Vec
DracoLunaris
Neziul
icmasticc
Fetzen@Commodore Approved my dood, you can move your sheet to the character tab and start posting IC
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"Though we escaped the illusory grasp of Cheyenne territory, Slim's powermongery only grew in fortitude. Days were counted by his watchful eye, nights by his abrasive bacchanalia, and I became trapped under fear, doubt, and ignorance. But still we pressed westward to California, to our promised land, like the Israelites and the forebears of America, who cast off the shackles of unjust society to make for the desert wild. This hope became embodied in my son, Josiah, the cynosure of my happiness and my only devotion. As despots are want to do, Slim became jealous of devotion to any but himself.
He became increasingly aggressive to me, knowing full-well of my doubts in his leadership, turning my widowhood to mockery and my motherhood to sin. I suited the role of the outcast, and where I was once the chaste pastor's wife, I was now a nigger-loving harlot.
One night, Slim stumbled into my tent, and I was woken by the cries of my son, as well as the reek of whiskey and bourbon. I sought to shout, but found my screams stifled by his greased hand covering my mouth. The hypocrite, who so warned me of Julius's imminent savagery, now sought to defile my honor he professed to protect, and revealed himself the true rapist. He held a knife to my neck, and warned that were I to make any further noise, he would splatter my child's blood upon the tent's canvas, and so I resigned myself to my fate. But the Lord has a strange sense of justice.
I had closed my eyes when I felt Slim lifted from my body before his pants could fall to his ankles, and opening them, saw the scrawny Carolinian tossed to the ground outside my tent. Atop him was a black ghost illuminated by candlelight; Julius, who had taken the bowie from his hand, and was stabbing it into his chest whilst the drunkard screamed in agony, then fell silent into the arms of the devil. I sat by watching, shaking with perspiration, tugging tight to my sheets. After all life had been drained from Slim, Julius stood up and looked back at me, silently. He was covered in blood, and his once Adonis-like face was now gaunt and wild. His clothes, the same as the last I had seen him in, were torn to rags, and one of his eyes had been shredded from its socket. I said nothing, he retreated to the shadows, and my silence remained as the whole of the camp came and questioned me as to what had transpired.
The next day, we pressed onward, Julius having vanished. To California, our hope. To Esperanza." - Eliza Montgomery, Autobiography
He became increasingly aggressive to me, knowing full-well of my doubts in his leadership, turning my widowhood to mockery and my motherhood to sin. I suited the role of the outcast, and where I was once the chaste pastor's wife, I was now a nigger-loving harlot.
One night, Slim stumbled into my tent, and I was woken by the cries of my son, as well as the reek of whiskey and bourbon. I sought to shout, but found my screams stifled by his greased hand covering my mouth. The hypocrite, who so warned me of Julius's imminent savagery, now sought to defile my honor he professed to protect, and revealed himself the true rapist. He held a knife to my neck, and warned that were I to make any further noise, he would splatter my child's blood upon the tent's canvas, and so I resigned myself to my fate. But the Lord has a strange sense of justice.
I had closed my eyes when I felt Slim lifted from my body before his pants could fall to his ankles, and opening them, saw the scrawny Carolinian tossed to the ground outside my tent. Atop him was a black ghost illuminated by candlelight; Julius, who had taken the bowie from his hand, and was stabbing it into his chest whilst the drunkard screamed in agony, then fell silent into the arms of the devil. I sat by watching, shaking with perspiration, tugging tight to my sheets. After all life had been drained from Slim, Julius stood up and looked back at me, silently. He was covered in blood, and his once Adonis-like face was now gaunt and wild. His clothes, the same as the last I had seen him in, were torn to rags, and one of his eyes had been shredded from its socket. I said nothing, he retreated to the shadows, and my silence remained as the whole of the camp came and questioned me as to what had transpired.
The next day, we pressed onward, Julius having vanished. To California, our hope. To Esperanza." - Eliza Montgomery, Autobiography
They decided that this faux-grunge edginess really wasn't their thing after a long talk with Tom. The band of tight jeans realized that they should go back to their roots in blues, which Tom assured them would have a revival any day now. And they were no longer 'Firebrand'-a better name would come to them. After not-Firebrand had left, Tom sat on a stool in the recording studio plucking an E blues progression; this new band had brought back some memories. The guitar he played was sleek and new; a studio guitar, some two thousand dollar Martin bought with the company's money. It felt awkward in his hands, with Tom being much more used to the guitars he's been playing since the sixties, the polished wood sliding clumsily along the old rocker's calloused hands. But he still tasted the Delta as he plucked along.
Greg, the producer who had taken on the brunt of the firm's labor, approached him and sat on the stool next to him, just watching for a while. After one final turn around, Tom landed on an E7 before muting the Martin and looking up with a sly grin.
