#also how the Wild Hunt can be an omen of war or plague

[slverblood]

Have we considered . . . Ketheric but with themes of the wild hunt, hunting any would-be Justiciars or do-gooding Selûnites who attempt to enter Reithwin?

[wickedsrest-rp]

NAME: The Wild Hunt

ORIGIN: The Wild Hunt is a folkloric theme occurring throughout many European cultures. It typically involves a chase led by a mythological figure, often Odin, Gwyn ap Nudd, Herne the Hunter, or historical nobility, escorted by a supernatural group of hunters and hounds. The hunters are typically the souls of the dead, fairies, valkyries, or elves. Seeing the Wild Hunt was an omen of war or plague, or death for the witness. People encountering the Hunt might also be abducted to the underworld, fairy kingdoms, or have their spirits pulled from their bodies to join the hunt. The concept was popularized by Jacob Grimm in his work of comparative mythology Deutsche Mythologie in 1835.

DESCRIPTION: The Wild Hunt is a mass compulsion that occasionally overtakes communities of fae. While the fairy rings are often said to represent the mischievous and frivolous side of the fae, the Wild Hunt taps into a darker and more primal aspect of fae nature. It has been a source of terror and loss in human communities since time immemorial, and legends of it have spread across many human cultures near fae populations. The Hunt has a certain reverence in some fae bloodlines – particularly those with great involvement in it – and is often capitalized as any deity would be.

The Wild Hunt is not an intentional organization and occurs on no specific date. Rather, it’s a stirring in the blood that slowly grows in an intensity until it boils over in violence. This build up period is often accompanied by strange signs and omens as raw fae magic gathers in the region. Older fae may recognize the calling of a Hunt, and many traditionalists revel in its power or at least view the Hunt as a necessary outlet for the more violent aspects of fae nature. Younger fae will feel the signs and new power coursing through them, but may have no idea what’s happening. While the Hunt may compel individual fae to varying degrees, all will feel something. Wardens can also feel the Wild Hunt rising, and many have been raised on stories about the ancient danger that’s approaching.

Though the Hunt is sporadic and random in nature, occurring at different times in different places and for different lengths, it seems to be more frequent in places with more fae. In some locations it’s possible for a Hunt not to happen in centuries, where in others, it’s unusual to go a decade without one or two.

EFFECTS:

Fae often hear a hunting horn in the distance.

All fae are stronger than normal. Their fast healing is enhanced and they never seem to tire.

Fae often feel more confident and focused, but also like something violent is building up inside of them.

Once the stirring reaches a boil, fae often band together in a hunting party, murdering and kidnapping individuals. 

Cu-sith with white fur and red ears begin to appear. These cu-sith are unusually powerful and are called the “Cŵn annwn”

Groups of figures mounted on black horses with many legs or black stags are glimpsed riding across the night sky.

Some werewolves suffer from compulsion to steal beer and food by any means necessary, but aren’t otherwise driven to hurt people.

Trolls are out in unusual numbers, eating people and stealing cows.

People may be hunted and caught by supernatural riders or hounds. In some instances they die horribly, but at other times they may end up in far removed locations with no memory of how they got there, or even places associated with the fae.

NOTE: Use of The Wild Hunt should be coordinated in the fae channel in our discord server, as it’s something that would affect all fae!

[wickedsrest-rp-archive]

NAME: The Wild Hunt

ORIGIN: The Wild Hunt is a folkloric theme occurring throughout many European cultures. It typically involves a chase led by a mythological figure, often Odin, Gwyn ap Nudd, Herne the Hunter, or historical nobility, escorted by a supernatural group of hunters and hounds. The hunters are typically the souls of the dead, fairies, valkyries, or elves. Seeing the Wild Hunt was an omen of war or plague, or death for the witness. People encountering the Hunt might also be abducted to the underworld, fairy kingdoms, or have their spirits pulled from their bodies to join the hunt. The concept was popularized by Jacob Grimm in his work of comparative mythology Deutsche Mythologie in 1835.

DESCRIPTION: The Wild Hunt is a mass compulsion that occasionally overtakes communities of fae. While the fairy rings are often said to represent the mischievous and frivolous side of the fae, the Wild Hunt taps into a darker and more primal aspect of fae nature. It has been a source of terror and loss in human communities since time immemorial, and legends of it have spread across many human cultures near fae populations. The Hunt has a certain reverence in some fae bloodlines -- particularly those with great involvement in it -- and is often capitalized as any deity would be.

The Wild Hunt is not an intentional organization and occurs on no specific date. Rather, it’s a stirring in the blood that slowly grows in an intensity until it boils over in violence. This build up period is often accompanied by strange signs and omens as raw fae magic gathers in the region. Older fae may recognize the calling of a Hunt, and many traditionalists revel in its power or at least view the Hunt as a necessary outlet for the more violent aspects of fae nature. Younger fae will feel the signs and new power coursing through them, but may have no idea what’s happening. While the Hunt may compel individual fae to varying degrees, all will feel something. Wardens can also feel the Wild Hunt rising, and many have been raised on stories about the ancient danger that’s approaching.

Though the Hunt is sporadic and random in nature, occurring at different times in different places and for different lengths, it seems to be more frequent in places with more fae. In some locations it’s possible for a Hunt not to happen in centuries, where in others, it’s unusual to go a decade without one or two.

EFFECTS:

Fae often hear a hunting horn in the distance.

All fae are stronger than normal. Their fast healing is enhanced and they never seem to tire.

Fae often feel more confident and focused, but also like something violent is building up inside of them.

Once the stirring reaches a boil, fae often band together in a hunting party, murdering and kidnapping individuals. 

Cu-sith with white fur and red ears begin to appear. These Cu-sith are unusually powerful and are called the “Cŵn Annwn”

Groups of figures mounted on black horses with many legs or black stags are glimpsed riding across the night sky.

Some werewolves suffer from compulsion to steal beer and food by any means necessary, but aren’t otherwise driven to hurt people.

Trows riding on white horses and trolls are out in unusual numbers, eating people and stealing cows.

