they are ready for internal review, qualifying them as complete for the first draft.

Did you see that number? Yes, it's not a mistake. The common route is over 128,000 words! We love every part of it and we're very proud, but the journey isn't over yet.

You might be thinking: “All that and you've only done the common route?!”

Yeah—it's a long journey, but one that we're happy to share with you!

Since this is a major milestone, we wanted to share a few words of our experience until now:

Elm says...

I feel simultaneously relieved, proud and dead inside and, like all creatives and developers, I hope I get to keep feeling like this as we continue to hit milestones. Primrose is definitely something I consider to be too big a project, but I also refuse to let it go. It is a learning experience and a proud moment. As someone who has written things, but never really considered themselves a writer, this is a surprising feat and one that fills me with a great sense of calm. If I knew one day, I'd be working a full-time industry job with the typical hours and somehow managing to write over 65,000 words in just under half a year in my scarce free time, I would have said that's nice, but unrealistic. (If you told me I was going to work with someone else and double that, I might have told you to politely close the door on your way out.)

Nonetheless, I think I finally found my calling as the child who wrote manuals and to do lists before approaching middle school. Developing baselines are important for any project, and without it, I don't know where we would be. I remember saying, rather casually, we should be tracking our progress to establish a baseline as this is a first for us. I didn't realise it would be such an integral part of our process and leading to an understanding of what we can achieve. It started off as a nice thing to have, but without it I strongly believe I wouldn't be able to finish a project. That's not so uncommon, I think. We all have that pile of unfinished things that we don't expect. Except this time, I'll see it coming a mile away and work around it.

How much did data help us? I don't know. Our current average is 21,000 words a month between us. That's including a very low December, and a very high (39,000-word) January. I don't know if that's because our goals averaged at 20,000 more words a month, or if that's genuinely our limit, but it seems to be a healthy rate to allow us to do other things with our time.

I've always had an interest in production and management, a change in self has come over over the past year. One that is more confident, positive, understanding and encouraging towards myself and others. Creating a project is less like tending a well-oiled machine and more like cultivating a garden. Cogs wear down and get replaced, but people don't work like that. We need space and understanding, time to reflect, encouragement and the ability to know when we've had enough. I'm sure that shift of thought is just me developing a stronger sense of self, but it's one that I welcome and I hope will be reflected in the work I produce with Coda.

In the past, I've adamantly liked to work alone. I've wanted to push myself to the high standards I hold myself to, and I do feel it's unfair to treat anyone but myself like that. I still think this is true, but there is also pleasure in sharing work with others. When you're tired, someone else can carry the project forward. When you split the work, the other brings in an interesting and exciting twist you hadn't yourself considered. I truly believe, some of the best work isn't created alone. With everything we do, we bring a little of ourselves into it and we make it personal. This story is significant in size for two people to attempt, but there are bigger, emergent narratives out there and maybe one day we can be a part of that too.

Until then, I'm happy to just make the kind of games that you load up on a quiet day.

Coda says...

This is the first time I’ve ever written this much content for a story in my life. 57,000 words in half a year. As much as I’ve entertained trying out hypernarrative models in personal projects, this is the first time I’ve actually done so. This is also the first time I’ve ever worked with Elm, and if I didn’t have such a competent, versed, and approachable partner, this passion project would have quickly become an untamed chore, much farther behind in progress than where we are today.

I’ve learned a lot over the past six months. I’ve been learning how I reframe my motivation to work so that I’m not chasing whims but developing a self-disciplined ethic. For me, that heavily involves pre-planning and tracking explicit goals. Elm operates similarly having such a strong interest in project management, so building up our workflow this way was to both of our benefits.

I’ve learned that I have a growing interest in narrative design. I’m spending more and more of my free time listening to lectures on theories and models to leverage player interactivity and agency, reading materials on mapping consequence, utilizing channels other than dialogue to exposit information, and learning new ways to breathe life into a scene.

And in deconstructing these concepts and figuring how to incorporate them, I find myself growing more and more with the characters. These characters are all stitched together from personal experiences—some as recent as these past couple months. They’re also those of friends and family, of passersby, of vocal strangers. They’re things I love, things I tolerate, and things I could do without yet exist. They’re research of facts, opinions I might share or reject, and trivia. These characters are points to make, and those points evolve and refine as we do.

