#guild charters

[racefortheironthrone]

Please tell me more about neighbourhood PMCs in renaissance Italy

It would be my pleasure! (My research into this owes a lot to the excellent Power and Imagination: City-States in Renaissance Italy by Lauro Martines.)

The first thing to note that, unlike the condottieri, these were not private military companies. Rather, the neighborhood military companies (in the sense of a military unit, rather than a profit-making entity) were self-defense organizations formed as part of a centuries-long political struggle for control over the urban commune between the signorile (the urban chivalry)/nobilita (the urban nobility) and the populo (the guilded middle class, who claimed to speak on behalf of "the people").

This conflict followed much the same logic that had given rise to the medieval commune in the first place. Legally, the communes had started as mutual defense pacts between the signorile and the cives (the free citizens of the city) against the rural feudal nobility, which had given these groups the military and political muscle to push out the marquises and viscounts and barons and claim exclusive authority over the tax system, the judicial system, and the military.

So it made sense that, once they had vanquished their enemies and established the commune as the sovereign, both sides would use the same tactic in their struggle over which of them would rule the commune that ruled the city. The signorile and nobilita formed themselves into consorteria or "tower societies," by which ancient families allied with one another (complete with dynastic marriage alliances!) to build and garrison the towers with the knights, squires, men-at-arms, and bravi of their households. These phallic castle substitutes were incredibly formidable within the context of urban warfare, as relatively small numbers of men with crossbows could rain down hell on besiegers from the upper windows and bridges between towers, even as the poor bastards on the ground tried to force the heavy doors down below.

To combat noble domination of communal government, achieve direct representation on the political councils, establish equity of taxation and regulate interest rates, and enforce legal equality between nobility and citizenry, the populo formed themselves into guilds to build alliances between merchants and artisans in the same industries. However, these amateur soldiers struggled to fight on even footing with fully-trained and well-equipped professional soldiers, and the guild militias were frequently defeated.

To solve their military dilemma, the populo engaged in political coalition-building with the oldest units of the urban commune: the neighborhoods. When the cities of medieval Italy were originally founded, they had been rather decentralized transplantations of the rural villages, where before people had any conception of a city-wide collective their primary allegiance was to their neighborhood. As can still be seen in the Palio di Siena to this day, these contrade built a strong identity based on local street gangs, the parish church, their traditional heraldry, and their traditional rivalries with the stronzi in the next contrade over. And whether they were maggiori, minori, or unguilded laborers, everyone in the city was a member of their contrade.

As Martines describes, the populo both recruited from (and borrowed the traditions of) the contrade to form their armed neighborhood companies into a force that would have the manpower, the discipline, and the morale to take on the consorteria:

"Every company had its distinctive banner and every house in the city was administratively under the sign of a company. A dragon, a whip, a serpent, a bull, a bounding horse, a lion, a ladder: these, in different colors and on contrasting fields, were some of the leitmotifs of the twenty different banners. They were emblazoned on individual shields and helmets. Rigorous regulations required guildsmen to keep their arms near at hand, above all in troubled times. The call to arms for the twenty companies was the ringing of a special bell, posted near the main public square. A standard-bearer, flanked by four lieutenants, was in command of each company."

To knit these companies organized by neighborhood into a single cohesive force, the lawyers' guilds within the populo created a state within a state, complete with written constitutions, guild charters, legal codes, legislative and executive councils. Under these constitutions, the populo's councils would elect a capitano del popolo, a professional soldier from outside the city who would serve as a politically-neutral commander, with a direct chain of command over the gonfaloniere and lieutenants of the neighborhood companies, to lead the populo against their noble would-be overlords.

And in commune after commune, the neighborhood companies made war against the consorteria, taking the towers one by one and turning them into fortresses of the populo. The victorious guilds turned their newly-won military might into political hegemony over the commune, stripping the nobilita of their power and privilege and forcing them either into submission or exile. Then they directed their veteran neighborhood companies outward to seize control of the rural hinterland from the feudal aristocracy, until the city had become city-state.

(Ironically, in the process, the populo gave birth to the condottieri, as the nobility who had lost their landed wealth and political power took their one remaining asset - their military training and equipment - and became professional mercenaries. But that's a story for another time...)