"Still got it," He said with a mocked braggadocio. His employee smiled back at him, and Tom stood and leaned the guitar against his stool. When it became evident that he was planning on leaving, Greg spoke up.
"You can't stay a bit longer?"
"Uh...no can do, gotta meet up with Ali," he explained while he put on his coat. Greg frowned, but followed him to the storefront, where a few people were browsing through the records and memorabilia. A couple of them turned their heads with eyes widened when Tom walked in the room, but he only politely nodded to them. Greg stopped him as he went for the doorway.
"You gonna let me know when you'll be back in?" Tom turned around slowly, looking to his fans and customers, before turning his gaze back to the producer.
"Shit...I'm sorry man. I-I haven't been myself lately. I'll try to check in more, there's just...there's been something in me. Something I knew was coming, but..." He trailed off, and looked down at the pale yellow floor. It had recently been waxed, and he could see his reflection. "Let me know if you sign that band."
The balding producer frowned, resigning from pressing him any further. "Will do boss."
Nodding, Tom sniffed in, took a look at his kingdom, and walked out the door.
1971
He stared blankly at the letter, his face was white, and his fingers were numb. 'How could this happen?' he thought to himself, but he knew the answer. He was a hippie, he was a pinko, and unlike most hippies and pinkos, his family was poor. Daisy was pacing back and forth in front of him.
"There has to be something you can do Tom...I mean..."
"No." She stopped in her tracks at his words, and felt a rage build up in her. Turning to face him, her eyebrows were knit in frustration.
"What do you mean no?" She stepped forward and leaned down to look at him, but the young man didn't dare to make eye contact. "You've protested this war for years, and now what? You're gonna...fucking fight in it?"
"Yeah." She just stared at him blankly, her mouth wide open, before turning away in shock, sitting on a chair and starting to weep. Her husband sighed and ambled over to her, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Hey-"
"Don't touch me!" She shouted, wiping her eyes. Standing up, she crossed her arms, and now was the one who refused to make eye contact. She was silent for a second.
"You know...you pretend like you give a shit. Like you care. You take on all these causes, and you protest, but I know the truth!" She moved closer to him. "You don't give a shit. It's all about you. The only person you care about, Tom, is yourself!"
The next thing Daisy knew, she was staring at the ground, and felt a sharp pain on her cheek. Tom was standing over her, heaving with rage. It took a second before he started apologizing, but it was too late. She left, and he was alone in their living room.
Alison clung tight to her husband's arm, and they walked silently through a park in Mission Hills. She had gained weight in her old age, but neither of them cared; it was just a part of getting old. They finally sat down on a bench and watched as children played and young couples embarked on the same journey they had all those years ago. Resting her head on Tom's shoulder, it didn't take long until she started to cry.
"Hey there," Tom said as he tried to soothe her, wrapping his jacketed arm around her and rubbing her up and down her own. She wiped at her eye, and sighed as she looked up her husband, feigning a smile, and he smiled back, but he didn't have to put on his for her sake. He kissed the top of her head, and they went back to watching the park.
"How was the store?" Alison finally asked after a while of silence.
"It was alright," Tom said. "Saw a new band from Santa Maria. They were okay." The silence resumed, and a cold wind blew through the park, while the children began to gather towards an encroaching ice cream man.
"You...look, I know it seems hard, Tom, but you have to fight! For me, for-"
"I know, Ali." He replied. A word hung in the air, one that neither one wanted to say, and had refused to say since the doctor's office yesterday. "Look, we've been getting ready for this for a while now, we knew it was coming, now I just have to push."
"You don't have to go through this alone, Tom! You've got me, and the kids." He looked away, a tear welling in his eye, but she pressed on. "We can beat this, together!" Tom didn't respond, and started choosing his next words carefully.
"Ali...all of us get cancer." He said the word. "We usually don't make it through." She started to speak up, but he cut her off. "But I'll try...for you. And the kids. And the grandkids. I'll try." She sighed, and settled back on his arm.
"I guess that's all I can ask for."
@Sailorsadie Heck yeah brother
Hey guys! We've been up for a bit, but the Golden City is looking for as many new members as possible! The last interest check was a little scarce on information, but with IC posts and a proper OP, I'm hoping this might help get a little more traction.
roleplayerguild.com/topics/170273-the…
Feel free to PM me with any questions, or join the discord!
roleplayerguild.com/topics/170273-the…
Feel free to PM me with any questions, or join the discord!
@bigscreech I'd say the best term to describe Gartner politically would be 'Utopian'. You can click on the discord link if you'd like so we can discuss things further.
@Ink Blood Approved! Move your CS into the character tab, and feel free to start posting IC!
