#age of reason

[teledyn]

Can you then wonder, that in times like these, when bankruptcy, convicted fraud, and imputed felony, are found in a station not far beneath that of your Lordships, the lowest, though once most useful portion of the people, should forget their duty in their distresses, and become only less guilty than one of their representatives?

Lord Byron Defends the Luddites in his Maiden Speech in the House of Lords : History of Information

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

There is one other possibility to explain the oddity of the Enlightenment thinkers ending up so prominently in the firing line of our era. And that is this: The European Enlightenments were the greatest leap forward for the concept of objective truth. The project that Hume and others worked away on was to ground an understanding of the world in verifiable fact. Miracles and other phenomena that had been a normal part of the world of ideas before their era suddenly lost all their footholds. The age of reason did not produce the age of Aquarius, but it put claims that were ungrounded in fact on the back foot for the best part of two centuries.

By contrast, what has been worked away at in recent years has been a project in which verifiable truth is cast out. In its place comes that great Oprah-ism: “my truth.” The idea that I have “my truth” and you have yours makes the very idea of objective truth redundant. It says that a thing becomes so because I feel it to be so or say that it is so. At its most extreme, it is a reversion to a form of magical thinking. Precisely the thinking that the Enlightenment thinkers chased out.

And perhaps that is why the Enlightenment thinkers have become such a focus for assault. Because the system they set up is antithetical to the system that is being constructed today: a system entirely opposed to the idea of rationalism and objective truth; a system dedicated to sweeping away everyone from the past as well as the present who does not bow down to the great god of the present: “me.”

-- Douglas Murray, “The War on the West”

In the pre-Enlightenment times, the Word of God was authoritative. How he could know was through divine wisdom, inaccessible to no one. God knew everything, and his word was not to be questioned or doubted. 

As we lurch towards the risk of a post-Enlightenment era, the Word of Me becomes authoritative. How “Me” could know is through “lived experience,” inaccessible to no one else. The subjective is the way to know everything, and “my truth” is not to be questioned or doubted.

This is not progress, this is regression.

[bbl-drizzy]

Lead Into Gold - Fell From Heaven

[sabraeal]

Age of Reason, Part 4

[Read on AO3]

Written for PurePassion, the other half of @traditional-with-a-twist, who also won the Obiyuki Madness Kitty! I am not often asked for more of this fic, but I am all too happy to oblige!

The thing is, the ambiance— it doesn’t add up.

Country nights run black as pitch, and the shadows here stretch deep in the stuff, dragging across the marble floors like a tiger’s stripes. The sort of inky darkness so thick a mind might trick itself into think it could leave streaks on a man, that it might even be solid enough to reach out and swallow given half the chance. The kind of endless deep that really gets the small animal of the soul shivering, wondering what might be on the other side— or if there is an other side to find. Toss a dir down a well like that, and you might be more surprised to hear it hit bottom.

That alone could have a man jumping at his own footsteps, thinking he sees ghouls and demons and worse around every corner. There’d been more than a few grifts where Obi had the dark do the heavy lifting, letting a moonless night press in around the kind of men who had more pride than sense. The kind that were eager to prove there was no vengeful spirit lurking around the village hall, or no vampires stalking through their forests in the dead of night. Convincing the shepherd went a long way in convincing the sheep, after all.

But tonight is no moonless night— no, he’d picked an evening where the old lady sat fat in her velvet bower, molting moonlight the way birds might their feathers, so bright there’d been no need for candles, even in the deepest bowels of the manor. No need for any casual passerby to know someone had been poking around the old pile, not when a ghostly princess would soon make her debut. Last thing he’d wanted was folk around here wondering if the ethereal princess had a more earthly in origin.

Picked the first night of the full moon too, just in case he needed to move fast— these Clarinese were always so quick to fall back on reason, once the fear had its time to settle, like water sinking below oil in a flask. There were ways to make skin glow and sigils flare if an enterprising person knew the angles the moonlight would slant through the window and the sort of unguent and powders that would use it to its best effect. The real could become surreal in the right man’s hands, and Obi— well, he’d made himself the right man long ago.

But standing here, staring at this apparition’s ghostly pallor, so translucent he can see where her veins run along the length of her forearms and snake up the column of her neck, blood soaked and flaking from the linen of her nightrail, and well—

It just doesn’t lend itself to the word con man. Or the way her hip cocks, unimpressed, as she cradles that bundle in her arms.