My final thoughts are, whatever this project ends up becoming, I’ve enjoyed it so much. There are times when Elm and I have glanced at each other’s scenes and for me at least, I’ve had genuine reactions that’ve run the gamut. I have honestly gasped at these words before. I’ve laughed a great deal. I’ve nodded along and I’ve shaken my head. I’ve felt something. Whoever you are, reader, I hope you will too.

We hope these words mean something to you. If they don’t resonate, then at least they give you an idea of who we are as individuals and as a team!

So, what are our next steps?

We’re reconvening to address any pressing concerns.

The next few weeks will focus on a review pass for consistency and game flow.

Afterwards, we’ll move onto the final revision of the common route, assess, and then mark it “Done” once and for all! We'll have something else to offer once we do!

Oh, before we forget...

Here’s the last of our favorite unrevised snippets from these final two months:

RAFAEL: You've done me a wonderful favour. RAFAEL: And maybe saved my life. MC: Does it have something to do with the two over there? He glances over woefully. RAFAEL: No, they'll definitely try to kill me.

PRIYA: Someone is spreading a rumour that you had to meet with two extremely questionable kids in a trench coat. MC: God, is that what people are saying? PRIYA: No, that's what I'm saying, and if you don't fess up the rumour will only grow.

HARPER: It's a restraining order. HARPER: Been a while since I've seen one of those. This branding is nice, don't you think?

One of the pheasants stops and stares at us. It spreads its wings, revealing the second pair beneath them in a captivating display.

He buttons up his blazer. JUN LAU: (squint) Stop staring. MC: Literally, are you one to talk? JUN LAU: I’m not staring at your tits though, so don’t stare at mine. MC: Oh my God, I wasn’t even looking! It’s a lie because I totally was and I look so dumb for lying because he can read it all over my face, oh crap. Walk right past him, just walk, go go go go.

A light flurry falls from the night sky. The moon gazes through a break in the clouds, just enough to line them and every drifting snowflake in silver. A few flakes land on my nose and eyelashes.

I hum for brown paper packages tied up with strings. He recognizes the tune and smiles at me.

If this is the kind of content you like to see, we’d love for you to jump into our Discord server! We occasionally share much longer unrevised excerpts and discuss the game in much more depth with our community.

Behind The Scenes

Greyson Update

We’ve finally nursed Greyson back to health from a nasty bug, and upgraded him to the newest OS (as it goes with tech these days). He seems ready to get back out there on Twitter and help in March!

One thing we noticed about the old Greyson is despite being cheerful, he spent nearly all of his time talking to himself, not utilizing the tools available to him to increase his presence. With his recent bug fixes, the new Greyson is now going to be out there actively searching for folks in need of some encouragement, widening his reach! If you get a message from Greyson, feel free to reply back! After all, he’s always there for you!

Side Projects

Clearly, Primrose Path is a large project and one that means a lot to us. We're under no illusion that this project will take a few more years. It's a little like our magnum opus in that regard and we're giving it everything we've got.

However, we're not the type who can sit in the dark for years on end. At Quiet Days, we recognize the benefits and importance of personal projects, and that is something the two of us will be doing more often. Whether it's game jams or comics, we hope to share them with you!

We’re focusing on monthly devlogs for our Tumblr, but we have to ask: Are there other kinds of content and updates you folks would like to see here? We want to know! Shoot us a message in our Ask the Devs inbox here on Tumblr, or hit us up on Twitter, Discord, and Lemma Soft!

Socials

• Micro-updates on Twitter! ♦ Factoids with Greyson! • Writing Progress on GitScrum! • Live art development on Twitch! • Art logging on Instagram! • Ask us anything here! • Continue the discussion on Discord! • Master thread on Lemma Soft!