@Ink Blood Approved! Move your CS into the character tab, and feel free to start posting IC!
@bigscreech Actually, the corruption of Mayor Gartner isn't super well known. There's theories, like with any politician, but these are often written off as conspiracy. On the surface though, he seems perfect; tough on crime, supports public services. The biggest thing people disagree with is how pro-gentrification he is. As far as party politics go, I don't wanna say like democrat or republican, just because I don't think that's necessary. By 'hunt', if you mean like hunting down and killing, I'm not sure that'd be a great idea, just plotwise and everything. If you meant investigate, though, having either a cop or a freelance pi investigating the missing person problem in Esperanza (which Mayor Gartner seems to be ignoring) could certainly help a lot.
@raleighallynn Hey, are you still in this?
"In the weeks following Theodore's death, the question of who should lead the party came to the top of everybody's mind, my womanhood being an obvious disqualifier for my nomination. We pushed through the prairies of what would be called the Territory of Nebraska, wanton for guidance. From God, who left us with the bible locked in my husband's gelid embrace. From civilization, who's Columbian trappings were bogged at the gate-mouth of the Mississippi. But principally, we sought to each other, and soon the voice of fear was heard with eminence in the cacophony of the pioneers, embodied in a frail farmhand from the Carolinas.
They called him Slim. I never learned his Christian name, nor did I care to. It was not who he was that mattered, but what he represented. He stood a height shorter than my own, and was a sickly child, with his negligible masculinity beared on the back of his aggression. For the mind he spoke to was one built on ignorance, his voice weighted by an ardent survivalism that had been nailed into the party's minds. He informed me, soon a week into my widowhood, that the typhoid fever which took my husband's life was none but the work of the Cheyenne, who conspired against good Christians like Theodore, and who adulterated our water with disease. That we should wreck havoc and vengeance upon the savages, and stood with rifle ready. I brushed him off, but his conspiracy grew in popularity. Soon, not a day went by without discussion of Cheyenne savagery, of encroaching violence.
The only man in the party who did not suffer these delusions was the Negro, Julius. A free man, Julius was an expert carpenter, having bought his emancipation from his master through the utilization of his mastery. But aside from his profession, the black man was premier in all judgement; he stood strong like an oak, with a sculpted physique and a kind smile. In the wake of the party's hysteria, Julius and I became friends and confidantes, him being surprisingly well-read, and a widower himself. We spent long hours chatting about the weather, scripture, and the infant which clung to my bosom, and I found comfort in the freed man's company.
One sable night, Slim and his followers approached me in camp, and advised me that Julius was an agent of the Cheyenne, that the colored peoples work together to destroy White civilization, and that were I to continue our friendship, I would surely find my honor defiled. I assured them of their foolhardiness, to which they responded that, though they are understanding of the way a woman's thoughts are clouded by tragedy, if Julius were to continue seeking my company, thus would only confirm their suspicion, and they would be forced to take action. I took Slim's ultimatum with no gravity, my mind dismissing him due to his impishness, and the next day continued as normal, and approached Julius, offering him some bread I had baked.
He seemed aloof, and ignored me. I pressed him, when he explained that he had been approached by Slim in a similar manner as I had the previous night. Finally understanding the severity of the situation, I walked away, but the damage had been done. The next day, Julius was gone. I knew what happened, but could say nothing, for an infant clutched to my bosom." - Eliza Montgomery, Autobiography
They called him Slim. I never learned his Christian name, nor did I care to. It was not who he was that mattered, but what he represented. He stood a height shorter than my own, and was a sickly child, with his negligible masculinity beared on the back of his aggression. For the mind he spoke to was one built on ignorance, his voice weighted by an ardent survivalism that had been nailed into the party's minds. He informed me, soon a week into my widowhood, that the typhoid fever which took my husband's life was none but the work of the Cheyenne, who conspired against good Christians like Theodore, and who adulterated our water with disease. That we should wreck havoc and vengeance upon the savages, and stood with rifle ready. I brushed him off, but his conspiracy grew in popularity. Soon, not a day went by without discussion of Cheyenne savagery, of encroaching violence.
The only man in the party who did not suffer these delusions was the Negro, Julius. A free man, Julius was an expert carpenter, having bought his emancipation from his master through the utilization of his mastery. But aside from his profession, the black man was premier in all judgement; he stood strong like an oak, with a sculpted physique and a kind smile. In the wake of the party's hysteria, Julius and I became friends and confidantes, him being surprisingly well-read, and a widower himself. We spent long hours chatting about the weather, scripture, and the infant which clung to my bosom, and I found comfort in the freed man's company.
