#It was coined in opposition to an old monarchy

[randomnameless]

I was wondering if you ever made a post talking about ladle's idea of meritocracy?

I don't think I did?

Watch out, it will be long lol

Let's take the Flayn'n'Ferdie ending - of course unavailable on Tru Piss, because Flayn is a Nabatean :

Assuming people are extra horny and start to breed like rabbits, because Flayn and Ferdie are extra “loving” and all, a nabatean blooded baby pops up (half or quarter nabatean, it depends on your hc about Flayn herself) from their "extra loving" shenanigans : that baby will obviously have a crest, since it is a nabatean (or part nabatean).

Assuming that baby will have his mom’s crest, baby will still be able to heal “better” than seasoned healers or trained ones, because of the power-up the crest gives them + baby, with their nabatean genes, might have a longer lifespan and be sturdier than a “regular human”.

So, if someone should become a healer, baby will obviously be picked, because baby can heal better than anyone else (save for their mom) in that situation.

Which makes me think about the Holst’n’Goneril house issue :

Thanks to Nopes, we have the hard confirmation Holst has no crest, and is so OP that he still manages to defend the border because he’s just that awesome. So yes, potentially, someone can do the work a crested dude can do, if that someone is exceptionnally good at doing what he does - Holst is a strong warrior, so he can protect the border, even if he doesn’t have a crest - meaning Hilda is free to live the life of leisure she wants even if she has a crest and can use Freikugel.

But 2 points :

First, iirc, from their supports, in Nopes, Holst actually says Hilda is amazing, and might be even stronger than him, she just doesn’t realise it yet. Is it because Hilda is also super strong on her own, or because Hilda… has a crest?

Second, checking weapon ranks again - Relics have a E rank. Meaning a crested person, without even having to train, can use them to unlease mighty artes and destroy people. To say it better, base Marianne, with her shit E-rank in swords and laughable physical attack stat, can kill people just as fine as Holst - a seasoned warrior - if she picks up Blutgang.

And it’s kind of sad because realising this, no matter how awesome Holst is - to be able to defend the border when it was usually thought only a person with a crest could do so - if a crested random comes with a relic, even without any prior training, they can kick ass as much, if not even more, as Holst, who graduated from a military academy and most likely spent the last 5 years of his life on a battlefield.

That’s not fair!

But that’s precisely the point - Relics and Crests are cheat codes! They make a few “ones” better at some things than others.

Randolph wants to be “successful” in battle to show how useful he is to guarantee his position? Sure, but when Sylvain, by flexing with his shiny lance, can do everything Randolph does in battle, but better, how can Randolph be successful? How can he guarantee his position? Why shouldn’t Sylvain’s achievements be rewarded with, say, the position Randolph was eyeing?

Back to Flayn’n’Ferdie’s kid Baby is a Nabatean hybrid.

If they have their mom’s crest, fine, Baby can heal better than anyone else on the continent, save for mom. If they have dad’s crest, they can be inherently better fighters than Randolph, due to that crest, but also to their Nabatean body (Rhea can eat 3 nukes and still be alive, a quarter nabatean hybrid might be able to tank 1 when a human, uh, is not be able to tank any!).

Even for governance, Baby will be long lived, they will have +100 years of experience and wisdom, compared to John the random human who might also want to become a governor.

Battle wise? Governance wise? Baby will always have more “facilities” and boons than “regular humans”.

I developed it a little in one of the “Lycaon the half-nabatean AU post” - no matter what angle you look from, Baby will have opportunities and chances to be “better” than any human around. 

So if positions of power, or jobs, or whatever, are given to the most “competent” people, Baby will obviously be given all those jobs offers, positions and whatnot.

Does it automatically mean doom’n’gloom for the crestless humans out there? No, because there are things being a Nabatean or having a crest or being able to use a relic doesn’t impact, like, say, Bernie’s dad’s job, or being in charge of foreign affairs, or trying to develop new tech (even if Constance’s gift for magic is implied to be due to her familial crest), or being in charge of engineering bridges, cities, canals, etc etc…

But in the other domains, like fighting and healing and whatnot (performing magic)?

If everyone should rise and fall by their own talents and merit, then what about the ones born with cheat codes, who rise through the ranks by snapping their fingers?

They will of course parasite the “rise and fall by their own talent”, since no one else, no matter how hard they work, will be able to match them.

Which is why the solution is either to remove crests from crested people (and erase nabateans from Fodlan because I don’t think they can survive exsanguination), or to get rid of that “by their own merits” system - but what system should be put in place then?

Good question!

We know the original noble “someone who knows, seek knowledge, leads and protects people” definition ended up being distorted in the current Adrestia, so, again, what should be put in place?

The game… doesn’t answer.

Bar a milquetoast “everyone should accept each other with or without crests” it’s radio silence. 

Only in some endings we have clues, Hanneman making tools to make crests obsolete (but it would just move the debate from who has magic blood to who has enough money to get those kick ass tools), or Sylvain wanting to find a way to stop fighting at the border.

And yet, the main issue remains : Nabateans. 

They are people who can, without tools, do superhuman stuff (at least lore wise!). Why should Jack pay for an automatic lamp 100 gold if Rhea can lit hers by snapping her fingers, for free?

Ultimately, given how the main character - Billy - is the reincarnation of the Goddess herself, and part nabatean, I don’t think the game wanted us to reach the solution that one day everyone will have the same lifespan and be able to use magic normally and everyone will one day stand on the same starting line.

Just like I don’t think Tolkien wanted to give a… message, when he designed Numénoreans - the most Noble of all Men - and the Lesser Men who lived in Middle Earth. Some people have magic powers, and some don’t and that’s the setting. 

Is it annoying because it’s again a story of a chosen one?

Maybe. 

Is it kind of a downer because it means the most basic random will never be able to swing a sword like Aragorn does, or in FE16, emulate Billy’s prowesses and be able to go back in time too?

Maybe.

What does it mean then, if a character’s leitmotiv is to change the world so all should “rise and fall by their own merits”?

The game tries to give an answer to this riddle - having the main hub being an orphanage and a place to shelter “those who have no status in the world” or the ones who fell, and with the “parley” - some people cannot rise on their own, they need support. If a name or a family line should dictate whether someone is going to be great or if they’re going to suck, ditto for their “merits or achievements”, it’s not because someone fumbled at life that they should just die and be “weak”.

It’s like an exam, if you’re first, yay good for you, you are received, but if you are last? What are you going to do? Re-sit? And if you’re last again, then what? Is it just the end of the road for you?

Sure it’s kind of cliché “together we can be stronger and survive” or “the strong must protect the weak, and the weak make the strong strong” but I feel like this was the kind of answer the game - that is a game that purposedly is left vague to make the world “feel larger” - wanted to give.

Nakama power, power of friendship, you name it! But imo, it’s always the same message in the series : it’s not the king that makes the country, but the country that makes (and can unmake!) the King.

It’s not the answer you’d like if you are looking at real life history or to make real life parallels but…

No matter how many “real life parallels” you might be tempted to make regarding FE16′s system of ruling/social system, FE16 and the world of Fodlan is still a world where some people have magical dragon blood that gives them superpowers.

It’s not supposed to be a mirror of the real world. It’s a fantasy setting - with interesting questions - but ultimately questions raised in that fantasy setting.

....

i don't even know if i replied to your question lol

[thestingerblog]

The Beauty of The Batman's Architecture

by Reiko G.

Read on our site!

In Matt Reeves’ The Batman, the Wayne family moves from their mansion to what is called Wayne Tower, a Gothic-inspired building. Many associate Gothic with the more modern concept of goth–an aesthetic primarily consisting of black and mournful themes. So the obvious reason for the gothic style Wayne Tower would be because Matt Reeves’ Batman is known for being the ‘emo’ Batman. However, Gothic Architecture’s origins aren't ‘emo’ or ‘goth’ at all; there's a much deeper reason for this design choice.

Gothic architecture’s origins are closely tied to European politics in the Late Middle Ages. It was a way for Louis VI of France to portray himself as a leader that was uplifting the community, which was necessary because they were coming out of the Black Plague. Despite the connotation of the modern interpretation of Gothic, the architectural style was meant to represent hope and light. This contrasted Gothic architecture’s predecessor, Romanesque architecture, which primarily aimed to guilt the viewer into being devout –not uplifting the community in times of distress. By stepping into a gothic church, the viewer was to be transported into a heaven-like place. One of Gothic architecture’s main goals was to replace as much of the wall as possible with windows to allow as much light into the church as possible. Light was seen as a literal manifestation of god, thus allowing the viewer to be surrounded by the light of god within the church. It was important for the churches to reflect a more positive outlook on the world in times of constant suffering in the community.

One of The Batman’s main themes is renewal. At its core, Gothic architecture is all about renewing the old to make it modern and better serve the present times. It’s implied Thomas Wayne begins the renewal program and moves the family into the Wayne Tower around the same time. It's quite a contrast between the two homes and that's no accident. Thomas Wayne was trying to reform the city and that's no exception for him and his family. Although Thomas Wayne wanted to renew the city, Gotham’s political system remained corrupt. The Riddler even critiques the system for having the two richest families be the main people in control of Gotham. The Gothic tower pays homage to the French monarchy of the Late Middle Ages, to further critique the corruption within the system. Thomas Wayne on the surface was seen as someone that would help the people but still reached this point through his family lineage and money. Bruce is constantly haunted by his father’s shadow and the tower is just one of those shadows left behind. The Riddler uses the “sins of his father” to expose the Wayne family and persistently reminds him of this.

Even on a surface level, the Gothic-style tower gives so much insight into Bruce Wayne as a character. As pointed out before, Gothic architecture was designed to let an abundance of light into its interior. This is quite the contrast to Batman’s dark, brooding character. Matt Reeves’ depiction of Batman strays from the path of previous Batman generations by omitting Bruce Wayne’s playboy persona. However, the bold, elaborate Gothic-styled Wayne Tower shows a sliver of that side of him and what he could be like. He is not seen in the tower often but when he is, he reflects a sense of uncomfortableness and looks out of place. He shows such a distaste for the light inside and even squints at bright light being let in, putting on sunglasses to avoid it. Batman is primarily, if not exclusively, seen in the shadows and the Gothic style of his home really helps to emphasize that aspect of his character.

Although Gothic architecture is often coined for being very moody it’s quite the opposite. To the untrained eye, it may look very brooding but the intentions behind its design were meant to have the opposite effect. It’s a perfect fit for Batman’s home because although he doesn’t have a playboy persona to hide his identity, his home along with the Wayne name completely opposes Batman’s aesthetic and creates the perfect disguise. It's the ideal architectural style to both shows the political situation of Gotham and the Waynes and highlights Batman’s character.

[thoughtportal]

A kakistocracy (/kækɪˈstɒkrəsi/, /kækɪsˈtɒ-/) is a government run by the worst, least qualified, or most unscrupulous citizens.[1]: 54 [2][3] The word was coined as early as the seventeenth century.[4] Peter Bowler has noted in his book that there is no word for the government run by the best citizens,[a] and that the aristarchy may be the right term, but still, it could conceivably be a kakistocracy disguised as an aristocracy.[a]

Etymology

The word is derived from two Greek words, kakistos (κάκιστος; worst) and kratos (κράτος; rule), with a literal meaning of government by the worst people.[5]

History

The earliest use of the word dates to the 17th century, in Paul Gosnold's A sermon Preached at the Publique Fast the ninth day of Aug. 1644 at St. Maries:[4]

Therefore we need not make any scruple of praying against such: against those Sanctimonious Incendiaries, who have fetched fire from heaven to set their Country in combustion, have pretended Religion to raise and maintaine a most wicked rebellion: against those Nero's, who have ripped up the wombe of the mother that bare them, and wounded the breasts that gave them sucke: against those Cannibal's who feed upon the flesh and are drunke with the bloud of their own brethren: against those Catiline's who seeke their private ends in the publicke disturbance, and have set the Kingdome on fire to rost their owne egges: against those tempests of the State, those restlesse spirits who can no longer live, then be stickling and medling; who are stung with a perpetuall itch of changing and innovating, transforming our old Hierarchy into a new Presbytery, and this againe into a newer Independency; and our well-temperd Monarchy into a mad kinde of Kakistocracy. Good Lord![6]

English author Thomas Love Peacock later used the term in his 1829 novel The Misfortunes of Elphin, in which he explains kakistocracy represents the opposite of aristocracy, as aristos (ἄριστος) means "excellent" in Greek.[7] In his 1838 Memoir on Slavery (which he supported), U.S. Senator William Harper compared kakistocracy to anarchy, and said it had seldom occurred:[8]

Anarchy is not so much the absence of government as the government of the worst—not aristocracy but kakistocracy—a state of things, which to the honor of our nature, has seldom obtained amongst men, and which perhaps was only fully exemplified during the worst times of the French revolution, when that horrid hell burnt with its most horrid flame. In such a state of things, to be accused is to be condemned—to protect the innocent is to be guilty; and what perhaps is the worst effect, even men of better nature, to whom their own deeds are abhorrent, are goaded by terror to be forward and emulous in deeds of guilt and violence.

American poet James Russell Lowell used the term in 1876, in a letter to Joel Benton, writing, "What fills me with doubt and dismay is the degradation of the moral tone. Is it or is it not a result of Democracy? Is ours a 'government of the people by the people for the people,' or a Kakistocracy rather, for the benefit of knaves at the cost of fools?"[9]

[peakwealth]

To saxophone or not to saxophone

OLD. The effigy of the late king Bhumibol Adulyadej as it appeared on the now deleted bank notes of Thailand.

. . .

RETURN TO ASIA, THREE YEARS LATER (10)

. . .

Royal highnesses come and go and if their exalted mandate is purely hereditary, only death brings their reign to an end. So it was with Elizabeth II (70 years on the British throne) and so it was with the late king of Thailand, Bhumibol Adulyadej (also 70 years on the throne), who expired in 2016 at the age of 88, leaving behind a nation in grief.

Longevity on the throne tends to lead to acceptance which then leads to approval and finally affection from the subjects. (Not that everyone in Thailand is a royalist, far from it.)

If many Thais had difficulty letting go of their elderly monarch, they may also have had trouble accepting his successor, the former crown prince, now King Maha Vajiralongkorn, number ten (Rama X) in the Shakri dynasty.

Like the then-prince of Wales, now King Charles, Rama X had to wait many decades for his predecessor to ascend to heaven. That he did much of the waiting not in Bangkok but in Bavaria is neither here nor there if for no other reason than whatever Thai royals do or don't do is off limits, no matter where they (or you) are.

In fact, it is not unsual for Thai royals to reside outside the country. Bhumibol himself was born to immense privilege in the US and educated in Switzerland. He was fluent in French.

In any event the Thai monarchy is still ringfenced by severe lèse majesté laws or other rubbery legislation that keeps the populace (and foreigners) in check. Discretion is advised in all matters royal.

King Bhumibol's public image was that of a benign ruler, something of a national consensus figure in times of political upheaval. He was often pictured as a keen photographer (always with a Canon SLR camera) and a saxophone player. He was also a dairy farmer.

NEW. The effigy of HRH King Maha Vajiralongkorn as it appears on the current bank notes of Thailand.

His successor has proved to be far less avuncular. His hobbies are not known to include music or photography.

But the royal transition did take place as planned. The institution prevailed. Portraits of the new king now dot the public space, perhaps not quite as prominent as those of his father and Queen Sirikit, but very noticeable all the same. Traffic in Bangkok is still halted when a royal motorcade moves around town. The same vast propaganda machinery that cultivated the image of Rama IX for so long is now being put to work to foster acceptance of the new king - regardless of what anyone may think in private.

The bank notes and the coins also tell the story (since Thailand has not become a cashless society). As the old notes have been withdrawn, king Bhumibol has faded from view. The main concern was obviously stability and continuity of the constitutional and social order, or hierarchy, with an uncontested monarch at the top.

How well that hypothesis holds may be seen after the upcoming elections in Thailand. The opposition is led by yet another member of the wealthy Shinawatra family that has been trying to chip away at the royalist-military political complex for more than twenty years. The last Shinawatra to be prime minister, Yingluck, was removed from office in 2014 by the Thai Constitutional Court. Her older brother, Thaksin (the pater familias), was overthrown by a military coup in 2006, after being elected and re-elected to a second term. He has been living in exile as has Yingluck. The current contender is Thaksin’s daughter, Paetongtarn (36). She is comfortably ahead in the polls.

The election is on May 14.

------------------------------

See also: https://peakwealth.tumblr.com/post/171752104122

[snifflesthemouse]

This morning, I read an article titled “I went undercover in the sinister world of Meghan Markle hate accounts" posted to Refinery 29. The title gives the impression of a journalist disguising one’s self as a “Meghan Markle hater” for the sake of getting to the bottom of something. However, the content of the article is nothing like its title.