People may be hunted and caught by supernatural riders or hounds. In some instances they die horribly, but at other times they may end up in far removed locations with no memory of how they got there, or even places associated with the fae like the Mirrored District.

NOTE: Use of The Wild Hunt should be coordinated in the fae channel in our discord server, as it’s something that would affect all fae! 

(Art credit: Bryan F. Rosado)

[dearest-kibble]

If ur doing korra requests too, how about Amon hcs?

Yknow now that you’ve put that thought in my mind, I uhhh love it. (Also I love Amon’s voice like Amon and Zuko/General Iroh have,,, the best voices. also take a wild guess at who doesn’t have any gifs?)

So let’s say you were an equalist.

A really devout equalist. You were born a nonbender and were more than tired of being pushed around by the triple threats. Injustice had already plagued your world and though you weren’t around for the hundred year war, you’d heard your fair share of stories from your grandmother and father. And the things you’d seen.

Metalbenders making their own money while you had to get by with whatever you earned that day.

Waterbenders who were fabled you bend people to their will.

And there was nothing you could do about that. You were one person, trying to tell others of the injustice you had seen.

So when Amon rose to guide those who have been oppressed? To knock the benders down a peg? Oh you were all for it.

You attend the first rally, then the next and the next. Revelation after revelation. Watching as Amon — the man who’d been scarred by a fire bender who’d been so wronged in the past — make everyone equal. Benders should not have more privileges than the average citizen and if the equalization or numbers was needed to illustrate that?

Well you were all for it.

Amon had even been spirit touched so your siblings-in-equality said.

“Just like Avatar Aang,” excites whispers proclaimed as you watch in satisfaction.

Of course he deserved to be equated to Aang, he was truly trying to make peace and bring balance to a still unbalanced and unjust world.

He rarely speaks with others to hear out stories.

But so your Brothers, Sisters and siblings day, he’ll speak to his followers.

It’s here where you meet him.

In the boiler room of an abandoned Sato factory.

“Thank you, you’re doing something truly amazing for this city. I’d been trying for at least,” You pause to think and stare into his mask. He has deep, blue eyes. “A year before you started to make a difference. This cause, it means a lot to me. If I can do anything to help-”

“Tell me, what have the benders done?”

His voice which you’ve heard carried by a microphone, was much quieter up close. Calculated, volume measured carefully. Words chosen with tact to glide over a silver tongue and rich voice, iced with precision. Iron gravels somewhere in his throat.

It sounds unnatural.

He truly was sent by the spirits.

“They’ve counterfeited money, firebenders - do I even have to explain? Waterbenders, bloodbenders! Yakone terrorized people! The sheer amount of power plant jobs that are given to firebenders! Earthbenders who don’t need to keep a job! And no one will say no to a waterbender after Yakone!! None of it is okay in this world, but you, you strive to make things right in the world again.”

“Join my team. Your experience will prove quite useful to our efforts.” Icy eyes bore into your own. “You are quite useful.” You dip your head in respect.

“I aspire to be of use to this cause. I will devote myself fully to helping you.”

“It will be quite beneficial, I assure you.” If you could see his face (can he even smile?) you were sure he was smirking under the mask.

“Of course Amon, I hope it will be!”

“We have much to discuss. Please, follow me.” He walks to his microphone, places his hands behind his back and speaks with authority. “Brothers and Sisters, soon we will have yet another revelation. One that will make the benders tremble. Soon, we will have true equality, just as Aang intended!” Amon steps back slowly and stands proud as the equalists cheer and roar in approval. He waits for two chi-blockers to flank his sides before beckoning you over with a flick of his wrist.

“Tonight we discuss our ideas for our campaign. Follow me.”

He leads you through a heavily guarded back door.

You suppose being hunted by the (all bender) police would give reason to having so many guards stationed. You walk through doors that part at Amon’s appearance and are greeted with the sight of motorcycles and one truck.

“After you.” He gestures to an open truck and you walk towards it with no question. The interior is bare save for two uncomfortable benches and it occurs to you, this is probably a stolen vehicle.

“So, where are we going? You have got to have a hideout or something, right?” You have no problem stealing from those who steal from you on a daily basis.

“You will see. It’s a quick drive.” There it is again. The hint of a smirk in his voice.

The ride passes in a silence. What do you say to the leader of a revolution?

“Sir, we’re here.” A man in a mask opens the front door. “We will leave you now. Our eyes are still watching your position.” The man nods as he gives a small salute in the form of a bow.

“Very well. Dismissed.”

“Thank you brother!” You give the man a bow back as he leaves the doors open.

“Make sure to return the vehicle to its rightful place.” Amon’s voice calls to the driver as you jump out of the truck.

You expect to find yourself in a dark cave or forest. Not a dark, secluded part of town.

“It makes sense that you’d be here.” It’s a little less climactic than you thought. But hiding in plain sight always did help far more than going out of your way.

“Come inside, we have much to discuss.” Somehow without your noticing, his good is down, his mask away from his face, though he was apparently prepared with a scarf.

“I suppose with your burn, a facial scar would be far too easily recognizable. They’d figure out it was you right away.”

He just nods as he fiddled with a set of keys.

He’s just like everyone else. He just happens to be leading a revolution.

You hear a click, and the door opens to a very bare, sterile room. Masks line the walls, along with various plans and writing utensils.

He waves his hand in a motion for you to enter. Stepping through the door it becomes about five degrees cooler, at least. The scarf might not just be to cover his face.

“Sit.”

“Thank you,” you look around for a place to sit. There is only one chair and you look at it for a minute before realizing Amon’s deep icebergs of eyes are looking into your back. You walk to the chair and sit. It’s uncomfortable being the only one sitting and Amon towers over you.

“I guess I shouldn’t tell other Equalists where you live, I’m sure you’d have fanatics at your doorstep,” You attempt to crack a smile and realize that, yes, He can smile despite the burn that covers his face in a diagonal stripe.

“Hey! Even the spirit touched Amon can smile!”

