#ach lads my predictability strikes again

[sapphim]

told myself I was going to finish all the import fixes and get the updated version of the mod published FIRST, BEFORE I would start tackling the problem of letting people change their vault variables without resorting to save game editing—because, you know, a lot of potential for things to go wrong there—but then I was struck with a bolt of inspiration and realized how exactly I should handle it, and now guess who's ~~faffing about in my fucking code when I told myself I wouldn't be~~

[reekierevelator]

The Time Has Come

John Maclean (1879 – 1923) reviews his life as he prepares to address the horde of a hundred thousand people which has gathered on Glasgow Green to hear him speak after his release from Peterhead Prison.

            So here I am again.  Back on the speakers’ platform; fingers twitching and mind racing.

In a few minutes I’m expected to give a rabble-rousing speech to the thousands upon thousands of people staring up at me, despite the fact that until yesterday I was languishing in the sewer called Peterhead Jail, despite the fact I’d been on hunger strike for eight months.  But I’ll manage it.  I will do it, just as I did it after prison the last time, 1916. For even now that the war is over there are still too many who don’t understand, who aren’t yet class conscious, who can’t see through the fog of capitalism. I will do it because however weak I am today, I am no longer being force-fed twice daily through rubber tubes.

I can hardly believe it’s only 1919.  The trial seems such a long time ago.  But it was really only a year ago.  I was fit and robust then.  I conducted my own defence.  I spoke from the dock for an hour and a half, logically rebutting in turn each of the trumped up charges they laid against me. Defence of the Realm Act indeed. Then as now I said I wished no harm to any human being; that all my actions were entirely humanitarian in nature.  But they insisted I was a threat to society, that I should be keen to kill my fellow workers in other countries, that I should be more patriotic. Patriotism - the last refuge of those scoundrels; Dr Johnson was right.  And maybe it’s true that I did try to undermine their war effort, their drive to slaughter millions. I tried, just as my friends Karl Liebknecht and Rosa Luxembourg did in Germany.  I was convicted of sedition, of trying to bring down the state, and sentenced to five years in the Peterhead hellhole. But now that the war has ended, I’m not such a threat, and in response to public clamour they set me free.     

 Was it all worth it?  I suppose I should be grateful to have avoided the fate of my Edinburgh friend. James wanted to bring trade unionism and socialism to another part of the United Kingdom, the Ireland of his father and forefathers. Connolly was brought up among those Irish immigrants crammed into the caves under the arches of the city’s South Bridge. After fighting for workers’ rights against the Dublin lock-out he founded his Citizens’ Army. And in 1916, for his trouble, he ended up severely wounded, dragged up against a wall in Dublin Castle, and shot dead by soldiers. But I’m sure this country will find that’s not the end of the Irish story. Maybe that’s something Maybe that’s what I should tell them.

I still have my friends in Glasgow - Jimmy Maxton, Guy Aldred, and Willie Gallacher Jimmy’s the clever one.  One day someone will probably write a doctoral thesis on Maxton’s thinking and end up as Prime Minister.  And Guy, like me, he’s seen his fair share of courtrooms.  America saw its way to amend its constitution with a Bill of Rights in 1791. But poor old Britain had to wait for Guy to be repeatedly arrested on this very Glasgow Green, for making speeches and gathering crowds, before the courts eventually agreed that public free speech, public meetings, and public processions really ought to be part of everyone’s civil liberties.  And Willie, he’s seen the inside of prisons too, Willie still guides the unions, leading the Shop Stewards Movement on the Clyde. But he’s left his syndicalism behind, thrown in his lot with Lenin and Trotsky and founded the Communist Party of Great Britain.  One of these days I can see him in Parliament, a Communist MP.

Looking at this huge crowd of people eagerly waiting to hear me speak I know many campaigned relentlessly for my release from prison.  And now they expect a victorious call to arms, a vibrant, revolutionary speech, all fire and brimstone. They want to greet a Scottish Lenin at the Central Station rather than the Finland Station. But the prison regime has exhausted me and destroyed my body.  And it wasn’t as if I hadn’t known hardship before, growing up in the poverty in Pollockshaws where my Gaelic speaking parents had landed up after being forced off their Highland land.  In school they called me a lad o’ pairts, a clever wee boy. The Free Kirk arranged for me to be trained as a teacher.  And after that I went on to Glasgow University and took my MA in Economics. But it was the terrible housing, poverty, and illness I saw all around me that drove me to a proper understanding of economics from a socialist perspective. It’s seventy years since Engels, in Manchester but writing in German, found himself forced to describe the awful condition of the working class. And fifty since Marx wrote about the Highland Clearances.  Yet sometimes it’s hard to see that very much has changed.