Before I go further, let me stress the importance of perspective. My post isn’t an attack on the article’s author. I’ve never even heard of the author before now, and I’ve no right or reason to attack a perfect stranger because I vehemently disagree with the content of their work. Making assumptions about someone solely on what they write is lazy and sloppy in my opinion. I may be lazy and sloppy, but a hypocrite I try not to be. Therefore, go forward remembering my issues are with content, not creator.

The article starts out explaining the origins of the term “Megxit”. It continues with other hashtags, conspiracy theories, and so on. The article even mentions various media platforms “attacking" the Duchess, as well as crude posts witnessed by the author.

Then the name dropping begins. First with Murky Meg, then Sue Blackhurst, then According2Taz, then Skippyv20 on Tumblr, then Yankee Wally. Eventually, names of Royal Rota journalists are dropped. Then people like Angela Levin and Omid Scobie get mentioned, with interviews from the latter. Instead of an undercover sting, we get a “Who’s Who" of Megxit, a few anonymous Sussex Squad quotations, and Omid trying his best to be fair.

What this article accomplishes is very little when it comes to objectivity. The title is a misconception, and the content essentially paints targets on the backs of the people the author carelessly considers “Meghan Markle Haters". The article reduces anyone who disagrees with Meghan’s behavior as racist, misogynist, conspiracy theorist nutters. So, not only is the content of the article sloppy and lazy, it also lacks originality. We’ve all heard this sad song-and-dance number a million times.

I guess at face value, it becomes very easy, effortless really, for outsiders looking in to reduce an entire group of people with similar views to the basic stereotypes as old as time. It takes very little thought, consideration, or critical analysis, to assume things because they seem to correlate. But correlation is not causation. Just because some people opposing of Meghan Markle’s behavior happen to be racist doesn’t mean every single opposing person is also racist. Again, lazy and sloppy.

Just like assuming every single Meghan Markle fan is also vegan, anti-monarchy, feminist, woke warriors is downright sloppy and lazy. This author has personally interacted with and found common ground with Sussex Squad people many times. Some even became social media friends. They believe what they do, and I believe what I do. We do not agree with most things regarding Harry and Meghan, but we do agree to disagree and be civil.

So, contrary to the article, not all people “hate" Meghan Markle just because they detest her behavior. It’s important to remember extremes exist for all spectrums. Every topic, especially those politicized or made popular by media platforms, have extremes. There is no denying the fact that there are people who hate Meghan Markle because of her ethnicity. Those extremists who hate Meghan for her ethnicity ironically do not discriminate, though. If they hate her for her ethnicity, they hate ALL people of that same ethnicity.

On the flip side of this coin, is the other extreme. The face is the same on each side because the face represents extremism. There is no denying the fact that there are extremists who see anyone opposing Meghan as racists. Extremists who, by default, view every issue in the world through the lens of racism. While racism is a serious problem that deserves no place in society, assuming racism is the root cause of every conflict is also lazy and sloppy. And the same could be said that these extremists do not discriminate, either. If they see race as the only issue for why people “hate" Meghan Markle, they see race as the only issue for most everything.

The problem with both extremes is when everything and everyone is reduced to racial identity, racism only continues to exist. A racist using skin color as a disqualifier perpetuates racism. Assuming racism is the only reason behind disdain for someone only perpetuates racism. Focusing on race or racism allows no room for content of character.

Especially when people defend Meghan Markle being the victim of racism with a racist rule. When opposing critics say “I didn’t even know she was Black" or suggest her physical features, her Hollywood CV, or past involvement with Black causes were nonexistent before she became a duchess or stepped down from being a working royal, the extremists on the other side often resort to the One Drop Rule.

Which means their defense for calling Meghan Markle “haters" racists, even though they might have never knew she was mixed race, is a form of racism. The One Drop Rule was borne from the Reconstruction Era post-Civil War. The “rule" essentially said anyone who appeared to have Black features were considered Black.

The One Drop Rule was the precursor and eventual backbone to Jim Crow Laws of the South. It was used to oppress and segregate Americans based on physical appearance. Considering most people who never heard of Meghan before Harry came along were ignorant to her mixed heritage, it seems grossly negligent to assume race is the real issue. How can one be racist toward Meghan when they didn’t know she was mixed race? This author wasn’t aware of Meghan’s ethnicity prior to it being pointed out (by her and Harry. Repeatedly.), mainly because this author didn’t care.

Like so many, when I first saw Meghan and Harry together for the engagement interview, I was more excited about a fellow American joining the Royal Family. After learning she was biracial, well it was even better. It represented change and progress. Does that mean I saw the Royal Family as racists beforehand? No. It means I saw them as exactly the opposite. Had they been racist, she’d not be a duchess. Her being American and divorced was more a shock to me than being mixed.

The point of all this is there are extremists on every spectrum. For a journalist to say they went undercover, when in fact they did not, to expose the true motives behind Meghan Markle “haters", only to find they did very little to really understand the other side was disappointing. Not surprising, just disappointing. This could’ve been an excellent opportunity for someone to take the reigns and make bridges between two very passionate factions. Instead it became nothing more than a hit piece.

The article fails to acknowledge the possibility – no, the probability – that most people who object to Meghan Markle do so because of how she behaves. The article only considers one possibility behind this “hate". And by calling the objections “hate", the article in turn defines all criticisms as hate speech. Again, unoriginal, sloppy, and lazy.

So here we have it, yet another article grouping and stereotyping anyone who disapproves of Meghan and Harry as racist haters. Yet again, another article name dropping people “deemed racist haters", essentially painting even bigger targets on the backs of those people. Like they didn’t already have enough hate mail. Yet again, another sloppy, lazy, article that never digs below the surface to understand why instead of assuming it.

This isn’t new, it’s just another slop drop from the sensationalism machine that has replaced fair, legitimate journalism. It would be different if there weren’t so many questions surrounding the births. It would be different if Meghan Markle actually lived by the example she so vehemently preaches. It would be different if Meghan Markle would make amends with her own family before telling the world how they should treat people. It would be different if Meghan Markle were a strong woman instead of claiming to be one.

But it’s not different. She hasn’t spoken to her father since two days before her wedding three years ago. She denies the family connections that existed before her fame. She ghosts people once they are no longer of benefit. She preaches equality and universal service while using her title every chance given. She and her husband criticize the “family she never had" while naming their second child after that family’s Matriarch. All of those are behaviors that incite strong emotional responses. Behaviors. And behavior has no racial identity.

A final note… hypocrisy is the main reason people have issues with anything. When one group of people tells another group to stop attacking a public figure, while using assumptions as their crusade call, it’s hypocrisy. One cannot say “if you can’t take the heat, then shut up!” to another without being a hypocrite. When that happens, don’t be surprised when the same exact thing is said back. If Meghan or her fans can’t take the criticism, they shouldn’t participate in it. We all have the right to choose. Just like if I couldn’t handle the criticism, I’d not be writing this.

Life is not fair. The world is a dark, cruel place. When we expect the world to bend to the will of a few, we are setting ourselves above the majority. A strong woman would know this. A strong woman fighting for others would also know that the only person responsible for how one feels is one’s self. External feedback isn’t responsible for internal turmoil. Internal feedback is. That is all.

REFERENCE:

Amoako, A. (2021 June 11). I went undercover in the sinister world of Meghan Markle hate accounts. Refinery29. Retrieved from: https://www.refinery29.com/en-gb/2021/06/10518195/megxit-meghan-markle-anti-fandom

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Day 5 Birthday Plot Bunnies 2

If you want this to become my next WIP, be sure to shower it with lots of love!!  🥰 💖 All the story starters will be linked back to this masterpost.

Title: For the Love of My Husband

Summary: Bilbo is a thief and a conman who has tricked Thorin, Crown Prince of Erebor, to marry him as an escape from a tight spot. He thought their marriage was happily enough, but Thorin feels a disconnect from the hobbit he’s married. To appease his family and strengthen their bond, Thorin asks Bilbo to take the Trial of Souls with him. Problem is, Bilbo doesn’t want Thorin to know anything about him because they are most assuredly not Ones. And if Thorin learns the truth, Bilbo will find himself back in the streets or worse...

In a darkened pub deep under the kingdom of Erebor, a hobbit and a dwarf squared off. The waiting crowd was near silent as they waited to see what would happen next. The dark haired beast of a dwarf looked fairly confident as he shared a smirk with his two friends directly behind him.

“What’ll it be, Took? Fold or settle?”

The hobbit nonchalantly lifted his overturn cup to sneak a peek at the two dice lying inside. 

“How about I raise you instead?”

It was silent for a moment before the dwarf, Drulik, burst into laughter followed by his cronies.

“Raise? You have nothing left to bet with.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” Bilbo stated before pulling out a silver harp-shaped brooch with thin golden strings.

The dwarves surrounding the gamblers all began murmuring at once, some trying to lean in for a closer view.

“Is that…?” One of Drulik’s dwarves gaped.

“Yes.” Bilbo announced calmly. “The Courting Gift of our dearly departed queen, Mahal rest her soul.”

“How did you get that?” Drulik demanded.

Bilbo gave him a wane smile as he tucked back into his vest with a pat. “It doesn’t matter. The question you should be asking is how much do you think it’s worth?”

The gambling den awaited Drulik’s long drawn out answer. It almost made the hobbit want to roll his eyes at the melodrama. However, after years on the streets, he knew a good show could sometimes be the difference between success and failure. And Bilbo didn’t fail. Finally, Drulik pulled out another bag, spilling the golden coins onto the pile between them.

“Settle.” Drulik demanded before revealing the contents under his cup.

The crowd cheered and whistled much to Drulik’s ego at the combined total of eleven from his dice. Nine Rings was a gambling game loved by Durin’s Folk and Men alike with a very simple premise. Highest total won. So you bet and bluff to convince your opponent that you have as close to twelve beneath the cup as possible. However, there was one small exception. Nine always trumped any other number. Therefore, when Bilbo lifted his cup to reveal the five and four, there was a near frenzy of excitement. Drulik was rendered speechless as Bilbo lifted his pint in cheer before downing the ale all in one go. Producing a sack from his coat pocket, he raked all the golden coins towards him.

“Well lads, this has been more excitement than any hobbit can take, but I think I’m going to leave now while my fortunes are in my favor.”

“You cheated.” Drulik growled. “You had to have.”

“Check my dice if you wish.” Bilbo offered with a shrug.

The tavern owner, Nifror, who ran as honorable a den as one could for thieves and ruffians was at their table in a flash. Bilbo had heard a tale that the last dwarf who cheated at the game got their loaded dice pinned, one to each hand, with a knife made by Nifror’s wife. He threw the dice a few times and each time they landed with a different number. He shrugged.

“The hobbit’s clean.”

“But that’s impossible.” One of Drulik’s own gaped.

“Yeah, we loaded them ourselves!” The other snarled.

There was a pause and then Old Nifror was on them in a flash. Some moved to help the old barkeep out. The rest roared and placed bets on the winner. Meanwhile, Bilbo used this as the perfect opportunity to sneak away. He dropped the loaded dice he had smuggled into his pocket on the ground with a snort. Like he would be that stupid. Now most would have worried walking around with that much gold around the dregs of Erebor’s underworld. Fortunately, Bilbo was a professional at remaining quiet and unseen. A talent he had been forced to pick up early in his life. Which is why he nearly screamed when a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Make a good haul?” The dwarf smirked.

Bilbo turned around with a glare. “You know you don’t have to be so smug every time you manage to catch me off guard.”

Nori, Bilbo’s oldest and dearest friend, just raised an eyebrow as he tried and failed to hide the mischievous superiority oozing from his every pore.

“Just like to remind you, you’re not the best just yet.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes as he continued on his way knowing the dwarf was following.

“We both know I was headed to your place eventually so is there a reason you’re bugging me now?”

“Can I not worry over the sake of my friend?” Nori gasped overdramatically.

Bilbo snorted but made no arguments or agreements.

“Well, if I were coming to find you, it might have something to do with the fact that your husband finished up his duties early today to surprise you.”

The coin he was holding nearly slipped from his suddenly numb fingers.

“Valar above!” Bilbo swore. “That dwarf. He’s positively incorrigible!”

“He’s in love.” Nori pointed out.

Bilbo scoffed. “Love. Well shit, looks like you’re going to have to take this to our hiding place for me.”

Bilbo shoved the bag of gold into the dwarf’s chest before power walking towards the secret tunnels. Nori kept stride with him, clearly not done delivering bad news.

“Are you anywhere close to the right amount?”

“I’ve nearly two-thirds at this point.”

“Bilbo, you only have a week left.”

“I’m well aware, Nori! Maybe it's enough to...buy me more time.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t the whole point of you marrying some rich noble supposed to give you easy access to the treasury?”

“It was, but there was one teeny detail we didn’t take into account.”

“What’s that?”

Bilbo paused, his face falling into a grimace. “In-laws.”

***

One of the first things Bilbo and Nori did upon their rushed and unplanned move to Erebor from Ered Luin was scope out the best places for a quick getaway. They just so happened to make kind with a chatty miner named Bofur who, while deep in his cup, told them that the royal wing originally was meant to be on the other side of the mountain. When the architects realized the disadvantage of having the royal family so far from the guards’ posts and war meeting rooms, rather than just move the furniture back down only to go back up on the correct side, they cut unmapped tunnels around the outside of the mountain. It also had the added advantage of getting their monarchy out quicker in the case of a coup if the knowledge hadn’t been lost through time. It was perfect for the thieves’ needs. In almost no time at all, Nori and Bilbo had found the tunnels and utilized them fully. 

Something the hobbit was thankful for now as he flew down the tunnel to get back to his room. He welcomed the blast of mountain wind to rapidly cool the sweat on his face before ducking back into the opposite entrance. There was a small alcove where Bilbo’s fancier clothes lay and he all but threw himself out of his worn threads for the finer silks and cotton. The last thing he did was pocket the brooch before sprinting back down the tunnel braiding and beading his hair on the run. Once he was back in the royals’ wing, he ducked his head out to make sure the coast was clear, and then silently made his way to his suite. After closing the door behind him, Bilbo relaxed against it, heaving a sigh of relief.

“And just where have you been, Husband of Mine?”

Bilbo prided himself on the fact that he did not squeak even if he did jump nearly two feet in the air. Thorin, Prince of Erebor, was lounging in the armchair by the fireplace looking rather pleased with himself. Bilbo attempted to calm his racing heart as he stepped forward, plastering what he hoped to be a loving grin on his face.

“Just a walk on the cliffs with Nori. Surely, you would not deny this hobbit the feel of fresh air and sunshine?”

Thorin stood at that point, meeting him about halfway. His thumb gently caressed Bilbo’s cheek.

“If I had it my way, I would deny you nothing, ukradê (my greatest heart).”

Bilbo hummed in practiced delight as he met his husband’s lips with his own. The hobbit was at least content with the knowledge that as far as dwarves went, Thorin was stunningly handsome. Not a sentiment necessarily shared with others of his race. Which worked out just fine for Bilbo as it left a prince of all things, uncommitted and available.

“By the way, look what I found this morning.” Bilbo stepped back with a teasing smile as he produced the brooch from his pocket.

“My mother’s brooch!” Thorin gaped as he took it reverently. “Where…?”

“It was under my bed. You must have dropped it when you paid me a surprise visit last night.”

Thorin smirked as he latched onto Bilbo’s hips. “I remember the night well.”

Oh, and he was a really, really good bed partner. No, Bilbo was well aware he could have it much worse. It was just the dwarf’s nauseating romanticism that nearly caused him to roll his eyes more than once. Thorin gave him a long lingering kiss before he bent forward to press his forehead against Bilbo’s own. Their hands found their way into each other’s naturally interlocking.

“I promise, it won’t always be like this.” Thorin murmured when he finally pulled away, his blue eyes shining brightly.

Like this. The dwarf was so dramatic. It constantly made Bilbo feel like some player performing for the court. Heaving a sigh as he looked down between their conjoined hands. 

“We’ve been married for eight months, and two of those have been spent here in Erebor. If your family was going to accept me, they would have done so by now.”

Thorin released his hands so he could lift Bilbo’s chin to look at him.

“Don’t lose faith yet, amrâlimê (my love). I have a plan.”

It was a good thing Bilbo was a talented actor. He laughed, causing Thorin to smile.

“You have a plan? That sounds dangerous.”

“Tease all you want, but I have all the confidence in this plan.”

“Well, out with it. What have you come up with?”

Thorin shook his head teasingly. “You’ll have to wait. I want it to be a surprise.”

Bilbo linked his arms around the dwarf’s neck for leverage as he started showering him with kisses at his jaw, the corner of his mouth, and his throat.

“And I couldn’t persuade you to tell me any sooner?”

“You are cruel, thundanûd (tiny embrace).” Thorin moaned, his hands resting on Bilbo’s arms.

“It’s only cruel if you don’t accept the invitation.” Bilbo teased back as he pulled at the prince’s tunic to allow him access to his collarbone.

Thorin shuddered once with want before finding the strength to pull away. He grasped Bilbo’s hands again as he kissed him deeply as an apology.

“Later. There will be time later. But now...we are having dinner with my family.”