“Yes, he can.” He allows himself a modicum of uncalculated speech. And it’s quite drastic how much a difference it can make. He quickly shifts back to the leader of a revolution and asks you how you’ve been wronged. You two talk for the better part of two hours. The equalists are going to take away all bending they can, only a select few are allowed to keep it if any. Amon is going to highlight you as a source of what imbalance there is between benders and those who are born without the gift.

“So we are going to get my story out?”

“Yes, I believe it has great value to our cause.” Burned lips curve into a larger smile.

“I never thought I’d see this day,” You are aware of the tear that’s in your eye, but this was something you’ve long since dreamed of happening.

You deserve a good few tears.

“I hope that my story can help bring to light the reality of Republic Cities treatment of nonbenders.”

“It will. You will help me to eradicate Republic City of benders.” His voice is water smoothing rocks.

“Is there anything else I can do for the cause?”

“Indulge me in a story,” Amon turns away from where you sit, still inches taller than you as he walks towards a window you didn’t know was there. It’s been covered by a curtain.

“My brother and I grew up years ago, before the Fire Nation wiped our family out.” He takes in a breath. “We has been playing out in the rain, a good omen for a good harvest, when we smelled smoke. My younger brother started to run. I begged him not to go,” You hear another labored breath make it through his nose. “Smoke in the rain only meant one thing.” You both knew what that thing was. “Once I realized that he wasn’t going to come back, I followed him back to our house, tripping in the mud as I ran, desprate to catch up.” You’re aware you’ve shed more than a few tears. “I was too late. My family was gone, Mother and Father died at dinner and My brother had been crushed by a beam on fire. I tried to lift it but it was too much. I couldn’t and it fell on my hands. I leaned down to talk to my brother, but he was already dead. I screamed at the flames, unable to come to terms. I went numb and my face, came away like this.”

Amon turns around for emphasis, sliding the curtain on his window aside.

It’s a full moon.

“I-I’m so sorry,” You wipe a tear only to realize it wasn’t there, it must’ve fallen. “I can’t possibly imagine what that must be like to lose a family. Benders should Pag for what they’ve done. To you, to your family, to anyone.”

“Was it an effective story?”

“W-what?” His blue eyes, cold like the night sky behind him do not blink.

The blood vessels seem angry.

“I take it from your tears that my story was an effective one?”

An orb of water, hovers above his right hand.

Veins bulge from beneath his gloves.

“You’re,” tears should be falling down your face. They’re not. “You’re a waterbender. Let me-“ You’re voice is going dry and you have a good idea of why. “Let me g-” the words stop in your throat which is quickly growing patches of water. A hand moves to claw af your throat to remove the words you’re choking on before it stops midway up to your jugular. Your fingers curve and flex before your whole arm is forced to your side.

“Bloodbender.” He laughs, cruel and deep.

He plays with the orb of water - your tears.

“You look a little parched.” He gives a dark laugh and flicks his wrist again, and your arm twitches uncomfortably as you feel a rush of blood shoot through your body. Your tears move oh so slowly into your forced open mouth.

You can’t even swallow as the liquid your tears that endlessly fill your throat slides down into your stomach.

“I’m glad you offered to help the Equalists. You will be so useful.” His smirk returns, a cruel thing when not hidden by a mask. “I already feel better being able to bloodbend normally.”

He releases your mouth and you shut it closed, the ache in your jaw painfully acute.

“Please- please let me go, I won’t-” Is it better to report the man who is a bloodbender or to let him make all equal? “I won’t report you.”

“You won’t” The moon makes his smile glint. There’s something wrong in it.

“I won’t,” you try to nod but your neck is stuck in a permanent lock.

“You’re staying here with me pet. You’re too fun to let go of.”

--

so guess who got a little carried away? me. it was me. i’m guilty also now i love Amon. (Maybe it’s just his voice also oof... me writing only in clipped sentences oh you bet.) anyway thank you to the requester and thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoy!! also thank you to @animetrash420 for uhh beta reading my stuff,.... please ya’ll check her out she does haikyuu fluff and Free! fluff and its,,,, it’s so cute ya’ll

[writings-from-the-hart]

Writebr Intro

Writeblr Intro Time!

Hiya! This is so overdue and I apologize for that lol. I’ve been meaning to write this but school seems to always be getting in the way of just that. Writing. But here I am finally writing this! And yes my username is a pun of my own last name but I just couldn’t resist.

So basically, I really want to surround myself with other writers and have stumbled across tons of writeblr’s (I think that’s what they’re called lol). Instantly I was in love and wanted more of what the community had to offer. I’ve been a self-proclaimed “author” or writer since my early years of grade school. I was that child in the back of the class with ADHD that couldn’t sit still (the cliche bouncing leg and always chewed down nails) and had what my mother called an “overactive imagination”. My notebooks in high school were often filled with wild stories about “galaxies far far away” or dystopias with cruel governments ruled by dictators. Now I’m in my second year of college swamped with classes about the Psychology of criminals (or I like to call the science of murder), and trying to find time to write a novel. So the struggle is real my dudes.

A little about Me:

Hana

20

She/Her

Pisces

Asexual

Forensic Psychology Major and English with a concentration in Writing Minor

Book hoarder

Dog Mom

Vintage AF

Low Key Emo Punk because I’m no average white girl!

History nerd (Love learning about the old wars and cultures)

Movie nerd (There’s an endless stack of DVDs in my house)

Fandoms:

The Mandolorian (or the ManDADolorian)

Star Trek

Star Wars

Hannibal

X-Files

King Falls Am

Welcome to Nightvale

Transformers (Obviously not the bad movies lol. Bumblebee is baby and must be protected always.)

Good Omens

Sherlock

Lord of the Rings

Marvel (There are so many shows and movies in this category we would be here all day if I tried to list them.)

Timeless (Not sure if the fandom is still alive after what the writers did to one of our ships lol)

DC (I’m a huge Batman geek and adore Wonderwoman, but I take the good with the bad when it comes to this fandom. Especially movie-wise anymore.)

And there’s probably more but my memory isn’t working currently.

