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homunculus-argument · 1 month

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Random worldbuilding for nothing in particular: Dwarvish last names.

When dwarvish workers and artisans first came to human cities for work, humans soon noticed that all dwarves seem to have last names ending in the same suffix. Soon enough they put together that these names don't go by families, but by occupation. Blacksmith is a blacksmith, Goldsmith is a goldsmith, a mason is called Stonesmith and carpenter a Woodsmith. And a horse breeder is called a Horsesmith.

(While humans would classify dwarf horses as ponies, dwarvish languages have no separate words for "horse" and "pony" and insist that dwarf horses are called horses since the way humans say "pony" seems degoratory.)

The word that humans previously assumed meant "smith" is simply the dwarvish blanket term for "one who works with their hands to manufacture/maintain." Humans originally started referring to any random dwarf they don't know with simply the suffix in a dismissive "they all have the same names anyway" sort of way, but in dwarfish society addressing someone you don't know in this way, "hey you, Craftsman" is considered perfectly respectable.

Once more dwarf society began to pour into human lands, humans noticed two other types of last names: -Trader, and -Commander. Traders are sellers, peddlers, merchants of all sorts, and while first encountering Silktraders, Goldtraders and Spicetraders might lead one to think that they are a class above -Smiths, they are not. Any street hawker, peddler or common grocer is just as much a -Trader as a merchant of kings is.

There are dwarfish jokes about how a farmer who grows vegetables and then goes to the town to sell them is a Turnip-smith at home but a Turnip-trader in the city, but getting the suffixes mixed up is a serious offense. Calling a dwarvish doctor a "seller of healing" instead of a "crafter of healing" would imply that they do their occupation for financial profit instead of a sacred calling, and is a stab-worthy insult. And they won't stitch you up afterwards.

The -Commander class is as one would expect, for leaders and commanders. The chief of a village or head of a clan is often known as "[clan name] commander", but more often it is the title for military officers and government officials. A centurion is called Hundred-Commander, a higher officer is a Thousand-Commander. The master of a spy network is "Commander of Secrets" and the national chief accountant is "Commander of Coin".

While dwarf societies are technically speaking autocracies with a single leader, humans have yet to reach an agreement about how to translate the leader's title. Most settle for "chief", as king/queen/emperor/empress would require knowing the current ruler's gender, and dwarves consider such information a matter of extreme privacy. The official dwarvish title of the ruler is "folksmith", "one who works with their hands to make/maintain a people".

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bingwriterxo · 1 year

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the shakespeare exhibit - part 3

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: in which you and tara have a study date

warnings: none

word count: 1700+

author's note: pure fluff, some fluff, and a little more fluff

previous part | next part

“Can you name three of Shakespeare’s histories, tragedies, and comedies?”

I wonder how planes fly. Like, where’s the physics in that? Tara thought as she stared blankly at the notebook in front of her, the page filled with half-assed notes about literature. And why can’t we fly? That’s bullshit.

“Tara? Are you with me?”

This mattress is really comfy. I should ask her where she got it.

“Tar?”

Tara glanced up at the sound of your voice, blushing as she realized that you had been asking her a question, which had promptly flown over her head because of how boring the topic was.

“Sorry, what was the question?” she asked sheepishly, smiling at the way you giggled.

“Three histories, three tragedies, three comedies,” you said.

She’ll be lucky if I can even name three plays in general. Tara huffed, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth as she thought. “Okay, comedies: Twelfth Night, The Merchant of Venice, and…uh, The Winter’s Tale?”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowed as you thought about her answer. “Twelfth Night and The Merchant of Venice, yes, but The Winter’s Tale is technically labeled as a tragicomedy nowadays.” What the fuck is a tragicomedy? Tara thought. She blinked at you, and you clicked your tongue. “I think your professor would accept that, though. Next?”

“Othello, Antony and Cleopatra, and Titus Andronicus--tragedies.” You nodded, not even sparing a glance at your own note sheet that you had pulled out to help Tara study. How does she just know this shit off the top of her head? “And histories? All of the Henry plays.”

You chuckled. “Can you be more specific?”

“No.”

“Tar, come on.” You crossed the room and sat on your bed, leaving your desk abandoned. She held her breath at your sudden closeness, your shoulder nudging against hers as you pointed at her notebook. “You have them written down.” You squinted. “I think? Tara, I can’t even read this.”

She looked down at her notes. What she had thought was legible writing was, in fact, just chicken-scratch. “Oh,” she said. “I think I was falling asleep during this lecture.” She sighed and leaned back against your pillows. “This is stupid. I’m a film major! I don’t need to know about Shakespeare or Hawthorne or the Pope!”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Do you mean Pope, as in Alexander Pope?”

Tara frowned. “Same difference.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.” You shook your head, giggling. “Look, I know you find literature boring--”

“Literature is the bane of my existence,” she stated, crossing her arms over her chest.

You leaned back, and Tara tensed as you placed your head on her shoulder. Must. Stay. Perfectly. Still.

“You didn’t have to take Intro to Lit., you know. There’s a lot of other courses that could’ve fulfilled this credit.”

She grumbled. “Mindy told me to take it. She said it would be easy.” She clenched her jaw. “It’s not easy.”

A laugh erupted from your throat, shaking Tara’s frame, and a grin pulled at her lips at the sound. “Of course she would think it’s easy, Tar,” you said. “She likes literature.”

“Whatever,” she huffed.

You sat up and twisted yourself so that you could look at her, your eyes soft and smile softer. “Come on.” You pulled lamely at her arm. “We’ve gotta get back to studying.”

“Fine.” She sat up and rested her chin on your shoulder. “But I’m not happy about it.” She felt as you shivered when she spoke, her breath painting over the skin of your cheek.

Your eyes flitted down to her lips, and just when she thought you were about to lean in, you asked, “Can you explain the idea of the Blazon to me?”

She clamped her eyes shut. This girl will be the death of me. She opened her eyes, looked at the small smile that was always on your lips whenever you were around her, and sighed out, “Okay.” And I’ll gladly accept that death.

* * *

“There’s only, like, three more authors we have to go over, Tar.”

It had been nearly four hours since you had moved away from Shakespeare and onto the other works that Tara had been reading for her literature class, and it was safe to say that Tara was burned out.

“Can’t we just take a nap or something instead?” she asked. She tugged at the sleeve of your sweatshirt to pull you to lay back with her. “Or make out?”