Bilbo’s building fire of lust was immediately doused, a small frown settled on his forehead that Thorin attempted to kiss away. Lovely, the in-laws.

It certainly wasn’t that Bilbo wanted them to like him. He could honestly care less. It was just their dislike of him that made it really difficult for him to do...well, much of anything. Thrain, still mourning the loss of his dead wife, remained suspicious and hardened against Bilbo for the sheer fact that he was a hobbit. Their marriage had yet to be announced to the Council or even the mountain in general. Keeping Bilbo out of the public eye was Thrain’s number one priority which was certainly no hardship. It was Frerin and Dis he had the biggest problems with. Thorin’s brother and sister, ever loyal to him, seemed to think Bilbo wasn’t good enough for the dwarf, and constantly had Balin, the royal advisor, keeping tabs on him. Bilbo was reluctant to admit the dwarf’s keen eyes and sharp wit, but it had taken quite a few of Bilbo’s best moves to lose his tails before entering the secret tunnels.

Therefore, coming together in the Royal Dining Room for “family dinners” was a...stilted affair. There were only two redeeming features to those evenings. One, it was always the best food Bilbo had ever eaten in his life. And two, Thorin’s nephews, Fili and Kili, were not the least bit bothered by him and had some story worth telling that took the edge of him for a little bit at least.

“And then the axe sailed through the air and straight into the boar’s head. So technically, technically we aren’t responsible for the mess in the trophy room.” Kili finished.

“No.” Vili, their father snorted. “Just responsible for startling the poor guard that set off the chain of events.”

“Well how were we supposed to know he was right there?” Fili defended.

Bilbo snorted in spite of himself. “Watch the shadows.”

He immediately tensed after he said it as he waited for the barrage of insults to be hurtled his way.

“Spoken like a true thief.” Dis sneered.

Yep, right on cue.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t corrupt my sons.” She continued.

“Namad…” Thorin warned softly.

Thrain’s hand met the tabletop in a harsh bang. “What have I said about speaking our language in front of the Halfling?!”

Bilbo sighed and turned his attention to his soup as the line of Durin flexed their tempers. Thorin rising to his defense, Dis and Thrain attempting to argue their points louder, Frerin leaving snide quips here and there, and Vili trying and failing to keep the peace. The joy of family dinners.

“Actually, while we’re on this subject, I have something to say.” Thorin demanded, his voice low and regal. “I will be gone the remainder of the week.”

Everyone, including Bilbo, froze and stared up at Thorin in relative confusion and outrage. The prince’s eyes were boring holes straight into his father whose scowl would be enough to frighten wargs off at this point.

“And just where will you be?” The king finally spat.

Thorin reached down for Bilbo’s hand making the hobbit supremely discomforted. Thorin’s eyes were soft and pleading though as they met his.

“We will be taking the Trial of Souls.”

“We’ll be doing what now?” Bilbo questioned.

“Thorin…” Dis murmured at a surprisingly subdued volume, her eyebrows knitted together.

“Finally! A sensible idea!” Frerin declared. 

All eyes rested on the brunette as he raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t you think? I mean, to put it bluntly, everyone at this table has been trying to convince Thorin out of this marriage in some way. When they don’t emerge from the tunnels together, that would be a pretty good indicator of the truth.”

“We haven’t. We like Bilbo.” Kili reminded softly.

Bilbo shot the troublemakers a quick smile of thanks. They were idiots, but they were sweet. Meanwhile, Thrain was rubbing his beard in thought before nodding once.

“Yes, this will do well. In fact, if you make it through all five chambers, I’ll hold a feast in honor and publically accept your union.”

Thorin nodded, still looking rather cross with his father. “As I’d hoped.”

Bilbo found he couldn’t take it anymore. “Now, wait! Wait just a minute! What is this...Trial of Souls?”

Thorin stared at his father for permission, and the king granted it almost the picture of satisfaction. Being a gambler, it made Bilbo largely nervous as Thorin turned back towards him.

“It’s a series of tests to prove two dwarves...or in our case, a dwarf and a hobbit, are Ones.”

Bilbo’s mouth opened and shut a couple of times, but no words were able to come out.

“Problem, Halfling?” Dis questioned with mock innocence.

“Thorin, a moment if you please.” Bilbo was finally able to say as he pulled his stone-headed husband out into the hall.

“Are you serious?!” He finally rounded on him.

“What?” Thorin questioned.

“Thorin, I…” Bilbo fought for the right words without making this worse. “I don’t understand. What exactly do we have to prove? We’re married. Shouldn’t that be enough?!”

Thorin sighed. “It should. You are correct, ibinê (my gem). But don’t you see? It’s perfect! My family will be satisfied by our success at the Trials, and it’ll be irrefutable evidence to the rest of the mountain if any rose to challenge us. And politics aside, I want this for us.”

“Us?” Bilbo repeated too numb to be completely in control of his mouth.

“Yes!” Thorin nodded eagerly. “Couples that pass the Trials of Souls find they become closer than ever. Our...relationship hasn’t been for very long, and I respect that your past is painful to you, but I want to know you azyungel (love of loves). I want to know everything there is to know about my husband, and share myself in return. What do you say?”

Now being a hardened thief, the hobbit knew a thing or two about how to get out of a seemingly hopeless situation. However, as his mind swirled and swirled around the damnable logic of Thorin’s decision, he found himself becoming dizzy and nauseated. That was it then. Bilbo was doomed. He had just enough time to get out a soft ‘nope’ before he fell over in a dead faint.

[rein-ette]

Howdy! I'm going to ask your awesome question back at you ;) what do you think of England, both as a character and as a country? Do tell me all of your feelings towards the grumpy man 👀

Short Answer:

To borrow a phrase from my favourite writer/historian Barbara Tuchmann, if Canada is the country of my birth, England has always been the country of my heart.

Long Answer:

I actually fell in love with England the country a long time before I even knew England the character, but Hetalia certainly reinforced my infatuation ten-fold. I can't say when or how it started because I think I was pretty young (I remember my mom making me take notes on Greek and Roman history when I was like, 7, and uh, let's just say my obessession with Europe only grew after that). It's also kinda difficult for me to parse why I like the country because it's been a constant in my life for so long, but I'll try my best.

I think it might have begun with my fascination with WWII history. There's this Chinese idiom -- 乱世出英雄 -- which kinda encapsulates why the world wars and British history in particular so enchanted me. The literal translation of it would be "heroes emerge in turbulent times" but I think a better figurative approximation is the phrase "for darkness shows the stars." The world wars, British participation in the world wars, and British history in general has many, many dark episodes and in many ways exposes the worst of humanity. But I think it's also true that British history also brought out the best of us -- exposed the "heroes", so to speak. I refer not only to household names like Churchill but also the commanders on the ground, the suffragettes, the workers in the factories, and naturally the common soldier. Of course this is not a phenomenon unique to British history, but it was through British 20th century history that I first fell in love with history in general, so it holds a bit of a special place in my heart.

From a more objective perspective, Canadians are really steeped in British culture, ideas, and history, even if we don't realize it. I mean, most of the ideals we embrace, such as the rule of law or constitutional monarchy, as well as the things we celebrate -- the abolishment of slavery, for example -- stem from Britain. One cannot teach Canadian history in school without learning British history, and when you consider that Canada's massive sacrifices in the world wars also played a defining moment in its national identity, it's really no wonder that many still feel a kinship with the UK. Plus, like I mentioned in the response to needcake's ask, a lot of being Canadian is trying to differentiate ourselves from Americans, and one primary way we do that is by pointing to our loyalty to England and shared monarch.

I'm not sure if this is really obvious from the other side of the pond, but Queen Elizabeth also, like, plays a really insidious role. Idk if Aussies or Kiwis feel this way, but we really love Queen Liz and can't imagine a world without her on our money and all our fancy buildings and occasionally making her speeches. I was an air cadet as a teen too! We had to play God Save the Queen for closing parades every night, and I remember thinking, gosh, one day we'll have to sing God save the king, and they'll have to change all the lyrics and coins and bills and what not, and that's really weird.

But yeah, besides the history and the environment in Canada, I also follow British politics to some extent? It's not as common as following American politics here (if you talk to Canadians ab the American president it's not uncommon to hear people say "why did we elect him" etc.) but it isn't rare either. I mean, I read the Economist (no i'm not 10 billion years old) and I've done courses in British politics, read British authors, a lot of people like British actors and films and shows...the culture is just really widespread, I guess. I also have close friends who lived/live in London...oh, and I went to a British international school when I was young for a year. That might have played a role too. I should say here that I've never actually been to England in person so I can't comment on what its actually like, but it feels so familiar that sometimes I honestly forget i haven't been. I hope to actually study in London soon, actually, so if you have any advice/warnings, hit me!

Alright, onto Arthur. I just? Really? Love him? In particular I really admire his pragmatic worldview, even if I don't always agree with the conclusions it leads him to. When it comes to knowledge and analysis, he's someone who refuses to turn away from the truth, no matter how incovenient. Yet when it comes to his own emotions he's the complete opposite. That mix of cynicism and then escapism to relieve the emotional burden of his own cycnism is just...fascinating. I also really admire his intelligence in general, as well as his work ethic.

Perhaps what I love the most about Arthur, however, is his spirit. I mean, he's just so alive. Whether he's furious or devastated or overjoyed, he's someone who lives life so intensely, so fully, with such fury. When I write Arthur, that's often the feeling I try to capture: someone who cannot help but see all the suffering in life, but someone who cannot help but fight on, regardless. In a strange way, Arthur embodies hope at its most irrational. As Samuel Beckett wrote in the Unnamable, he's someone who is always telling himself: "You must go on. I can't go on. I'll go on."

Absolutely no one asked for fruk, but I'm just gonna seize this chance to throw out a little headcanon. I think this intense, somehow mortal quality of Arthur is what first captivated Francis. As I've written about a bit before, Francis to me has the most "eternal" feel out of the all the nations. He loves humanity and life as a whole, whereas Arthur lives like every second counts. For someone like Francis, who just adores beautiful, wild, transient things, Arthur is like mortality in a bottle -- so utterly enthralling that once he tasted it he could never get enough. Unlike Joan or other real humans, however, Arthur has proved far more durable to wear and tear :P

My final thought on Arthur is that he has so much contempt for fate, its actually both funny and admirable. If I may quote Tuchmann again, "no man ever lived who was less willing to be the victim of events." Arthur's someone who simply refuses to be bullied, even by grandaddy destiny itself, and I think we all love him for that, a little.

[hunter-the-sad-skeleton]

On General Lunaris+redemption in my Ducktales AU(Put it on DA, putting here too)

So! In the Ducktales Reboot, where General Lunaris originates from, he was a horrible person who(from what I've seen) hasn't gotten a redemption arc! Obviously not everyone needs a redemption arc, but I quickly grew attached, so I got to work! In my AU, yes, Lunaris DID screw up BIG. I'm NOT excusing ANY of his actions. For the AU I'm working on, Lunaris acted mostly out of fear of the unknown or fear of becoming obsolete. 

Granted, he shouldn't have acted the way that he did, as he hurt his people more than he did help them, but I can see both sides of the metaphorical coin. I've come up with a few big events in the Moonlanders' culture's history to fill in the blanks, but no true dates yearwise. 

 First big event: Tranquility gets constructed by Captain Voltair(General Lunaris' father) 

Second big event: A monarchy/law system gets put in place for Tranquility. 

Third big event: Mcduck enterprises sends first ambassador to go visit the city of tranquility. 

 Fourth big event: On a trip with the ambassador, Captain Voltair meets Enchantress Baleta(Buh-lee-tuh) and falls head over heels for her. 

Fifth big event: After a few years of dating after the ambassador left, Captain Voltair proposes to Baleta. 

Sixth big event: Voltair and Baleta get married. 

 Seventh big event: Lunaris is born. 

 Eighth big event: Another Mcduck enterprises ambassador gets sent to Tranquility due to hearing about the excess gold reserves and attempts to get close to Voltair and Baleta so that they can steal some of it. 

 Nineth big event: Guards catch the ambassador stealing gold and threaten their life unless they leave immediately. 

Tenth big event: The ambassador holds his hands up in surrender and the guards escort them back to their ship. 

Eleventh big event: The ambassador steals some gold as they're being escorted to their ship and boards it before the guards can catch them and steal it back. 

Twelfth big event: The city of Tranquility recovers from the loss of materials slowly but surely, discovering a cave of sorts when they go spelunking for more gold. 

Thirteenth big event: The first Moon Mite attack. The loss of people from Tranquility that day was tragic. 

Fourteenth big event: Captain Voltair trains a group of Moonlanders in the ways of combat, forming a strong garrison of soldiers.

Fifteenth big event: Voltair goes out to take on the Moon Mite, but doesn't return, having bit off more than he could chew by taking on the Moon Mite. 

Sixteenth big event: Baleta passes of old age and Tranquility shuts its doors for a few cycles in mourning. 

Seventeenth big event: A Moonlander by the name of Neo rises up through the ranks of the Elite Guard, known for his incredible speed and agility, eventually getting promoted to the rank of one of General Lunaris' personal bodyguards. 

Eighteenth big event: Neo gets sent out with a squad of eight Moonlanders(Some his own family) in another attempt at taking out the Moon Mite, only for it to end in Massacre, the team of eight returning as a team of four, one of whom got his arms and legs pulled off due to his limbs being stuck inside his gold limb enhancers. 

Nineteenth big event: Another Moon Mite attack occurs, resulting in yet another large loss. 

Twentieth big event:  Neo returns to his station as General Lunaris' bodyguard after spending a few months in solitude to recover. 

The rest is known in the show! The mindset I put myself in when I write Lunaris is "Okay, I'm doing this for my people's wellfare. I'm in the right, I'm doing what's best for my people, anyone who says otherwise is against me and is very strongly wrong." 

Eventually, after a while of dwelling with the Sharkas, reality hits and he makes his way down from the atmosphere, stating that he "Comes in peace, I mean no harm anymore." It takes a while but Lunaris eventually earns everyone's forgiveness. 

Except ONE. 

Neo refuses to forgive Lunaris, feeling like Lunaris is too "fake" in his apologies. What's stopping Lunaris from turning on them again?! What's stopping him from stabbing everyone in the back again?!? What's stopping him from stepping out of line?! Neo is so full of ANGER and RESENTMENT that he can't see how HORRIBLE Lunaris feels about his actions. 

Lunaris tries his best to explain himself, but Neo has NONE of it. Neo actively AVOIDS Lunaris, going so far as to leave anywhere that he may be. He WANTS to forgive Lunaris, but he can't. He feels if he forgives him, he's betraying those that were lost in the patrol for the Moon Mite's extermination that he failed because he froze up. 

I see Lunaris as a self-righteous person who wants what's best for his people. Yes, he was, pardon the crude language, a dick in his actions to help his people, but when you're in that position, I can see where he's coming from. Eventually, something happens to put everyone in danger and Neo, wanting to prove himself, throws himself in harm's way. Lunaris calls out to try to get him to fall back. Does Neo listen? 

Nope! In fact, he does the exact OPPOSITE and almost gets himself KILLED. Neo panicks, freezing up, then everything goes black. 

And Neo wakes up in a hospital bed with Lunaris sitting in a chair beside it, fast asleep. Neo thinks that Penumbra brought him to the hospital, but she's nowhere in sight. He thinks it was Della, but she's nowhere in sight. Donald, nowhere in sight. Scrooge, nowhere in sight. Gladstone, nowhere in sight. Realization hits Neo that Lunaris...has changed. He's better than he was several moons ago, yet he was still denying the fact that he's changed, the fact that he's not bad anymore, the fact that he's good now, the fact that he's not evil now, the fact that he CARED ABOUT HIM ENOUGH TO CHARGE INTO CERTAIN DEATH TO SAVE SOMEONE WHO DIDN'T MATTER IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF THINGS. 

Neo is agast. He knew that Lunaris was friendly before the Moonvasion scheme, HE KNEW THAT, and yet...The facts....felt more like fiction. It felt surreal. Neo gets snapped out of his thoughts by Lunaris quickly looking over him, making sure he was okay. Lunaris freezes as Neo asks a simple one word question: "Why?" 

Lunaris sits down in the chair, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes for a moment. "Because even if you are small, and freeze up in the face of danger, you are one of my closest friends." Neo tears up slightly, getting Lunaris to quickly get up and look for any injuries. 

"I don't understand...!" Neo sobs, practically breaking down after months of anger and resentment. "Why do you care so much...?!" Lunaris realizes that it's not PHYSICAL damage that's causing Neo to sob his eyes out; it was emotional damage. 

"Neo, I care about you so much because you won't." Neo falls silent at hearing this. "I know that you may not forgive me, I don't expect you to forgive me, I CAN'T expect you to do that. But know that I'm truly sorry for all I've done to you and everyone else." 

Neo looks Lunaris in the eyes, thinking his words over. "I was angry at you, I HATED you." Lunaris cringes, knowing he's fully deserving of what comes next. "But I'm not anymore. I don't anymore. I don't hate you anymore. I'm sorry I held such a grudge towards you." 