[nightwingsgypsyrep]

Dick Grayson’s Circus/Showman Heritage: Some Historical Resources (and a few more general, modern ones)

This is by no means a complete list, but here’s a few resources for the history of circuses and fairgrounds (and those who run and perform in them, with an emphasis on those who are travellers/showmen/gypsies), and a handful of more general resources for our every day life. These are mostly UK based, since I am in the UK so this is what I know, but should still be useful even if you want to look at it from a particular perspective. Even if you’re not a writer, it’s still quite an interesting read! The vast majority (all except two) are free to access, as I’ve linked PDFs where available. :)

A good resource for Showman/circus history (primarily in the UK) is the National Fairground and Circus Archive, based out of the University of Sheffield. A lot of their stuff is older, but heritage is really important to our community, so it’s still absolutely worth a look. There’s also a fair bit on my family there 👀 You can find the collection here!

The World’s Fair is the newspaper for all things Showman, and is a staple of every Showman/circus home. Used for news, business, and society, every Showman is familiar with the World’s Fair (like I really can’t overhype its cultural significance). It’s traditional to announce births, christenings, engagements, weddings, and deaths in the paper. *Requires a subscription to read but still good to play around the website.

Another is the Showmen’s Guild of Great Britain. Maybe less relevant to those writing about Dick Grayson/circuses today, but still good to be aware of for its historical significance. The Guild is largely in charge of charter fairs in the UK, and though not everyone is a member - it’s not required and is really up to you based on where you travel/who you travel with - it is something which all Showmen/circus in the UK will know of. The Guild was founded in the 19th century by Lord George Sanger, proprietor of Sanger’s Circus (and my great grandad!)

Seventy Years A Showman is the autobiography of Lord George Sanger, one of the first big circus proprietors. Although brought up on the fairground, Sanger’s father was not ethnically a gypsy as he ‘fell into’ the travelling life after serving on The Victory. George and his brother John started their circus, married into prominent gypsy/circus families, and became a household name in both Showman history, and Britain as a whole, as a favourite and friend of the royal family, and the founder of the Showmen’s Guild of Great Britain. He was also some of the inspiration for The Greatest Showman, even if the film was technically about Barnum. He was eventually murdered. His wife Ellen Chapman, a lion tamer and horse performer, was very cool too (I’m not just saying this because she’s my Nan, promise)

A collection of items in the Victoria and Albert museum collection relating to Sanger.

Circopedia has pages on important figures in circus history, e.g. Billy Smart (another relation), and some images.

The book Fairfield Folk by Frances Brown (technically a distant cousin) isn’t actually about the circus, but more specifically about one particular Showman family and their lives in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Briefly touches upon some traditions, and kind of bridges the gap a little between a Romanichal identity and Showman identity. It’s worth noting that the censuses for the Matthews family is available online, and you can use it to tell quite a lot about their self identities (e.g. recording their job as ‘travelling gipsies’). *NOTE - link is to a book review, as no PDF is available!

Romany Routes is a good journal, published four times per year, often with anecdotes to certain families. Can be a fun bit of extra research for those interested in genealogy. *limited availability online, but carried by a lot of libraries!

The Instagram of George Hebborn, a traditional fairground artist.

Vanguard is a company which makes ‘chalets’ (or mobile homes, if you’re not a gypsy), the typical home of those who are still travelling. These remain in the yards where we pull in during the winter months, and is what we’d usually consider the family home. As you can see - we’re not exactly camping!

[raging-soul-of-fire]

The instructions of the local lord were quite specific. The Warriors Guild we’re chartered to escort his winter Seer to the coastal lands, where she would tend to a new court. The guard contingent was to be as small as necessary, and they were to meet at the bridge at the edge of town. The Seer would be waiting there, ready for travel ( @thecrystalchoreographer )

Aura sighed when she got the orders. A combat mission, and one that would take her away from her home. Despite the prestige, she knew none of the others wanted to 'babysit the foreigners' and so pushed the task onto her.

Still, she wasn't in a place to complain. Food, shelter, and steady work. Not a lot of call for creative work among them, but at least their weapons and armor would be maintained. No one would complain about that, even if it meant they weren't doing it themselves.