The tips of your ears turned bright pink, and she was sure that if you were facing her, the rest of your face would be the same hue. “Shut up,” you mumbled. You looked at her, and her guess was proven correct--you were blushing all over. “We have to do Emily Dickinson.”

“Oh! Like that TV series with Hailee Steinfeld.”

Your eyes widened. “You watched that?”

She shrugged. “Some of it, but I was only paying attention to--”

“Hailee Steinfeld, of course.” You chuckled. “You didn’t listen to any of the poems, did you?”

She waved you off. “Of course I didn’t.”

You shook your head and looked down at her notes, eyebrows furrowing and a scoff pushing past your lips. “You guys didn’t even read any of her best poems,” you said. You stood suddenly, and Tara watched as you crossed the room to your backpack, pulling out a small, battered, leather-bound journal. You cracked it open. “Like, how did your professor never assign ‘I Cannot Live With You’?”

Tara shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

You cleared your throat. “‘I cannot live with you,’” you began, taking small steps toward the bed as you read. “‘It would be life--, and life is over there--, behind the shelf.’” You sat on the edge of the bed, eyes still trained on your notebook. “‘The Sexton keeps the key to--, putting up, our life--his porcelain--, like a cup.’”

Tara listened as you continued to read her the poem, her heartbeat speeding up at each word that rolled off your tongue. You looked so peaceful reading poetry, like you had just made your way home after a long trip, and she gulped. Jesus Christ, she thought. Could she be any more perfect?

“‘So we must meet apart--, you there--I--here--, with just the door ajar, that oceans are--and prayer--, and that white sustenance--, despair,’” you finished, glancing up at her when you were done. She was staring back at you with half-lidded eyes and her mouth slightly agape. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“You’re beautiful,” she breathed out, and you smiled, blushing again. “Can we makeout now? Because that was, like, the hottest thing ever.”

You shut your journal and threw it near Tara’s notebook. “You’re horrible,” you joked. She shrugged, like she couldn’t be blamed for wanting to pounce on you. “Since your mind is so set on kissing me, let’s turn your studying into a little game.”

Tara eyebrow’s furrowed. Why won’t she just make out with me? “A game?”

“I’ll ask you questions, and if you get them right, you’ll get a kiss,” you said. She nodded fervently and sat up, hovering over her notebook.

“Okay! I’m ready!” She glanced at you, watching as you giggled to yourself. “Also, before we start, is this entire thing”--she pointed at your journal--“filled with poems?”

You shook your head. “The back half is poems, the front half is plays and novels.”

She picked up the little book and opened it, eyes widening at your delicate handwriting detailing different plays that you wanted to read or novels that your professors suggested. She flipped to the back half, where she found pages upon pages of poems written out, some from Emily Dickinson, some from authors she had never heard of in her life.

“You’re such a nerd, you know,” she teased, putting the journal back down.

“Yeah, a nerd that’s gonna get you a passing grade on this damn midterm.” You grabbed her notebook from her, leafing through the pages before settling on a topic. “Okay, what literary period was Alexander Pope in?” you asked.

“Uh, an old one,” Tara said lamely.

You glared at her lightly. “Tar, I’m not kissing you until you get one right, so you might as well try.”

She huffed. “Fine.” Literary period? Stupid. It’s all stupid. “The Restoration?”

“Close,” you said. “Wanna try again?”

“No.”

You rolled your eyes teasingly. I’d like to see her eyes rolling in a different way-- “It’s the Augustan Age. What about Jonathan Swift?”

“Oh! I know this! It’s also the Augustan Age, ‘cause he and Pope were friends.”

You tilted your head. “They weren’t really friends, but--”

“But that’s right, isn’t it? Don’t I get my kiss now?”

You chuckled at her eagerness. “You sure do.” Tara leaned forward, and she frowned when you put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “If you can name one piece that Swift wrote.”

She gasped, placing a hand on her chest. “You said you’d kiss me if I got a question right!” she whined.

“I also said I’d get you to pass this test.” You raised an eyebrow at her. “So, what did Swift write? Give me literally anything.”

Cruel Summer, Cardigan, Back to December. She shook her head. That’s Taylor Swift, stupid. Jonathan Swift, on the other hand…

“Uh, ‘A Modest Proposal’?”

You leaned forward, pressed your lips to hers, and she grinned into the kiss. Win!

“Good job, baby,” you said when you pulled away, your eyes widening when you realized the pet name that had slipped out. “I mean, uh--”

“‘Baby’, huh?” She bit her bottom lip and smiled. “I could get used to hearing you say that.”

bonus: “i got an A on my midterm!” tara exclaimed from where she sat at her desk, eyes on her laptop, which displayed the grade that had just been released.

mindy, who was scrolling through her phone on tara’s bed, jumped at the sound. “you got an A? On Intro to Lit.?”

tara grinned. “it pays having an english major for a girlfriend.”

“girlfriend?!” mindy immediately started scrambling on her phone, and tara heard her own phone buzz on her desk a minute later. she picked it up, glancing at the screen.

you :D (9:43pm): girlfriend, huh?

you :D (9:43pm): i wasn’t aware we were girlfriends yet

tara (9:44pm): hold that thought

tara twisted in her seat, eyes narrowed at mindy. “i swear to god, i am going to strangle you.”

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter #tara x reader #jenna ortega x reader #jenna ortega #jenna x reader #scream 5 #scream 6 #museum tara

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bethanydelleman · 1 year

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I just stumbled across another Darcy Has Amnesia and Has Been Living as a Lower Class X and I need to say this:

DARCY WOULD BE IDENTIFED AS RICH BEFORE HE WOKE UP!

First, clothes. In Jane Eyre, despite her tramping through a bog, they knew her clothes are upper/middle class before she woke up. If Darcy is wearing anything he's gentry or merchant class on sight.

So lets say he's naked. People today kind of just look like people, but in the past, no. Lower class men in this era especially would wear their profession on their skin. Fishermen and farm workers would be tanned like crazy, carpenters would have lost bits of finger, blacksmiths burn marks and developed muscles. Do you know that winemaking can stain your hands purple for weeks? Aside from profession, Darcy would look soft to lower class people, but at the same time well fed. The lower classes were struggling with food insecurity during this era or for all time...

And then he wakes up, now I am not sure if they trained provincial accents out of kids in this era, BUT HAVE YOU HEARD DARCY TALK? Jane Austen doesn't have many servants talk, but sound like Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy they do not! He has perfect grammar and a huge vocabulary! He will be known as a clergyman, lawyer, merchant, gentry or even an aristocrat the second he speaks.