“Ah, miss!” He presses a hand to his chest, sketching the barest bow. She’s no sleeping princess, that’s for sure, but it always pays to be polite. “Con man is such an ugly term. I am a helper of man, a hunter of the unknowable, a—”

“A scoundrel, then.” She sets her bundle against her shoulder, the wailing cutting off with a hitch. It turns to a whine, the blankets squirming in strange, jerking movements. “Or perhaps you prefer ne’er-do-well?”

His hand drops, boneless under that dubious stare of hers. “I’ll have you know I do quite a bit of good.”

“I’m sure,” she says, too polite to be sincere. “I am curious though— what’s the grift, here? The house is closed for the season, but you’ll hardly be able to convince the townsfolk that there’s ghosts in the basement, or werewolves in the orchard. And when the guard find out you’ve snuck past them…”

There’s a doleful little warning in the glance she gives him, one that promises a tour of whatever dark corners the royals like to keep their undesirables in. But it’s hard to feel the threat of it when Obi hadn’t seen so much as a single petal of Wisteria blue since he stepped into town, and he doubts he’s about to see more. “Grift? Miss, I was sent here. Asked— no, begged, really— to come investigate the goings on here at the manor. There’s supposed to be a girl here, spurned by her royal lover and left to sleep for—”

“Ah, you’re a monster hunter.” Her smile’s almost fond when she shakes her head, as if he were a child dressed in his father’s maile, declaring himself a dragon slayer. “I haven’t seen one of those since I left Tanbarun. I never thought one would try their luck here.”

He wouldn’t have if sleeping mistress hadn’t seemed like sure money. “Is that so.”

“I thought germ theory sent all of you scampering back over the border.” Hand rubbing in soothing circles over the bundle, she peers down the hall. “So where is your partner?”

“Partner?” This girl knows far too much for those doll-like eyes. “I’m alone. Why would you think I had—?”

“Because someone has to be the monster, don’t they?” She takes a step, glancing through one of the open doors. “What was it supposed to be? Tragic young maiden, wrongfully killed before her time? Scullion who got in the family way and chose to take her own life, rather than suffer the dishonor? Oh, or perhaps a vampire—”

“With all due respect, Miss,” he blurts out, impatient. “I believe it was supposed to be you.”

“Me?” She doesn’t so much speak the word as shape it, mouth rounding as her gaze drops, tracing the eerie trails of blood winding down her gown. “Oh.”

*

If Obi thought it had been a pain sneaking out, it’s somehow an even bigger pain sneaking back in to Torou’s room. The window’s loud, for one, grunting and groaning as he tries to swing the pane from the sash, nearly slamming back in on his fingers once he does get it open. The company, for the second— and third, since the young lady balks when he offers to hold her blankets and give her a boost, and in the process of strapping it to her back, he discovers it isn’t an it at all.

“That’s a baby,” he hisses, nearly dropping the thing in panic.

“Of course he is.” She turns her head over her shoulder, mouth matching the baby’s disgruntled pout. “What did you think he was?”

Evidence of a mental illness, he doesn’t say, settling instead for, “There, all snug now. Now will you let me boost you up?”

And for the fourth, well…there’s something left to be desired in their reception, too.

“What are you thinking?” Torou squeaks, fingers tights as iron bands where they grip his arm. “You meet a girl covered in blood, and you think we should bring her in on the take?”

“I think we should hear her out at least,” he says, watching the girl linger by the kitchen fire. “Let her warm up a little. Maybe get her a new dress?”

What’s she’s got clings to her in all the wrong places, too stiff and crusted to seem like a second skin, but molded to her in a way that suggest it’ll feel like one when she pulls it off. Torou doesn’t miss it either, a breath huffing out as her arms cross over her chest.

“Fine. One dress.” She casts the girl a long look. “And one night. We can hear what she has to say, but if I don’t like it…”

Her thumb hitches over her shoulder. “That’s all I ask.”

*

“Oh…” There’s a chair drawn up before the fire— he’d dragged it there himself while he waited, not quite sure why he bothered. At least, not until the girl sinks down into it with a sigh, stretching out her legs until the joints crack. “Feels like I haven’t done that in ages.”