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plymouthrockquotes · 6 years

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D.D. Bishop, Development of the Plymouth Rock: or, The Plymouth Rock as a Bird and as a Breed, 1880

Page 3: The putting of the work into this present shape was suggested to my own mind by finding the first thing that I ever wrote upon the “law” of the Dominique color quoted at large in a pamphlet upon Plymouth Rocks, which I purchased at the book counter at one of our shows. If it was good enough for someone else to sell to me as a piece of sense upon that subject, there was no reason why I should be senstivie about expressing my convictions upon other points in the development of the principles. ‘Hinc illoe.’ I was contending at that time (‘Poultry World,’ March, 1876) that the black pullets were not sports, but results that would follow unskillful mating everywhere. In the Dominique color the females went dark, and that it was not confined to the Plymouth Rock. Various of my distinguished contemporaries have not always relished the positiveness of my statements, and claim to have had some difficulty in accepting the principles I have laid down. Page 5: That the bird known by the name of Plymouth Rock, should have made its appearance about that time, 1866 to 1870, was inevitable. The conditions were favorable. It was at the time of reaction from the furor for simply big birds, when farmer folk were discussing among themselves the failure of the mammoth Asiatics to fill the bill for both eggs and marketing. They consumed both too much time and feed in their growth. They failed as foragers for want of activity. They were there verse of precocious in their development. The old fashioned dung-hill was too small. There was equal dissatisfaction with both. The first result was the throwing of whatever Asiatic came to hand, Shanghais, Brahmas, Cochins — what not — at random into the barn yard flocks, to mix indiscriminately with a lot of birds that had suffered that kind of breeding, if that could be called breeding, for a generation or more. It was not exactly “diamond cut diamond,” but more like school boys cutting each others’ jack knife blades; it was “cross” cut “cross” which made has of things generally. The next step in the process was, that the more thoughtful or fanciful began to pick out the colors that suited their individual notions. Various farmers had local reputations for the excellence of their white hens, or red hens, or whatever color they might have chosen. Page 6: Perhaps the most widely diffused of what might have been called a native stock was even then known as “old fashioned,” “hawk colored” fowls. Page 9: Where the particular birds originated that first found their way to the show room, who exhibited, and who named them, are unimportant questions further than as items of interest to fanciers. Rev. H.S. Ramsdell (deceased) of West Thompson, Conn., a correspondent of mine, traced these fowls to the yard of Joseph Spaulding (deceased) of Putnam, Wyndham County, Conn. C.C. Corbett, Esq., of New London, Conn., personally known to me, was sufficiently interested in the subject at that time, 1873, to give it his individual attention. He corroborated Mr. Ramsdell’s statements, and makes affidavit to that effect. D.A. Uphill was the first exhibitor, Worcester, March 1869. It is claimed that they were named, if not by Mr. Ramsdell, by someone who was shrewd enough to appropriate the name which Dr. Bennett had done so much to popularize. It is certain that they were already known by that name in other parts of the State. As to another matter of fact: — in the Spring of 1866 when I made my first attempt at housekeeping in my first parish, Branford, New Haven County, Conn., I carried two kinds of fowls. One kind was the so called Bolton Grays. To these my father, Mark Bishop, Esq., of Cheshire, New Haven Co., Conn., added a lot of Plymouth Rock birds. Page 10: They were presented to me by that name, and they were Plymouth rocks, large, strong birds, clean legged, and with good and true color, although they were not so distinctly marked. The birds were so commonly kept and known in that neighborhood, that it cannot now be remembered where they came from. It is my belief that they were developed there, on the farm, as in other places. One of the most distinct recollections of my boyhood is of the Dominiques, so that in the interval of my absence from him, in studies, there was ample time, and, with the certainty of Asiatic infusion, the tools to work with were undoubtedly there, with all needful elements and components. That much “I know about Plymouth Rocks,” and that is how I came to know it. They were the first fowls I ever undertook to manage for myself, and the time goes back to that date. In point of fact there are three Black Java hens, which have figured in Plymouth Rock history. One of these is as imaginary as the other two were real. The first was introduced by Mrs. Flora Spaulding, to explain what was a mystery to her, namely, that some of the Plymouth Rock pullets came black. Page 12: Marcus F. Town of Thompson, Ct., with a ten years’ knowledge of whatever points the so called original Plymouth Rocks bore with them, writing in 1876, declares: “The chickens of my pair” (purchased of Spaulding) “were many of them, heavily feathered on legs. Next year with a