So what then? These are poor people, they aren't dumb. They would advertise that they have found a rich injured person and hope for a reward. Darcy would be fairly well known by face and they have artists and newspapers and printing presses. He also would be known to be missing, he has a family, he writes his sister on a regular basis.

I give it a month tops before he's safely back home.

And that's not even getting into the fact that erasing a person's entire memory is basically neurologically impossible...

#also Darcy would die if he attempted a single day of farm work #this guy does not have the right muscles #you think farm work before tractors was easy?#no siree bob #It is not called backbreaking for nothing #anyway #fan fiction #jane austen fan fiction #mr. darcy #amnesia tropes #pride and prejudice variations #jane eyre #charlotte brontë #jane austen

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lyralit · 2 years

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100 fantasy jobs

Academic/professor (history, science, economics)

Fisherman

Prostitute

Fletcher

Ropemaker

Saddler

Adventurer/explorer

Florist

Sailor

Adviser (e.g. royal, military)

Footman

Sculptor

Animal trainer (e.g. dogs, falcons, horses

Gardener

Servant (e.g. laundry, kitchen, cleaner)

Gladiator/arena fighter

Archer

Glazier (makes glass)

Shipwright (builds ships)

Armourer

Hatter

Shoemaker

Assassin

Healer

Shopowner

Baker

Inventor (e.g. spells, potions, weapons, science)

Silversmith

Barber

Goldsmith

Bard

Minstrel

Jester

Smuggler

Barkeeper

Jeweller

Soldier

Blacksmith

Lady's maid

Spy

Locksmith

Stable hand

Bladesmith

Logger (cuts trees)

Stonemason

Bodyguard

Mapmaker

Surgeon

Bookbinder

Master of ceremonies

Sweet maker

Bounty hunter

Merchant (e.g. cloth, jewels, food, materials)

Tailor

Brewer

Tanner (makes leather)

Butcher

Taxman

Carpenter

Midwife

Thatcher (makes thatched roofs)

Carriage driver

Miner

Chariot racer

Musician

Thief (e.g. pickpocket, mugger)

City guard

Necromancer

Toymaker

Cook

Nun/priest/chaplain

Trapper (traps animals)

Cooper (makes barrels, buckets etc.)

Nurse

Tutor

Nursemaid/wet nurse

Undertaker

Dentist

Painter

Weapons instructor

Detective

Papermaker

Weaver (e.g. fabric, rugs, baskets)

Diplomat

Pirate

Dressmaker

Potioneer

Wheelwright

Farrier (makes horse

Prisoner (hard labour)

Witch/Wizard hoes)

Prophet

Wisewoman

Knight

Majordomo

Papermaker

Typesetter

Archivist

Hermit

Doctor

(via; via)

#fantasy #lyralit #writerblr #creative writing #writers #writblr #writers block #writing #writing prompts #writing ideas #high fantasy #fantasy prompts

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lipglossanon · 3 months

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Anarchy Road

The Merchant x Fem!Reader (third part; one shot)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, dirty talk, oral (f receiving), light pussy slapping, unprotected sex, creampie, light praise kink

random inspiration 🤷‍♀️ not proofread ✍️

title from Anarchy Road by Carpenter Brut

~previous~

You’re not sure how you made it here, but somehow the castle seems to be even more fucked up than the village. Entering another room, you walk around taking stock of it all. According to your map, in order to progress you’ll need to get past a wall. It seems to be locked by some strange mechanism involving the statue at the end. It’s missing the heads of the chimera which you can only presume opens the wall etched with the same chimera relief.

Wandering back down the stairs, you open up one of the doors and stumble upon the Merchant once more.

“‘ello, love,” his rough voice makes you smile, shoulders dropping some tension as you shut the door.

“Hi,” you murmur, “fancy meeting you here, hmm?”

He chuckles and you feel warmth bubbling under your skin.

“Can’t complain,” he winks at you, “what can I do you for, stranga?”

“You can do me.”

The words are out of your mouth before you even blink. Embarrassment burns hot behind your eyes as the Merchant laughs low in his chest.

“Straight to the point. I like that,” he moves from around the little wooden table to crowd you against the settee in front of the fireplace.

Arousal pools low in your stomach as his rough hands grip your hips and manhandles you down onto the loveseat. He kneels in between your legs and helps you take off your shoes.

“Been imagining this since the first time,” his eyes flash up at you as he quickly works your pants and panties down and off your legs.

He groans as he presses your thighs apart and sees your glistening pussy.

“Bet you’re gonna taste like ambrosia,” he mutters, tugging his hood back, “close your eyes, love, lay back and enjoy it”

Pouting, you tangle your fingers in his dark hair, “Wanna watch.”

He winks, “Maybe later. Now close’em or I won’t eat your pretty little pussy.”

With a whine, your head falls against the back of the couch, eyes slipping shut as you hear the rustle of him removing his mask. Another groan from him and then you feel a hot tongue lick a broad stripe up your slit.

“Oh fuck,” you gasp, fingers tightening in his dark strands.

“That’s it,” he practically growls, “so fucking wet.”

You feel stubble scrape against your pussy lips and you widen your thighs even more. His tongue slips inside your drooling cunt and flutters in and out of your hole. With a groan that vibrates your pussy, he licks his way up to your clit. He circles the swollen bud over and over, so slow it makes you hump up into his mouth.

“Patience,” he teases, pulling away to spank your pussy, making you whimper, “and let me taste this soft cunt how I like.”

He slaps your pussy a few more times before kissing all across your thighs. Using his thumb, he pulls the hood of your clit up and kitten licks the swollen bud again and again.

“Fuck,” you cry out, slick dripping all down your thighs as he teases you, “please, sir, need you to fuck me. ‘m so empty.”

“Aww,” he coos, accent thick, “poor li’l thing, pussy’s just greedy for my cock, isn’t she?”

“Uh huh,” you mewl as he sucks your clit into his mouth and slobbers all over the pudgy bud, “god, please, want you to stretch me out and fill me up.”

“S’that right?” he pulls away with another slap across your soaked pussy, the sting making your eyes water in pleasure, “such a needy girl.”

Ignoring your pleas for more, he buries his face into your cunt, nose grinding against your swollen clit as his tongue licks and fucks into your pussy eagerly. Tugging on his hair, you grind yourself against his face, moaning as his stubble scrapes against your cunt. Imagining the beard burn later has you gushing even more slick onto his tongue.