The baby’s still in her arms, sleeping now, small face tucked up against her chest. It— he grunts every breath or so, little frown furrowing deeper with each one, an old man’s face writ in smaller lines. It doesn’t seem possible for someone to be that tiny, to be that new and be out in the world with only a few scraps of cloth to keep him safe.

“Ah, I don’t mean to be rude, but…” Her head tilts back to look at him, hair shining penny-bright in the firelight. “Do you happen to have some…something to eat?”

Torou glances at him, unimpressed, before telling her, “There’s some stew I can warm up. Bit of bread too, if you don’t mind it’s a bit stale.”

“Oh!” Her breath hitches. “That…that would be quite enough, thank you. I don’t have anything to pay you, but I’m sure I could, um…?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Obi tells her, feeling the weight of the purse at his belt. “It’s on the house.”

There’s not a drop of noble blood running through Torou’s veins— neither of them; if he knows one thing, it’s that for sure— but she could give the finest countess a run for her money with the arch on her brow now, a look so loud he practically hears, ‘Oh, is it now?’ echoing in his ears. He gives her a charming smile, his best, and only budges that brow a bit higher.

“On…?” The girl’s cheeks flush, not perched all pretty on the apples of her cheeks, the way a prince’s mistress should, but splotchy like a farmer’s daughter. Not ideal for running this grift, but beggars can’t be choosers. Not like vengeful ghosts were given to be bashful anyway. “The kindness is appreciated, but I couldn’t presume to…” Her head shakes, though he doesn’t miss her glance toward the pot, all hunger. “This is a place of business.”

Between one blink and the next, Torou changes; stubborn giving way to surprise, then gives way to a different sort of stubborn. She’s already reaching for a trencher when he says, “Seems a fair exchange to me, miss…for a name.”

She hesitates now, one arm squeezing tighter on the babe, shoulders hunched as if her slight body could protect him from anything more substantial than a breeze. “…Shirayuki.”

He mouths the name, oddly familiar on his lips. A nice one, even if it doesn’t come with a last name to match. Not all do, where he’s from. He certainly doesn’t have one to give. “And him?”

She’s more eyes than face— probably even was even before that babe of hers pulled every last scrap of life from her it could— and all of it glances down to the bundle in her arms, a pink, wrinkled face pouting out from the swaddle. “I…” Her voice is so soft he hardly hears it over the scrape of the ladle. “I don’t know yet.”

Torou bustles over to her, thrusting the bowl between them. “Not going to name him after the father?”

It’s a cheap ploy, but an effective one. The sort they’ve made their bread and butter on for years, spooling out reason and rumor alike from the townsfolk they fleece, using every last thread of it to weave their grift. Except on this girl— this Shirayuki— there’s no crying or raging, no nothing. Just a tightening of her mouth and a small furrow carving itself between her brows.

“I don’t think,” she says, so carefully, tightening the makeshift swaddle around him, “that would be a good idea.”

Torou’s mouth goes a little pinched too. “You can’t eat and hold that thing. Here,” she says, holding out her arms. “Let me take him. Just for a minute.”

The girl shrinks back, eyes measuring the distance between Torou’s outstretched hands and the door. Whatever number she gets can’t be compelling.

“Listen,” Torou sighs, cocking a hip. “If he’s going to eat, you got to too, right? Can’t do that without both hands.”

Obi’s mouth twitches. “Unless you want me to feed you, Miss. I’d be happy to serve on bended knee, if only you said—”

The girl can’t get the babe into Torou’s arms fast enough. “Thank you.”

Her mouth twitches, meeting the babe’s eyes. “Don’t mention it.”

*

“Tell me you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Torou mutters, jogging the baby boy up on her shoulder. He’s fussing quiet-like, not enough chest to make the full-bodied shrieks a bigger babe could, but he’s grunting— whimpering, really— nosing around Torou’s neck like if he roots hard enough, he might find his mother.

He holds up his hands, the picture of innocence. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“You don’t got to tell me that.” Her gaze darts over to where the girl sits, digging into her stew slowly, methodically even, but still— there’s an intensity to it. An urgency. Probably can’t remember the last time she ate, but she’d rather die than give that away. He’s seen it before— hell, done it before. “But I mean under all that not thinking. Tell me you’re not going to…”

There’s no need to say the words, not when they both know— “She’s perfect.”