One sable night, Slim and his followers approached me in camp, and advised me that Julius was an agent of the Cheyenne, that the colored peoples work together to destroy White civilization, and that were I to continue our friendship, I would surely find my honor defiled. I assured them of their foolhardiness, to which they responded that, though they are understanding of the way a woman's thoughts are clouded by tragedy, if Julius were to continue seeking my company, thus would only confirm their suspicion, and they would be forced to take action. I took Slim's ultimatum with no gravity, my mind dismissing him due to his impishness, and the next day continued as normal, and approached Julius, offering him some bread I had baked.
He seemed aloof, and ignored me. I pressed him, when he explained that he had been approached by Slim in a similar manner as I had the previous night. Finally understanding the severity of the situation, I walked away, but the damage had been done. The next day, Julius was gone. I knew what happened, but could say nothing, for an infant clutched to my bosom." - Eliza Montgomery, Autobiography
It was a sunny day in Esperanza, if not a bit cold, and a rain of typicality was falling over Mission Hills. Bikes and Priuses have started replacing the beat up trucks of days past, and going to a diner was 'retro' rather than something to do at the end of a nine hour shift at the plant, but the transient heart of Mission Hills still beat strong, especially in the landmark Gold City Records, who's famous sign still hung high above the building. It was quiet inside; nobody was in the storefront except for the eclectic collection of records and vintage memorabilia, but in the back was where the magic was coming to life.
Why did you leave me?
Why did you cleave me?
Why are you breaking my heart?
A young man and his three friends were recording in the most famous studio in Esperanza. The singer/songwriter wore a t-shirt that was too tight, while his friends didn't, but all of their jeans were tight. The song wasn't very good, and the producers weren't into it. Then a legend entered the recording booth. Greg, the producer, turned and smiled at the building's aging owner, the corners of his lips reaching up into his bald head.
"Tommy! How's it going man?" He went for a high five, but was ignored as Tom instead looked at the band in front of him, his face buzzing with interest.
"Who's this?" He asked, nodding at them. He didn't know what to make of the band; he didn't like them, that much was obvious. Very cliché, very wannabe-Nirvana. But they had a potential, something that the producers couldn't see; Tom was used to feeling things other people couldn't.
"Oh, uh, they call themselves, 'Firebrand', from up in Santa Maria," Greg answered, hands rested on the pot belly he attempt to hide with his black shirts. It had been a while since Tom was in, at least a couple of weeks, but it's understandable, what with his first grandkid being born. The old man was wearing his usual leather jacket, now worn from years of abuse, and a GCR shirt underneath. His hands, previously hid in his pockets, were produced, and began quivering as the band played their song.
"Ah. That's unfortunate," Tom quipped. He bent down and spoke via the intercom. "Hey guys, hold up." The band stopped playing, the last few drum patters tailing off as they looked up towards the recording booth, and all except the singer had wide eyes as they looked at Tom.
"Alright, first, lets turn that bass up, I can barely hear it. Ah...second, let's not use an amp emulator for distortion, let's get you a fuzzbox. Now-" Suddenly, he was cut off by the singer with a tight shirt.
"I'm sorry, who are you?" His bandmates began stifling their laughs, and he turned around to hush them, as Tom began chuckling himself.
"My name's Tom," he said, and the singer's face grew white with shock when he realized his mistake.
"Oh shit...sorry man, I-"
"It's all good," Tom responded with a light laugh. "Take it again guys."
1970
Tom layed back in the plastic diner booth, staring up at a plaster ceiling. He wore the same leather jacket, though it was much more pristine, and had the same long hair, with black instead of gray and white. His coffee rested half-drank on the table and the plate that housed his waffles and eggs was now clean. Across from him sat his wife, Daisy, who's hair was wrapped in a scarf and was looking over the newspaper with a smile. In the background played, "Got to be Free", by The Kinks.
"Hey, so uh...we added a couple tour dates, heading out to Texas," he said, hesitating as he knew what his wife's reaction would be.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Daisy said with a drop of the paper to emphasize the fuck of it all. He curled away from her to escape the anger, and she sat back in her seat with her arms folded. "You said it was ending in Albuquerque, and I've got my gallery showing the week after!"
"I know, I know, but uh...you know we're starting to record again, and Harry just thought-" He sat up and looked at Daisy. "I don't know, it's...I'm sorry, okay?" He was sorry, he meant it. But he'd rather be sorry than at that gallery showing. He didn't like Daisy's art friends, nor did they like him. He was a factory boy hanging out with a bunch of college kids, and everybody knew it. Daisy looked down at the paper, not making eye contact with him, and he reached out a hand to stroke her cheek. "Hey, look at me." Suddenly her eyes widened.
"Oh my god!" She exclaimed. Tom pulled his hand back.
"What, what is it?" His wife picked up the newspaper and showed him the headline.