Goals?. . . maybe:

Get my novel finished (This has literally been on my To-Do List for who knows how long.)

Meet more writers/new writers.

Improve my poetry (I suck at poetry so I bad I never let it see the light of day, so I need to work on it.)

Start my bullet journal.

Wips:

Okay by now you all know I have at least 1 Wip because I mentioned getting a freaking novel done, but just as a precaution as to what I mean by Wip or Wips. I get distracted quite easily, for some odd reason my brain absolutely loves to jump from one idea to another for no absolute reason. Like WTF dude we already have an idea we’re working on why do you keep bringing all these new ones to me like stray dogs. And like any good dog Mom or distracted writer, I want to keep all the ideas/stray dogs. So, when I say Wip I mean “Look at this cool idea I came up with” and I’ll make sure to specify which one is hogging most of my time.

Renegade: Dystopian, Thriller, Post-Apocalypse, and Science Fiction.

This is my baby. Most of my free time is dedicated to adjusting plotlines, character arc’s, fixing freaking plot holes, and other important stuff other than just plain writing. I’m hoping to finish this also monster of a story by 2020 and get it published. So big stuff!  

“So tell me little wolf do you want to punish those who have wronged you?” An assassin known as the Crimson Ghost makes their way through the corrupt city-state of Ashton completing a job given to them by the Black Rose. What is a seemingly normal job though turns into something far more complicated when they stumble upon the fractions of an abandoned notebook from the past. A past the Republic is trying to desperately hide and bury no matter what. On the other side of the world in the Republic’s capital Eshar, plainly referred to as “The Prodigy” or “machine” by his superiors,  Eric Coalwood has built a life upon the ashes of his family, striving to meet the high expectations set before him by his mentor General Wolfheart. However, his life falls out of its normal day to day routine when the unexpected is asked of him. Command a task force made up of the Republic’s most wanted or his life is over. Eric doesn’t need reasons for why he must do what he has to, all he needs are orders and the Republic is more than happy to give them. Either way the clock is ticking for both the Crimson Ghost and the Republic’s prodigy and with time running out they both have two options. Either get over their different beliefs concerning the Republic or allow the world to once again succumb to war but this time nobody is going to survive it. “Legends are slippery things. For the glory that coats them hides the pain, suffering and death that created them.”

The Trouville Files: Dystopian, Thriller, Post-Apocalypse, and Science Fiction.

Not my biggest priority but definitely one of them considering the plot of this story. I mainly use this wip as a reference for Renegade because it’s actually the prequel to it. Also, it’s great to use as writing practice when I’m plagued with writer’s block for Renegade or frustrated with a plot hole. So this is my double-edged sword that does a lot of good.

“Death in these black days is neither kind nor quick.” The year is 2153, the world we know is nothing more than a wasteland strewn with the dead and a sky being choked by their ashes, not glorious and thriving but desolate and starving. The Red Death, a pandemic with a steady progression and a gruesome countdown to the demise of those infected. No one outruns it or survives it. “United we stand, divided we fall.” The Allied Nations, a totalitarian superpower, promised a united people but all they gave this world was more death and destruction. The Red Death isn’t the only thing slowly killing humanity anymore, we are in the form of the War of Broken Pacts. The spark of revolution is lit, but if it will remain so is a question asked by everyone. Does it stand a chance against the iron-fisted government holding the people in shackles? “Rebel with a cause.” Genius Medical Officer for The People’s Republic, Cyprus Ramiro works day and night in search of a cure for the Red Death exterminating hundreds, at least before this war kills him first. But he is also a man on the run and the rebellion can only shelter him for so long. “Duty over pain.” Cunning Spy and Soldier, Orion Ultor is ordered by the Allied Nations to infiltrate and gather information on the ever-growing People’s Republic. In bold letters is Search and Destroy; make a ruin of the rebellion and ensure the Allied Nations remains as it should -- unquestionably in power. No matter the cost unless he wants to suffer the consequences again. “If we fall we shall rise from the ashes like a phoenix.” They should have never met, battlefields don't make good friends. It wasn't fate, it wasn't destiny, only war throwing people together.  The Allied Nations is trying to stamp out something they fear, but can they before the Red Plague? Or will humanity find itself extinct.

Beyond his point is where I house my stray dogs/ideas

Hiraeth: Paranormal, Horror, Mystery, and Thriller.

Scooby-doo who?

Hiraeth means a homesickness for a home which you cannot return. That is how Arcane feels like she’ll never be home no matter how hard she tries to connect with her family. The closest she feels to being home is with her friends and in the worn leather seats of the van they all pitched in to buy. It all started out as a way to pass time and for all of them to escape their families because to be honest parents never understand, but it all turned sideways when a simple “ghost hunting trip” stirred something that was meant to remain buried. The truth never remains buried though, not really, somehow it will always creep back in ugly and twisted. Arcane has never felt “at home” but she’ll do whatever it takes to keep what she considers her family safe.

Sweet Dreams: Historical Fiction, Thriller, and Romance.

A literal dream turned into story plot and no I’m not kidding.

The Red String of Fate, The Lovers, and War. These are the three elements intertwined within the plot of Sweet Dreams but before anyone makes any assumptions this isn’t some chummy rom-com. There will be tears and heart strings may get yanked clean out because the angst is real. War and love never mix well, it leaves a sour taste in ones mouth and makes the mind question things it shouldn’t. Like is the woman in his dreams the same woman he sees in all his dreams? Constantly he somehow ends up spotting that same ruby red lipstick, honey golden eyes, and brunette hair laying in perfect curls. She’s everywhere except in his actual life. They say you and your soulmate share dreams, living proof of how intertwined souls are. She doesn’t believe in love or the idea of souls, not with the monsters roaming around the countryside and battlefield carrying assault rifles. Society tells her where her place is, but she disagrees and rather create her own destiny.

The Prophet: Paranormal, Thriller, Post-Apocalypse, and Science Fiction.  

A short story I can’t seem to let go or it doesn’t want to let me go, but either way, this story has the makings for something great. It also at times seems strikingly similar to Good Omens, so don’t be surprised.