“Are you nuts?” she hisses, so close to shrill he nearly shushes her. The baby does it instead, whining into her shoulder, little limbs jerking where he rests. A hand to the back soothes him, but Torou still glares, so tense that mane of hers nearly stands on end. “We don’t know anything about her.”

“Come on.” His charm might be wasted on Torou, but reason wouldn’t be. “This isn’t like our other jobs. These people actually knew the girl. We can’t just stuff you in a nightgown and hope for the best.”

“And what’s to say she’s got the look anymore than I do?” she sniffs, chin taking it most stubborn angle. “Sure, you found her in that creepy old pile. Sure, she was covered in blood. That’s doesn’t make her…her…”

She glances down at the kid, strangely pale— and even more strangely silent.

“Look at her. She’s so thin you can practically see through her. Put her under the moonlight with that bloody dress and even I thought she could be…” He clears his throat. “Red hair too. Not easy to find in these parts.”

Though he could have sworn he saw it recently. Not as apple-bright as this, but still, something close. Kissing-cousins. Family.

“You can dye hair,” Torou mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. No conviction. He’s got her hooked, now he’s just got to reel her in.

“To that color?” His shoulder bumps her, drawing a gurgle from that sleepy baby throat. “Come on, it’s not like we have better plans. What’s the harm?”

Torou stiffens, a palm absently rubbing over the baby’s back. “What if you’re right?”

He blinks. “What?”

“What if…?” She licks her lips. “What if this isn’t a coincidence?”

A scoff escapes him before he can catch it, which means he has to commit. “You can’t really think she’s the mistress, can you? Torou, you—?”

“I know what I saw,” she growls, voice pitched low. “She was cursed, Obi. And no one knows why! What if…what if they find out she’s awake and—”

“Torou.” His hand weighs heavy on her shoulder, trying to ground her, to recognize it’s earth under her feet. “We make up all our grifts! There’s never been a vengeful ghost, or a werewolf, or a…a cursed princess. They’ve all been parts you play!”

She shakes her head, all eyes when she looks up at him. “But the best lie has a grain of truth in it. What if…what if we’ve finally found ours?”

Obi frowns down at her, a strange sense of dread knotting in his gut. “We know what this world can do, don’t we? And if it could do something like that…”

Then maybe it wouldn’t be just the two of them. Or maybe they wouldn’t be here at all. A little bit of magic could change everything, once a body started to believe.

“We’ve made a mint making other people fools,” Torou says finally. “But I’m telling you, Obi. If we get involved with this girl, we’ll be the bigger ones.”

He’d love to get the last word in on that one, to tell her she’s just being as gullible as their marks, but he can’t get a peep out, not when the little man on her should rears back his head and wails.

“Oh!” There’s only the trencher left in the girl’s hands when she turns back, already half-eaten. “He must be hungry.”

It’s Obi that lifts him from Torou’s shoulder, letting a grin tilt his lips. “Hey, Miss,” he starts, patting the little guy on his back. “Tell me if you’ve heard this one before…”

[truckman816]

Thomas Paine (1737-1809) Founding Father🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸🇺🇸

—author of: •Common Sense (1776) •Age of Reason (1794) •Rights of Man (1791) •The American Crisis (1776)

[biboocat]

Thomas Paine uses reasoning and the inconsistencies, lack of evidence, and horrors in the bible itself to go far in dismantling religious superstition and institutional religion in The Age of Reason. He identified as a deist, but he lived before Darwin’s discoveries. Had he known of evolutionary biology, I am convinced he would have been an atheist. Highly recommended.

[y0ur-maj3sty]

”The Christian religion and Masonry have one and the same common origin: both are derived from the worship of the Sun. The difference between their origin is, that the Christian religion is a parody on the worship of the sun, in which they put a man whom they call Christ, in the place of the sun, and pay him the same adoration which was originally paid to the Sun. In Masonry many of the ceremonies of the Druids are preserved in their original state, at least without any parody. With them the sun is still the sun; and his image in the form of the sun is the great emblematical ornament of Masonic lodges and Masonic dresses. It is the central figure on their aprons, and they wear it also pendant on the breast of their lodges, and in their processions. It has the figure of a man, as at the head of the sun, as Christ is always represented.”