Lunaris thinks something over in his head. "I heard that your parents aren't quite...Desireable, so.....How would you feel about...me taking that place...?" Neo is shocked, but nods. He could be a cool Dad. Then again, anyone could be a better dad than his biological one. 

 Tl;Dr: Lunaris works EXTREMELY HARD for everyone to forgive him since he feels terrible about his actions. Sorry this was so long, I got the chance to infodump and this was WAAAAAAAAAAY longer than it needed to be!

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, REY! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE HERMIT with the faceclaim of LUCY BOYNTON. History loves a revolutionary, and there’s no doubt in my mind that this sentiment will extend to Marceline. I could feel her desperation to be part of something bigger than herself -- maybe even larger than her father’s ambitions -- they practically leapt right off the page. I felt for her in her loss, ached for her in her need for revenge, empathized with the pain and appreciated her determination to change things for the better. The Hermit has the potential to be small-scale, but you’ve taken her far beyond that, and I cannot wait to see what Marceline does on the dashboard! 

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC

NAME: Rey PRONOUNS: She/Her AGE: 25+ TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST. Because I am currently working from home, I would say on a scale of 1 to 10, I am a 7. I try to log on at least once a day. ANYTHING ELSE?: Just how much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood!

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: The Hermit NAME: Marceline Ash Pelagius FACECLAIM: 1. Lucy Boyton 2. Lindsey Morgan AGE: 22

DETAILS: I’ve chosen the Hermit because she reminds me so much of the French republican youths that got involved after the French Revolution (as most famously depicted in Les Misérables) and I’d love to dig into the historical parallels. Like Enjorlas, Marceline is born into wealth, but she sheds herself of this reputation and becomes a bleeding heart for the revolution.  (Also like Enjorlas, she’s a “charming young (wo)man who is also capable of being terrible.”)

Revolutions rarely begin with noble aims, even if the outcome might not suggest so. For Marceline, revolution begins with vengeance. Her attempts to get closer to the Fool and the guards of the city in order to avenge her father’s death opens her eyes to the social and political inequalities of the kingdom. What was once simply about revenge is now about so much more. She’s a woman who knows she wants to kill a king, but her reasons for deciding to do so only keep growing with time. Before long, she begins to assume her father’s radical political beliefs: tear down the monarchy and replace it with a republic. I find myself drawn to dedicated characters with unyielding drives - especially ones whose moral compass seems so set but will in actuality change at the shift of a tide in order justify their end goals.

Marceline is very much  a person to be reckoned with. Her fight becomes a fight against her own grief, her unknown magic and the monolith of monarchy. Each of these seem to be an immovable object, but she is the unstoppable force that beats against them. The Hermit tarot card can signify someone who is taking too much time for self reflection or too little. In the case of Marceline, she is someone who thinks she knows herself well enough to simply act; she is so set on her path that true self-reflection is something she doesn’t spend enough time on.

BACKGROUND:

You know this is not a rebellion, you know it’s a revolution.

You are born of a noble house, the only child, last of your name. Your mother is revered in court as the Keeper of Coins. She has a mind for finances and business, though you inherit the steel of her spine and the cut of her jib more than anything else. If you trace her lineage far back enough you’ll see that before nobility came piracy and maybe that’s why she’s always been so good with gold. She’s a smart woman with a sharp eye that upholds her family’s reputation by being someone that can sniff out a poor deal or a tampered book with ease. She’s never really sailed the seas, but you can see that she misses it. And thus, so do you. Most of your lullabies are sea shanties and you take your first steps along the banks of Tyr’s Tear. You cannot remember a time when you didn’t know how to swim. Your mother, for some hidden reason, knows how to fight and she is the one to teach you how to use a sword. ‘A cutlass’ she clarifies the first time you call it something else. ‘There’s language used correctly and then there’s language used beautifully.’

Meanwhile, your father is hopelessly bound to the land. More specifically, he is hopelessly bound to his books. He is an academic that is fortunate enough to be born into nobility. His father lived a long life as a trusted advisor to Octavius Valmont. A former educator at the Bard’s College, the birth of you brings about a new chapter to your father's life causing him to leave the college and spend most of his days in Tyrholm writing, reading, and discussing matters of political science. How he wooed your mother you’ll never know, but because of them you’ll never doubt what love is. If you had to guess though, your father enchanted your mother because no one used language more beautifully than him.

Your father has a secret though. When you are four years old, you learn that you’ve inherited it. The two of you are Inferi magi.

The fastest way to someone’s heart is through conspiracy and you and your father are bound by this secret you share. He’s spent his whole life hiding this, and he teaches you to do the same. You hate being anything other than outspoken, anything other than untruthful about what you think and who you are, and the only anchor is you know how much he hates it too. The two of you hold tight to something the world hates and work to make it a gift more than a curse. This is what connects you to your father. Inferi magic is destructive, but your father shows you that sometimes that is the way of life. He tells you about the pine-trees that depend on heat to crack open their seeds. He talks about entire forests that are born from the ash of forest fires. Sometimes, in order to make something stronger, you must burn it down; sometimes, in order to make something last forever, you must destroy it. You know the story of the wolves and the snakes, he’s told you it over and over again to lull you to sleep, but he tells you it again now. Political structures -  you are five so you say ‘what’ and he replaces the phrase ‘political structures’ with the words ‘Kingdoms, like Tyrholm’ and you say ‘oh, okay’ - Kingdoms, like Tyrholm, get better, continue surviving, by being torn down and rebuilt. Just like the wolves and the snakes.

‘Let me teach you little one, how revolutions begin.’ He tells you instead of bedtime stories.

Your father believes in revolution, in a way that is before his time. He wants to dismantle the monarchy and in its stead assemble a republic government. His political ideology stands stark amongst the beliefs of this world and you are young enough to be enraptured by the optimism of it. Your mother, far better at playing society’s game than your father is, tells him not to speak so loudly about such things when you are not in your home.

And it is a nice home. For all of your father’s gripes against King, it seems the current system has given you and your family everything you need. You have all the flourishes that come with wealth: a respectable reputation, a lavish upbringing, a thorough education. You’re a lady and the dresses and the etiquette and the social gatherings don’t let you forget it. In many ways you are like your father, you debate and you discuss and think deeply on things with little regard to how that reflects on your station in life. Your mother is the opposite. She teaches you how to lie and survive within the status quo.

You are ten when your father begins writing pamphlets - ‘purely educational,’ he defends - about what a republic is. At least once a month he meets with a handful of like-minded people who are interested in discussing such things and their conversations often go late into the night. They sit tucked away and hidden in the back of a low-lit tavern - and you know these things because you are wily enough to try and follow him one night. Your father catches you and drags you back to the manor by the scruff of your neck like some stray kitten. Your mother is furious - at the both of you.

You are sent to bed without any supper and your father sleeps in the library that evening.

So goes your life. You become your mother’s apprentice as the Keeper of Coins and she makes it worth your while by teaching you to spar in the evenings. Your footwork improves more quickly than your mathematics, but you’re not too bad at either. Your life as a lady blooms. More lessons, more competitions. You find love, a first love, so you don’t understand that there can be different kinds, and even sour kinds. All you’ve ever witnessed is the warmth between your parents, even in their bickering, and so the most naive parts of you believe this to be true of all love.

This routine is almost enough to make you forget about the plights of the kingdom and that you live in a gilded cage.

Your father gets bolder in his commitment to a radical political movement. You’re 15 when you start staying up late to help him proofread the pamphlet he writes. The two of you start taking camping trips to the Volkun Forest, so that you may discuss such things freely amongst the trees. Out here, if the wrong word slips out or if a little bit of magic pushes through your fingertips, there is no one to pass judgment. Out here is freedom.

You take these trips and your father returns, only to lock himself in his study for the next three days. Sometimes you’ll press your ear to the door when the house is quiet and hear nothing more than the quick and furious scratching of a quill across parchment. Not too long after there will be fresh sheets of radical ideas floating through the city.

When you are 17, the fabric of your world is ripped apart at the seams. Your father’s ideas are labeled as treason and the King’s Guard ambushes you in the middle of the Volkun forest. They run your father through with a broadsword more times than necessary to kill him and he is left in a bloody, bloody heap. You manage to survive by playing dead. It’s a decision you replay over and over and over again. The anger over it lingers for years. You should have leaped to your feet and fought, and instead - you chose a coward’s route.

You dig a grave for your father using only your hands and still, somehow, you manage the return home.

The rage in your mother’s eyes when you tell her complements your deep sorrow. She dries your tears and you dry hers, but both of you agree that no one else will see you cry. Your magic burns in you that night, so hot and unknown that you throw yourself into the river to temper the flames that lick your blood. Your lack of training has never been more apparent than now. At such times you’d ask your father what was happening to you and even if he told you that he didn’t know, the shared loneliness made it bearable. He is not here now, and you must weather this alone.

Your mother doesn’t speak for 13 days. At first you think she will never speak again, you have heard of those that die of heartbreak, but you soon realize that she is scheming.

“I know what we will do.” She says on the thirteenth day and you nearly drop the sword you are polishing.

A plan forms. Together, the two of you plot. How do you kill the men that struck down your father? How do you kill a king? It’s decided that you will join the guard. You abandon your engagement. Like that, you abandon your life. Your reputation is ruined and your mother barely scrapes by.

You move out of the familial manor, out of safety for your mother. She’ll still write you letters and you will still visit to sleep in your childhood bedroom, but the two of you agree to keep these instances to once in a blue moon. You move to Lowtown. You know that one of the men you want six-feet under is the Captain of the Guard.

When you first ask to enlist, they think you are pranking them, trying to pull the wool over their eyes because some noble has dared you. When you don’t leave though, that’s when they grow from disbelief to skepticism. ‘Why?’ You are asked. ‘Because I dream of a better world.’ Of course you’re met with laughter. You, however, refuse to lie. You stay steadfast in your plot. You wait for their amusement to die down before challenging the man nearest to you to a spar - if he wins you’ll leave and never bother them again.

That evening, you bring your cutlass and you win your way into the Guard.

After all is said and done you hear a stray spectating guard say to another, ‘She fights like a pirate.’

No one can stop you once you are a woman decided. You spend the next few years putting your head down and doing the work. You become the youngest lieutenant the Guard has ever seen. You are not intimidated by this, you swallow it easily with the knowledge that you are here with a higher calling. The truth has a tendency to make things harsh and unwelcoming, and yet it is the very thing that makes the men here listen to you. They look at you and see someone unwavering in their honesty, merciless with their virtue. It earns you a level of respect that most lieutenants spend their whole lives scrounging for. The world may not be fair, but you intend to make it so. That is seen and that is respected. They listen to you, but more importantly, they trust you. You make it clear that you’ll take an arrow for any of them, parry whatever blow comes their way. When a man is struck down in the field, you’re one of the first to volunteer to tell their family. They start letting you do this by default, your stoic demeanor and steady nature prove to be the exact temperament needed to weather a storm of their family’s sadness. Every time you do this - every time you confront a freshly widowed bride, a newly motherless son - you promise to take care of them. You won’t let their death be in vain, you say. You find yourself caring for all these families as much as you care for your mother. In this way your family grows, and it no longer feels like you are last of your name.

All of this goes without mention of the elephant in the room. Your job puts you in painful proximity to the Fool, one of the men that killed your father. However, these days it seems you’re on the same team in more ways than one. Together you lead the Guard, together you declare you’ll fight in the same revolution. You seek forgiveness within yourself, but your heart finds it hard to go back on a judgment once it has passed. You know that striking him down would be a poor move on your part tactically, that it would scatter the men, that it would lead to a different kind of revolt. You don’t want to tear your new household in two just. So you take his name to that list of names you intend to make your way through and shift it to the bottom. That night you begin a new list, one of additional grievances to call upon that specifically the Fool is responsible for and you decide that you will savor and remember these grievances when the day of his death finally comes.

You’re intense, you ache for revenge, you age for revolution. Those that would think less of you for the latter are nowhere nearby; they’re far off in some ivory tower. Those that surround you are bolstered by it. Each breath is spent on the growing rebellion, each action is dedicated to felling an empire and an unjust king. You are a flame that keeps your friends warm, you are a fire that chases your foes into action.

Living amongst the Guard has taken you out of luxury, out of a life of nobility, and placed you in the thick of a growing revolt. Each citizen of Lowtown comes with their own history, of a life earned through hard work and skill, and you realize that a monarchy is bullshit. Power to the people, you think.

It’s difficult to remember the girl who existed before your father died. But try and you remember. You’ve still got your family crest, it reminds you of the sea. A mutt wanders onto your path one patrol of the Volkun forest and you swear it looks part wolf. You take him in. Two weeks from now he’ll chase after a snake on your hunting trail and even you will say “Oh come on” at the heavy handed metaphor life has thrown your way. In these ways, the world continues to remind you of who you are.

And then, only on quiet lonely nights do you let your mind wander, galloping through the memories back to the day your father was butchered before you. You clawed your way back to the city, clawed your way back to your mother. You’ve defied death once and so hell nor heaven scares you anymore. Buried deep within all your noble intentions is an undeniable truth: you have your revolution, you have your decided aims for a republic, but you would put it all on the line, just to get back at the men who killed your father. You pray to the wolves and snakes you will become a better person.

You are not a revolter, you tell yourself, you are a revolutionary.  

PLOT IDEAS:

Marceline doesn’t believe in kings. As the revolution grows, there are plenty that want to replace this king with a new one. Who will take Septimus’ place? The Emperor, the Chariot, the World? None. Marceline thinks that’s just trading out one cage for another. As mentioned: down with the monarchy, up with a republic! Marceline believes in the ideals of a republic, the same ideals her father believed in, and she wants to work to stoke that fire in the same way he did. It might be a moment before she returns to distributing pamphlets or standing on soapboxes, but natural rights and equality for all citizens of Tyrholm is something that she is determined to fight for. She will try to convince every revolter she comes by of her radical ideas and even when they turn her away, she’ll find a way to stay. She’s always been a woman bad at understanding the word no. I’d like her to try and convince as many people as she can and I think this has the potential to be an interesting plot. Not everyone is going to agree with her and I’m sure it’ll cook up a new batch of allies and enemies. Her father wrote and distributed pamphlets against the king and in favor of a whole new political structure, and Marceline would like to get this radical political movement going again through these handouts. However, Marceline is not the same wordsmith her father was. She’ll do it, if she has to, but I would love for her to find that person to help her write a new round of Enlightenment principles with. In general though, Marceline will be at the forefront for a push for a republic. It’s an ideology that she’s willing to die for. In the long run maybe this even causes a schism in the revolution between those that want another king and those who want something else entirely. TEMPERANCE: Marceline breaks off the engagement, returns the ring that is given to her, leaves without a word. Marceline knows she loves the revolution more, but still her love for Temperance lingers. From where she’s standing, it seems as if her former fiancee has had no trouble moving on and so Marceline is doing her best to drown herself in work and other people. If she could pick one person to convert in favor of her ideal vision for the future, it would be her. But the more Marceline stays with the Guard, the more she sees that Temperance is blind to her own privilege. She wishes Temperance could see things her way. If Marceline ever had to pick between the revolution or Temperance, she would do her best to try and save both. Marceline has left the life of nobility behind, but I would love to see the life of nobility try and drag her back in through her undeniable love for this for this woman. THE FOOL: Until a new republic is built, Marceline still has to live in this monarchy, and there is plenty to do here. There’s her own vendetta, for Marceline will do anything that’s necessary to track down and kill the men that killed her father. Fool kills Dad. Hermit kills Fool. That easy, right? Wrong! Things are already messy as is because both she and the Fool are revolters and thus technically on the same side in more ways than one. Because of this, Marceline needs to find cleverer ways to retaliate against him. Their relationship is a complex one as she is always quick to undermine him, but still sees him as her co-partner in leading the Guard. For a girl who believes in keeping a judgement once it is passed, I want to push the boundaries of her decided vendetta. As she lies in wait, I imagine Marceline trying to be close to anyone that the Fool knows. I’d also love her feelings for him to grow and for her to have to wake up every morning and have to conscientiously decide that she wants to kill this man. I want the Fool to make her change as a person so that by the end of this she’s either consumed by hate for this man or consumed by love - no in between.   THE MOON: The Moon is possibly the only friend Marceline has outside of the Guard.  Every time Marceline ventures Volkun forest, she brings back something new for her botanist friend. There’s a comfort she feels with this one - one she hasn’t felt since her father was around. Something tells her it’s magic, but Marceline knows the dangers of asking about such things. Still, she will do everything to maintain a friendship with the Moon, as she is one of the few people around whom she is utterly at peace. I see them growing close because of the revolution, and I can see them growing even closer if they ever choose to tell each other about their magic. Ever since the death of her father, Marceline has completely turned away from the magical side of herself, but that does not mean the magical side of her does not exist. I see her magic being a grab bag of abilities that she has absolutely no control over. (And per admin discussion, I have some ideas on this.) She feels utterly lost, but Marceline does everything she can to avoid letting anyone know about this side of her. (She always tells the truth, except in this instance.) There’s probably less than a handful of people that know and while I would like this number to slowly grow, I imagine the Moon would be the first. Ultimately, I would like Marceline to come to terms with her magic and see how it influences her thoughts on the war and the revolution. Eventually she’s going to come to understand that her magic might be able to help her take down the king. She might even like to try and travel to Hypatos sometime to seek out mentors. Maybe this is somewhere she and the Moon journey together. Marceline is willing to train up anyone who wants to learn how to fight, be they part of the Guard or not. If you’re part of the revolution, or even if you take no particular side, she thinks you have a right to be able to defend yourself. Just expect to eventually get an earful about some radical political ideologies. Marceline hates pirates and bandits. She cannot stand either of them, especially when they terrorize her Guard. She wants to make a statement to show that the Guard won’t turn a blind eye to being messed with. She’s willing to offer both groups a shot at joining them against the king, but if they refuse, she won’t hesitate to go against them for the men they’ve harmed. In the meantime, any pirates or bandits should steer clear of her as she won’t go easy on them. Marceline sees every single guard as a member of her family and when a guard dies she makes a commitment to look out for that guard’s family. I don’t want this to be easy for her. I’d love to try and throw her up against her own moral compass while trying to stay true to a promise she’s made.