He grips your thighs tightly, gloved hands rough as he holds you open even further, spreading your pussy for his lips and tongue. Groaning, he sloppily kisses and licks your slit, running his tongue up and down your pussy before lapping at your sensitive clit.

“Can’t wait to bury my cock inside your tight cunt,” he croons, pulling away to spit on your clit.

“Yes, please,” you beg, “please, sir, want it so bad.”

“So soft and wet,” he flutters his tongue inside your hole before sucking your pussy lips into his mouth.

Spit and slick drips down your cunt to pool onto the floor. It doesn’t take long until you’re bucking your hips and whimpering, climax teetering on the edge.

“You’re gonna make me cum,” you gasp out, eyes clenched shut as you pull on his hair.

He pulls completely away from your pussy and you whine, eyes blinking open to catch a glimpse of his face. His eyes are crinkled like he’s smiling when you look down to see his face covered again.

“Too slow, love.”

Ignoring his cockiness, you reach down and spread your pussy open, “Are you going to finish what you started?”

His eyes flick down to the apex of your thighs and he grunts in acknowledgement.

“Don’t worry, I’ll give this lovely little cunt the fuck she needs.”

He removes his pants and pulls his cock out, head peeking from the foreskin as precum drips down his length.

“Oh, please,” you arch your back, “fuck me.”

“Love to hear you beg,” he swears under his breath and notches the head of his dick against your hot clenching hole.

“Oh god,” you choke out, pussy stretching almost uncomfortably as he slowly sinks his cock inside.

“Maybe I shouldn’t take it slow,” he wraps his hands around your waist and pulls you down as he thrusts forward.

A scream tears from your throat as you feel too much too fast, pussy clamped down on his dick as your clit throbs in arousal.

“Oh that’s it, love, fucking squeeze me,” he presses you down on to the loveseat, coaxing your legs to wrap around his waist while he slowly slips halfway out.

“Too big,” you scratch at his shoulders and arms as he bullies his cock back into your pussy, “but feels so good.”

“I know, perfect fucking cunt,” he rasps, masked mouth pressed against your neck as he breathes heavily, “sweet little pussy not only looks pretty, but tastes pretty, and is always so fucking tight for me.”

You whimper as he starts up a rough tempo, pounding his fat cock in and out of your cunt so fast that slick wet sounds fill the air. He’s fucking you so good that your brain feels like complete mush. Moans going unmuffled, you toss your head back as he ruts in and out of your pussy with quick deep thrusts. Grinding the tip against your cervix makes you clamp down as that pinching pleasure causes more slick to drip around his thick cock.

“That’s it, love, let me use your fat wet pussy to feel good,” he chuckles, slowing down so each thrust is more powerful.

He fucks into you so slow and deep, it makes you drool all over yourself, pussy feeling stretched and used—you love it, not able to think past the feeling of him buried in your guts.

“S’good, sir, it’s so deep,” you slur, soaked hole squeezing and pulsing around his cock as he humps your pussy.

Nothing but syrupy pleasure drips from your spine all the way through your body as the band of arousal in your stomach winds tighter and tighter. With a low laugh, he shifts his hips and presses his cock upwards to grind his drippy tip against your g-spot constantly.

“Wettest little puss I’ve ever had the pleasure to stretch out on my cock,” he moans down at you, dropping more of his body weight on you and driving his cock deeper into your body.

You choke out a gasp, hands clawing at his back, totally out of breath from how much deeper his dick is plunging into your pulsing cunt. One of his hands shifts from your waist down towards your pussy, thumb slowly circling your clit now.

“So slippery, love,” he murmurs, voice low and smoky, “feels like you’re gonna cum for me.”

“Want to, sir,” eyelashes fluttering as he increases the pressure on your swollen bud, “m’pussy feels so good.”

“That’s good,” he soothes, “want you creaming my cock, love, show me how much this hot cunt wants my cum.”

Your back arches at his words, hips swiveling down to tempt him to thrust into you faster. He leans back far enough to drop a hot glob of spit down onto your pussy, rubbing it into your clit with his calloused thumb.

“Oh god,” you whine out a mewling cry as your pussy clamps down on his dick, walls clenching and fluttering around him as that final act pushes you over the edge.

“Yes, yes, atta girl,” he praises you warmly, never letting up on rubbing your pudgy bud, “squeezing me so tight with that little pussy.”

Your orgasm only seems to heighten as he continues to fuck into your squelching cunt, balls smacking against your ass while the fat tip knocks into your cervix until your eyes roll back.

“Give me one more, I know you can do it,” he coaxes, “let me feel that pretty pussy flutter on my cock.”

You know your babbling gibberish at him, but can’t do much more than clench and grind against him, hips bucking into his powerful thrusts as he rails you into the loveseat. With your second orgasm, it feels like an explosion goes off in your body, pussy contracting violently around his cock as your muscles lock up. You can hear him say something to you, but your bloods rushing through your brain and you can’t make out the words.

With a few more harsh thrusts, he groans and buries his cock balls deep into your pussy, hot sticky cum spilling from his throbbing tip, painting your walls white. Your pussy flutters and clenches around his dick as he stuffs your hole with rope after rope of his thick cum. He grinds himself against your cervix as he finishes inside your fluttering cunt before slowly pulling out, a creamy mix of cum and slick oozing from your pussy.

He slowly sits back on his haunches. His fingers spread open your used cunt to watch as his cum leaks out of your clenching pussy.

“Now stranga, that’s a sight to see,” he chuckles appreciatively.

You blearily look down and see his cock thickening again as he fingers his cum back into your sore cunt.

“Might I interest you in another round?” He lightly smacks his chubbed cock against your messy pussy, “make it worth your while.”

Whimpering, you nod before gasping as he ruts his cock across your slit to bump against your clit, smearing cum and slick against your skin.

“Good girl.”

#lipglossanon #lipglossmasterlist #the merchant #re4 merchant #re4r merchant #merchant smut #re4 merchant smut #re4 merchant fanfiction #resident evil fanfiction #re4 remake fanfic #resident evil 4 fanfic #resident evil 4 remake fanfic #the merchant x reader #the merchant x fem!reader #the merchant x you #the merchant x fem!reader smut #the merchant x y/n

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lostfangirly · 11 days

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I keep thinking about this so I have to share it:

Which Greek God would each strawhat be?