-Thomas Paine

[ihatecoconut]

ok folks i am about to try and write a commentary on thomas paine's age of reason without actually reading it so wish me luck

[fallentechnate]

a 17th century ‘flap’ anatomy sheet, from Johann Remmelin

(source: )

[resourcefulsatan]

Free Resource: Sacred-Texts.com

I love this website to either find obscure texts when I come across a reference to something new to me or to browse the NUMEROUS categories for interesting/weird stuff. All categories in the tags.

[rosario-aurelius]

Love Under Will: An Introduction to Thelema and Its Antecedents

When Aleister Crowley coined the term “the aim of religion, the method of science,” he was advancing the tradition of humanism for the reunion of science and religion into what Eliphas Levi called the catholic or universal religion of humanity. The aim of scientific illuminism is the advancement of uniting these seeming opposites into a fabric whose unit, based on scientific analysis and…

[aguyor]

WALANG EKSEPSYON

Sa isang sibilisadong lipunan, anumang ideya, konsepto, o paniniwala (relihiyoso man, pilosopikal, o pampulitika) ay hindi eksepsyon sa pamumuna, pangungutya, di-pagsang-ayon, pagsalungat, —at oo, maging ang ating WALANG TAKOT NA KAWALAN NG PAGGALANG.

Nauunawaan ng isang sibilisadong lipunan na ang kalayaan sa pagpapahayag ay paraan ng pag-unlad ng ating lipunan — sa pamamagitan ng pagtatanong, pagpuna, panunuya, at pagsalungat sa ilang itinatag na pamantayan o paniniwala.

Kahit sino ay maaaring hindi igalang ang mga ideya, konsepto, o paniniwala (relihiyoso, pilosopikal, o pampulitika) —ngunit hindi ito nangangahulugang hindi ka nila iginagalang bilang isang tao, o ang iyong KARAPATAN na hawakan ang iyong mga opinyon, paniniwala o pananampalataya. UNAWAIN ANG PAGKAKAIBA.

Maaari kong hindi irespeto si Superman o Zeus dahil lahat sila ay pawang mga ideya lang o konsepto (gaya na rin ng anumang pinaniniwalaang entidad, mga diyos o relihiyon). At wala sa aking katuturan kung ma-offend ang mga tagasunod ni Superman or Zeus dahil ito ay parte ng aking karapatan, kalayaan at kasarinlan bilang indibidwal.

[hkunlimited]

Buddhism: Rational if not Scientific 

There is nothing mystical about Buddhism in its essence. The Middle Path is all about rationality, ratio, ratiocination, and rations. All of which is to say that Buddhism is a rational philosophy, surprise surprise. All the fancy metaphysics came later, as did the elaborate superstitions and multiple realms of heaven and hell. So, if that’s what gives your life meaning, then that is convenient.…

[sabraeal]

Age of Reason, Part 3

[Read on AO3]

Wherever these brambles came from, they don’t let up. He paces a knot of them up the lawn, sinuous vines and woody spines tracking across nearly a half mile before it spills up the grand entrance. It reminds him of nothing so much as a wave crashing against breakwater, less like it grew there over time and more like it hit the stone at speed.

An eerie look to be sure, enough to send a shiver through him, a little thrill from the unknown-- but he’s made a career of making the natural seem supernatural. He won’t be chased away by a rose bush that just needs a good prune.

So the door’s not the way in, that’s fine by him. Only amateurs need an invitation like that. If Torou managed to weasel her way past these vines, then there’s got to be some place that’s not covered by them. He’s just got to keep his eyes open, let opportunity show him a window.

That’s how it’s always been, hasn’t it? A life full of closed doors and the will to make himself some windows. Nothing he can’t handle.

“Come on, now.”

It’s no trouble to break her grip; Torou’s got strong hands, same as him, but he’s got half a foot and a lifetime performing feats of strength for village grannies. But no amount of muscle keeps her from leaving her mark, the memory of her fingers still red and hot against his skin. Hell, there might even be a bruise, when all is said and done. Good thing all the louts downstairs will just see it as evidence of a good time, if they see it at all.

“You know how it can be in those places,” he wheedles, rubbing at his wrist. “Folk think they’re cursed for a reason. Sometimes your head just--”

Torou advances on him, sending him stumbling over a chest-- one all carved up, like the ones girls make before they’re married, filling it up with hopes and dreams and matching linen. How far it’s fallen in the world to be relegated to holding Torou’s chemises and lies. “It’s not just in my head. I saw blood--”

“Maybe so.” He wards her off with a wave of his hand. “Or maybe this place has you so spooked you saw shadows--”

Her eyes arrest him before her words do. “I know what blood looks like. You know that well enough.”