CHARACTER DEATH: Totally cool with you killing my character. My character’s dog however, needs to live forever.

WRITING SAMPLE

There are those that shared his beliefs that come knocking at their door to share their condolences. Marceline and her mother had vowed not to show their tears to the public so Marceline’s mother greets the guests with solemn eyes and a quiet nod of thanks. Marceline doesn’t even make it out of her room. Her father’s death is still too fresh, too heavy on her heart and it’s difficult to be confronted with the fact that someone the world keeps turning.

Marceline is coming up on three days without sleep. Her throat is sore, her eyes are raw, and they are both nothing compared to the dead thing in her chest. She tries to sleep, but etched onto the underside of her eyelids are the faces of four men that she will never forget. She knows grief is nonlinear, but she wishes it would leave for a while and return later when she feels a little stronger. Finally, utterly exhausted, her body gives up on her and she falls into a restless sleep.

There’s a full tangerine moon in the sky and Marceline wakes up in delirious pain. She finds herself on the floor, covers still tangled around her legs. She’s rolled off her own bed. She is still herself though - and that’s what matters. She can see through the haze of pain her hands, her fingernails, the bits of dirt underneath them.

What is this pain? It’s her magic, she thinks, or maybe it’s her grief. She’s buried this part of herself so often, that she forgets about it until it makes itself known. It pulses in her blood with such unpleasantness that she cries out for her father before remembering he is too far to hear her.

She doesn’t want to do any of this without him.

The pain licks up and down her spine. She can feel this Inferi magic coursing through her blood, taking her immense sadness and twisting it. This is in no ways normal, but each time she’s had to face it she’s always had her father.

Marceline kicks with trembling legs at the covers still wrapped like mummy bandages around her body. She crawls to the chair at her desk and grips at the chair leg with her sweaty hand. The wood begins to glow red - at least she thinks it does -  and she knows she is going to set it on fire if she doesn’t move it. She grabs higher, pulls herself up, grabs the curved back of the chair until her feet are flat against the wood floor.

Marceline takes a shaky step, then another, and then she stumbles with the inertia of pain out the door of her bedroom. She nearly collapses as soon as she reaches the bannister of the stair. Her torso hits the wood and the impact blows another wave of fire all through her, knees crippling - she catches herself before she hits the ground but the world spins around her.

She is going to die. She is going to die. She is going to die.

And whatever it is inside her is going to kill and destroy everything in this house. How did she ever think she was going to survive in this word three days without her father?

She must though, she must.

Another wave of pain throws her to the floor. She curls into herself; her sadness magnifies and triples tenfold. Like a wave it washes over her, and then recedes. Here, she will die here -

And then Marceline gets up.

Only this time, it is her magic rising from inside her. It surges through her, hardening the muscles in her legs. She slaps a bloody hand on the counter and straightens up. She breathes hard: in and out, in and out, in and out. As her eyes close, she hears - she swears - the steady beating of wings, as it reminds her swelling heart to keep beating.

She crunches her way out of the hallway, down the stairs, and then out into the garden where the moon hangs low. It is watching her, she feels it. Its light pours over her bloody form with every step she takes. At first she steps slowly, she eases her toes into the cool grass. But then faster, steps more steady, and then even faster, until she is running away from her family’s manor, towards the river, as though she could flee from her sadness.

But she is fleeing towards the moon.

Her magic gives her strength and gives her pain. It roars in her chest now, harmonizing with her grief. She hates it, she hates it so much, hates how it makes her hide, hates how it’s always been a mirror of her emotions.

She remembers her father and how he could look at a burning thing and see the growth that will come after. She’s never going to see him again and there are precisely four men to blame. She can’t stop her tears as she splashes to the banks of the river and falls to her knees inside the reflection of the full moon, which dances on the surface of the water. Her hands press into the sand. She fists the rocks and shells. She is probably going to die. And she should fight it still, but her magic is the only part of her father that is still left.

She doesn’t want him to be gone, and it’s the last thought she has before it feels like she goes up in flames.

Marceline falls forward into the river.

The next morning, she wakes to the sound of the water, as it kisses at her toes and her ankles. Slowly, Marceline blinks her eyes open to the sunlight appearing over the river. The pain is over. Her body felt peaceful and brand new. Three days of mourning and now - rebirth. She feels like she’s just shed her own exoskeleton. She’s done it all on her own too.

A raven picks at the hem of her blouse and forces her to sit up to shoo it away. Tyrholm is still here. She is still here. She breathes in like she needs to remember what it is like to have her lungs expand. Both her magic and her grief, she thinks, are strange, strange things.

EXTRA

A few extra headcanons: While growing up Marcline’s mother would temporarily stay in Noble quarters at Castle Tyrholm. Marceline and her father lived in the Pelagius manor in Hightown. After her husband’s death, Marceline’s mother moved out of the Noble quarters and returned to the manor. Her mother is still Keeper of Coin for the king. Marceline lives in Lowtown but makes sure to visit her mother in Hightown at least once a month. She writes letters often. One does not simply become the youngest lieutenant of the Guard without being a skilled swordsman. Thanks to her noble upbringing, she’s had access to top tier mentors and tutors. What Marceline lacks in size and sheer strength, she makes up in swiftness and cunning. In fact, Marceline’s noble upbringing has left her with a handful of random skills that she is never sure she will use again. She’ll spend most of her evenings these days in the Barracks playing cards or drinking with the Guard. They are her pack. Marceline is slowly starting to pick up where her father left off with his pamphlets. Marceline has a mutt that is probably part wolf... no one really knows. But his name is Little Wolf. He’s her hunting dog (and possibly her best friend.) He follows her around plenty while she is on patrol. He loves members of the Guard and hates the aristocracy.

A few stray musings: Look, I’m not saying she wants to inspire the French Revolution of this world. But... yes okay that’s exactly what she wants. Big Enjorlas from ‘Les Mis’ vibes. Mixed in with some Hamilton. There’s a touch of Isabella from Shakespeare’s ‘Measure for Measure’ thrown in there as well. “So men say that I’m intense or I’m insane.” Most likely to yell “Wake Up Sheeple!!” in the middle of a crowded ball. Bisexual AF.  

[conza]

Response To: Why There's a Left-Right Divide among Libertarians

A response to a Mises.org article “Why There’s a Left-Right Divide among libertarians”. 

The distinction between “left” and “right” in politics is absolutely worthless. This distinction has been inadequate from the very beginning and has brought about a lot of misunderstanding. — Ludwig von Mises, The Free Market and Its Enemies: Pseudo-science, Socialism, and Inflation. Irvington-on-Hudson, NY: Foundation for Economic Education, 2004. p. 5

What an absolute woeful article. You can most certainly support the take that libertarians have transcended the false paradigm of left vs. right, and ALSO reject the incredibly poor conception of labelling libertarianism as: “economically conservative but socially liberal.”

If you want to talk idiocy, it's attempting to REDEFINE the left / right spectrum.

[1]

The usual terminology of political language is stupid. What is "left” and what is “right”? Why should Hitler be “right” and Stalin, his temporary friend, be “left”? Who is “reactionary” and who is “progressive”? Reaction against an unwise policy is not to be condemned. And progress towards chaos is not to be commended. Nothing should find acceptance just because it is new, radical, and fashionable. “Orthodoxy” is not an evil if the doctrine on which the “orthodox” stand is sound. Who is anti-labor, those who want to lower labor to the Russian level, or those who want for labor the capitalistic standard of the United States? Who is “nationalist,” those who want to bring their nation under the heel of the Nazis, or those who want to preserve its independence? What would have happened to Western civilization if its peoples had always shown such liking for the “new”? Suppose they had welcomed as “the wave of the future” Attila and his Huns, the creed of Mohammed, or the Tartars? They, too, were totalitarian and had military successes to their credit which made the weak hesitate and ready to capitulate. What mankind needs today is liberation from the rule of nonsensical slogans and a return to sound reasoning.“ — Ludwig von Mises

[2]

For some twenty centuries Western man has come to accept the Aristotelian theory that the sensible position is between any two extremes, known politically today as the “middle-of-the-road” position. Now, if libertarians use the terms “left” and “right,” they announce themselves to be extreme right by virtue of being extremely distant in their beliefs from communism. But “right” has been successfully identified with fascism. Therefore, more and more persons are led to believe that the sound position is somewhere between communism and fascism, both spelling authoritarianism. The golden-mean theory cannot properly be applied indiscriminately. For instance, it is sound enough when deciding between no food at all on the one hand or gluttony on the other hand. But it is patently unsound when deciding between stealing nothing or stealing $1,000. The golden mean would commend stealing $500. Thus, the golden mean has no more soundness when applied to communism and fascism (two names for the same thing) than it does to two amounts in theft.” […] Libertarians reject this principle and in so doing are not to the right or left of authoritarians. They, as the human spirit they would free, ascend—are above—this degradation. Their position, if directional analogies are to be used, is up—in the sense that vapor from a muckheap rises to a wholesome atmosphere. If the idea of extremity is to be applied to a libertarian, let it be based on how extremely well he has shed himself of authoritarian beliefs. Establish this concept of emerging, of freeing — which is the meaning of libertarianism—and the golden – mean or “middle-of-the-road” theory becomes inapplicable. For there can be no halfway position between zero and infinity. It is absurd to suggest that there can be. — Leonard E. Read, Neither left nor right

RE: "The Left, on the other hand, is defined by a devotion to egalitarianism"

Just redefining the whole spectrum will get us all no-where, but moronic unnecessarily conflict. Talk about divide & conquer.

"In addition to our re-evaluation of the origins and nature of the Cold War, we engaged in a thorough reassessment of the whole “left-right” ideological spectrum in historical perspective. For it was clear to us that the European Throne-and-Altar Conservatism that had captured the right wing was statism in a virulent and despotic form; and yet only an imbecile could possibly call these people “leftists.” But this meant that our old simple paradigm of the “left Communist/total government … right/no government” continuum, with liberals on the left of center and conservatives on the right of center, had been totally incorrect. We had therefore been misled in our basic view of the spectrum and in our whole conception of ourselves as natural “extreme rightists.” There must have been a fatal flaw in the analysis. Plunging back into history, we concentrated on the reality that in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, laissez-faire liberals, radicals, and revolutionaries constituted the “extreme left” while our ancient foes, the conservatives, the Throne-and-Altar worshippers, constituted the right-wing Enemy. Leonard Liggio then came up with the following profound analysis of the historical process, which I adopted. First, and dominant in history, was the Old Order, the ancien régime, the regime of caste and frozen status, of exploitation by a war-making, feudal or despotic ruling class, using the church and the priesthood to dupe the masses into accepting its rule. This was pure statism; and this was the “right wing.” Then, in seventeenthand eighteenth-century Western Europe, a liberal and radical opposition movement arose, our old heroes, who championed a popular revolutionary movement on behalf of rationalism, individual liberty, minimal government, free markets and free trade, international peace, and separation of Church and State-and in opposition to Throne and Altar, to monarchy, the ruling class, theocracy, and war. These-“our people”-were the Left, and the purer their libertarian vision the more “extreme” a Left they were. So far, so good, and our analysis was not yet so different from before; but what of socialism, that movement born in the nineteenth century which we had always reviled as the “extreme left”? Where did that fit in? Liggio analyzed socialism as a confused middle-of-the road movement, influenced historically by both the libertarian and individualist Left and by the conservative-statist Right. From the individualist Left the socialists took the goals of freedom: the withering away of the State, the replacement of the governing of men by the administration of things (a concept coined by the early nineteenth-century French laissez-faire libertarians Charles Comte and Charles Dunoyer), opposition to the ruling class and the search for its overthrow, the desire to establish international peace, an advanced industrial economy and a high standard of living for the mass of the people. From the conservative Right the socialists adopted the means to attempt to achieve these goals: collectivism, state planning, community control of the individual. But this put socialism in the middle of the ideological spectrum. It also meant that socialism was an unstable, self-contradictory doctrine bound to fly apart rapidly in the inner contradiction between its means and its ends. And in this belief we were bolstered by the old demonstration of my mentor Ludwig von Mises that socialist central planning simply cannot operate an advanced industrial economy. The Socialist movement had, historically, also suffered ideologically and organizationally from a similar inner contradiction: with Social Democrats, from Engels to Kautsky to Sidney Hook, shifting inexorably rightward into accepting and strengthening the State apparatus and becoming “left” apologists for the Corporate State, while other socialists, such as Bakunin and Kropotkin, shifted leftward toward the individualist, libertarian pole. It was clear, too, that the Communist Party in America had taken, in domestic affairs, the same “rightward” path-hence the similarity which the “extreme” red-baiters had long discerned between Communists and liberals. In fact, the shift of so many ex-Communists from left to the conservative Right now seemed to be not very much of a shift at all; for they had been pro-Big Government in the 1930s and “Twentieth Century American” patriots in the 1940s, and now they were still patriots and statists.“ — Murray N. Rothbard

The way forward is to keep clear the distinction between law & ethics:

“It is becoming clearer and clearer to me that ethical and legal theory need to be completely disentangled and that at the essence of what libertarianism is we find a legal position rather than an ethical position (sure, the legal position can and is combined with various ethical positions, but this does not make the two identical in content). Understanding what rights are (legal) is different than deciding how, whether and in what ways to actually respect them or not in action (ethical). Now when I look back at Rothbard, I am seeing that he effectively was already doing this (some passages above and elsewhere, even in Power and Market), but was still bogged down in the use of the word "ethics” in the effort to distinguish what he was talking about from economic theory (and this usage continues in Hoppe, with the word “ethics” subbing in for what I think is actually “property theory.”). Yet in looking at what they are actually presenting rather than some labels, it is much much more about legal content (definition of property rights), rather than whether or not one ought to violate or respect such rights (knowing what they are being a separate question) on ethical grounds.“ - Konrad Graf

Libertarianism is neither left, nor right - and yet people are not JUST libertarians. Stop trying to project your personal preferences and universalise them. Freedom brings people together. Trying to redefine the current conception of "left" and "right" is moronic and doomed to fail. The results will just be further conflict internally amongst libertarians instead of understanding everyone has their own "cultural" tendencies. This is why there is conflict.

Libertarianism will get nowhere until we realize that there is and can be no “libertarian” culture — Murray Rothbard, Left-opportunism: The case of S.L.S., part one, in Libertarian Vanguard, February 1981, p. 11.

[revoluticn]

( full application / skeleton )

“Have you seen Marceline Ash Pelagius? Her mother is Keeper of Coins - so why is she running around as the Lieutenant of the Guard? It’s certainly one way to throw away your noble status. I heard she completely called off the engagement too. Tragic what happened to her father - but if you ask me he had it coming. Apparently the King finally got his hands on one of his pamphlets preaching about a “new Republic” and had Marius Pelagius run through with a sword. I wonder how far the apple’s fallen from the tree. What a ridiculous idea: replacing the monarchy with a new form of government. Can you imagine?”

about

marceline ash pelagius 

twenty - two 

cisfemale, she/her

bisexual

currently: lieutenant of the guard

formerly: noble & apprentice to the keeper of coins (her mother)

revolter

untrained inferi  

overview (tl;dr)

Born into nobility. Only child. Her mother, Cassandra, is the Keeper of Coins for Tyrholm. Cassandra is of noble birth, but it’s rumored she has pirate blood in her. Marceline’s father, Marius, is a former educator the Bard’s College. His father was an advisor to Octavius Valmont. Marius is now a scholar who focuses on political science. 

Like her father, Marceline is an Inferi. The two of them hide this from all but Cassandra. It’s a secret that brings father and daughter closer than ever. Marceline’s magic is wild and unpredictable.