There’s no anti-christ in this story, he already has a book about himself so let’s not make another one besides there are other stories that need to be told. Such as, have you ever heard of modern day prophets and I’m not talking about those people with cardboard signs saying “the end is near!” or giant churches with people preaching about the end times. No, I’m talking about a kid with messy hair and dark circles under their eyes because sleep is no longer a choice due to migraines that plague them every night. Migraines that bring weird cryptic messages that make one question their own sanity. And what happens when strange people start asking about said migraines and messages?

Virago: Fantasy, Thriller, Historical Fiction, and Romance.

I’m not a huge fantasy reader, for some reason I can’t stay invested in them, but here I am with a fantasy story in my wips. It has mages, knights, assasination plots, and one super badass general who takes zero shit from her king. That’s right women empowerment, my dudes! I don’t really have much of a synopsis inline or a plot because this is only of those wips I let rattle around in my brain from time to time. But I will say it does give me that LOTR vibe but also Game of Thrones.  

Don’t be surprised if you see my stray doggos from time to time because I will admit I love to play around with storyboards. Even if I don’t have a fully planned out plot put together for it.

And that concludes this what was supposed to be short Writeblr Intro. I hope I have peaked some of your guys’ interests because the community definitely got a hold of minee. Feel free to send me a message about anything I mentioned (even if it’s just fandom shit I don’t care) and don’t be shy. I’m a huge introvert but somehow love talking, so don’t worry it won’t be awkward and odds are I’m equally nervous about conversation lol. Also, feel free to add me to any taglist and reblog/like if you’re active and would like more Writeblr mutuals!

Happy Writing,

Writings-from-the-Hart

[interestingshitonmadikomgezrapou]

"On The Pleasure Of Hating" (c.1826)

THERE is a spider crawling along the matted floor of the room where I sit (not the one which has been so well allegorised in the admirable Lines to a Spider, but another of the same edifying breed); he runs with heedless, hurried haste, he hobbles awkwardly towards me, he stops -- he sees the giant shadow before him, and, at a loss whether to retreat or proceed, meditates his huge foe -- but as I do not start up and seize upon the straggling caitiff, as he would upon a hapless fly within his toils, he takes heart, and ventures on with mingled cunning, impudence and fear. As he passes me, I lift up the matting to assist his escape, am glad to get rid of the unwelcome intruder, and shudder at the recollection after he is gone. A child, a woman, a clown, or a moralist a century ago, would have crushed the little reptile to death-my philosophy has got beyond that -- I bear the creature no ill-will, but still I hate the very sight of it. The spirit of malevolence survives the practical exertion of it. We learn to curb our will and keep our overt actions within the bounds of humanity, long before we can subdue our sentiments and imaginations to the same mild tone. We give up the external demonstration, the brute violence, but cannot part with the essence or principle of hostility. We do not tread upon the poor little animal in question (that seems barbarous and pitiful!) but we regard it with a sort of mystic horror and superstitious loathing. It will ask another hundred years of fine writing and hard thinking to cure us of the prejudice and make us feel towards this ill-omened tribe with something of "the milk of human kindness," instead of their own shyness and venom.

Nature seems (the more we look into it) made up of antipathies: without something to hate, we should lose the very spring of thought and action. Life would turn to a stagnant pool, were it not ruffled by the jarring interests, the unruly passions, of men. The white streak in our own fortunes is brightened (or just rendered visible) by making all around it as dark as possible; so the rainbow paints its form upon the cloud. Is it pride? Is it envy? Is it the force of contrast? Is it weakness or malice? But so it is, that there is a secret affinity, a hankering after, evil in the human mind, and that it takes a perverse, but a fortunate delight in mischief, since it is a never-failing source of satisfaction. Pure good soon grows insipid, wants variety and spirit. Pain is a bittersweet, wants variety and spirit. Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust: hatred alone is immortal. Do we not see this principle at work everywhere? Animals torment and worry one another without mercy: children kill flies for sport: every one reads the accidents and offences in a newspaper as the cream of the jest: a whole town runs to be present at a fire, and the spectator by no means exults to see it extinguished. It is better to have it so, but it diminishes the interest; and our feelings take part with our passions rather than with our understandings. Men assemble in crowds, with eager enthusiasm, to witness a tragedy: but if there were an execution going forward in the next street, as Mr. Burke observes, the theater would be left empty. A strange cur in a village, an idiot, a crazy woman, are set upon and baited by the whole community. Public nuisances are in the nature of public benefits. How long did the Pope, the Bourbons, and the Inquisition keep the people of England in breath, and supply them with nicknames to vent their spleen upon! Had they done us any harm of late? No: but we have always a quantity of superfluous bile upon the stomach, and we wanted an object to let it out upon. How loth were we to give up our pious belief in ghosts and witches, because we liked to persecute the one, and frighten ourselves to death with the other! It is not the quality so much as the quantity of excitement that we are anxious about: we cannot bear a state of indifference and ennui: the mind seems to abhor a vacuum as much as ever nature was supposed to do. Even when the spirit of the age (that is, the progress of intellectual refinement, warring with our natural infirmities) no longer allows us to carry our vindictive and head strong humours into effect, we try to revive them in description, and keep up the old bugbears, the phantoms of our terror and our hate, in imagination. We burn Guy Fawx in effigy, and the hooting and buffeting and maltreating that poor tattered figure of rags and straw makes a festival in every village in England once a year. Protestants and Papists do not now burn one another at the stake: but we subscribe to new editions of Fox's Book of Martyrs; and the secret of the success of the Scotch Novels is much the same-they carry us back to the feuds, the heart-burnings, the havoc, the dismay, the wrongs, and the revenge of a barbarous age and people-to the rooted prejudices and deadly animosities of sects and parties in politics and religion, and of contending chiefs and clans in war and intrigue. We feel the full force of the spirit of hatred with all of them in turn. As we read, we throw aside the trammels of civilization, the flimsy veil of humanity. "Off, you lendings!" The wild beast resumes its sway within us, we feel like hunting animals, and as the hound starts in his sleep and rushes on the chase in fancy the heart rouses itself in its native lair, and utters a wild cry of joy, at being restored once more to freedom and lawless unrestrained impulses. Every one has his full swing, or goes to the Devil his own way. Here are no Jeremy Bentham Panopticons, none of Mr. Owen's impassable Parallelograms1 (Rob Roy would have spurred and poured a thousand curses on them), no long calculations of self-interest -- the will takes its instant way to its object, as the mountain-torrent flings itself over the precipice: the greatest possible good of each individual consists in doing all the mischief he can to his neighbour: that is charming, and finds a sure and sympathetic chord in every breast! So Mr. Irving2, the celebrated preacher, has rekindled the old, original, almost exploded hell-fire in the aisles of the Caledonian Chapel, as they introduce the real water of the New River at Sadler's Wells, to the delight and astonishment of his fair audience. 'Tis pretty, though a plague, to sit and peep into the pit of Tophet, to play at snap-dragon with flames and brimstone (it gives a smart electrical shock, a lively filip to delicate constitutions), and to see Mr. Irving, like a huge Titan, looking as grim and swarthy as if he had to forge tortures for all the damned! What a strange being man is! Not content with doing all he can to vex and hurt his fellows here, "upon this bank and shoal of time," where one would think there were heartaches, pain, disappointment, anguish, tears, sighs, and groans enough, the bigoted maniac takes him to the top of the high peak of school divinity to hurl him down the yawning gulf of penal fire; his speculative malice asks eternity to wreak its infinite spite in, and calls on the Almighty to execute its relentless doom! The cannibals burn their enemies and eat them in good-fellowship with one another: meed Christian divines cast those who differ from them but a hair's-breadth, body and soul into hellfire for the glory of God and the good of His creatures! It is well that the power of such persons is not co-ordinate with their wills: indeed it is from the sense of their weakness and inability to control the opinions of others, that they thus "outdo termagant," and endeavour to frighten them into conformity by big words and monstrous denunciations.