LADY LIBERTY, DEAD AT 48
Daisy rested her head on her hand in confusion, while Tom sat back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling with a sigh. "I can't believe it!" Daisy exclaimed, shaking her head in shock. "I...it's dangerous. These powers..."
Her husband looked at her in confusion. "What, these powers?" He sat forward, quieting his voice. "Powers aren't dangerous. POWER is dangerous." His wife looked back at him in surprise at his sudden aggression.
"Tom-"
"You think she would've sat in that machine, or her chair or...or whatever, if some fucking general didn't-" Their waitress approached the table, oblivious to the conversation at hand.
"Can I get you folks anything else?" She asked.
"We're good!" The singer shouted back, not looking up at her, and she walked away insulted.
"Tom, you're scaring me!" Daisy said, and the artist looked back at her, in her eyes, and sighed, sitting back in his seat.
"I'm sorry, Days, it's just..." He couldn't think of the right words before she shook her head and left the restaurant.
That night, Tom was practicing with his band, the Jipsees. He sat on the floor of the studio with no shoes and his acoustic guitar, while his bandmates talked and joked without him. There was a weight on his mind that sealed his lips and brought his hand to the guitar strings. Finally, his bass player noticed him and spoke up.
"Hey, Tom, you good man?" Tom snapped back into reality.
"What? Yeah, yeah man...I uh...I wrote a new song, it's in G, four four time." The band looked around to each other, and Jim, the other guitar player and singer spoke up.
"Yeah man, just give us a sec-"
"Or you could do your fucking jobs, that's an option," Tom retorted mockingly. Jim bit his lip and looked back at after a good few seconds.
"Sure. Whatever you say." They assembled their equipment, Jim his guitar, the drummer grabbing a bongo, and the bass player, Paul, grabbing an acoustic bass. Tom started without counting them in.
Hey Mr. Nixon,
What’d you do with all the flowers?
Hey Mr. Nixon,
Why’d we go to Vietnam?
Hey Mr. Nixon,
I know you’ve got all the power,
But don’t you forget just who put it in your hands.
Hey Mr. Nixon,
I can hear a new wind blowing,
Hey Mr. Nixon,
Will you ever understand?
Hey Mr. Nixon,
With the secrets that you’re knowing,
How could you see all the callous in my hand?
Oh, I just want to be somewhere,
Where a man musn’t kill his fellow man,
Oh, I want to see the people,
Across the world just stand hand in hand.
Hey Mr. Nixon,
Now that we’re together,
Does a dead man walking,
Weight heavy on your mind?
Hey Mr. Nixon,
You won’t be alive forever,
So don’t you forget just who you left behind.
Tom didn't know this song would be his undoing.
Urelynnde, Chapel of the Lord Emperor's Demise
Kisha e Vdekjes Së Perandorit Të
The room in which Locian sat was far from the pews of the main chapel, far from the massive statue of the Halwende, and his final blow to the Lord Emperor, and yet despite the distance from the cavernous hall of preaching, the sermons and chants were abundant still.
The tongue of Lynnde bounced off the impossibly smooth stone walls, and the gilded decorations, almost lulling Locian into a sort of enlightened slumber, if not for the piercing old eyes across from him. The Archbishop found himself in the company of none other than the Archbishop d'Kamwell, the old man having returned to Urelynnde from Abigail's coronation in time to meet his fellow consituent. The two men were drastically different, with Locian being of youth and d'Kamwell being of an indescribable old age. The man held a grandfatherly look to him, and was immensily comforting when he smiled, which was often.
The room was a smattering of silvers and blues, with every imaginiable decoration and ancient painting on display, as if the room served more as a museum than a place to relax and greet distinguished guests. Even the robes of d'Kamwell were ostentatious in age and prestige alone rather than decor, and his very attempts at humility in behavior simply gave him the proud aura of a renown sage.
A bishop was just leaving the ancient room as d'Kamwell continued the conversation, "bishop Bernard of Tralusee," he identified the leaving man, "a good lad, a smart man, and a great leader. I have every bit of faith in him to take up my mantle when the Serene One bids me home."
"But," d'Kamwell smiled, his old wrinkly cheeks curtaining the warmest grin, "I feel as if that may yet be long from now."
The Archbishop of Olira stood to face his fellow, similar in the humility of his garb, and his knees shaking with his bow, despite his apparant youth. "Your Serenity," he began, his Lynnfarish perfect but with the twinge of an accent. His stay Urelynnde had been quite eye-opening so far, as he learned about the homeland of his faith, and the differences in their respective applications.
d'Kamwell waved an old hand, "bah, know me as friend, or Albert when in good company."
Albert d'Kamwell motioned to a ring of plush seats, "won't you sit down?"