Marius begins writing political pamphlets in the same vein as Thomas Paine’s ‘Common Sense’ where he outlines the case for a republic form of government instead of a monarchy. He amasses a small group of like-minded individuals.  Meanwhile, Marceline is being raised to be a lady. She is engaged to TEMPERANCE and it looks like she will lead a life in the court of the king like her mother.

One small problem - her father’s radical ideologies are rubbing off on her and she’s beginning to believe in the concept of a republic for Tyrholm.  

When Marceline is 17, Marius’ identity as the pamphlet writer is revealed and he is charged with treason. Marius is ambushed and killed by the King’s men during one of his and Marceline’s camping trip. Marceline manages to survive by playing dead. 

The young woman returns home to a mother. The two woman are enraged. Together they hatch a plot to kill the four men that butchered her father. The Captain of the Guard THE FOOL is one of them. 

Marceline strips herself of her social standing, breaks off her engagement, and joins the Guard. She tells no one why. 

She rises through the ranks fast and soon becomes Lieutenant of the Guard. “The truth has a tendency to make things harsh and unwelcoming, and yet it is the very thing that makes the men here listen to you. They look at you and see someone unwavering in their honesty, merciless with their virtue. It earns you a level of respect that most lieutenants spend their whole lives scrounging for.” The Guard becomes Marceline’s new family. 

Living amongst the citizens of Lowtown makes Marceline realize that the monarchy is bullshit. She finally understands the merit of her father’s work and decides to completely dedicate herself to this revolution. She becomes an outspoken advocate for a republic and is ready to die for such ideals. 

Now, Marceline starting to pick up where her father left off with his pamphlets and hopes they will be of some good to the revolution. She most certainly will rise above and beyond her father’s own ambitions. She’s training up any revolter who wants to learn how to use a sword and doesn’t let anyone second guess her because of her youth. She - once a lady - made Lieutenant of the Guard fair and square after all. Marceline still wants to kill the four men that murdered her father. She loves her mother, who is still Keeper of Coins, and worries for her terribly. Her magic is still wild and unpredictable. But Marceline has never been more certain of her goals in life. Down with the monarchy. Power to the people. 

background

You know this is not a rebellion, you know it’s a revolution. You are born of a noble house, the only child, last of your name. Your mother is revered in court as the Keeper of Coins. She has a mind for finances and business, though you inherit the steel of her spine and the cut of her jib more than anything else. If you trace her lineage far back enough you’ll see that before nobility came piracy and maybe that’s why she’s always been so good with gold. She’s a smart woman with a sharp eye that upholds her family’s reputation by being someone that can sniff out a poor deal or a tampered book with ease. She’s never really sailed the seas, but you can see that she misses it. And thus, so do you. Most of your lullabies are sea shanties and you take your first steps along the banks of Tyr’s Tear. You cannot remember a time when you didn’t know how to swim. Your mother, for some hidden reason, knows how to fight and she is the one to teach you how to use a sword. ‘A cutlass’ she clarifies the first time you call it something else. ‘There’s language used correctly and then there’s language used beautifully.’ Meanwhile, your father is hopelessly bound to the land. More specifically, he is hopelessly bound to his books. He is an academic that is fortunate enough to be born into nobility. His father lived a long life as a trusted advisor to Octavius Valmont. A former educator at the Bard’s College, the birth of you brings about a new chapter to your father’s life causing him to leave the college and spend most of his days in Tyrholm writing, reading, and discussing matters of political science. How he wooed your mother you’ll never know, but because of them you’ll never doubt what love is. If you had to guess though, your father enchanted your mother because no one used language more beautifully than him. Your father has a secret though. When you are four years old, you learn that you’ve inherited it. The two of you are Inferi magi. The fastest way to someone’s heart is through conspiracy and you and your father are bound by this secret you share. He’s spent his whole life hiding this, and he teaches you to do the same. You hate being anything other than outspoken, anything other than untruthful about what you think and who you are, and the only anchor is you know how much he hates it too. The two of you hold tight to something the world hates and work to make it a gift more than a curse. This is what connects you to your father. Inferi magic is destructive, but your father shows you that sometimes that is the way of life. He tells you about the pine-trees that depend on heat to crack open their seeds. He talks about entire forests that are born from the ash of forest fires. Sometimes, in order to make something stronger, you must burn it down; sometimes, in order to make something last forever, you must destroy it. You know the story of the wolves and the snakes, he’s told you it over and over again to lull you to sleep, but he tells you it again now. Political structures -  you are five so you say ‘what’ and he replaces the phrase ‘political structures’ with the words ‘Kingdoms, like Tyrholm’ and you say ‘oh, okay’ - Kingdoms, like Tyrholm, get better, continue surviving, by being torn down and rebuilt. Just like the wolves and the snakes. ‘Let me teach you little one, how revolutions begin.’ He tells you instead of bedtime stories. Your father believes in revolution, in a way that is before his time. He wants to dismantle the monarchy and in its stead assemble a republic government. His political ideology stands stark amongst the beliefs of this world and you are young enough to be enraptured by the optimism of it. Your mother, far better at playing society’s game than your father is, tells him not to speak so loudly about such things when you are not in your home. And it is a nice home. For all of your father’s gripes against King, it seems the current system has given you and your family everything you need. You have all the flourishes that come with wealth: a respectable reputation, a lavish upbringing, a thorough education. You’re a lady and the dresses and the etiquette and the social gatherings don’t let you forget it. In many ways you are like your father, you debate and you discuss and think deeply on things with little regard to how that reflects on your station in life. Your mother is the opposite. She teaches you how to lie and survive within the status quo. You are ten when your father begins writing pamphlets - ‘purely educational,’ he defends - about what a republic is. At least once a month he meets with a handful of like-minded people who are interested in discussing such things and their conversations often go late into the night. They sit tucked away and hidden in the back of a low-lit tavern - and you know these things because you are wily enough to try and follow him one night. Your father catches you and drags you back to the manor by the scruff of your neck like some stray kitten. Your mother is furious - at the both of you. You are sent to bed without any supper and your father sleeps in the library that evening. So goes your life. You become your mother’s apprentice as the Keeper of Coins and she makes it worth your while by teaching you to spar in the evenings. Your footwork improves more quickly than your mathematics, but you’re not too bad at either. Your life as a lady blooms. More lessons, more competitions. You find love, a first love, so you don’t understand that there can be different kinds, and even sour kinds. All you’ve ever witnessed is the warmth between your parents, even in their bickering, and so the most naive parts of you believe this to be true of all love. This routine is almost enough to make you forget about the plights of the kingdom and that you live in a gilded cage. Your father gets bolder in his commitment to a radical political movement. You’re 15 when you start staying up late to help him proofread the pamphlet he writes. The two of you start taking camping trips to the Volkun Forest, so that you may discuss such things freely amongst the trees. Out here, if the wrong word slips out or if a little bit of magic pushes through your fingertips, there is no one to pass judgment. Out here is freedom. You take these trips and your father returns, only to lock himself in his study for the next three days. Sometimes you’ll press your ear to the door when the house is quiet and hear nothing more than the quick and furious scratching of a quill across parchment. Not too long after there will be fresh sheets of radical ideas floating through the city. When you are 17, the fabric of your world is ripped apart at the seams. Your father’s ideas are labeled as treason and the King’s Guard ambushes you in the middle of the Volkun Forest. They run your father through with a broadsword more times than necessary to kill him and he is left in a bloody, bloody heap. You manage to survive by playing dead. It’s a decision you replay over and over and over again. The anger over it lingers for years. You should have lept to your feet and fought, and instead - you chose a coward’s route. You dig a grave for your father using only your hands and still, somehow, you manage the return home. The rage in your mother’s eyes when you tell her complements your deep sorrow. She dries your tears and you dry hers, but both of you agree that no one else will see you cry. Your magic burns in you that night, so hot and unknown that you throw yourself into the river to temper the flames that lick your blood. Your lack of training has never been more apparent than now. At such times you’d ask your father what was happening to you and even if he told you that he didn’t know, the shared loneliness made it bearable. He is not here now, and you must weather this alone. Your mother doesn’t speak for 13 days. At first you think she will never speak again, you have heard of those that die of heartbreak, but you soon realize that she is scheming. “I know what we will do.” She says on the thirteenth day and you nearly drop the sword you are polishing. A plan forms. Together, the two of you plot. How do you kill the men that struck down your father? How do you kill a king? It’s decided that you will join the guard. You abandon your engagement. Like that, you abandon your life. Your reputation is ruined and your mother barely scrapes by. You move out of the familial manor, out of safety for your mother. She’ll still write you letters and you will still visit to sleep in your childhood bedroom, but the two of you agree to keep these instances to once in a blue moon. You move to Lowtown. You know that one of the men you want six-feet under is the Captain of the Guard. When you first ask to enlist, they think you are pranking them, trying to pull the wool over their eyes because some noble has dared you. When you don’t leave though, that’s when they grow from disbelief to skepticism. ‘Why?’ You are asked. ‘Because I dream of a better world.’ Of course you’re met with laughter. You, however, refuse to lie. You stay steadfast in your plot. You wait for their amusement to die down before challenging the man nearest to you to a spar - if he wins you’ll leave and never bother them again. That evening, you bring your cutlass and you win your way into the Guard. After all is said and done you hear a stray spectating guard say to another, ‘She fights like a pirate.’ No one can stop you once you are a woman decided. You spend the next few years putting your head down and doing the work. You become the youngest lieutenant the Guard has ever seen. You are not intimidated by this, you swallow it easily with the knowledge that you are here with a higher calling. The truth has a tendency to make things harsh and unwelcoming, and yet it is the very thing that makes the men here listen to you. They look at you and see someone unwavering in their honesty, merciless with their virtue. It earns you a level of respect that most lieutenants spend their whole lives scrounging for. The world may not be fair, but you intend to make it so. That is seen and that is respected. They listen to you, but more importantly, they trust you. You make it clear that you’ll take an arrow for any of them, parry whatever blow comes their way. When a man is struck down in the field, you’re one of the first to volunteer to tell their family. They start letting you do this by default, your stoic demeanor and steady nature prove to be the exact temperament needed to weather a storm of their family’s sadness. Every time you do this - every time you confront a freshly widowed bride, a newly motherless son - you promise to take care of them. You won’t let their death be in vain, you say. You find yourself caring for all these families as much as you care for your mother. In this way your family grows, and it no longer feels like you are last of your name. All of this goes without mention of the elephant in the room. Your job puts you in painful proximity to the Fool, one of the men that killed your father. However, these days it seems you’re on the same team in more ways than one. Together you lead the Guard, together you declare you’ll fight in the same revolution. You seek forgiveness within yourself, but your heart finds it hard to go back on a judgment once it has passed. You know that striking him down would be a poor move on your part tactically, that it would scatter the men, that it would lead to a different kind of revolt. You don’t want to tear your new household in two just. So you take his name to that list of names you intend to make your way through and shift it to the bottom. That night you begin a new list, one of additional grievances to call upon that specifically the Fool is responsible for and you decide that you will savor and remember these grievances when the day of his death finally comes. You’re intense, you ache for revenge, you age for revolution. Those that would think less of you for the latter are nowhere nearby; they’re far off in some ivory tower. Those that surround you are bolstered by it. Each breath is spent on the growing rebellion, each action is dedicated to felling an empire and an unjust king. You are a flame that keeps your friends warm, you are a fire that chases your foes into action. Living amongst the Guard has taken you out of luxury, out of a life of nobility, and placed you in the thick of a growing revolt. Each citizen of Lowtown comes with their own history, of a life earned through hard work and skill, and you realize that a monarchy is bullshit. ‘Power to the people,’ you think. It’s difficult to remember the girl who existed before your father died. But try and you remember. You’ve still got your family crest, it reminds you of the sea. A mutt wanders onto your path one patrol of the Volkun forest and you swear it looks part wolf. You take him in. Two weeks from now he’ll chase after a snake on your hunting trail and even you will say “Oh come on” at the heavy handed metaphor life has thrown your way. In these ways, the world continues to remind you of who you are. And then, only on quiet lonely nights do you let your mind wander, galloping through the memories back to the day your father was butchered before you. You clawed your way back to the city, clawed your way back to your mother. You’ve defied death once and so hell nor heaven scares you anymore. Buried deep within all your noble intentions is an undeniable truth: you have your revolution, you have your decided aims for a republic, but you would put it all on the line, just to get back at the men who killed your father. You pray to the wolves and snakes you will become a better person. You are not a revolter, you tell yourself, you are a revolutionary.  

[khalilhumam]

The never-ending political game of Malaysia’s Mahathir Mohamad

New Post has been published on http://khalilhumam.com/the-never-ending-political-game-of-malaysias-mahathir-mohamad/

The never-ending political game of Malaysia’s Mahathir Mohamad

By Sophie Lemière Former autocrat and self-reinvented democrat Mahathir Mohamad won the 2018 general elections, but less than two years later, the democratic fairy tales ended. In January 2020, under pressure from internal dissenters in his coalition, Mahathir resigned from the government. The old ruling party (United Malay National Organisation, or UMNO) then came back to power in a new political formation. By the end of May 2020, as Mahathir’s political descent continued, he was expelled from the party that he had founded in 2016. Yet the political genius, who turned 95 in July, has not given up and is continuing to mastermind his way back to power. On October 5, in the midst of a continuing drama among political elites, Mahathir made another U-turn, announcing that he might be (again) running for the next general elections. An election due in 2023 could in fact be called as early as 2021. Could Mahathir come back for a 25th year of rule?

A long career in politics

Mahathir ruled over Malaysia for 22 years and resigned in 2003, promising he would never return to politics. Yet the country’s longest serving prime minister never truly left the political scene and continued to express strong opinions through his blog Chedet (a nickname from his school days). He also kept an important role in UMNO, the party he presided over for years and that ruled over Malaysia for 61 years. Mahathir was, and still is, a controversial leader, perceived in the West as an autocrat famous for his anti-Semitic and anti-Western speeches, most recently by fiercely attacking French President Macron and critics of Islam; he is celebrated in other parts of the world for the same reasons. In Malaysia and beyond, Mahathir is a symbol of the country’s economic successes and its rapid development in the 1980s and 1990s. Despite the contentious politics of his time in office, from his criticism of human rights to his extensive use of patronage, Mahathir has kept a very particular place in Malaysia’s history and in the minds of Malaysians. The younger generation of voters not born during his rule see the man as a wise and experienced leader, and they are drawn to his old patriarchal figure. Older generations have changed their mind over his controversial legacy and, by lack of alternatives, praised his comeback. In 2016, in an unexpected turn, Mahathir resigned from UMNO and founded a new party (Parti Pribumi Bersatu Malaysia, or Bersatu) with his son Mukhriz and current Prime Minister Muhyiddin Yassin. He also allied with the opposition he had repressed under his rule, led by Anwar Ibrahim. Anwar is the leader of the Reformasi movement, which he created in 1998 after having been sacked from Mahathir’s government. He was then imprisoned on charges of corruption and sodomy until 2004. In 2016, the alliance of the two archenemies came as a surprise to most, in a context where Malaysia’s government was under attack for the involvement of its top leaders, including then-Prime Minister Najib Razak, in the world’s largest financial scandal: the 1MDB scandal. Taking advantage of a dramatic political scenario, Mahathir reinvented his narrative to present himself as a political messiah with a democratic agenda, to save Malaysia from “Najib’s kleptocracy.” He promised that, if victorious, he would release the leader of the opposition, Anwar, who had been in jail on new sodomy charges since 2015. A pact was sealed between the two rivals, and Mahathir also agreed to hand over power to Anwar within a few years.

Drama in 2020

In January 2020, power struggles within the ruling coalition — due to Anwar’s eagerness to take over, and Mahathir’s reluctance to let him do so — precipitated what Mahathir coined the “New Malaysia” era to end. The ruling coalition and the entire government collapsed, and with them, Malaysia’s supposed hopes for democracy under Mahathir. His phenomenal narrative did not translate into an effective mode of democratic governance. His political pragmatism did not compensate for his old-fashioned way of rule; nor for the weaknesses of a politically dysmorphic government built on a disparate coalition lacking a clear ideology. While the context of 2018 — characterized by the chaos of the opposition, the pragmatism of desperate leaders, and the frustration of voters — had created a golden opportunity for Mahathir to win that year, these exact same factors (compounded with severe miscalculations and overconfidence) led him to lose power in 2020. In February 2020, after less than two years in power, Mahathir resigned. While Anwar hoped his time had come to take over, the Malaysian king decided otherwise. In March 2020, to end the feud between Anwar and Mahathir, the king unexpectedly appointed a third man to succeed Mahathir: Muhyiddin Yassin. (Malaysia is a parliamentary monarchy, and the king has the constitutional power to appoint the prime minister from within the parliament majority.) Muhyiddin, then the vice president of Bersatu, became prime minister. In early June, Mahathir was sacked from Bersatu, along with four other leaders, including his son Mukhriz. Muhyiddin, co-founder of Bersatu, could not afford another rivalry from within.