better mating for color, there were some feather-legged.” W.H. Todd of Ohio, sets forth the statement in one of his publications that, at that time, the best would throw some feather-legged chicks. Indeed, so prevalent was this mark of an Asiatic infusion, which could not have been from the Java, that we find Mr. C.C. Corbett, who got out the first print of the Plymouth Rock (Fig. 8) that was ever made, and who went all through the question as to their origination, writing to the ‘Poultry World,’ in April, 1873, to ask: “Have you any knowledge of a stock of Plymouth Rock fowls that do not occasionally throw feather-legged chicks?” It is surprising that Mr. Corbett, getting his birds from the Spaulding stock, through Mr. Ramsdell, should have struck, so early as this, the type of bird in form and substance that was to be finally adopted so generally as to make future attempts at departure from it impossible. The difference between this and those later in the book (beyond No. 12), are chiefly those of elaboration and finish. Page 14: So that the whole basis in authentic fact for the volumes of stupid talking and writing about Javas, is narrowed down to those birds actually bred (a very small number compared with those bred entirely outside of their yards) by D.A. Uphill and (since ’74) by I.K. Felch. In both cases the Plymouth Rocks existed before they, respectively, took hold of their breeding, and presented the same peculiarities of color inherited from the Dominique, (which I have bred almost as long as I have the Plymouth Rock) and shared by the Dominique Leghorn under my own observation. The males go light the females dark. “To Mark Pitman more than any other one man is due the credit of conducting the original breeding” by which the type of the bird was fixed. Upon being satisfied of which, I have taken pains to get the history from his own lips and I have his authority, Fe.b 13, 1880, to sustain the assertion that I made some years ago, that the Plymouth Rocks always did and always will throw their colors by the same rule, the same as the Dominiques, (whose color they inherit) did and always will do the same thing. Page 15: The most important and striking characteristic that presents itself to a student of Plymouth Rocks is the peculiar difference in the color effect in the two sexes. First, last and always the males come lighter than the females. It is a thing we must never forget in dealing with this breed. It will beat us if we do but we shall never beat that. It is in the birds, it is the law of this color that the males will not only be several shades lighter in color, but the width of the bars will be about one-third of the light spaces between them. It is a very light pullet that has the space between the bars equal in width to the bars themselves, and from that the spaces grow less all the way down to no space at all, or solid color. The Dominique presents the same characteristics — in fact, the Plymouth Rock inherits this peculiarity, with its color, from the Dominique, and weaver you find the Dominique color, in Leghorns or anywhere else, you find the same law to govern. The observation of this law will be taken up in the chapter on Breeding, so that I shall not follow it further at this time, but just here I will way, that the fact must be accepted as a law and not regarded as a mere eccentricity. The color difference between the male and female is really much less in the Dominique color than in many others. As soon as you get outside of the solid colors — as white or black — the utmost diversity is manifested. The tyro refuses to credit the statement that the Partridge Cochin cock and hen are of the same breed. The Dark Brahma shows as wide a difference between the sexes, and what could be more unlike than the cocks and hens of the various Games and Pheasants, al the way to the song birds as gaily dight as the butterflies themselves. The law of variation between male and female is Nature’s law, and not an eccentricity confined to this particular breed of fowls. Page 16: These birds must always pass the chopping block on the road to the show pen, and those that stop at the block must pay you with their flesh for your trouble and outlay. Profit in poultry must come out of close calculation — the application of common sense to every item and department. The Standard is good sense, as well as strict rule. The substance of the bird in the points that are most nearly related, “size and weight” with “breast and body,” counts 24. That this shall be harmoniously distributed and present the proper form for a Plymouth Rock, instead of a squab or penguin, “symmetry” comes in for another 12 points. Other things may be mere appendages, accidents even, and it is not too much to say that more than half the points in the scale are given to practical things — the virtues of usefulness. Contrast this with the Standard for Polish, where “crest” is 25, “comb,” 10; where “ear lobe and wattles” count as much as “size and weight”; the “tail” as much as “breast and body.” Failure to follow this plan brings failure to the breeder and is the reason why so many yards show only undersized birds, and so many breeders pipe small, that they are not in favor of bringing up the Plymouth Rocks to “crowd the larger breeds.” Page 24: In contemplating the Plymouth Rock actually in the breeding yard, we are met by several very