"Of course," Locian said as he sat slowly, adding, "and you can call me Locian...friend." It fell strange treating a man who was so much his elder, both in age and in experience, as a peer, but he respects d'Kamwell's humility, something which he has so long aspired to.
"A pleasure," d'Kamwell smiled, "last I saw you, we hadn't a proper chance to meet. I pray the funding has reached your hositallers and your refugees of the storm."
Locian nodded somberly. "Yes, my provenance of Tacraif has been aided dutifully, as have the funds to all Laghad and the capital of Rilik, and for that I thank Serenity, although I'm afraid much of the country still seeks salvation." He stratched the back of his neck. "For instance, the non-serenists of Formor have recieved no funding at all...though that is due much to the royalties of Olira rather than the Serene Council." He sighed before continuing. "But I digress. How goes the war? I met the Queen only recently."
"Ah yes, Formor," d'Kamwell seemed to reminice for a moment, "as for the war, it is a war and war is war; however, I do believe it to be on it's last legs. The Queen is coronated, and her support grows daily. My yes, last legs indeed."
"That is good news to hear," Locian said with a smile. "I have been quite enamoured by Lynnfaire, I am glad to see her people guided by such caring hands." The archbishop sighed. "That said, I am sad to have to leave so shortly."
"Ah yes," d'Kamwell nodded, "I've heard of your pending mission to Matathran." He paused and nodded his head a while, "I'll be happy to join."
The younger man's eyes lit up, and immediately tried to hide the shocked expression enveloping his face. "Join? Why..." He thought back to his days as a young man, his missionary work in Freishann, and the punishment that followed. He chose his next words carefully. "Are you sure your...physicality is to the standard necessary?" He asked, hoping not to offend his elder.
d'Kamwell's eyes crinkled as he smiled almost playfully mocking his younger peer, "my dear Locian, shall I preach the proverbs of judgment while yourself is the one judged. My legs are as able as your own, do not take offense to my observation, but we are one and the same in physicality."
"I shall go," he concluded, "d'Drouchester has lost his champion and is in repentance for his lack of forsight, the nation has their Queen, and the war has no need for an old man like me, unlike our friends in Matathran. Besides, I too have been planning this for quite some time indeed. I already have an entourage sorted, it so happens."
The holy man chuckled at the archbishop's machinations. "You weren't quite asking to join, were you?"
"More or less stating a fact," d'Kamwell gave a sly elderly grin.
Locian nodded. "Alright. I shall need someone to coordinate our legality with the Imperial government if we are to stay for longer than a single moon." He reached into his cloak and withdrew a scrolled, which after unrolling revealed itself to be a map of Matathran. "I have selected the location of the mission to be the city of Darjai, although I would like to extend our operations into the slave fields of the South Savanna, if it were possible." Sighing in contempt, he added, "I have found that those with the least in material wealth always see the most value in the spiritual."
d'Kamwell nodded, "these maps look quite like our own." He moved his fingers across it, "you will find that the current Administration of Matathran figures itself the owner of the souls of those rich or poor, and further more uncooperative past old oaths in allowing ease of worship for current Serene citizens let alone the conversion of new Serene citizens. I suggest we work the top down as well as the bottom up, to which I have my own ideas."
"Repeated requests for funds have reached all our doorsteps, but the largest problem as pointed out countlessly by d'Drouschester has been the fact of how money flows in Matathran versus how the church flows. We are continiously stoppered as well as segmented in such a way that there is little hope any money unsupervised will ever reach its intended target and even if it did, if a paper written rule of law would simply make an island of the attempt and suffocate it, much like the current standing churches. So, in a sort of round about conclusion, while we work the word to the lower totem, we must also find friends in the burocracy to ensure a flow of life into the nigh choking institution that is the current affair of the Matathran church. It is imperative we strike a concordant and understanding to allow even the simplest of behaviors that are as of now restrained by law, such as the simple act of attending a sermon, or even giving the sermon."
Albert looked up from the map and at Locian, "of course you already knew that.
He paused, "The immediate situation of Matathran calls for reconstruction, to allow the current churches to flourish once more. Open up the dams so to say. Speaking the word is important, yes, but a good farmer knows to plant in irrigated land should it be found dry. Our top priority is making the church an accessable and beneficial option once more."
"Of course," Locian began, "I was just not expecting the Archbishop d'Kamwell to join me," he said with a laugh. "My retinue knows little of the dealings of the wealthy, and, with much of our offerings to the poor being in the form of relief, I simply found that it would be a task too laborious to take. But, with your aide and the aide of Lynnfarish deacons, this task would be far easier to perform."