Luffy: Helios ☀️ - God of the Sun and guardian of oaths

Sun god duh. Also I like guardian of oaths as Luffy always keeps a promise and holds others to theirs as well.

Zoro: Hades ☠️ - King of the underworld, God of the dead and riches

Also pretty obvious for our king of hell. And he keeps almost dying so sure god the dead.

Usopp: Artemis 🏹 - Goddess of nature, childbirth, wildlife, healing, the hunt, sudden death, animals, virginity, young women, and archery

I mainly chose Artemis for the hunting and archery part which is closest to Usopps sniper skills. That she is the goddess of sudden death is also pretty funny though.

Nami: Hermes 🪽 - God of boundaries, roads, travelers, merchants, thieves, athletes, shepherds, commerce, speed, cunning, language, oratory, wit, and messages

Of course the god of thieves for Nami. Hermes has a lot of other jobs too and god of travellers fits with her navigator role.

Sanji: Hestia 🥘 - Goddess of the domestic and civic hearth, the home, sacred and sacrificial fire, virginity, family, and the state

Sanji was difficult, but I chose going with the goddess of the hearth for him for his cooking (and fire). Also I feel like Sanji is the most domestic person of the crew so that also fits nicely.

Chopper: Asclepius 🩺 - God of medicine, healing, rejuvenation and physicians

Medicine for doctor Chopper of course.

Robin: Athena 📖 - Goddess of wisdom, warfare, and handicraft

The brain of the crew has to be Athena. I also thought about Persephone as a representation of the demon child and of spring for her flowers, but ultimately I think wisdom and handiwork are more important aspects.

Franky: Hephaestus 🤖 - God of fire, volcanoes, metalworking, artisans, metallurgy, carpenters, forges, sculpting, and blacksmiths

Pretty easy choice again. It just fits sometimes.

Brook: Apollo 🎵 - God of oracles, healing, archery, music and arts, light, knowledge, herds and flocks, and protection of the young

I mainly chose Apollo for the music and arts aspect of course but protection of the young is also really fitting and cute, especially when thinking of not just the crew but also Laboon.

Jinbei: Poseidon 💧 - King of the sea, God of the sea, storms, earthquakes, and horses

Again, obvious, but for the first son of the sea really there is no choice.

#please let me know if you have other thoughts or suggestions #one piece #strawhats #greek mythology #luffy #monkey d. luffy #zoro #roronoa zoro #sanji #vinsmoke sanji #nami #usopp #tony tony chopper #nico robin #cyborg franky #soul king brook #jimbei #jinbei #jinbe

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katabay · 23 days

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THEY SAY THERE IS A CARPENTER FROM THE PROVINCE PERFORMING MIRACLES IN THE CAPITAL

another scene and some sketches of the fake byzantine empire ocs! thomas is a carpenter, john is a merchant. there's an emperor (two, actually) in here, looming ominously over everything.

(I call it the fake byzantine empire because the setting is playing with byzantine history that spans across three centuries, but it's also pulling from things like Statius' Thebaid and later medieval literature. folk catholic horror, probably. doctrinal debates and schisms are in here)

on the topic of nameless and unknown saints, tho, sometimes I think about this excerpt from an essay in Closet Queeries and the time I was on my way to Tanjay and saw an abandoned chapel along a road with a statue of a saint I didn't recognize inside

Closet Queeries, essays by J. Neil C. Garcia

⭐ places I’m at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app / tip jar!

#emphasizing the byzantine empire part lest someone call this bible fan art like what century do you think these things take #place in. come on #i will say there IS gospel narrative inspiration/parallels occurring in the story but it's NOT a 1-1 retelling in the slightest #we diverge heavily right before the pasyon arc because i have other shit i want to do #original tag #komiks tag #the carpenter & the merchant #ANYWAY i was visiting family in the ICU today so you will have to suffer my handwriting bc i simply do not feel like doing digital #lettering

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citedesdames · 5 months

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"Many women of nonsamurai status worked outside the house, especially before marriage. Encyclopedias published at the end of the seventeenth century and beginning of the eighteenth listed more than one hundred kinds of work performed by women. Occupations ranged from seamstress to field hand, shellfish diver, laundress, carpenter, strolling book lender, teahouse waitress, bathhouse attendant, prostitute, nun, masseuse, wet nurse, cook, and peddler of incense sticks, straw sandals, flowering plants, and tofu. The greatest number of women found work as maids and household servants in well-to-do samurai and merchant households and as spinners, weavers and dyers in emerging textile trades. It is impossible to know what proportion of women worked, but some calculations suggest that one quarter to one half of the females in various neighbourhoods in Kyoto and Osaka at the beginning of the eighteenth century were servants."

James McClain, Japan, A Modern History, 2002

#womens history #women at work #japan #east asia #1600s #1700s #tokugawa era

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mlek13 · 2 years

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Summer, Year 8: Carpenter

It’s a sad day for the Carpenters as the family patriarch, Timothy, dies of old age. :(

He disregards the Grim Reaper’s orders and takes off in the wrong direction, walking toward his sobbing wife.

Timothy was the son of the late Caroline (Farmer) and Andreas (Potter) Carpenter. His twin brother, Benjamin, was taken by social services as a toddler, and survives as a vampire. His younger brother Nathaniel preceded him in death. Timothy is survived by his wife, Kitty (Leong), daughters Andrea, Coraline (Gabriel Farmer), and Benjamina (Abraham), son Kit, and grandchildren, Anna, Dana, Cody, Gerald, and Dorothea. Timothy was 73 simdays old.

With Timothy’s death, the family makes some changes. Kitty decides life is short and quits her job at Laurel Leaf. (I’m not sure if she was really still employed there with the change in management anyway.)

I find a vampire cure in Gabriel’s inventory, so I have him take it. He didn’t have the want to be cured, but that he bought the cure at some point is a good enough sign for me.

It’s odd to see him looking human again. I decided to wait and see if he wanted to turn back, but so far he hasn’t shown any sign of missing the vampire life.

Now Gabriel and Kitty can both help out more at the shop during the day, which Timothy had been running almost single-handedly. Gabriel starts work in time to chat up Phoenix, the reviewer.

Kitty wastes no time letting her bed get cold following her husband’s death. Maybe sleeping with someone else right away is her way of mourning.

I wasn’t sure if Tobias was going to go for it, considering he’s back with Elaine (though they never remarried) but he doesn’t turn down her need for comfort.

Anna grows into child.