practical questions. It is not another science, but the same with a different application. The science is modified here by circumstances, surroundings and conditions. The leading question is: — with what chances in his favor, or against what, do you expect the Plymouth rock to do his best? It is answered by a consideration of the nature and disposition of the bird himself, and also by your own ultimate objects in his cultivation. For as those objects are clearly defined before your own mind, and the more intelligently you shape to those ends the influences within your power, so much more perfectly will the bird respond. For as you can develop all that is good in him by generosity, so, by meanness, you can kill out even what is best in him. And the ignorance which allows you to pursue a mistaken policy is his own and your worst enemy. So we will lay out our work something like this: — First — Habit. Second — Food. Third — Handling. Page 25: The Cochins — true Celestials — are humped up in fluffy contentment alongside the fence. It is wonderful how much comfort they can get out of the side of the house! The American by distinction, in fact, the Connecticut Yankee (I refer to the Plymouth Rock gentleman) with his business suit on, is just out in the fair open, his observing eye can see what is going on, and where his thirty family can catch every turn of his knowing head. He talks to them as I have heard farmers talk to their boys, — “Come, now! Don’t let the grass grow under your feet.” And they don’t. They are as industrious as that farmer’s boy in digging out a rabbit. They are scratching, not furiously, but earnestly, picking, stretching, pluming themselves, their minds me up to shell out such a dividend upon every tit-bit they find in that hay seed as shall round up the egg-basket pretty well before supper time. The expression that the domestic fowl is “the true bird of freedom” cannot be insisted upon too urgently. By just so much as you do violence to Nature, you are placing the birds at a disadvantage, and inviting the failure of your plans and labors. The Leghorn will exist in a small pen, and keep itself in exercise by its perpetual chase in search of an impossible knot-hole — in which it still believes. The Cochin might not delight in the exercise if it had full liberty, but the Plymouth Rock would. If enclosed at all, the Plymouth Rock should be subjected to a barely nominal confinement. My own yards are almost as many rods as most are feet. It is notorious that the ordinary enclosures — so-called “runs” — would not allow the bird to get much delight from his promenade unless he could amuse himself by a “run” against the fence. The poor Plymouth Rock has to “exercise” his imagination a good deal to indulge his naturally active disposition. HIs is expected to combine all the good qualities of both the Dominique and Asiatic; and in the matter of personal habit should be humored. If he does not always get out when he can, he should not on that account be cooped up in a little pen. It is too much like imposing upon a fellow because he is good-natured. If the Asiatic is the most quiet fowl that we have, the Dominique is the very sharpest forager that ever I saw. If you let out the Cochin he will go back into his house after a short breathing spell; he does not like “wind and weather.” The Plymouth Rock will go a hunting as soon as let out, and he will stay out, too, all day. Page 28: Breeding. And to emphasize by every means the answer to another “why,” I say, in view of your ultimate object in breeding the Plymouth Rock, the nature of these exciting compounds is bad. You must pay for them out of the vital resources of your pets, just as certainly as getting drunk today is paid for with tomorrow’s headache. They dry up the blood of the bird. Ask any doctor as to the excessive use of pepper and spices upon your own blood, and then give them up. A cutting off of fruits and greens that will induce the scurvy as a human disease is equally bad for the fowl. You are not simply trying to get eggs from the Plymouth Rock, but you want to hatch strong and vigorous chicks for the table, and to do this you must retain such full, exuberant health in the parent stock as will ensure rapid growth in the young, and tend to improvement from year to year, which you will never get, but deterioration from chicks hatched out of eggs from fevered, shrinking stock, whose blood and secretions you are drying up with so-called medicinal foods. Page 29: Handling. I hope to bring this subject up into the prominence it deserves. There are so many who fail just here. Many Plymouth Rock breeders have good stock and good theories of breeding, and have well-mated fowls, who gain only disappointment for want of a practical knowledge of those things that certainly fall within the limits of wisdom, skill and experience in the regulation of various matters inside the yard. Page 30: A disorder can be easily rectified if discovered and taken promptly in hand. A settled disease almost always kills the bird. The same watchfulness will teach you when to hold up on soft food, or when you are feeding too much beef scrap; the looseness of their bowels will show you when your fowls are weakening. Fowls can no more do their best at breeding with their systems all relaxed, than they can hold their own in the show room in a similar condition. And when you