"There also exists a group in Matathran known as the Freedmen Pitfighters. Despite their low caste, they have exceeding influence among the Matathrani masses. While most of them are violent and chaotic, I have heard word of a few individuals in the area of Darjai who would be far more open to the word of the Serene Church. I suggest we indoctrinate as many of these individuals as we can, as soon as we can." He paused, looking to the side with a frown, adding, "I know that one exposed to great barbarism often seeks to escape it."
d'Kamwell listened in silence, his eyes following the younger Archbishop. He nodded in understanding, "you're young, I can hear it in your voice and how you talk. While yes it is good to have friends in Serenity, our doctrine is not a plague, not a sickness, not to be spread in a quick and haphhazard manner. Should our voice to the people be only the men of bloodgames, the people will know only their words on our doctrine. We must use a tender hand, care and slowly dig our channel through the land once more. Let the flock come graze on our fresh grass, and tend to them as they come. To do this, we need reforms, not celebrities. The words should pour from diverse sources, and the administraiton should allow it, so in that it may flourish naturally and wholly. This is a large task before us, one that will not be solved through simple grabs of the loudest people."
Locian was silent for a bit, eyebrows knit in thought, making sure not to let his own experience take hold of his duty. "I understand. I...sometimes have much more faith in the Serene One than I do in my fellow man. But there is great use in Matathran having two more archbishops. Reform should be a target of ours, and the cynosure of our operation. But we both are aware of the failures and cruelty of the Matathrani governance. I trust in your ability to speak to the men of the nation, but I must do my best to speak to the men of the people. If there could be no liberty for the slaves and commonfolk in life, then perhaps they could at least sit beneath the shade of our tree, and find sanctuary in Serenity." He coughed, and looked back at the Archbishop d'Kamwell, finding himself back in the moment. "That said, you are right, our attempts at reform should be the primary objective of the Darjai mission."
"To ensure the longevity of the movement," d'Kamwell agreed, "we move from the top down for longevity, legality, and assurance of prosperity, and bottom up to build the foundation of faith and order. It will be done, praise be. But let us not step on the gardens of another, we should rendevous with Archbishops Trimalchio and Vettii then combine our efforts."
"Of course," Locian said with a nod. "They are already to greet us upon our arrival in Darjai." The archbishop thought for a moment. "Are there any other concerns you have regarding the mission?"
"You've contacted Trimalchio and Vettii?" d'Kamwell seemed shocked.
"Er..." Locian looked away embarrasedly, scratching the back of his neck. "They had actually contacted me, you see I am embarking on this mission at their behest...I think they had read some of my writings...but yes, I have been in correspondence with them for some time."
"Oh, I see," Albert d'Kamwell sratched his bald chin, "what does your entourage consist of thus far?"
"The mission was planned to be staffed with missionaries from the Order of Laghad, who I have brought with me. Additionally are our Taisafirin bodyguards, to ensure our safety on the trip."
"How many of each?" d'Kamwell asked.
"One hundred missionaries, with forty Taisafirin. What could you bring with you?" Locian asked in return.
"I will be sending a letter prior to our departure with hopes of recieving word before heading out, just as courtesy to their border structure," d'Kamwell stated, "but to answer your question, about three wagons of honey and wax, two of supplies, and a compliment to suffieciently guard such a chain as well as no less than sixty lynnfairish deacons and thirty labourers. This of course, shall be stated in the letter in hopes of easing any problems that may arise."
"Good, my missionaries act as their own labor, so yours should not be overencumbered. We shall also be bringing a wagon of medical supplies, an abundance of grain, a wagon of Serenist and Laghadi literature, and building supplies for to build the mission itself." He paused for a moment, thinking before asking, "Pardon my asking, but for what purpose do you require such a high volume of honey?"
"For sermons, gifts, dessert," d'Kamwell listed, "boil it for sugar if you must. As for the building of a mission, I think you may be a bit presumtious on how much leeway we are going to experience in Matathran. We need to discuss zoning with the administration first hand, and after such talks we are likely to purchase an existing dwelling before they let us build on their land far and few in fetility. As you can see, this is another reason I stress our talks with the higher ups to be of utmost importance. We can't waltz in, unannounced and set up shop, we aren't hawkers."
"Of course. The Archbishops of Matathran already know of our impending arrival, but I am a stranger to...finding friends in high places. How do you suggest we approach the adminastrative blockages?"
"With appointments, and things to bejewel their eyes with," d'Kamwell answered, "the Archbishops of Matathran don't have enough pull in their respective areas to give us what we need, so I will be sending letters to Imperial Administrators of my intentions of collaboration and mutual gain in hopes of appointment and talks. The other Archbishops will be needed once we secure zoning as well as affirm routes that different castes can take to even hear the sermons let alone worship. Not to mention they have a better lay of the political land than we do, so they will be a keystone in the reformation."