Her cousin Gerald becomes a toddler and is doted on by his loving parents.

I wasn’t sure how Coraline would feel about Gabriel curing his vampirism, since she seems to be attracted to vampires, but she seems pleased with his change.

I’m still looking for someone for Andrea. Jonas seems to be a favored choice, but he has a lot of other options.

Same with Rama Langerak.

I invited Rama here for Andrea, but Kitty hits on him first. Surprisingly, he turns her down. He has so many lovers, I’m surprised that he knows how to turn anyone down.

He agrees to a date with Andrea though. I guess older ladies aren’t for him, either that or he has enough standards not to date the mother of a woman he’s interested in. (Though he has dated twin sisters.)

Juliana happens by as her brother is taking out the trash. I don’t think he was quick enough to greet her.

I hop over to the Shankel’s to catch up Anna’s twin and let Dana have her birthday.

I lose one vampire and gain another, when former butler Ralph’s visit with a countess gets Daniel turned into a creature of the night.

He does not adapt to his new lifestyle well.

In former butler fashion, Ralph sweeps up Daniel’s dust before Roy can plead with the Reaper.

Luckily that doesn’t interfere with Roy saving Daniel’s life and the life of their unborn child. (I caved and let Daniel use the fertility potion in his inventory and cheated him pregnant.)

I kind of hope Daniel gets cured.

I kind of regret retiring Ralph. He was cute as a butler. Current butler Blair has been much more boring than his predecessors.

#royal kingdom challenge #royalkingdomchallenge #ts2 #the sims 2 #sims 2 #merchant class #the carpenter household #shankel household

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tathrin · 26 days

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Mermaid Legolas. Go!

Oh shit. Calling me out right away, okay let's see...!

Just gonna steal the opening line from my current chapter of the sadfic amnesiac Legolas don't mind me la la la.

Dwarves, of course, do not like open water. By all rights, Gimli should never have met any mer, let alone one from the deeps of Mirkshore Reef. But a good dwarf never turns down his friends when they need help, either, so when an old friend of Gimli's father sent to Erebor's smithies for help with emergency repairs after a shipwreck that had left one of his merchant vessels beached in some distant cove, someone had to answer Bilbo's plea—and Glóin was far too old to go to sea at his age.

Gimli, on the other hand, was ripe for an adventure. Indeed, it was hard for him to tell whether it was trepidation making him shiver as the boat that was to take them to the wreck sailed out of the harbor, or excitement. A day later, when they sailed through a period of terrible swells and Gimli spent hours being seasick over the rail, it was easy to identify the feeling as nausea. But eventually, he found his sea-legs, and his stomach settled.

By the time they arrived in the cove where The Fellowship was beached, Gimli was almost enjoying himself. Bilbo's nephew and his young friends had proved to be very enjoyable company, and the ship's captain—an enigmatic fellow who went only by the ridiculous name of "Strider"—was actually quite jocular once one broke through his wary exterior, and the best thing about sailing on Hobbit-owned vessels was how generously appointed their larders always were.

With a mug of rum in one hand, and a cheerful song playing on squeezebox and harmonica across the deck courtesy masters Meriadoc and Peregrin, it was hard to feel anything but lighthearted, even when the ship lurched down the side of a wave and left Gimli stumbling. (The rum may have been a contributing factor there.) Even with the ever-present threat of a watery grave sitting there just off the bow, Gimli found that he was enjoying himself thoroughly.

Once they reached the cove and the wreck and the actual work began, there was less time for play, but more solid (if sandy) land underfoot, and Gimli found that perfectly enjoyable too, for a dwarf is never more at home than in a smithy—even if in this case, his "smithy" was an open-air forge jury-rigged on the edge of a beach, with earnest but ignorant Hobbits for his assistants, and a half-dozen carpenters from Bree who could hardly stop gawking at his work long enough to do their own.

Everything was, Gimli had to admit, going very well indeed...

And then came the eyes in the water.

At first it was easy to convince himself that he was only imagining things. The sun was getting to him, and he wasn't used to sleeping in a bunk that swayed with every wave, and he probably hadn't drunk enough water. The coconuts they had gathered yesterday might not have been fully ripe, either, and no doubt he shouldn't have drunk more than one of them. And perhaps roasted plantains did not agree with a dwarven stomach. And then there were all the stories the Hobbits told over the nightly campfires, each one more outlandish and unbelievable than the last...

But the eyes didn't go away, no matter how logically Gimli explained to himself that they weren't really there. No matter how many times he repeated to himself that there was no such thing as merfolk or sea monsters outside of stories, and so of course he couldn't be seeing anything real. But real or not, there seemed to be more of them each night, gleaming in the water like fallen stars.

Watching him.

Gimli found himself jumping and twitching at every stray shadow as evening crept across the beachhead, dropping his tools and fumbling the rods when he set them in to heat and tripping over the bellows. Every time he turned around, the number of watching eyes seemed to have doubled.

"It's only aquatic phosphorescence, Gimli!" Frodo assured him, laughing. "It's a perfectly natural phenomenon, nothing to worry about at all."

"I'm not worried," Gimli lied, and fished his wrench out of the sand. "Not worried at all."

But the eyes didn't seem to care about his assurances. They stayed, gleaming in the darkening water, watching him as the moon rose over the waves like a silver coin and the real stars came out to dance across the skies. They stayed, and watched. And Gimli shivered, and looked away, and pretended not to see them.

The days passed, and slowly the great gaping hole in the side of the ship drew closed, and Gimli's nails and fasteners and hatch-rails and winches and halyard-blocks were set into place, and the work of the forge grew slower. And still the eyes remained.

Watching.

There was a full moon overhead on the night when Gimli sat nodding in the bow of their little dingy, idly turning his favorite hammer over in his hands as the sailors rowed the last of the carpenters back to The Prancing Pony. Dinner that night had been held on the beach, of course, because it was much more pleasant to cook and eat there than in the cramped galley aboardship, but they all went back to The Pony to sleep, rather than going to the effort of setting up camps on shore.

That had seemed a perfectly sensible idea when they had first arrived, but now that he had seen all those eyes floating in the water, Gimli wasn't so sure that Strider had made the right choice. It might be easy for everyone to sleep on the boat, but that didn't make it safer. Especially when they didn't row back aboard until after nightfall, so that they had to pass over all those strange lights staring up at them from down below...