discover that they are in this condition, remove the cause. Cut off soft food; withhold corn entirely; a little sulphate of iron in the water pans will do them good. But don’t rush off for a lot of alum, nor any other astringent, while you keep on feeding them what caused the derangement. The astringent is only to be used as the last resort, and it will never be needed if the birds receive intelligent care. Again, this goes far to answer another question, the repetition of which in the poultry papers is so tiresome: how to prevent sterility in Plymouth Rock fowls. Remove the causes of sterility. Keep up the health of the birds and their eggs will hatch well enough. Another question is entwined with this, namely: how many hens should be placed with a male bird? I have never heard nor seen an intelligent answer to that question. Page 33: The days when premiums could be won by ignorant and careless exhibitors have gone past. The scores have advanced wonderfully within a few years. To refer to my own experience through the campaigns of 1877 and ’78, meeting the best birds with such men as C.H. Crosby and A.M. Halstead for judges. I have the cards to show the repeated awards of 1st and 2nd on Plymouth Rock fowls and chicks, and all possible specials upon birds, no one of which could score above 91 unless by extra weight. This season of ’80, my Partridge Cochins and Rocks hardly win at 95, and I can turn out in show condition a certified score of 97. Page 34: In the first place, high color and low condition are not found in the same bird. To have color at its best, the bird must be at his best. If I should venture to designate the one department in the whole culture of Plymouth Rocks as to which the general notions were most crude and unconsidered, I should be compelled to say that it is upon this very point. Chiefly this is so, because the general laws of color are unknown, or disregarded, in their application to the plumage of the domestic fowl, and, finally, because there have been various theories and confusing terms used in talking and writing about the colors of the Plymouth Rock. Page 36: The sharpness of definition between the colors upon a Plymouth Rock cock, which we only see at its best in high condition, begins to diminish as soon as the bird is allowed to breed, whether the light strikes it or not. By the same law, that whatever exhausts the system drains out the color principle, the colors upon a Plymouth Rock pullet or hen, after they begin laying, are never what they were before, and can never be made what they were by any possible process. Life has passed its ripeness, and Nature takes in her sign by reducing the brilliancy of the color, just as surely as she begins to shrink the comb and blanc the face. Page 37: Even if there could be such a thing as keeping the plumage fresh for a long time, there would still be the serious damage to the bird’s appearance, which is an important matter in case of a bird barred like the Plymouth Rock, that would be brought about by the fact that the markings on the feathers that and not gained their full length would not match in the plumage with the other and longer feathers. Nature calculates to a nicety just exactly how far every feather shall lap over every other, and so cunningly arranges the bars in their relation to each other that the charm of that perfect beauty which is a chief attraction of the Plymouth Rock, only appears when every feather is perfectly in its place and fully grown. Page 42: Birds not matching in show pen. This is a general disqualification, i.e. it is not confined to this particular breed. It may as well be understood that this does not relate at all to the breeding of the Plymouth Rock; it signifies nothing as to whether or not they are bred, or will naturally breed, in this way. Dark Brahmas, Light Brahmas, Partridge Cochins, will none of them breed as they are matched for show. Their being matched for show is no indication as to how they should be mated for breeding; it is only required on the ground of general fitness. The show, taken altogether, is vastly improved by having the birds mated as to uniformity of appearance, the same as a company of soldiers makes a better appearance in “uniform,” and graded as to the height of the men. Page 44: Take a bird that runs, and whose ear lobe seems perfectly red, pull the skin a little so as to smooth out the wrinkles, and you will find frequently whitish spots in the depths of every fold. A Plymouth Rock’s ear lobe is no better and no worse. This is why I advise, in preparing specimens for show, that after the plumage is sufficiently seasoned, the bird shall be turned out to give him a good ruddy face and a firmly set comb. Nature secretes that opaque matter in the ear lobe. You will scarcely find a bird of any breed in which it is entirely absent, although it may not show in the case of a bird in high condition, running where sun and wind can touch him up with a regular out-of-doors complexion. A white ear lobe should clearly disqualify, as a red ear lobe would a Leghorn, but a pale face may be simply the result of confinement or low condition, and should receive its punishment under the head of what caused it. Many a Plymouth Rock has been thrown out for a pale ear lobe, or for even having noticeable whitish spots in its texture, when two weeks of sunshine, with generous food, would have