The pleasure of hating, like a poisonous mineral, eats into the heart of religion, and turns it to rankling spleen and bigotry; it makes patriotism an excuse for carrying fire, pestilence, and famine into other lands: it leaves to virtue nothing but the spirit of censoriousness, and a narrow, jealous, inquisitorial watchfulness over the actions and motives of others. What have the different sects, creeds, doctrines in religion been but so many pretexts set up for men to wrangle, to quarrel, to tear one another in pieces about, like a target as a mark to shoot at? Does any one suppose that the love of country in an Englishman implies any friendly feeling or disposition to serve another bearing the same name? No, it means only hatred to the French or the inhabitants of any other country that we happen to be at war with for the time. Does the love of virtue denote any wish to discover or amend our own faults? No, but it atones for an obstinate adherence to our own vices by the most virulent intolerance to human frailties. This principle is of a most universal application. It extends to good as well as evil: if it makes us hate folly, it makes us no less dissatisfied with distinguished merit. If it inclines us to resent the wrongs of others, it impels us to be as impatient of their prosperity. We revenge injuries: we repay benefits with ingratitude. Even our strongest partialities and likings soon take this turn. "That which was luscious as locusts, anon becomes bitter as coloquintida;" and love and friendship melt in their own fires. We hate old friends: we hate old books: we hate old opinions; and at last we come to hate ourselves.