Gimli's head nodded, and his hammer slipped out of his hands, and he lunged forward to catch it without thinking—and the next thing he knew, the boat had lurched at the sudden motion and tipped him over the side, and both dwarf and hammer were suddenly in the water.

Dwarves, of course, do not like open water. Their Maker carved them from stone, back in the first days of the world, it was said; and their bones even yet today had stone in them, it was said. Dwarves liked rock and stone and solid land: tall mountains, deep caves, dark mines. Places that matched the stone of their bones and hearts, not seas and oceans where the only stone was miles and miles down beneath the frothing seas. Dwarves do not like the sea.

For dwarves, you see, sink.

And Gimli did, going under with a shout that only served to pull water into his mouth and leave him sputtering into his beard as the waves closed over his head and dragged him down. He kicked frantically, but it was no use: he was too heavy, and the water too strong. No doubt hands were reaching frantically after him, but it was too late: he sank too fast, too deep, for any hands to reach him.

He was going to drown, he knew, out here far from the good solid earth of Mahal's stones, where dwarves did not belong. He was going to drown, and come shamefaced to the halls of his ancestors, a dwarf who ought to have known better than to ever go to sea. Dwarves did not belong at sea, everyone knew that—and now, he was going to drown there.

Only he didn't.

Arms as thin and strong as some strange sea-beast's tentacles closed around his broad shoulders, stilling the flailing of his frantic arms. Silken tendrils as thick and heavy as seaweed flowed across his face like murky gold, and bright green eyes glowed at him in a darkness too deep for any light to pierce; and then, suddenly, he was up on the sand, gasping for breath and coughing water out of his lungs.

Gimli turned just in time to see a flash of gold and green disappearing with a splash back into the sea.

He sat in the surf for a long time, trying to remember what it was to breathe air instead of water, and straining his eyes for any glimpse of the strange savior who had hauled him out of the deeps. But the eyes were all gone now, and only the stars shone upon the frothing waves.

When the rest of the crew reached him, he was salt-crusted and soaked but no longer gasping for air—which was just as well, because both Merry and Pippin insisted on hugging him fiercely enough that they would have squeezed all the breath right back out of his lungs otherwise. Their expressions of relief were loud, and earnest, and passed all but unheard over Gimli's head as they babbled at him.

"And here Uncle Bilbo always said that dwarves couldn't swim!" Frodo exclaimed, running up with the rest. "I'm relieved indeed that he was wrong about that! Are you sure you're all right, Gimli?"

"I'll be fine," Gimli said absently, his eyes fixed on the empty sea. "Are you sure you didn't see anyone else out there?"

"What? No, no you're the only one who fell in, Gimli. We were all so worried about you!"

"Mmm," said Gimli, and let himself be ushered back into the dinghy, and rowed out to the Pony, where Strider fussed over him and made him drink some truly noxious tea, and wrapped him up tightly in three two many blankets with an admonishment to sleep as late as he could tomorrow, and not to rub his eyes too much.

Gimli nodded obediently, but he wasn't really listening. He was trying to catch the gleam of green eyes bobbing in the waves off the side of the boat, and having no luck. He wondered if the moon was too bright, and he simply couldn't see those muted lights against its silver sheen. He squinted at the waves, and let himself be ushered off to bed.

For once, the bobbing of the waves lulled him straight to sleep, and no anxious dreams came to trouble his rest.

By the time he woke, the dinghies were all ashore, and he was left along on board with only the skeleton crew who stayed to watch the crow's nest and monitor the tides. He paced the deck, looking not in towards the cove where the wrecked Fellowship was finally almost fixed, but out into the deeper water of the open ocean behind them.

Once or twice, he thought he caught a glint of gleaming green moving swift and watchful amongst the lapping waves.

It was almost sunset when Gimli threw all traces of sense and caution to the wind and climbed down into the last dinghy, dangling low at the stern. He was barely an arm's length from the waves here, and in the shadow of the tall boat it was cool and dark. He leaned over the side of the dinghy, and saw two green eyes staring up at him through the murky water.

Gimli stretched out his hand.

After a moment, long green fingers pierced the waves and rose up to clasp his palm.

The stranger's grip was wet, and cool, and smooth. The feeling of scales against his skin was strange, but not unpleasant, and Gimli did not pull away, even when he saw the length of the sharp claws that capped each spindly finger.

A golden head rose out of the waves after the arm, narrow shoulders bobbing with each swell of water and long pale hair fanning out loose and lovely all around. Long, finned ears stuck out upon each side of the slender green face, rustling slightly in the wind like the wings of some strange sea-faring butterfly, and sharp teeth gleamed like pearls between thin, beardless lips. Beneath the water, hints of a large coiling tail moved in the dark.

But it was the eyes that truly snared him.

They were wide, and green, and deep as the darkest depths of any ocean; yet they gleamed with a strange light, fey and wild. They were the sort of eyes that might lure a sailor to his doom, leaving him marooned on distant rocks or drowning in deep waves or perhaps merely bleeding-out from a throat torn by sharp pearled teeth, the green seas incarnadined for a moment by a swell of crimson blood that would be all too quickly washed away by the ceaseless tides.

Death shone in those eyes, bright and green.

"Thank you," Gimli said, and smiled.

The mer-fey smiled back, sharp teeth gleaming and thin green cheeks dimpling. In the shadows of the Pony, the bright rays of the setting sun could not reach them. The mer-fey's eyes gleamed anyway, like the shine of fallen stars.

"I am Gimli," the dwarf continued. "Gimli son of Glóin, at your service and that of your family."

The mer-fey's smile widened, shark-broad in his narrow face. "Legolas," he said, and his voice was a watery warble, as though each syllable came as a bubble bursting on the shore. He gave a sudden kick with his powerful tail, and rose up out of the water far enough to plant a feather-light kiss on Gimli's cheek. Gimli grabbed for him, but the mer-fey only laughed and slipped away, vanishing into the deep.

For a long time, Gimli sat there in the dinghy, unmoving, staring dumbly at the silent sea; but not even ripples remained.

Gimli was left with only three long strands of golden seaweed-hair clutched in his hand, and a shallow razor-sharp cut along his cheek where the mer-fey's teeth had grazed his skin, to prove that he hadn't dreamed the whole thing.

He thought about going to Strider, or Frodo, and showing them the gleaming hairs, and asking what they knew of the merfolk, who were clearly so much more than merely stories—but in the end, he said nothing. Only wiped the blood from his cheek, and tucked the long golden hairs carefully away, and held the secret of that strange meeting silent in his heart.