given him a face as vividly red as the best. Take the reddest faced bird you have, shut him up in the shade, and see for yourself how soon the white will appear in the depressions and folds of the ear lobes. Let us have no more birds thrown out for pale ear lobes; or even for slight spots of white in the skin of the ear lobe, when it is plain that those spots will disappear with improved condition. Page 46: VI. Wry tails. Plymouth Rocks are not so subject to the accidents that usually cause this blemish as either the heavier and clumsy birds that are liable to fall backwards in failure to reach high perches, or the lighter beds so lively as to be sometimes caught by the tail and dislocate that appendage in struggles to get away. The judge must be careful not to confound a tail actually awry with one that droops upon either side from weakness. A tail can be awry upon only one side, and even if it is caused by a wound which shrinks in healing so as to pull the tail around, there is no help for it. Sometimes a tail can be straightened by making a wound on the slack side and pulling it around that way until it heals. Generally, our fanciers on this side of the water do not begin to practice the accomplishments in the various applications of surgery in preparing birds for show as those in which our English brethren prove themselves adepts. VII. Splashes of white in the breast or back, or reddish or brassy feathers in the hackles or saddles of cock, or in the necks of hens. The rest of the disqualifying cases can all go under one head; false feathers stand for the whole of it. Here the Standard is very weak. Why not splashes of black as well as white? If in breast or back, why not in fluff? If reddish, why not white, black, green, purple, yellow? In fat, the fowl may be decked in all the seven colors of the rainbow, except red, and I can think of no scientific reason why he should be denied the privilege of also wearing that innermost color of the secondary bow. It is not a question of what colors are most likely to appear, but what business they have there at all. A single false feather throws out a Houdan, and it ought to throw out a Plymouth Rock. There is no excuse for false feathers at this stage of breeding, and one is as bad as fifty. It springs from the blood, and there are “more where that comes from.” Page 47: So long as they are tolerated, so long we shall be afflicted by unscrupulous dealers palming off a lot of mongrels for pure-bred Plymouth Rocks; besides, the color is one of the strongest and easiest to bring up to absolute perfection. Cut off their heads, and stop the flow of such impure streams which threaten ruin to the work of years of patient breeding. I should consider it a calamity if such a bird got into my yard by any means. Page 48: You may set it down that no man is a qualified judge of one breed, who knows but one; and this rule is capable of an indefinite extension. The nearer he comes to knowing all breeds, the better judge he is of any individual. I cannot take space here to argue the case, but the most crude and unreasonable notions that I have ever seen spread before an admiring public, have come from those who “did not see how” the Standard could be applied to the Plymouth Rock, because they knew nothing of how it was or ought to be applied to other breeds. The Standard has more than a single edge; it cuts both ways. It contemplates the specimen in its relation to all other breeds, and also as an individual of the particular breed. It must be as distinctly a Plymouth Rock, as it must be a fowl at all. You cannot construe the Standards in one sense when applied to Plymouth Rocks, and in another when applied to Games. How many an arbitrary judge will chop off a Plymouth Rock’s head by disqualifying for a pale ear lobe, or for one in which the slightest whitish grains appear. There is a plausible reason for it; the bright red ear lobe gives such a finish to the head. But you cannot cut off the Leghorn’s head in that way unless its ear lobe is actually red, and a full, clear white, fine textured ear lobe is as charming and graceful upon the Leghorn, as a red one is upon the Plymouth Rock. Give the Connecticut boy fair play — the same chance for his red ear lobe as you must give the Italian with his white one; but I would give the Plymouth Rock no further allowance in that point than I would a Brahma. All Asiatics will show pale ear lobes from confinement, and most of them white specks in the folds of the skin, but not one of the Asiatics, nor Games, nor Game Bantams, nor Dorkings, nor any of the French class — al red ear lobed birds — is disqualified by the Standard for having pure white ear lobes; and an entire class — Polish, cannot be disqualified for pure red ear lobe, although the Standard calls for pure white. Page 49: The Dominique is subject to the same censure as the Plymouth Rock, for ear lobes “other than red.” The reason is at hand; it is his certificate of freedom from foreign blood. So when you take up the Plymouth Rock in his character as an American, the trace of the European cross in a white ear lobe should be condemned, keeping in mind the nature of ear lobes; while traces of the Asiatic cross in false feathers of any kind should not be tolerated, for this is to be again considered, that owing to the strength of the Dominique color, a false feather beyond the second