I have observed that few of those whom I have formerly known most intimate, continue on the same friendly footing, or combine the steadiness with the warmth of attachment. I have been acquainted with two or three knots of inseparable companions, who saw each other "six days in the week;" that have been broken up and dispersed. I have quarrelled with almost all my old friends' (they might say this is owing to my bad temper, but) they have also quarrelled with one another. What is become of "that set of whist-players," celebrated by Elia in his notable Epistle to Robert Southey, Esq.3 (and now I think of it - that I myself have celebrated in this very volume4) "that for so many years called Admiral Burney friend?" They are scattered, like last year's snow. Some of them are dead, or gone to live at a distance, or pass one another in the street like strangers, or if they stop to speak, do it as coolly and try to cut one another as soon as possible. Some of us have grown rich, others poor. Some have got places under Government, others a niche in the Quarterly Review. Some of us have dearly earned a name in the world; whilst others remain in their original privacy. We despise the one, and envy and are glad to mortify the other. Times are changed; we cannot revive our old feelings; and we avoid the sight, and are uneasy in the presence of, those who remind us of our infirmity, and put us upon an effort at seeming cordiality which embarrasses ourselves, and does not impose upon our quondam associates. Old friendships are like meats served up repeatedly, cold, comfortless, and distasteful. The stomach turns against them. Either constant intercourse and familiarity breed weariness and contempt; if we meet again after an interval of absence, we appear no longer the same. One is too wise, another too foolish, for us; and we wonder we did not find this out before. We are disconcerted and kept in a state of continual alarm by the wit of one, or tired to death of the dullness of another. The good things of the first (besides leaving strings behind them) by repetition grow stale, and lose their startling effect; and the insipidity of the last becomes intolerable. The most amusing or instructive companion is best like a favorite volume, that we wish after a time to lay upon the shelf; but as our friends are not willing to be laid there, this produces a misunderstanding and ill-blood between us. Or if the zeal and integrity of friendship is not abated, or its career interrupted by any obstacle arising out of its own nature, we look out for other subjects of complaint and sources of dissatisfaction. We begin to criticize each other's dress, looks, general character. "Such a one is a pleasant fellow, but it is a pity he sits so late!" Another fails to keep his appointments, and that is a sore that never heals. We get acquainted with some fashionable young men or with a mistress, and wish to introduce our friend; but be is awkward and a sloven, the interview does not answer, and this throws cold water on our intercourse. Or he makes himself obnoxious to opinion; and we shrink from our own convictions on the subject as an excuse for not defending him. All or any of these causes mount up in time to a ground of coolness or irritation; and at last they break out into open violence as the only amends we can make ourselves for suppressing them so long, or the readiest means of banishing recollections of former kindness so little compatible with our present feelings. We may try to tamper with the wounds or patch up the carcase of departed friendship; but the one will hardly bear the handling, and the other is not worth the trouble of embalming! The only way to be reconciled to old friends is to part with them for good: at a distance we may chance to be thrown back ( in a waking dream) upon old times and old feelings: or at any rate we should not think of renewing our intimacy, till we have fairly spit our spite or said, thought, and felt all the ill we can of each other. Or if we can pick a quarrel with some one else, and make him the scape-goat, this is an excellent contrivance to heal a broken bone. I think I must be friends with Lamb again, since he has written that magnanimous Letter to Southey, and told him a piece of his mind! I don't know what it is that attaches me to H---so much, except that he and I, whenever we meet, sit in judgment on another set of old friends, and "carve them as a dish fit for the Gods". There with L [Leigh Hunt], John Scott, Mrs. [Montagu], whose dark raven locks make a picturesque background to our discourse, B---, who is grown fat, and is, they say, married, R[ickman]; these had all separated long ago, and their foibles are the common link that holds us together.5 We do not affect to condole or whine over their follies; we enjoy, we laugh at them, till we are ready to burst our sides, "sans intermissions for hours by the dial." We serve up a course of anecdotes, traits, master-strokes of character, and cut and hack at them till we are weary. Perhaps some of them are even with us. For my own part, as I once said, I like a friend the better for having faults that one can talk about. "Then," said Mrs. [Montagu], " you will cease to be a philanthropist!" Those in question were some of the choice-spirits of the age, not "fellows of no mark or likelihood'; and we so far did them justice: but it is well they did not hear what we sometimes said of them. I care little what any one says of me, particularly behind my back, and in the way of critical and analytical discussion: it is looks of dislike and scorn that I answer with the worst venom of my pen. The expression of the face wounds me more than the expressions of the tongue. If I have in one instance mistaken this expression, or resorted to this remedy where I ought not, I am sorry for it. But the face was too fine over which it mantled, and I am too old to have misunderstood it!...I sometimes go up to -----'s; and as often as I do, resolve never to go again. I do not find the old homely welcome. The ghost of friendship meets me at the door, and sits with me all dinner-time. They have got a set of fine notions and new acquaintances. Allusions to past occurrences are thought trivial, nor is it always safe to touch upon more general subjects. M. does not begin as he formerly did every five minutes, "Fawcett used to say," &c. That topic is something worn. The girls are grown up, and have a thousand accomplishments. I perceive there is a jealousy on both sides. They think I give myself airs, and I fancy the same of them. Every time I am asked, "If I do not think Mr. Washington Irving a very fine writer?" I shall not go again till I receive an invitation for Christmas Day in company with Mr. Liston. The only intimacy I never found to flinch or fade was a purely intellectual one. There was none of the cant of candour in it, none of the whine of mawkish sensibility. Our mutual acquaintance were considered merely as subjects of conversation and knowledge, not all of affection. We regarded them no more in our experiments than "mice in an air-pump:" or like malefactors, they were regularly cut down and given over to the dissecting-knife. We spared neither friend nor foe. We sacrificed human infirmities at the shrine of truth. The skeletons of character might be seen, after the juice was extracted, dangling in the air like flies in cobwebs; or they were kept for future inspection in some refined acid. The demonstration was as beautiful as it was new. There is no surfeiting on gall: nothing keeps so well as a decoction of spleen. We grow tired of every thing but turning others into ridicule, and congratulating ourselves on their defects.

We take a dislike to our favourite books, after a time, for the same reason. We cannot read the same works for ever. Our honey-moon, even though we wed the Muse, must come to an end; and is followed by indifference, if not by disgust. There are some works, those indeed that produce the most striking effect at first by novelty and boldness of outline, that will not bear reading twice: others of a less extravagant character, and that excite and repay attention by a greater nicety of details, have hardly interest enough to keep alive our continued enthusiasm. The popularity of the most successful writers operates to wean us from them, by the cant and fuss that is made about them, by hearing their names everlastingly repeated, and by the number of ignorant and indiscriminate admirers they draw after them: - we as little like to have to drag others from their unmerited obscurity, lest we should be exposed to the charge of affectation and singularity of taste. There is nothing to be said respecting an author that all the world have made up their minds about: it is a thankless as well as hopeless task to recommend one that nobody has ever heard of. To cry up Shakespear as the god of our idolatry, seems like a vulgar national prejudice: to take down a volume of Chaucer, or Spenser, or Beaumont and Fletcher, or Ford, or Marlowe, has very much the look of pedantry and egotism. I confess it makes me hate the very name of Fame and Genius, when works like these are "gone into the wastes of time," while each successive generation of fools is busily employed in reading the trash of the day, and women of fashion gravely join with their waiting-maids in discussing the preference between the Paradise Lost and Mr. Moore's Loves of the Angels. I was pleased the other day on going into a shop to ask, "If they had any of the Scotch Novels?" to be told - "That they had just sent out the last, Sir Andrew Wylie!" - Mr. Galt will also be pleased with this answer! The reputation of some books is raw and unaired: that of others is worm-eaten and mouldy. Why fix our affections on that which we cannot bring ourselves to have faith in, or which others have long ceased to trouble themselves about? I am half afraid to look into Tom Jones, lest it should not answer my expectations at this time of day; and if it did not, I would certainly be disposed to fling it into the fire, and never look into another novel while I lived. But surely, it may be said, there are some works that, like nature, can never grow old; and that must always touch the imagination and passions alike! Or there are passages that seem as if we might brood over them all our lives, and not exhaust the sentiments of love and admiration they excite: they become favourites, and we are fond of them to a sort of dotage. Here is one:

---"Sitting in my window

Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,

I thought (but it was you), enter our gates;