It’s torture to hold her gaze for so long, to know she’s got the same stench caught in her nose, that terrible copper and rot. To know that when she looks at him, she sees the same sheets piled high on a pyre.

Good thing she looks away first. “Besides, what about the screaming?”

He shrugs, “A fox, maybe.”

“A fox,” she deadpans. “You think a fox--?”

“I think there are tales enough of them sounding so like a child they spook fishwives.” He takes a lean on the chest, like he’d meant to sit there all along. “Now come on, are you really not going to help me case this place?”

“There’s not enough gold in the treasury of Tanbarun to make me set foot in that place,” she confirms, arms folded forbiddingly across her chest.

He snorts, shaking his head. “With that prince of theirs, I doubt there’s much left in there anyway.”

“Not enough in Clarines’ coffers either. But I’ll be here when you come back crying.” Torou’s mouth curls, fear giving way to superiority, to a level of spitefulness that scares him more than any of her shivering could. “I’ll even forgive you if you tell me I was right all along. But only if you get down on your knees and beg.”

By where the moon sits, heavy in the sky, nearly a half hour’s passed, and he’s paced enough of the manor to form a suspicion. A hunch, really, one that tells him for all her moaning and groaning and carrying on, Torou never set a single foot inside this place.

“Bloody floors my ass,” he grunts, a bit of trellis coming away under his hands when he tries his weight. “A fox was too generous.”

It’s all the same on every side he’s looked at: brambles climbing up the manor’s walls, choking out the windows at every turn. Unless he’s willing to stick around and do a little pruning, his best bet is the second floor, and that’s beset by its own problems. Namely, every scrap of wood around here’s rotted through, breaking to splinters under the barest grip. In Tanbarun, he might have relied on a decorative tree to give him a branch up, but Clarines--

Well, their reputation ran more toward miles of pristine lawn, interrupted only by the geometric patterns of their pathways and an improbable amount of fountains. Their gardens were more of sculpted marble than hedge, the most nature they allowed near their homes being the carefully curated blooms that required replanting every year. For them to allow a tree-- a plant that might require compromise-- to grow right where royal eyes might see it? Impossible.

And unless Torou found some way to walk through walls, getting into this place was the same. At least, not without some planning. Or maybe--

Or maybe just an open door. Just like the one in front of him.

It hangs belligerently ajar on its hinges as if to spite the briars that attempt to hold it closed, a hefty door made for servants’ use. Been sitting that way for weeks by the look of it, the broken branches already healed to stubborn tendrils, reaching for each other across the gap. Too long ago for the work to have been Torou’s, but she must have made use of it.

Might have been nice if she told him. The night’s wearing on, and he’s got plenty to do before dawn.

It takes a little finagling to get himself through the door; he’s not a big man, not by any means, but there’s a reason Torou’s the one who plays their consumptive young maidens now. Even within the brambles barring the way, it’s a trial to slip his shoulder between the door and jamb and lever it open, green wood snapping and hinges groaning as he makes just enough space to squeeze into the hall.

The space is narrow; not meant for the princes who summered here or their storied mistresses, but for the domestics that served them. A way to move invisibly about the manor, never bothering their master with the sight of a commoner in their midst.

The passage leads him up a back stair, and that-- that leads him into the bedroom. He can tell that much, even as dark as it is, the gauzy bed curtains glistening like cobwebs in the bare light. The stench of moldering fabric sits thick on the air, unpleasant enough that he has to cover his nose to continue.

But continue he does, right over to the drapes, and when he pulls one aside--

“Fuck me,” he mutters, hands dropping to his sides. “We’re rich.”

He’s seen places like this before, houses left abandoned when the young master gambled his fortune on cards or horse-- or, in a few cases, wives-- but those were always picked over, carcasses cleaned before the shrouds could settle. But here, here--

It’s untouched. A thick layer of dust coats every surface, from the carpets to the wall hangings, but still, he sees the shine of silver, the wave of fine silk. A king’s ransom in this single room alone, and all theirs for the taking.

“Who cares about some mistress,” he laughs, brushing his fingers over the vanity. Enough dust collects under his fingertips to make a mouse. “We just need a cart.”