cross is of the rarest occurrence. There is some excuse for allowance as to the ear lobe, because Asiatic breeds frequently show very pale ear lobes, but no excuse for false feathers, and such mongrels are unworthy of the name of Plymouth Rock, and also of competing in honorable company. Page 50: And you must bear in mind that in Standard for Plymouth Rocks the book deviates from its general rule in giving both cock and hen the same carriage. Page 51: It clear up the doubtful or critical spectator’s mind to have a bracket penciled on the score card, as in the case of the one printed, indicating the part of the bird for failure in which he is punished in symmetry. If in more than one part, let the line branch at the bottom to neck, or back, or wings. To confirm my assertion as to the relative importance given to this point in judging Plymouth Rocks, I have only to say, it is two points higher than in most varieties, (which give ten to symmetry), while only the Dorkings and Black Hamburgs go to fifteen. Page 52: Our hero next mounts the platform scales, to determine whether his vanities or solid qualities predominate. If the crop is stuffed full to make unlawful weight, he will have been cut for symmetry, if the judge has good spectacles, so that sort of cunning should defeat itself. Under this head there is but one common error that I need to correct. Those who do not like large Plymouth Rocks, need not have them. They have only to hatch them late and feed them sparingly, and they (such fanciers) will be happy. It is so much easier to raise small birds — anyone can do that — and then some of them want to drag the Standard down to their little birds. I do not see the sense in that, nor in their being offended if other people do not think with them, that a small Plymouth Rock is the best. I cannot escape the conviction that some of those who talk this way know better. There is another class, who honestly think that the A.P.A. has erred in placing the Plymouth Rock among the heaviest breeds, supposing (and saying) that an intermediate size of bird is wanted between the European class and the Asiatic. Such of our friends are simply mistaken, and I have only to refer them to Plate E to convince them what a noble and beautiful bird the Standard places exactly in that position. It is really a consistent graduation by which the American class comes between the European and Asiatic, and the steps go up — European, Dominique, Plymouth Rock, Asiatic. Those who choose to breed the Plymouth Rock down to the place the Standard gives to the Dominique have a perfect right to do so for their own gratification, the same as anyone has a right to breed the Light Brahma down to that size if he likes them better for his own use. If you do that, you should stand up like a man and take the punishment for deficiency in weight which you change in showing your birds. You think they are find enough to win in spite of it, or you would not exhibit. Page 55: It is a good thing for the Plymouth Rock that he has not to raise the rose-comb of the Dominique, with its fifteen points, but can devote his energies to business matters. The Standard requires him to have a good comb, but is not exacting upon this point, as will be seen by comparing with this Dorkings and Polish, ten; Black Spanish, thirteen; Andalusians and Hamburgs, fifteen, except White and Black, which are compelled to make twenty. Page 57: Wings are usually slashed severely without reflection. Standard only furnishes three points for each wing. You cannot cut primaries more than two points, and have anything left for secondaries and coverts. Bad color on coverts damages the bird certainly as much as want of bars or white in primaries. Cut either of these from one or two. You must save one point for secondaries, where want of bars in outside web should receive the extent of the penalty. If wing does not fold or set properly, you have noted that in symmetry. If not very prudent, you will use up all the ammunition the Standard furnishes before you are half through. You may even have to do something with bad color in bows. Standard attaches no such value to a Plymouth Rock’s wing as it does to that of a Spangled Hamburg, where twenty points are given to wings. Page 59: Whether you have taken the prize with your birds or not, fortify them for the homeward journey as well as you can. Always attend to them yourself, if possible, so far as this: to pack your fowls for home. The ex-committee is always in a hurry, and your pets are already in a most critical condition. Bear them home tenderly; let not the rude wind strike them; let them want no consideration that can help them to rest and comfort. Dangers dare not yet over, for contagious diseases may lurk in the feathers and call for disinfectants. But with kindness and care all will be well. In taking this leave of my subject and my readers, permit me to cherish a similar hope. As to my subject, I have reached the end of an enthusiastic study. As to my readers, if I have not cleared up for them the Plymouth Rock question, I have at least set out its proportions, and brought it within the reach of their own comprehensive philosophy. Goodbye, and good luck to you. Page 60: Score Card. Entry No. 115. Exhibition at Springfield, Mass., 1880. Plymouth Rock Chicks. (chart of body measurements.

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