My blood flew out and back again, as fast

As I had puffed it forth and sucked it in

Like breath; then was I called away in haste

To entertain you: never was a man

Thrust from a sheepcote to a sceptre, raised

So high in thoughts as I; you left a kiss

Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep

From you for ever. I did hear you talk

Far above singing!"A passage like this, indeed, leaves a taste on the palate like nectar, and we seem in reading it to sit with the Gods at their golden tables: but if we repeat it often in ordinary moods, it loses its flavour, becomes vapid, "the wine of poetry is drank, and but the lees remain." Or, on the other hand, if we call in the air of extraordinary circumstances to set it off to advantage, as the reciting it to a friend, or after having our feelings excited by a long walk in some romantic situation, or while we---"play with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair"---we afterwards miss the accompanying circumstances, and instead of transferring the recollection of them to the favourable side, regret what we have lost, and strive in vain to bring back "the irrevocable hour" - wondering in some instances how we survive it, and at the melancholy blank that is left behind! The pleasure rises to its height in some moment of calm solitude or intoxicating sympathy, declines ever after, and from the comparison and conscious falling-off, leaves rather a sense of satiety and irksomeness behind it... "Is it the same in pictures?" I confess it is, with all but those from Titian's hand. I don't know why, but an air breathes from his landscapes, pure, refreshing, as if it came from other years; there is a look in his faces that never passes away. I saw one the other day. Amidst the heartless desolation and glittering finery of Fonthill, there is a portfolio of the Dresden Gallery. It opens, and a young female head looks from it; a child, yet woman grown; with an air of rustic innocence and the graces of a princess, her eyes like those of doves, the lips about to open, a smile of pleasure dimpling the whole face, the jewels sparkling in her crisped hair, her youthful shape compressed in a rich antique dress, as the bursting leaves contain the April buds! Why do I not call up this image of gentle sweetness, and place it as a perpetual barrier between mischance and me? - It is because pleasure asks a greater effort of the mind to support it than pain; and we turn after a little idle dalliance from what we love to what we hate!

As to my old opinions, I am heartily sick of them. I have reason, for they have deceived me sadly. I was taught to think, and I was willing to believe, that genius was not a bawd, that virtue was not a mask, that liberty was not a name, that love had its seat in the human heart. Now I would care little if these words were struck out of the dictionary, or if I had never heard them. They are become to my ears a mockery and a dream. Instead of patriots and friends of freedom, I see nothing but the tyrant and the slave, the people linked with kings to rivet on the chains of despotism and superstition. I see folly join with knavery, and together make up public spirit and public opinions. I see the insolent Tory, the blind Reformer, the coward Whig! If mankind had wished for what is right, they might have had it long ago. The theory is plain enough; but they are prone to mischief, "to every good work reprobate." I have seen all that had been done by the mighty yearnings of the spirit and intellect of men, "of whom the world was not worthy," and that promised a proud opening to truth and good through the vista of future years, undone by one man, with just glimmering of understanding enough to feel that he was a king, but not to comprehend how he could be king of a free people! I have seen this triumph celebrated by poets, the friends of my youth and the friends of men, but who were carried away by the infuriate tide that, setting in from a throne, bore down every distinction of right reason before it; and I have seen all those who did not join in applauding this insult and outrage on humanity proscribed, hunted down (they and their friends made a byword of), so that it has become an understood thing that no one can live by his talents or knowledge who is not ready to prostitute those talents and that knowledge to betray his species, and prey upon his fellow- man. "This was some time a mystery: but the time gives evidence of it." The echoes of liberty had awakened once more in Spain, and the mornings of human hope dawned again: but that dawn has been overcast by the foul breath of bigotry, and those reviving sounds stifled by fresh cries from the time-rent towers of the Inquisition - man yielding (as it is fit he should) first to brute force, but more to the innate perversity and dastard spirit of his own nature which leaves no room for farther hope or disappointment. And England, that arch-reformer, that heroic deliverer, that mouther about liberty, and tool of power, stands gaping by, not feeling the blight and mildew coming over it, nor its very bones crack and turn to a paste under the grasp and circling folds of this new monster, Legitimacy! In private life do we not see hypocrisy, servility, selfishness, folly, and impudence succeed, while modesty shrinks from the encounter, and merit is trodden under foot? How often is "the rose plucked from the forehead of a virtuous love to plant a blister there!" What chance is there of the success of real passion? What certainty of its continuance? Seeing all this as I do, and unravelling the web of human life into its various threads of meanness, spite, cowardice, want of feeling, and want of understanding, of indifference towards others, and ignorance of ourselves, - seeing custom prevail over all excellence, itself giving way to infamy - mistaken as I have been in my public and private hopes, calculating others from myself, and calculating wrong; always disappointed where I placed most reliance; the dupe of friendship, and the fool of love; - have I not reason to hate and to despise myself? Indeed I do; and chiefly for not having hated and despised the world enough.

_______________________________

FOOTNOTES:

[1]

Panopticons was the name given by

Bentham

to a proposed form of prison of circular shape having cells built round and fully exposed towards a central well, from which the jail keepers could at all times observe the prisoners.

Robert Owen

was the first in a line of 19th century socialists who in fact carried out experiments at his cotton mills at New Lanark mill where he erected a block of buildings in the form of a parallelogram to house the workers.

[2] Hazlitt refers to Edward Irving (1792-34), the Scottish divine and mystic who took over the Caledonian Church, Hatton Garden, London, and where he enjoyed a phenomenal success as a preacher.

[3] Lamb's Epistle to Robert Southey, Esq., was published in the London Magazine, Oct. 1823. See my page on Robert Southey.

[4] "On the Conversations of Authors" by Hazlitt and which first appeared in Sep. of 1820, and which was in his book of essays, The Plain Speaker (1826).

[5] Hazlitt seems to be referring to most of those who gathered at Lamb's house, c. 1808, more Lamb's friends than Hazlitt's: Captain Burney, Martin, his son; Wm. Ayrton, musician; James White, treasurer at Christ's Hospital; John Rickman, clerk to the speaker; Edward "Ned" Phillips, another clerk and Rickman's successor; Geo. Dyer; Joseph Hume; et al. One could have seen them at the residence of Charles and Mary Lamb where they met every Wednesday night; for discussion, cribbage and whist.