Of course, when I started to speak in public about the need for reform, the need to redress the terrible ills of society, I was sacked from my teaching job. Then they barred me from teaching in schools altogether.  Nothing daunted, I founded the Scottish Labour College to teach people about socialist economics. I espoused the co-operative movement. I got the Renfrewshire Co-op to push local school boards into providing facilities for adult education, economics education. During the war I did what I could to support Mary Barbour and the women’s fight against the rent increases, imposed by absentee landlords while their conscripted husbands were away fighting in France.  Aye, one of these days they’ll put up a statue to that wonderful woman.

And now Willie Gallacher and the Clydeside workers have decided they have to strike again. Trying to reduce working hours to a forty hour week.  And it’s not that they want the same pay for fewer hours. They’ll take a bit less pay.  All they want is to make some room in the yards to give jobs to all the unemployed demobbed soldiers. But in Parliament they fear an uprising, a Glasgow Soviet, a Soviet Scotland. Churchill’s tanks are even now being marshalled in the Gallowgate. Thousands of English troops are arriving by train. Meanwhile, the Scottish troops are confined to barracks in Maryhill.  And if Willie speaks to them at Maryhill he knows the troops will come out for him. Revolution is in the air.  But I’ve told him, that kind of battle – workers in khaki killing other workers in khaki – that’s not for me, not what I want to see. If there are to be tanks on Sauchiehall Street they must be faced down without bloodshed. But can I convince this heaving crowd of that?

Like me, most of the people here couldn’t see what the so-called ‘war to end wars’ was all about, why everyone had to starve or die because of it.  Just one imperial power slaughtering the workers of another imperial power as they tried to gain a bigger slice of the cake, the wealth of the exploited colonies, for the benefit of their own capitalist classes.

The Russian workers couldn’t understand it either.  We all cheered when they abandoned the war in 1917 and overthrew their government.  I well remember chairing the Third All-Russian Congress of Soviets.  And then Lenin appointed me Bolshevik Consul in Scotland.  I hear they’ve even named a street after me in St Petersburg, or Leningrad as they’re calling it nowadays.  There’s even been talk of carving my name on the Kremlin’s walls. But what do those things matter – his ribbon, star, and a’ that?

I’m thirty-nine and feeling nearer ninety.  The force-feeding when I went on hunger strike in prison didn’t help. Some even say they tried to poison me. Now they tell me pneumonia is setting in – that I’ll probably be dead in a year or two.  People might remember me for a while, before I’m eclipsed by others; Scottish people better able to fight for socialism and independence, people who understand the true nature of Scotland.  If my funeral attracts as big a crowd as the one before me now it will be the biggest funeral Glasgow has ever seen.  Maybe I’ll be a footnote in some socialist history of Scotland, or someone might write a song, a poem, or a play about me.  My dear wee daughter Nan says she’ll write a book about me.  A hundred years from now will anyone read that passionate speech I made from the dock? Will that speech’s prediction – of another world war twenty years from now - prove true or false?  Will the egalitarian principles I've lived and fought for ever really be able to establish themselves in an independent Scotland?  Marx said capitalism forces companies to compete, to exploit resources and labour, and the devil take the hindmost. The losers are taken over, merged, or eliminated altogether, whatever the cost to the workers. Eventually there will be huge companies, but there won’t be many. I suspect, as Marx predicted, that companies will become global, capitalists billionaires, and the gap between rich and poor will only widen. Could an independent socialist Scotland really stand in their way?

Ach, so I lost my safe middle-class teaching career, I lost my health. I gained a prison record. Have all those things really been for nothing? - But good grief, what kind of self-serving question is that for me to be asking myself?

Oh dear, the Convener is nodding towards me now.   It’s time to get up on the old hind legs and give this multitude some eloquent words to chew over.  Maybe their reaction will provide the answer to some of the questions tickling my brain.

[chromes-writings]

Tey De Keizaal - Tales of Skyrim

Chapter Two: Bonaar

Words: 2,156

(Note: WHOOOO it's been two years since the last chapter. That's a long time, and I apologize. However, I'm going to do my utmost to make sure that I start to be more active on this account. So, here's chapter two!)

Nighttime was always the coldest in Skyrim. The cold wind always seemed to nip the faces of people a little harder once the stars came out and the moons graced the sky with their presence. It wasn’t uncommon for those finding sanctuary from the weather to find it within the comforting walls of inns and taverns. Nothing warmed the body and soul more than a cup of good ale, a belly full of food, and a delightful conversation between good friends and neighbors. Travelers from many reaches of Tamriel enjoyed the refuge of a cozy bed for a decent price. A microcosm of warmth and relaxation in an otherwise harsh world.