As she packed her things, she wondered who the winter Seer was. She kept her head down and didn't bother herself with matters of the lord's court. The guild master got the jobs and assigned them to the members. For a job like this, needing as small a group as needed, only one or two might normally be assigned, although the guildmaster always advised 1 per escort with more for more vital targets.

Most of the bad jobs went to her, and she always did them. Even after she started hiding what she was, they never let her forget.

At least there would be fresh air on the journey. Hopefully the person who she was escorting wasn't too demanding or harsh. One pack of supplies, rations, bedroll, torch. Everything she owned, really. Anything else she kept to herself. Slinging her shield over her shoulder, she headed to the bridge. She would be early. Punctuality was important.

@thecrystalchoreographer

[mclalan]

A small estate map of Northeast Wolderness, a wapentake within the County of Humbershire.

Pentascarth Peaks

River Wyn

Bridburn Orchard

Bridburn Abbey

Firley Village

Grinholm Mill

Skunlington Town

Skunlington Castle

Pentascarth Peaks

Pentascarth Peaks is an ancient evergreen woodland that once dominated Wolderness, but centuries of agricultural expansion have driven it back to the five hilltop peaks. Some say that Wyrms slumber within each of the five peaks, while others more accurately claim that the peaks mark the boundary of the Wolderness wapentake.

Both Bridburn Abbey and Skunlington Minster claim rights to the forest, leading to obvious land disputes. But while mortals argue over who owns what, the woods remain home to forgotten, ancient goddesses— though the monastics seem to agree on this being just superstition.

River Wyn

Leading down from Pentascarth Peaks is the River Wyn, cutting through Humbershire on its journey east to the Lyre Estuary. The Wyn boasts giant crabs with some allegedly growing to a formidable fifteen feet. But if you're tempted to go crabbing, beware of the water spirit Catharine Wart, who drags unsuspecting victims beneath the Wyn's currents.

Bidburn Orchard

Nestled within an oxbow is Bridburn Abbey's apple orchard. The monks began with the principle of ora et labora, or 'pray and labour,' but if it also produces apples so delicious and plentiful that kings from across the seas are willing to pay a pretty sum for them, then who are the Valynites to say no? Whether it's Wyn's blessed waters or the lay brothers' tireless work, the orchard certainly hasn't hindered the abbey's rise to fame and fortune. Just don’t get caught scrumping from it, or the monks will have your hand off.

Bridburn Abbey

Bridburn Abbey houses the Valynite Order, which seems more preoccupied with power and business than strictly worship. With extensive landholdings and significant influence in the region, the abbey functions as the principal rural manor of Wolderness. As a result, it has become the largest and wealthiest abbey in all of Humbershire. But beyond just collecting tithes from the surrounding peasants, the monks are skilled in land management, particularly in assarting the land of trees and marshes.

Firley Village

Firley Village, named after the fir trees that once grew in the area, is an agricultural settlement situated on the glebe of Bridburn Abbey.

A large plot of common land lies to the west of the village, while smaller plots are located south on the opposite bank of the River Wyn. While the villagers grow a rotation of barley and vegetables, they're best known for they're prized oxblood-coloured sheep, whose wool appears black but shines red when catching the light. You'd think the village would grow fat from the wealth of this highly sought-after wool, but as the village falls under the manorial holding of the abbey, it is the abbey that reaps the wealth.

Grinholm Mill

Grinholm Mill, a growing hamlet owned by the Rolleston family, offers a much more reasonable miller's toll compared to the one up by Bridburn Abbey. They've become quite popular amongst the peasants of Wolderness, (well at least by miller standards), as well as wealthy. Although they pay their tithe to the abbey like everyone else on this side of the river, they are perceived to have undermined the abbey’s milling soke monopoly—much to the abbey displeasure.

Skunlington Town

Skunlington is a prominent market town, both wealthy and influential, with a history that stretches back to the First Age. It's located behind a small range of hills that shield it from harsh weather and provides a natural defence, with an added Royal Castle on the highest peak for good measure.