The eyes continued to watch from the waters each night as darkness fell, but no matter how long Gimli lingered on the shore, or how deeply he waded out into the surf, or how low he leaned out over the waves, none of them ever swam any closer. Gimli paced the ship each night, staring into the sea; but Legolas did not return.

But when The Fellowship at last put to sea, and their sails filled with wind and the strange cove fell into the distance behind them, Gimli saw two gleaming spots of green light moving in the waves of the ship's wake.

He grinned, and settled back to wait for moonrise.

Thank you, @sallysavestheday! That was really fun. I very much appreciate you forcing me to get off my butt and write something! Thank you.

Also, anyone who enjoyed this bit of nautical nonsense and wants more, you can find all my other gimleaf fics in this AO3 collection here! I'd love to hear what you think about any of them (or just scream at me about how much you love these two, that's always cool too).

#lotr fanfiction #gimleaf #legolas #lotr mermaid au #oh shit does this mean i actually wrote something for mermay??#guess i'd better tag that lmao #mermay #my writing #lotr #gigolas

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phoenixyfriend · 10 months

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Ko-Fi prompt from Anonymous Supporter:

For the Econ Topic, an analysis on a society that has magic and fantasy races would be nice. Or maybe how a guild of Thieves or Assassins would work in either real life, fantasy or sci-fi setting.

The former is far too varied and complicated a topic to fit into 500 words, but I can definitely make the latter work... by explaining what the fuck a guild is.

These days, the words guild and union are used more or less interchangeably, and they do admittedly have some overlap in modern capitalist society. In the historic Europe that many of these settings are inspired by, the word guild had a more specific meaning.

Let's unpack some of what the economic structure is in these settings.

Large, overarching companies engaging in multinational work are rare in those historic settings. You have some trading/merchant organizations (e.g. the Dutch East India Company) that fit that bill, work that couldn't be performed without a large, existing structure to back it (e.g. mining), and domestic agricultural lordship (you know, feudalism).

For the rest of the economy, though, you have small businesses. Technology isn't at such a point that something bigger can be done. Factories aren't a thing until the industrial revolution, but we do have division of labor, so there are people who specialize in baking, or weaving, or shoemaking, or pottery.

Many of these professions require years of training, from apprenticeship to journeyperson to mastery. Trade secrets are a big deal, you marry off your daughter to your apprentice to secure the line and prevent competition, and you try not to give up those secrets because if you do, what's to keep your lord and other rich folk from taking advantage of you, and paying you less than your worth?

That's where the guild comes in.

No matter how good you are at keeping secrets, the competition does exist. You cannot be the only baker, dressmaker, shoemaker, bricklayer, carpenter in town, unless your town is very small indeed.

Price competition isn't a great idea when profit margins are already low, and you are a small business that doesn't have the diversification or coffers to take the hit for a few weeks. If your lord tries to force you to sell low, you can't just refuse him! He's the one that pays whoever uses the swords!

If only you and all the other trained professionals in your industry could hold together and tell him, "Yeah, that's as low as the price can go. You are paying for the bare minimum of materials and labor with that. So sorry, can't go lower without taking an actual loss, and everyone else will tell you the same thing."

Joining a guild was often the only way to perform that craft or service in a given city. This prevented untrained, untested individuals from trying to peddle something that wasn't up to standard, but also acted as a form of gatekeeping that could prevent the market from becoming oversaturated with competition. The formation of a guild was often related to, or even reliant on, approval from local government or a monarch.

Guilds did absolutely have negative impacts, by the way, often through market manipulation and rent-seeking behaviors. They stifled innovation, gatekept skills, and were capable of price-gouging and price-fixing beyond the basic "this is how we keep from getting screwed over by the rich guys." While the guilds themselves were arguably intended to ensure minimum standards and protect against wealthy clientele, they were just as prone to stagnation and greed as any organization.

The guild differs from the unions in that the guild is for trained professionals that, by and large, own their business to some degree. The unions, meanwhile, are for laborers who work for someone else, and formalized labor unions only began in the mid-18th century, while trade guilds, or something like them, date back over four thousand years.

Remember how I said that factories as we know them, and that whole Big International Company format, didn't really start being a thing until the Industrial Revolution? You know how the Industrial Revolution started in the mid-18th century?

We now see the connection.

So, what does a guild of thieves or assassins mean, at its core?

Well, they have to be doing this professionally. Someone who's just killing for the fun of it isn't a professional assassin, being paid by other people for it, just like how the baker's guild isn't going to care overly much for the farmer's wife making her own bread for dinner. Thievery is a bit less obvious in terms of 'what counts as professional.' Does the person who picks pockets to pay their rent qualify as professional? Or just the ones who steal on behalf of someone else? What about burglars?

So part of what you'd need to untangle is what qualifies as professional for the thieves themselves.

Then, given that these are generally illegal acts in the first place, what purpose does the guild serve? Is the guild supported by the crown as a form of control over theft and assassination in the first place, like privateering? Does the guild institute rules on who can be stolen from, whether or not it's within guild rules to kill individuals of certain ages or genders or classes? What punishments does the guild implement on those who violate those rules?

If the crown allows the assassin's guild so long as members of the royal family are not targeted, is there a rule that any client who requests the assassination of a monarch must be reported, or killed on the spot? What government fees does the guild have to pay in order to exist? If they exist as an underground, unofficial group that is not affiliated with the government, how do they deal with the government? How do they hide? Do they dictate pricing? Do they pay off cops to stay under the radar? How do they advertise their services without getting found out?

For the thieves guild, it's even more wiggly. Who qualifies as a professional? Is it the pickpockets, the cat burglars, the people who climb into dragon's caves to locate ancient treasure and get out unseen? Is there a minimum yearly income threshold? How is that calculated? What about membership fees? Is membership singular, or can it be done as a couple, a team, a family? Are there groups that are off limits? Maybe there are two thieves guilds, one for those who can be Hired By Adventurers, acknowledged by the crown, and a second for those who work in the seedy underground away from official oversight.

There really is no one way for this to play out, and will probably vary from town to town or planet to planet in-story, but hopefully I've given you the framework to build up the various guilds you need for your story!

(Prompt me on ko-fi!)

#economics #phoenix posts #ko fi prompts #ko fi #economics prompts #guilds #unions #history #trade guilds #this is the kind of prompt I love to fill out. just. talking about the way that trade will regulate. whether it does so in a good way or no

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