Einar found himself within this place of refuge when he walked up to the door of The Bannered Mare. He had been walking for a few hours along the dirt and stone roads of his homeland, clashing with the wildlife once or twice along his trek. His newfound companion had been keeping their distance in the skies in order to avoid panic from the common folk. Now that night had fallen, Einar could feel fatigue washing over his body and the impatience of wanting to sit near a fire. As he walked up the stairs, the wooden planks creaked beneath his weight. He opened the door to the inn, tapping his feet against the floor to knock off any extra snow that was stuck to his boots. The warm air instantly felt like a remedy to his body aches.

“Well, look who it is! Haven’t seen you in a while, Einar,” Hulda, the innkeeper, said.

Einar smiled, sitting down at the bar. “My apologies for not coming around often.”

“So where’ve you been? Your face hasn’t graced Whiterun for some weeks.”

“Anywhere that calls me. There’s always something keeping me busy, I’m afraid.”

Hulda let out a curt laugh. “That doesn’t mean you can’t come back around and relax for a while. If it weren’t for Lydia going into your house from time to time, most people would think the place is abandoned. That and the little girl Lucia has been staying there during the nights as well.”

“That’s good,” Einar said with a warm smile. “I told her she could stay there instead of sleeping outside. Last thing a child needs is to sleep on the cold ground.”

“I swear, if it weren’t for you, I would start thinking no good people exist.”

“Just doing what I think is right.”

In a part of the inn, a boisterous voice was heard above most of the commotion.

“That’s right! I’m seen as one of the best fighters of Cyrodiil. But it’s hard finding decent competition when no one stands up to your prowess. So that’s why I decided to come here!”

Einar looked behind him to see where the source of the voice was coming from. Among a group of people was a young Imperial man. He looked to be in his early twenties, with short black hair pushed out of his face and dark brown eyes. He was adorned with plate armor, the color of warm gold. Makes sense, Einar thought to himself. A large greatsword rested on his side in a sturdy leather sheath. Despite his armor and weapon, he looked smaller than Einar in size, though this was covered up through his loud voice and large movements. Einar had seen people like him before — young men and women who thought they had the whole world in their hands, wandering from place to place, acting like everyone was a mere challenge to show their superiority. He couldn’t help but feel a tinge of sadness for them. He knew that that was a life that would lead to pain and loneliness.

He must have been staring at him for a while since the young man noticed his gaze.

“Sounds like you’re interested in my stories of success, good sir!” the young man said while walking towards Einar.

Einar shrugged his shoulders. “Only somewhat. I would warn you, though. Some people around here would take your boasting as a challenge for a fight.”

The young man laughed. “I hope so! I always enjoy adding another win under my belt.”

“Best watch yourself, lad,” Hulda said. “You’re talking to someone who has a lot more experience than you, and has fought things more frightening than you have.”

The young man looked at Einar for some seconds, a curious expression on his face as he examined the older Nord. Then he let out an arrogant chuckle. “I’m sure the most challenging thing this man has dealt with are his aching bones in the morning. Unless he would like to prove otherwise?”

The tavern fell eerily quiet, the sound of music fading out as the patrons turned their attention towards the two men at the bar. Einar’s face has turned to a scowl while the young man had a smug look on him. A silent standoff had started. Einar wasn’t one to pick fights and he didn’t plan on picking one tonight, especially against this Imperial… child. That was the best way to describe him — a young, cocky child. The Nord examined the tavern, seeing all of the eyes that were glued on the pair. He then glanced back at the young man. He wasn’t one to pick fights, but he felt like he could make an exception just this once.

“Alright. Step outside,” he said.

Excitement flooded the tavern as Einar stood up from his chair, walking towards the door with the young Imperial following him. The cold air blew in as soon as the door opened, stinging Einar’s face. Luckily for them, Whiterun was quiet this time of night so no one had the chance to interrupt their scrimmage. Everyone from the tavern gathered around Einar and the young man as they stood across from one another. There was a tense but exhilarating feeling in the air. The chance to see even a small fight from the Dragonborn himself was a sight not commonly seen. Chatter could be heard all around the two men as they sized each other up. The young man pulled his greatsword out from the sheath on his hip. Admittedly, it was an impressive piece of weaponry. The Imperial clearly cared about it, as it was well-kept, shining under the starlight and city torches. Gripping the hilt with both hands, he took his stance, grounding himself.

“Well, old man? Are you going to draw your weapon?” he asked Einar.

“Don’t need to,” Einar replied.

Jeers and a chorus of oohs rose from the crowd.

“Ha! Suit yourself. At least you’re able to admit to an early defeat,” the young man said.

The young man ran at Einar, holding his blade up above his head, then swinging it down with ferocity. Einar quickly stepped out of the way, avoiding the strike as the tip of the blade scrapped the stone road. Keeping his eyes on his opponent, the young man followed through on his swing, turning with the momentum. Einar noticed the attack and managed to roll backwards out of the way. A small tuft of fur from his coat floated gently towards the ground. A clean cut was seen along the bottom of the strands. Too close for comfort.