Beneath his touch, something clatters to the floor, that same heavy clink as metal hitting wood. A hairbrush, he realizes, silver-backed and engraved. Strands shimmer as he lifts it, thick and gold, like it was spun from a wheel. Strange that the servants didn’t clean it.

Stranger yet that they didn’t take it with them.

An uneasy knot ties itself in his belly, growing tighter when he catches sight of the mirror as well, tarnished and forgotten. Shoes too, left right on the carpet, and a dress draped over the bed. Simply abandoned there, as if-- as if everyone simply got up one day and left.

Ah, but that’s-- that’s ridiculous. He’s letting Torou’s tale get to him. Blood and screams and monsters that go bump in the full moon’s light.

With a shake of his head, he comes back to himself, moving toward the hall. He’s got to be some sort of stupid to listen to something like that, to think there’s anything more at work here than a prince who spent his allowance too much too fast, and a girl who got put out on her rear without so much as a by-your-leave. Nothing more than a jackass whose pockets were lined with far less silver than he’d counted on.

“Some cursed manor,” he laughs, the knob twisting easily beneath his hand. “I haven’t even seen one drop of...”

Black mars the parquet, matte and dried. A strange pattern; one part rounded, followed by a bulky, almost crescent shape. It’s curiosity, not sense that drives him into a crouch, the moonlight scintillating across the floor until it catches the five small, oblong shapes above it, like a child’s thumb prints.

No, he realizes, every muscle stiffening as he stares. Like a foot print. And when he looks up, there is another, and another, and another-- a dozen padding across the gallery, and try as he might not to notice--

Ah well, he know the look of blood well enough. Even the kind that’s long since dried.

If there’s one downside to their little display this evening, it’s that Torou’s impatience saw him upstairs before he could have more than a sip of stew. An older man might be able to unbend his pride enough to leave the room before service ended, but well-- he’s young enough yet, and the last rumor he needs getting out is that the stranger doesn’t have staying power. It’s the sort of thing that really puts a damper on the victory celebration after all is said and done.

He’s not in the habit of eating on the job, but by all accounts, it’s a bit of a hike out to the old manor. He wouldn’t consider this tavern flush, but it certainly does enough business not to miss a stale roll and a slab of cheese. Maybe they might notice the slice carved from the roast, but he has coin enough to pay if it comes to it, and enough charm to see it never does.

“Nanaki?”

He startles, shows scuffing against the cobbles. In the moonlight every face looks different, but this one-- it’s earnest, eyes filled with a sadness the drink never quite filled. “Ah, Shuuka was it? I thought everyone had gone home.”

“I had,” he says slowly, as if every word’s an effort. “But I thought...ah, never mind. I didn’t expect to find anyone out so late.”

“I found myself...energized this evening.” He lets his mouth curl, stopping just short of a leer. “I thought I might go and see this manor.”

Shuuka blinks. “In the dark?”

“Some curses are more apparent by moonlight than they are under the Lord’s grace.” He tries for a gracious smile, but by the man’s concerned expression, falls short. “No need for worry! I am amply supplied to face any ungodly creature, no matter its kind. And--”

“Can you do it?”

“Of course I can! ” This is the part that’s always come easy, the act that never fails. Confidence is a coat he always carries, certainty a snake oil he never tires of selling. “There’s never been a curse I couldn’t cure, nor spell I couldn’t scuttle. Just give me a few nights, and I’ll have your princess--”

“No.” Shuuka closes the space between them, eyes dark in the night, searching him. “Can you help her? Really?”

“I...” He swallows, urging his mouth to wet, to let his tongue do something besides sit dead behind his teeth. “I’ll do my best.”

He nods, firm. “That’s all I can ask.”

With a smile and shaky as his knees, he pats the man’s shoulder as he passes, striving for good humor. “But maybe you should keep those lips puckered, just in case I need a good dose of True Love’s Kiss.”

A laugh saw out of him, more moan than mirth. “Oh, mister, I don’t think any of us believe in that sort of business around here.”

He lifts a brow. “But you do believe in sleeping princesses?”

“Well.” The man shrugs. “We live in an age of reason. We only believe what we see with our own eyes.”

There’s no earthly reason for him to follow those feet, not a one. Sense tells him to just turn on his heel, to fill up his pockets with all the silver he can carry and leave. He signed up for an empty house and full purse, not-- not this. And yet, yet--

He does anyway. Curiosity killed the cat and all that. He can only hope that satisfaction will keep its end of the bargain on this one.