Locian nodded.
d'Kamwell stood up, "well that's enough talk of this for now. You should retire to your quarters, and we can discuss things further tomorrow. You can meet my entourage and I can meet yours. Rest assured the letters will be sent once I finish writing them this very night."
A Sunny Day in Esperanza
"Good morning Esperanza!"
The station's logo, "Fox 11", played on the screen, and as it wiped away, the hosts of the show were revealed to be sitting behind their desks, on a set designed with hues of gold, blue, and red playing across the brightly lit view. The hosts, an older, distinguished looking man with a suit to match his speckled, graying hair and a fake tan to match with the gold of the set, and a beautiful young woman with an ethnically ambiguous background and a gold dress, both smiled with pure white teeth while the morning music played in the background; a tepid mixture of acoustic guitars and light saxophone.
"It's 5:00 am, I'm Brett Farthing," began the male host, his Botox lips crinkling as he smiled.
"I'm Vanessa Moreno," said the female, before they both said, "And this is Esperanza Today!"
The screen shifted to the week's weather forecast, while Vanessa's soothing voice spoke over it. "Right now we're looking at a cool 68 degrees, which should go up to a high of 73. Looks like tomorrow we'll be getting a little bit of rain with a high of 50 and a 40% chance of precipitation."
Brett started chuckling. "Looks like I won't be headed to the beach!" Despite the lack of humor, both hosts began laughing with a forcible weight behind it. Vanessa sighed in content before she continued.
"Well Monday we should be getting clear skies with a high of 74!" As the weather forcast played off the screen, she turned back to the older host. "Looks like you might be getting your beach day after all, Brett!" Brett chuckled in response.
"Yeah, weather's starting to warm up." She smiled with a soft coo for a response and the camera moved to Brett. "Later we'll be talking to a teacher at Johnson Elementary who thought of a clever new way of teaching those pesky times tables, and our reporter John Michael will be looking at Starling Science's new exhibit at the aquarium, 'Oceans of the Past'," he said in a jokingly ominous voice, looking to Vanessa before adding, "Should be exciting. But now," he turned back to the camera with eyebrows knit in journalistic integrity, "We've got a representative of Mayor Gartner's campaign for governor, Todd O'Brien."
The camera zoomed out to reveal a new face; a balding man in his thirties with round glasses and a bad suit. One could swear to smell his coffee breath through the screen, and Brett turned to shake his hand. "Todd."
"A pleasure to be here, Brett," the representative said, shaking his hand vigorously and a smile plastered to his unnecessarily shaved face.
"Oh believe me, the pleasure's all mine. Now Todd-" The male host put his hand down on his desk. "How's the campaign?" Tom began chuckling and sat back in his chair.
"Un-believably, Brett. Today the Mayor's headed to San Francisco where he'll be meeting with local charity leaders, and if you look at the polls, this is starting to look like a sure fire victory," he assured with a smile. Brett chuckled back to him.
"That's good to hear. But," He looked down to his desk with a mockery of consternation, "Are you sure the mayor can continue his job effectively during the election?" Todd held his hand up in response.
"Absolutely. In fact, I'd say Mayor Gartner's been doing his job better than ever. New road projects have been planned around the city, unemployed is at an all-time low, education-" Suddenly, a voice spoke from off screen.
"What about the missing people?" There was a lengthy pause after that, and the camera panned out to Vanessa. Her concern was not feigned.
"I-I'm sorry, what was that?" Tom replied.
Vanessa cleared her throat and sat up, preparing her papers. Brett looked nervous, and would have been sweating if he could.
"The missing people. There's been, let's see...fifteen new unresolved missing persons reported since the beginning of 2018. Does the office of the mayor have any comment?" The representative began feeling around his collar at the line of questioning.
"Uh...well the mayor doesn't have time for conspiracy..."
"Well this isn't conspiracy, this is fact. There's been fifteen-"
"Cut to commercial!" Brett shouted, and suddenly an ad for a local orange juice company came onscreen. A few minutes later, Brett was back, faced towards camera with the representative at his side, and his fake smile plastered on a face he wasn't born with.
"We're very sorry about that folks," he began, "my co-host hasn't quite been herself lately. She'll be taking a leave of absence, but when she comes back..." he paused. His face, usually weighted down by plastic and silicone, seemed to twitch a bit, and he let out a soft sigh, looking down the floor and biting his lip.
"What'll it be, Brett?" Todd asked, chiming in, smiling a dagger at the old host, who looked at him quizzically.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"When she comes back, what'll it be Brett?" Todd's hands were clasped tightly as he leaned forward onto Brett's desk. After a second, the same plasticized smile returned to Brett's face, and he turned back to the camera.
"Right." He cleared his throat. "When she comes back, rest assured, it'll be a sunny day in Esperanza."
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