“Not bad, old man!” The young man yelled.

He swung upwards then towards the left, Einar dodging these attacks carefully. His moves were a tad predictable, but Einar could tell the lad was experienced in sword fighting. He swung his sword with no hesitation. He was confident in his attacks. A valuable mindset, but one that might betray him if he wasn’t careful. Confidence can lead to mistakes. The graceful yet deadly dance had evolved between both opponents. The young man rhythmically swung his sword, the metal singing among the air resistance and strikes against the cobblestone. Einar avoided the blade with care timing, his footwork nigh on perfection. Both men moved in tandem with one another, their movements seamlessly blending together. Yet even the most skilled dancers can make a misstep, a mistake in their footing.

A mistake the young man had finally made.

The dark-haired lad turned and swung his sword towards Einar who had dodged the blow yet again, his greatsword hitting the ground with a loud clang. The fuller of his blade faced upwards towards the sky. There it was, Einar thought. He lifted his foot and brought it down onto the blade with great strength. The downward force against the sword caused the young man to be pulled along with his weapon, catching him off guard, grip still tight on his hilt. When the young man looked up, Einar delivered a hefty punch to his face. Letting go of his sword, he stumbled backwards and onto the ground. Blood started to leak from his nose, his blade still under Einar’s foot. Cheers and crys of victory rang out from the crowd. They had clearly decided who the winner was. The Nord bent down, picking up the sword. He walked over to the young man, crouched down and offered his weapon back to him. The young man had a pained look on his face due to the strike to his face and possibly his ego. He looked at Einar for a few seconds before reaching for his weapon.

“...Thanks,” he said quietly.

The crowd of tavern patrons slowly made their way back to The Bannered Mare, talking amongst themselves about the fight. Hulda walked over to Einar.

“Wouldn’t expect anything else! How about a tankard of ale, on the house?” she asked Einar.

“No thank you, Hulda. I’m going to retire for the night, but I appreciate the offer,” he said.

Einar turned and walked back to his home, the young man still on the ground processing what had just happened. As he entered his home, the Dragonborn could feel the young man’s eyes on the back of his head.

A couple of hours had passed. Einar was sitting next to the fireplace, reading a book from his large collection. Suddenly, a knock on the door caught his attention. Putting his book down, he got up and opened the door. In front of him was the young man from before, the bridge of his nose purple and bruised. He had a stern, if determined, look on his face.

“Good evening, lad,” Einar said. “Everything alright?”

“Uh, yeah. Everything’s fine,” he said. He inhaled deeply before continuing. “I wanted to ask… I wanted to ask if I could be your traveling companion.”

Einar raised an eyebrow. “Traveling companion?” He stepped aside to let the young man inside from the cold.

The young man walked in, shutting the door behind him. “Yes. That’s right.”

“What brought about this, if I may ask?”

“After our fight, I realized that I clearly underestimated you. Even after I… insulted you.” The young man looked at the ground. “I mean, I’ve fought plenty of people. Some of them did what you had done, not using their weapon. They were being cocky… much like myself. But you actually followed through! And thoroughly bested me, something I’m still having some difficulty coming to terms with. While I was nursing my wound at the tavern and talking to the owner, I realized that I would be passing up an opportunity to learn from you. So, if you would let me, I would like to travel with you, to learn how to better my skills as a warrior from you. Only if you would let me, though.”

Einar stared at the young man. A feeling of admiration filled his chest. It’s not often he had met people who were willing to set their ego aside and wished to better themselves. In a way, he couldn’t help but to be reminded of his younger self — someone who had looked at the world with the determination to take on all of its dangers, who soon felt humility in his later years. Minutes of silence had passed. The young man shifted anxiously, awaiting an answer.

“Alright,” Einar said, breaking the silence. “I don’t see anything wrong with a helping hand.”

A smile swelled on the young man’s face. “Thanks, ol— I mean, thank you, sir. I appreciate it. Truly.”

Einar smiled. “What’s your name, lad?”

“Marius. And you’re Einar, correct?”

Einar nodded. “Now, unless you’ve rented a room at the Mare, you’ll have to sleep down here in one on the chairs. Both of the rooms upstairs are currently being used.”

“Luckily, I do have a room rented out.”

“Good. Come by here in the morning, and we’ll head out towards Falkreath.”

“Sounds great! Well, I’ll see you in a few hours.” Marius turned to leave, but stopped. “Is there anything I should know before we leave?”

Einar sat down in his chair, picking his book up. “Hope you don’t mind the company of a dragon.”

“Alright… wait, what?”