One after the other, he traces them back, ball to toe. They loop back on themselves, as if-- as if the person were returning to a fixed point like a pen to an inkwell, refreshing itself before walking out again. It only takes him turning the corner to see just where.

I’ll even forgive you if you tell me I’m right, Torou had said, and oh, he hopes that’s true, since the hall it’s-- it’s covered. Large swaths of black, a river that turns itself into footprints only at the end, like a mermaid emerging from the waves. Only what might arise from something like this--

There’s an explanation, there always is. Paint, maybe, or pig’s blood. Gallons of it, tossed on the floor. Maybe to keep thieves like him away. Maybe the townsfolk guessed at Torou’s purpose, and they set this up, a little trap to see if the barmaid was as sincere as she seemed.

He almost lets himself believe it, he truly does, until he follows the dried trail through the doorway, right into-- into--

A bedroom. A bedroom coated in dust, just as the other had been, only the floor disturbed, and-- and

The bed. The bed whose curtains have been pulled aside, and for a moment, believes the sheets are red. Expensive silk, shimmering in the moonlight.

What a fool he can be, just like the ones he empties the pockets of. It’s no red silk, but white, only-- only--

They’re soaked through.

He has only a moment to notice, only a single moment of sanity-- for that is when the wail begins.

“Kage.”

He turns one last time, meeting Shuuka’s gaze. There’s something different in it now, something both resigned, and yet determined. A fire lit at the same moment another banks.

“Whatever it is that you do,” he says, voice so low it might well be the breeze. “Please help her.”

There are things a man sees when he wanders the road long enough, especially when he wanders them advertising his ability to help the helpless, to make sense of loss or misfortune. Most often it’s just people down on their luck, or sometimes grudges taken too far. There’s been more than one shirt-rending confession when Torou makes her debut, a haunt bent on revenge.

He likes those ones, to tell the truth. There’s no guilt for him when they empty a village’s coffers-- it’s a tax, Torou’s so fond of saying, one only idiots pay-- but there’s a nice feel to it when not only is a ghoul laid to rest, but a mystery too. Funny what a torn up conscience can make of a body done up in paint and powder.

But sometimes, sometimes-- it’s worse. Just as there are places too far out for the law, too far out for reason, there are others that are too hidden for decency as well.

They don’t tell those stories, him and Torou, don’t talk about it. They just quietly take up their bags and leave town, and they hope-- sometimes they even pray-- that it won’t follow them. The townsfolk they meet may be afraid of monsters, but the two of them, well...

There’s nothing a monster can do that a man can’t do and make crueler besides.

And right now, he’s pretty sure he’s walked himself into one of those times. Please help her, that man said, and he--

Lord Almighty, he thought at least if he found a body, it wouldn’t still be bleeding.

Not that he has. Not that he plans to, not unless he wants to be the stranger caught holding the body when the constable comes.

The wail picks up again, louder now, but his curiosity has run dry, his only interest how quickly he can make it to the stairs without implicating himself further--

A plan complicated by the woman in the hall, pale as a sheet, hair as red as the blood staining her gown.

“Ah,” he breathes, heart beating hard in his throat. She looks pretty good for a corpse, he’s got to admit. “Hello?”

She blinks at him, eyes so wide he can see the green in them even from where he stands. “Are you-- are you his?”

Whose is hardly the right answer, not to this ghoul standing at the end of the corridor, her arms squeezing tight around the bundle in her arms. Instead he lets himself smile, lets his voice echo off the molding as he says, “I do not know of whom you speak, my lady, but I am Obi, the itinerant traveler, and I have come to--”

“Oh,” she deadpans, mouth pulling flat. “You’re a con man.”

[mishalogic]

John Farnham - Age of Reason (High Quality)

Song for the moment ... Misha

[jibokhn]

"The Enlightenment: Unveiling the Intellectual Renaissance of the 17th and 18th Centuries"

The Enlightenment, a transformative intellectual movement that flourished during the 17th and 18th centuries, stands as a beacon of reason, inquiry, and human progress. Often referred to as the “Age of Reason,” this era gave birth to revolutionary ideas that would reshape societies, challenge the status quo, and lay the foundation for modern governance, science, and philosophy. The Philosophical…