What’s next for Malaysia?

Mahathir’s sacking, and the return of UMNO to the government, created new political shifts. After seven months in power, tested by one of the largest pandemics in recent history, Muhyiddin is now in a difficult position, and Malaysia is in a continuing political crisis. Despite relatively sound management of the crisis, Muhyiddin is probably on his way out. His position in the new government coalition (Perikatan Nasional) is relatively weak vis-à-vis the weight and popularity of UMNO, the old ruling party he allied with. Many in the opposition and in his own party are pushing for his resignation and fresh polls. On September 23, Anwar announced he had the parliament majority to unseat Muhyiddin. Mahathir, who created a new party in August — Pejuang, or the Homeland Fighter’s Party — did not support Anwar’s claim. Anwar declared he intended to create a Malay-Muslim government allied with his former enemies UMNO and the Malaysian Islamic Party (PAS), despite tensions between these parties and Anwar’s major ally the Chinese Democratic Action Party (DAP). While Anwar’s move created even further instability, Mahathir and other members of parliament took this opportunity to call for a no-confidence vote to be tabled at the next parliamentary session (due November 6). In response, Muyhiddin attempted to declare a state of emergency as a way to block the next parliament session. The Malaysian king opposed Muyhiddin’s demands, calling the shots for the second time this year. Muyhiddin’s fate is now in the hands of his allies, and specifically UMNO leadership. Without UMNO’s support, the government will fall. Muyhiddin has no other choice but to resign before being pushed out; in this climate, an early general election seems unavoidable. As personality politics continue to take center stage, the emergence of a new generation of leaders seems difficult. Former Minister of Sports and Youth Syed Saddiq created his own political entity last month, Muda, the party of youth; but its popularity has yet to materialize. However, Syed is a fervent supporter of Mahathir, and at age 28 he is not prime minister material (at least in the Malaysian context). With his new party, Pejuang, Mahathir hopes to build an alternative to the Anwar-led opposition. However, the multiplication of Malay-based parties risks further splitting the Malay votes; another possibility is a major return to the mothership: UMNO. In an overconfident move, Anwar recently announced he had the support to switch the parliamentary majority in his favor to unseat Muhyiddin, which has deepened the fractures in the opposition. In what looks like political desertion, Anwar’s image as a reformist is cracking, and the democratic mirage of Mahathir is the sole alternative. While some observers have questioned the authenticity of Mahathir’s democratic agenda, Anwar’s new alliances and attempt to overtake the government have proven he is no longer the democrat he once was. Mahathir’s image of wisdom has been reinforced by the distance he took from Anwar’s attempt to bring Muhyiddin down. At the same time, it’s possible that the opposition’s divisions between the eternal rivals Anwar and Mahathir could mean the return of the old party. At 95, Mahathir is keeping up the fight. Though his chances of returning to power are thin, it is not impossible. In some sense, he has already won against the odds by both masterminding a long and twisted political plot, and by re-writing his legacy as a victorious democrat. Like all people, Malaysians have been hit by the pandemic. The economic as well as political recovery will take some time, time that all sides are taking to regroup, strategize, and plot their next political steps. If Mahathir were to be elected again, it would mean a 25th year in power. Mahathir’s political destiny is uncertain, but he still has a few cards in his hands to keep playing this never-ending political game.

[sonofhistory]

Hey Pressles, what were James Monroe's views on the French Revolution? Why was he apologetic about them?

James Monroe’s observations of the French Revolution in his unfinished autobiography are included at the end of the account of his second mission, and are fully in keeping with his status as an ex-President of America, the last of the Revolutionary Fathers and an unswerving friend of liberty throughout his life.  He draws between the libertarian condition of the French government trough his first mission and the authoritarian character it took on. His account of his first mission shows that he overlooked the authoritarian aspects of France under the Committee of Public Safety and the Directory almost entirely, in favor of placing emphasis upon its revolutionary slogans. The slogans corresponded with his own views and hopes regarding France and were important in the political controversy with pro-British Federalists. 

“The French Revolution … ” Monroe wrote, “… was one of those occurrences which excited in a high degree [of] party feeling.” Monroe understood that the fervency of spirit which was brought in to the United States commenced a great deal of disagreements among the men of the time based on their own political views. “The leaders of that revolution,” he continued, “which manifestly emanated out own, some of whom had served here, were delirious of procuring to it the same result by the abolition of the monarchical form and establishment of the sovereignty of the people. The leaders, in Monroe’s views, were inspired by the American Revolution and his people’s struggle for personal liberty and establishment of a republican form of government. He knew that there was “scarcely a citizen of the United States who did not take an interest in the contest”, this contest being views on the French Revolution. 

Monroe believed that all those of the Federalist party “doubted” the ability of the people to self-govern were opposed to the entirety of the revolution and Democratic Republicans took “knowledge of the obstacle it would present to their view of a hereditary right.” The whole of the Republican Party were in favor and knew the leaders of the French Revolution were “decided republicans.” The Republicans contented itself with “expressing its opinion and wishes for the success of the French Revolution.” However, when it came time to wage war on the foreign nation, “They never thought of engaging in the war in support of it.”

When chosen as minister to France in 1794, serving until 1797, he believed the object of his mission as expressed by President George Washington, the Senate and the House of Representatives was to surpass difficulties between the two governments and “draw the whole nation together in a correct policy and friendly feeling towards his government and country.” In a letter, addressed to the National Convention and written by Washington, he assured France of the great interest which the American government and the people of the Unites States took in the liberty and happiness of those in France, and in the success of their republic. 

In the whole of the French objective, Monroe believe the people of France were engaged in a Revolution which was cemented upon principles “repugnant” to those of the largest nations in Europe and which they had made “considerable progress.” The French people had overthrown the monarchy, dethroned the beheaded their King and Queen, abolished the aristocracy and the hierarchy, and taken “their government … into their own hands.” On the inside, there was no opposition and the government was established throughout the entire country and “the people were enthusiastic in their cause.” Their army was large and numerous, what did they have to fear?

He compared the French Revolution to the end of the Roman Empire and their start of fair government. France had shown its attachment to liberty and tits continued success revolved around depending on itself, “on the purity, the union” and able minds of its counsel in utilizing its vast resources and directing patriotic zeal and devotion of its people to a conclusion. 

With the Revolution, he explained it in the start there were two great parties who had divided the Convention, one of which was coined the Mountain, and the other of the Plain; at the head stood Robespierre, of the latter, Brissot. Monroe, from what he’d heard, distinguished Robespierre was his violence and cruelty while placing focus on Brissot’s moderation and humanity. Robespierre’s faction was impelled by fury of Jacobin societies and its popularity in Paris and would stop at nothing to achieve what it desired. Monroe described Marat as a furious monster who had great influence and contributed to much of the blow up of the revolution. Of course, Monroe felt the need to tell of Marat’s death under the blade of Charlotte Corday’s knife, a woman who he views as one of “high mind” and “bold spirit”. Showing humanity, Monroe did in fact lament the death of one so cause who was justified in wanting to end the reign of Marat. 

Monroe’s views of the French Revolution fit better in the biased classroom sense that is taught today; of the evil, tyrannical, bloody-thirsty Robespierre. By that time, Monroe thought the Jacobins had become “irresistible” and cut off Brissot and other distinguished men. Monroe also made room to illustrate Danton as one who was excited by jealousy in opposing Robespierre for his wild and cruel measures who experienced the fate defined fate. Monroe was shocked by the brutality of the French Revolution, for he’d hoped entirely for its success and had been in France’s favor since engaging with French officers in the Continental Army (among them Lafayette and one of his three closest friends during the army: DuPonceau). “Zealous as the people of France were in support of the great cause in which they were engaged,” wrote Monroe, “and prone as all people are who have just shaken off” the chains of monarchy and fear of its restoration. 

In every address made it made it clear the United States took great interest in the welfare of France and were devoted to its cause of which they were once engaged in themselves. HIs conduct then gave him a old on the community which favored aspects relating to the country and he took great interest in. The parties still existed in the country–especially in theConvention. For many months after the fall of Robespierre he saw the movement to rid of these parties are tranquil. The struggles were great between the French and American Revolutions but each owned his cause to something of different roots. The first was marked by the overthrow of the republic, which was badly organized, but those who labored for it risked everything in this and perished in support of it. The latter was made by people who had long ruled by a “despotic” government and were held in a state of “slavery, ignorance, and poverty” from which they gradually emerged and improved in property, intelligence and every other requirement suited to run an effective free government. 

The success of both, however, depended on the people themselves, who held the control in their hands. One was an internal conflict only. Monroe knew plenty well at European countries feared republicanism because they knew if a mighty power as France was overthrown then it could very well befall them. Monroe sought to be an observer of the revolution and compare it with the revolution he so fought it. 

He believed there were many others out there who were like Robespierre but had unfortunately not shared his fate–Collet d’Herbois, Barrere, an Billaud de Varennes. Monroe was a frequent spectator of the Convention and was in frequent communication with its members and deeply interested in the welfare and success of the Convention. Some members even asked Monroe to prepare for them a translated version of the United States Constitution, to which he complied. 

There were not excuses, believed Monroe, for the way the revolution turned out. Truthfully, later in the life, Monroe was highly embarrassed of his past views of the revolution and the vehemence of which he was established in it. Robespierre, was “precipitated” by his fears of overthrow and ruin of his views. He chose not to dwell on his wrongfully fervency and instead went and judged the Revolution by its reached goals but his attention was drawn to the overthrow and destruction of one party by another. He made it his duty to mark the progress of the Revolution on the establishment of a regular government (particularly he admired the Executive branch) and principles of which it was founded upon. 

[twelvesignsrp]

THE MONARCHY

the fall festival opening ceremonies are a series of games played between various student associations at the school. when the ceremonies are over, whichever association has accrued the most points wins the title of monarchy. the monarchy students \must still fulfill all of their volunteer duties for the weekend as originally planned, but outside of those duties all other students must refer to them as kings and queens and any student who isn’t in the monarchy must obey anything the monarchy tells them to do (within reason, of course). so, for example, if the football team wins, jude and des would be king jude and king des for the weekend, and all other students would be required to do anything jude or des asked them to do until the festival is over. the winning team is almost always a sports team, but sometimes other groups manage a surprise victory!

students will not necessarily be playing on teams with the members of their student associations, however!

the teams for every game are determined at random- the event committee draws names out of a bowl at the start of the ceremony (think hunger games with less murder) to determine who will compete in which games and what teams they’ll play for.

when a team wins a game, all clubs/associations the members of that team belong to get a point (so, for example, if des and jude are on a team together and they win, des and jude’s football team would get two points, and jude’s community garden group would also get one point). the student group with the most points at the end of the ceremony becomes the monarchy.

the highest individual point-earner in the monarchy is the emperor or empress and is the only person who can boss the kings and queens around (so if the football team wins and becomes the monarchy, and jude won the most points overall for the team, jude becomes the emperor and can boss the other kings and queens around).

the highest point-earner who is not on the winning team is named the lord or lady and has the right to boss any non-monarchy students around (for example- if the football team wins and jude and des become kings, but sam earned the most individual points overall, sam would be lord sam and would be able to tell everyone except the football team what to do- the football team could still boss him around, however).

this monarchy thing is a huge deal and there is intense social pressure to participate. if your character refuses to play along, they will likely be ostracized from their student groups. teachers and leaders of student groups also make a big deal about the games. if your character’s parents went to durham, their parents are likely also putting pressure on them to participate, as this is an old tradition.

the monarchy club will be chosen at random! please tell elaina (imogen’s mun) what clubs/teams/groups your character belongs to before the official start of the event (20/9); she will use a randomizer to select the winning team. all characters will be put in a drawing to potentially be named emperor/empress and lord/lady. (note: if you absolutely do not want your character to be emperor/empress/lord/lady, please tell elaina before the start of the event). you can contact elaina via discord or imogen’s inbox.

LASER TAG

all twelve signs characters will, whether they like it or not, be drafted to laser tag. as stated above, even if they absolutely do not want to play and don’t care at all about winning, there will be immense social pressure to participate!

there will be two rounds of laser tag; both will be played in the woods near the school. the first round will be a hybrid version of laser tag with capture the flag. for the first round, the twelve signs will be one twelve-member team. first round prompts have been assigned randomly as follows:

cleo & des: tasked with guarding their team’s flag

sam & faye: tasked with stealing the opposing flag.

imogen & jude: decoys; tasked with distracting the other team from the real flag

justice & dane & sum: tasked with taking out players on the other team.

(note: if we accept any new members as the event is ongoing, assignments will be updated; this goes for all assignments for this event.)

general gameplay info:

all characters will be wearing laser tag gear.

the goal of the game is for a team to steal the opposing team’s flag and carry it all the way back to their own base.

if a character is shot, they must immediately stop where they are- they can walk/run back toward their own base, but they can’t advance toward the opposite team’s base. once shot, a player is unable to advance toward the other team’s base or use their own laser gun for two full minutes; at the end of those two minutes, they will be invincible for five seconds and then will resume normal gameplay.

if a character is shot while carrying the flag, they must immediately drop the flag on the ground; anyone may pick it up and move it, so the flag’s owners could pick it up and hide it again, or a teammate of the person who’s been shot could try to continue carrying the flag back to their own base.

flags may be hidden anywhere within a team’s boundaries- if the flag ever leaves the boundaries of the game, the team of whomever carried the flag out of bounds is automatically disqualified.

flags may be moved throughout gameplay.

this is not a contact sport! getting physical will result in the aggressor’s team being disqualified.

the twelve signs team will lose the first round.

the second round will be played manhunt-style; the team will be split in half and pitted against each other. the winning team will be decided based on either the last man standing or which team has the most people left standing when time runs out. also during this round, characters will not be able to find a hiding place and simply stay put- trackers on the laser tag gear will screech loudly if a person stays within a certain radius for more than two minutes. for the second round, teams have been divided randomly as follows:

cleo, faye, imogen, dane, cora (winning team)

des, sam, jude, justice, sum, alex (losing team)

as this round is a bit more every-man-for-himself and there are no flags to guard/capture, there are no assigned roles on the teams- feel free to come up with ideas together!

note: the winning/losing teams for both rounds were determined by a coin flip on discord.

OTHER GAMES

because there are so many students involved in the festival, there are a lot of games to play!  if you would like to write about your characters participating in other games of your choosing, feel free to do so. possible games include obstacle relay races, human towers, three-legged races, and other team competitions that aren’t “real” sports (there won’t be football or volleyball games, for example, but there might be a game of red rover).

[180abroad]

Day 166: Dachau

Having witnessed the horrifying remains of Auschwitz three weeks earlier, Jessica and I were curious to see how Dachau would compare. It proved to be a very different experience, but the two complemented each other very well. Auschwitz focused on the sheer horror of the Holocaust. Dachau does that too, but at the same time it felt more cerebral--taking time to focus on the social, economic, and governmental failures that allowed the Holocaust to happen in the first place.

The two experiences fit together like bookends. When I stood in Auschwitz, it felt like I was standing at the end of the world. Dachau was the beginning of that end.

It was raining on and off throughout the morning. We had gotten up early to meet at the Radius stand in Munich central station. Dachau is a large-ish town just outside of Munich--closer than the airport and just a short train ride away. The concentration camp is on the outskirts of town, opposite from the train station. When prisoners were brought to Dachau, they would be forced to march through the town, and the townspeople would be forced to come out and heckle them.

We took a bus. It was a regular city bus, which is the only way to get to the camp if you don't have private transportation. Dachau doesn't seem interested in going out of its way to accommodate the flow of tourists. According to our guide, a lot of people in Dachau resent the camp and the tourists. Dachau is a proud and ancient town--settled about three thousand years ago by the Celts who gave it its name--and its people don't appreciate having become synonymous with Nazi genocide. And they certainly don't appreciate the floods of tourists clogging up their streets and buses.

It's an unfortunate attitude from our perspective, but it is an understandable one.

As we entered the camp, we learned that it was originally a munitions factory. It was shuttered after WWI as part of the forced demilitarization of Germany demanded by the Treaty of Versailles. After Hitler came to power, the factory was converted into a training academy for SS officers. Even after it became a concentration camp, the prisoners were kept in a fenced prison behind the academy where locals couldn't see them. Any locals caught snooping too closely would be arrested and sentenced to two weeks' hard labor.

We made our way through the gates into the prison compound, then into the museum occupying the camp's former processing and administration building. As I mentioned, it starts with an impressively thorough depiction of the state of German society in the years following WWI, which allowed Hitler's rise to power in the first place.

The 1920s were a time of shocking social change in the West. Short skirts, jazz music, and sexual liberalism all sprouted up seemingly overnight, shamelessly flouting conventional sensibilities. Cars, phones, and radios revolutionized what it meant to be middle class. Even Germany was doing pretty well, all things considered. American loans were helping the country make its reparation payments to the rest of Europe, and the darkest days seemed past.

Then, in 1929, Germany's fragile economy was shattered by the Great Depression. Things were worse than ever before, and many people began to blame it on the decadent liberalism and "Jewish capitalism" of the '20s. The Nazis saw this pendulum swing back to conservatism, and threw their weight behind it. Hitler offered the German people a message of national pride and a return to traditional values.

The other side of this nationalist coin was racism and fear. Like all of Europe, Germany already had a longstanding history of anti-Semitism, especially in times of economic trouble. Add to that the fear of the Soviets to the east and savage black soldiers to the west--a racist caricature inspired by the presence of African soldiers in the French army.

Of course, racism was in no way unique to Germany or even necessarily worse there than anywhere else. But the Nazis realized--just like countless other authoritarians throughout world history--how powerful fear, anger, and racism can be when combined and directed with purpose.

Meanwhile, the German government was perpetually teetering on the edge of total collapse.

I had never realized just how weak and unstable the Weimar Republic--Germany's democratic interwar government--actually was. Even before the Nazis took over, the German national assembly was paralyzed by parties fundamentally opposed to each other's basic ideals of government. There were parties that supported the republic, parties that wanted a communist revolution, parties that wanted a fascist revolution, and parties that wanted a return to monarchy.

By the early 1930s, two-thirds of the seats in the national assembly were held by these revolutionary parties. The only thing keeping the Republic's constitution intact was the fact that all these parties hated each other even more than they hated it. Legislative logjams were so pervasive that the chancellors had begun to rely on emergency declarations as the only way to get anything done--setting the precedent for Hitler to do the same once he came to power.

Keep in mind that Germany didn't have a heritage of democracy. It had always been an empire--and a proud one. Now it had been forcibly striped of its monarch and molded into a republic by its enemies. It's only natural that many people would have resented the Weimar Republic. Given how badly things were going, some may even have seen it as a hobble slapped upon them intentionally by Allies to keep Germany weak and poor. And they probably wouldn't have been far wrong.

It's no wonder that so many people would have seen a single unified government--any government--as an improvement over the mess they had right then.

Another thing I'd always found curious is how the early Nazis were essentially able to run an anti-government militia with impunity even before they started to wield real power. Imagine a private militia in the US staging an armed coup in a state capital, getting into a deadly gun battle with the police while trying to seize the government, and the leaders ending up with a slap on the wrist and a few years in prison even after being literally convicted of treason. It seems absurd.

But the Nazis weren't the only ones that were doing it. The fascist, communist, and monarchist parties all openly maintained their own heavily armed party militias in defiance of the government.

Part of the reason this was able to happen was that the Germans had an enshrined right to form armed militias. Another is that the government didn't really want to. As early as 1920--years before the Nazis had any significant power--more than half the legislature was controlled by the parties running these revolutionary militias. Lastly, the government didn't have the firepower to stop the militias even if it wanted to.

When the Treaty of Versailles forcibly disbanded the German military, a large portion of the soldiers and materiel were simply spun off into "civilian" militias. The thousands of men who fought for these militias were battle-hardened veterans armed with military-grade weapons. The government, on the other hand, had whatever threadbare police force it could convince to work for them instead.

It's pretty much a cliché at this point to say that the Treaty of Versailles ended the First World War at the expense of making the Second World War inevitable, but I had never really appreciated just how true that statement is. The Treaty didn't just create the socio-economic storm that toppled the German Republic, it threw the Republic headfirst into the storm with two broken legs and its arms tied behind its back.

In a way, though, I actually find that reassuring. Despite the unsettling echoes that have arisen in recent years, the nations of the Western world today have far stronger cultural and constitutional regard for democracy than the Germans under the Weimar Republic ever did. While the lessons of the past must not be ignored, neither should they be allowed to inspire irrational fears and thereby become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

As the Nazis gained power in the national legislature, German industrialists and aristocrats began to support them. They saw the Nazis as a tool they could use to rally support of a fascist government where they would be in charge. After the election of 1930--when the Nazis won the most seats of any party but failed to achieve a majority--these economic power brokers pressured the government to confirm Hitler as chancellor. It was only after it was far too late that the old elites realized that what they had mistaken for a leashed dog was actually a rabid wolf.

This is where Dachau and the concentration camp system comes into the picture. Two and a half years into Hitler's chancellorship, an arsonist attacked the Reichstag--the German capitol building. The fire was set by a radical Dutch communist, who historians generally believe was acting alone in a genuine attempt to undermine Hitler's regime. But Hitler used the situation to his full advantage.

Declaring an emergency situation, Hitler had the leaders of Germany's communist party--his most powerful political opponents--rounded up and put into "protective custody" at the SS training facility in Dachau. This left Hitler and the Nazis with a de facto majority in the legislature and the freedom to enact his policies without compromise.

Five years after that, Germany invaded Poland and the camp system grew exponentially, from a political prison for Hitler's rivals to an industrial machine of mass enslavement and genocide.

In addition to the Jews, Slavs, and Romani, homosexuals were also incarcerated en masse. And we learned from our guide that it didn't take much to be convicted of homosexuality. Any unmarried adult man was at risk of being accused by a social or political rival, and it's now suspected that the vast majority of the men who were arrested and forced to wear pink triangles on their uniforms weren't actually gay at all.

Our guide made it a point to emphasize that the line between concentration camps and extermination camps is a gray one. Every camp utilized slave labor, and every camp performed extermination--the only difference was the ratio each one employed. Dachau had a relatively low death rate of "just" 20%, but the conditions were still heinous.

Back at the entrance of the camp, we'd learned that the infamous welcome phrase Arbeit Macht Frei ("Work Sets Free") was actually a slogan that had long been used in factories across Germany. It wasn't just a false promise of future freedom in exchange for obedient servitude, it was a clever PR tactic to make the camps look and feel like ordinary factory towns--from the outside, at least.

Similarly, the iconic striped uniforms worn by the Holocaust victims were inspired by contemporary pajama designs. As if someone could look at an emaciated figure breaking rocks at gunpoint and think, "How bad can they really have it if they don't even need to get out of their PJs."

But of course those weren't the types of pictures the people actually saw. Another trick we learned about was how the Nazis would stockpile photos of prisoners when they first arrived at the camp and release them slowly to the public as if they were recently taken, giving the impression that the prisoners were being kept fit and healthy.

When prisoners first arrived at the camp, they would be stripped naked, booked, and given a number and a uniform. The uniforms were assigned randomly without regard for fit, and swapping was strictly prohibited. Those given oversized uniforms were the lucky ones--they had spare material to work with if they lived long enough start wearing holes in it. It was the only one they would ever get.

For those who were given an undersized uniform… Let's just say that failing to appear properly dressed for morning roll call was cause for beating--no excuses.

Prisoners were also expected to keep their hair short and tidy, but they weren't allowed to keep sharpened blades. In desperation, the prisoners resorted to tearing their hair out by hand to avoid beatings or execution.

Occasionally during roll call, it would be announced that several prisoners were being released for good behavior. These events were highly publicized to improve prisoner morale and reassure the public that these weren't really death camps. Of course, the "freed" prisoners were almost invariably arrested on new charges within months and sent to a different camp where no one knew them, this time with the branding of a repeat offender. The friends and family members they'd been observed fraternizing with in the meantime tended not to fair too well, either.

Similarly, prisoners were encouraged to write home to their friends and family--whose addresses could then be recorded by the SS for future arrest.

Even if they weren't killed or "released," prisoners never stayed in any one camp for very long. Unlike Col. Klink in Hogan's Heroes, the real Nazis understood the danger of allowing a group of prisoners to stay together in a single camp for years on end. Over time, they will develop loyalty to each other and familiarity with their environment--dangerous ingredients for sabotage or escape. But if the prisoners are constantly being shuffled, never allowed to become familiar with their prison and fellow prisoners, they can never organize into a threat.

And every time a prisoner was transferred, they would be given a brand new identification number that they had to memorize. It was only in Auschwitz where prisoners were given permanent numbers in the form of tattoos, and that was only because they were processing so many people so quickly that tattoos proved more economical than sewing new number patches every time a uniform was recycled.

Our guide made sure to point out the irony that--despite the fact the prisoners' supposedly inferior blood was used to justify this inhuman treatment in the minds of the Nazis--the prisoners were regularly forced to donate blood for transfusing German soldiers on the front lines.

In one of the few barrack buildings that has been preserved, we saw a reconstruction of the sort of bunks the prisoners were made to sleep in. The bunks were divided by wooden panels on each side, forming a series of buckets into each of which ten prisoners were expected to pile themselves every night. Almost invariably, someone stuck at the bottom of one of the beds would be found dead from asphyxiation in the morning.

As we'd learned before in Auschwitz--and before that at the Deportation Memorial in Paris--even under the weight of all this horror, the prisoners found ways to make life bearable. On display in the main building was an impressively elaborate chess set carved from scraps of wood secreted by a prisoner from the workshop to which they'd been assigned.

Finally, we walked across the camp, out through the barbed wire, and into a small, tree-veiled clearing where the camp's gas chambers and crematoria still stand. Dachau wasn't a dedicated extermination camp like Auschwitz, but it still did its share of exterminations.

Inside, we saw the long row of ovens where people were burned--many still alive. As we'd learned in Auschwitz, the poison gas Zyklon B was chosen because it was cheap, not because it was effective. It was even less effective in the cold, and during winter it was all-too-common for people to be carted out of the gas chambers still sputtering with ragged gasps of life. Some were given the dignity of being hanged from the rafters of the crematoria before being put into the ovens. But not all.

Jessica--along with many of the people in our group--could hardly stand to be in that place, and they understandably left after a just a few minutes. I felt compelled to stay a little longer and witness the rest. To one side of the ovens was the gas chamber. To the other side was a room where bodies were stacked floor to ceiling like cordwood when they began accumulating faster than they could be disposed of. There were pictures.

Set even deeper into the forest is the old crematorium--a half-timbered stable filled by a pair of ovens. A faint but revolting smell of char still seems to permeate the wooden beams and paneled walls. No one in our group could stand by the roped-off doorway for more than a minute or two, and not just because we were eager to get out of the rain.

There had been a point before we visited Dachau when, despite our curiosity at how it would compare to Auschwitz, Jessica and I wondered whether we really needed to subject ourselves to another concentration camp visit. Visiting Auschwitz kills something inside of you; it's not an experience you relish repeating. I'm so glad we decided to visit Dachau after all, and I'm glad that we visited the camps in the order that we did. The emotional horror of Auschwitz gave an existential weight to the lessons of Dachau that no amount of signage could convey.

Having seen all we could stand, we made our muddy, slippery way back to the bus stop for a very quiet ride home.

[divanquotes]

John Gardner Wilkinson, Modern Egypt and Thebes: Being a Description of Egypt, 1843

Page 500: 1517. Sultan Selim abolished the monarchy, but left the aristocracy of the Memlooks on certain conditions; the chief of which were, annual tribute, obedience in matters of faith to the decisions of the mufti of Constantinople, and the insertion of the name of the sultan of the Osmanlis in the public prayers and on the coin. And, having settled the new form of government, founded on the previous basis of that already existing in Egypt, he left it in the hands of a viceroy, with the title of pasha. This officer, whose appointment depended on the pleasure of the Porte, resided at Cairo, and governed the country in the name of the sultan; all matters relative to the levying the tribute and transmitting it to Constantinople being committed to his charge. Under him was the divan, composed of twenty-four beys, each of whom governed one of the sanjaks or provinces into which the whole of Egypt was divided: the principal bey having the post of shekh-beled, or mayor of Cairo; and during the absence of the bey, each province was administered by a kachef or superintendent, under whom were the native sheikhs.

Page 501: The Pasha knew that he had excited the suspicions of the divan of Constantinople, which construed his friendly intercourse with the beys into a desire to foment a revolt in Egypt, and thereby render himself independent of the Porte. To execute the order publicly was to run a great risk, and expose himself to a dangerous resistance; to disobey or delay its execution was to expose his own head to the vengeance of the Ottoman divan, and justify the suspicion of his rebellious intentions. After hesitating for some time, and calculating the various chances, Regib-Pasha resolved to employ perfidy towards his friends, the beys. Having posted armed attendants in his palace, he ordered them at a signal to massacre the beys, whilst they were sitting with him at a general council. The fatal blow was partly executed, and three were assassinated; but the others defended themselves courageously, and the Pasha was bitterly reproached for a treason they had so little reason to expect after their mutual friendship.

Page 502: As his justification, Regis-Pasha showed the imperial firman. The Pasha’s life was spared; but he was instantly deposed by the divan of Cairo, who sent to Constantinople to ask for another governor to succeed him. Regis-Pasha was transferred to one of the pashalics of Anatolia, and nine years after was made grand vizier by the Sultan Mustafa Elon Ahmed; in which capacity he had an opportunity of showing his benevolence to Ali Bey, to whom he was principally indebted for his life when deposed at Cairo.

The rise of this remarkable person, Ali Bey, originated in the following circumstance.

Ibrahim Kehia, his master, having taken him, as well as Soolayman, in his suite, when, in the office of Emir el Hag, he conducted the caravan of pilgrims to Mecca in the year 1163 A.H. (1750 A.D.); an event occurred, which recommended them both to the attention of their chief. The caravan was attacked by several tribes of Arabs, and Ali, then Kasher, having put himself at the head of the secret, repulsed the assailants with such courage, that he received the name of Gin Ali, or “Ali the Devil.” On his return to Cairo, Ibrahim rewarded Ali and Soolayman, by persuading the divan to name one of them bey, and the other Kasher. The elevation of Ali to the Sanjakate met with violent opposition from one of the beys, named, like his protector, Ibrahim, but who, bing Circassian by birth, was surnamed e’Tcherkassy, Ibrahim Kehia, however, carried his point, and from thence arose that irreconcilable hatred between them, to be extinguished only in the blood of the latter, who was murdered by Ibarhaim e’Tcherkassy.

Page 503: “It was not without reason that Ali Bey endeavoured to surround himself with faithful and devoted adherents: the terrible vengeance he had just exercised upon Ibrahim e’ Tcherkassy put his life and authority in danger. He had consulted his gratitude to Ibrahim Kehia, and his resentment against Ibrahim e’Tcherkassy, more than was prudent; and the consequence was the resentment of all the beys who were the creatures or the partisans of him whom he had sacrificed to his vengeance. He could only find safety in a precipitate flight to Cairo, and from thence to Syria, where he obtained an asylum with the Mohassel, or Motsellem, of Jerusalem, his old friend. But this asylum could only protect him for two months. The beys, his enemies, had accused him before the great divan of Constantinople, and an imperial firman brought an order to the Mohassel to give up his protégé, and to send him prisoner to the Ottoman Porte.

Page 504: Being informed of this, Ali Bey escaped to Acre, where he made friends with the Shekh Daher, son of Omar, prince of that strong town. Supported by him, and seconded by his friends at Cairo, above all by the ancient partisans of Ibrahim Kehia, in whose opinion the murder of Ibrahim e’Tcherkassy was far from being a crime, he succeeded in having the orders of the imperial divan revoked, and returned the same year to Cairo to resume the functions of shekh-el-beled.

Page 506: El Tantáwee, upon whose fidelity he could spend, was sent with twelve Memlocks disguised as Arabs, with orders to post himself at some distance from Cairo, on the road by which the Kapigi Bashi, the bearer of the sultan’s orders, was to pass. The ambuscade had complete success. After three days’ waiting, the Kapigi Bashi appeared, with a suite of only four men. They were killed and buried in the sand, and the imperial firman was put into the hands of Ali Bey. Having assembled a general divan of beys, he showed them the firman; and having persuaded them that in striking at his head the Ottoman court aimed at the destruction of the whole corps, he advised them to defend their lives, their rights, and their power; adding that Egypt having been formerly governed by other Memlook dynasties, belonged to them, and that this was a favourable opportunity for throwing off the yoke, which the wicked policy of the sultan imposed upon that fine kingdom. The members of the divan were carried away by these arguments; the eighteen beys of his creation strongly supported him, and those even who had signed his accusation did not dare to oppose the general assent. The divan immediately ordered the pasha to quit the Egyptian territory in two days under pain of death, and Egypt was declared independent. “The Shekh el Móhdy was sent to Acre to make these resolutions known to Shekh Daher, and with an express mission to persuade him to join in the bold enterprise. The secretarygeneral of the divan succeeded in his embassy. He persuaded the prince of Acre to assist Ali Bey with all his forces, united to those of his seven sons, and his sons-in-law; and in Syria, as well as Egypt, preparations were made for war. To the 12,000 which had been raised, were joined, not only the 6000 Memlooks of Ali Bey, but all those who composed the household of the hostile beys; who were too weak to refuse their co-operation. The pasha of Damascus, who had received orders from Constantinople to hasten with 20,000 men to prevent the junction of the Syrian and Egyptian troops, was beaten by Shekh Daher, with only 10,000 men, between Mount Lebanon and the Lake of Tiberias (Tabareëh), A.D. 1769. This defeat seemed to terminate the war with the Turks. They sent no more troops, and appeared to have entirely forgotten that a portion of Syria and all Egypt had proclaimed their independence.