The castle is about the only Royal influence in the town however, as Skunlington holds charters that grant it a degree of autonomy from the Crown. The town is governed by a council of Merchant Guild Aldermen in coalition with the Provost of Skunlington Minster. But despite this apparent independence, the town is practically in the pocket of the Archbishop of Humberthorpe, the capital city of Humbershire.

South of Bridburn Abbey, across the River Wyn, lies the land controlled by Skunlington Minster’s estate (marked in purple on the map). The large tract of empty land between Skunlington and Bridburn Abbey is an ongoing contention, as both estates claim it for their own. The bickering has gone on so long that the land has turned fallow. But the biggest source of contention is how Skunlington controls the river toll for use of its docks, with particularly extortionate prices for Bridburn Abbey. Rumour has it that Bridburn Abbey might just build a whole new town of its own, south of Skunlington, just to avoid paying this toll!

Skunlington Castle was strategically built in the First Age atop the highest hill on Pen-y-Skun for its vantage point overlooking the whole of North Wolderness Dale—crucial in the Woodsy War against the pagans. However, these days it’s the Crown's administrative center for Wolderness, run by the Under-Sheriff. Here, secular law is enforced, tasks such as collecting taxes for the Crown, raising levies, chopping off heads, that sort of thing. There’s a lot of overlap with the ecclesiastical courts however, sometimes resulting in collaboration and other times in clashes.

Skunlington Castle

But it’s not all work. The castle also serves as the hub for the gentry afterall, and they're not exactly know for their hard work. So the castle hosts games, jousts, fairs, that sort of thing, and a bed for when the King comes to visit.

[sourcreammachine]

Look I don’t want to alarm anyone but a spectre is haunting Europe — the spectre of Communism. All the powers of old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre; Pope and Tsar, Metternich and Guizot, French Radicals and German police-spies.

Where is the party in opposition that has not been decried as communistic by its opponents in power? Where the Opposition that has not hurled back the branding reproach of Communism, against the more advanced opposition parties, as well as against its reactionary adversaries?

Two things result from this fact: Communism is already acknowledged by all European Powers to be itself a Power, and it is high time that Communists should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the Spectre of Communism with a Manifesto of the party itself.

The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles.

Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary re-constitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.

In the earlier epochs of history, we find almost everywhere a complicated arrangement of society into various orders, a manifold graduation of social rank. In ancient Rome we have patricians, knights, plebeians, slaves; in the middle ​ages, feudal lords, vassals, guild-masters, journeymen, apprentices, serfs; in almost all of these classes, again, subordinate gradations.

The modern bourgeois society that has sprouted from the ruins of feudal society, has not done away with class antagonisms. It has but established new classes, new conditions of oppression, new forms of struggle in place of the old ones.

Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinctive feature; it has simplified the class antagonisms. Society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each other: Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.

From the serfs of the middle ages sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. From these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed.

The discovery of America, the rounding of the Cape, opened up fresh ground for the rising bourgeoisie. The East-Indian and Chinese markets, the colonization of America, trade with the colonies, the increase in the means of exchange and in commodities generally, gave to commerce, to navigation, to industry, an impulse never before known, and thereby, to the revolutionary element in the tottering feudal society, a rapid development.

The feudal system of industry, under which industrial production was monopolized by close guilds, now no longer sufficed for the growing wants of the new markets. The manufacturing system took its place. The guild-masters were pushed on one side by the manufacturing middle-class; division of labor between the different ​corporate guilds vanished in the face of division of labor in each single workshop.

Meantime the markets kept ever growing, the demand, ever rising. Even manufacture no longer sufficed. Thereupon, steam and machinery revolutionized industrial production. The place of manufacture was taken by the giant, Modern Industry, the place of the industrial middle-class, by industrial millionaires, the leaders of whole industrial armies, the modern bourgeois.

Modern industry has established the world-market, for which the discovery of America paved the way. This market has given an immense development to commerce, to navigation, to communication by land. This development has, in its turn, reacted on the extension of industry; and in proportion as industry, commerce, navigation, railways extended, in the same proportion the bourgeoisie developed, increased its capital, and pushed into the background every class handed down from the Middle Ages.

We see, therefore, how the modern bourgeoisie is itself the product of a long course of development, of a series of revolutions in the modes of production and of exchange.

Each step in the development of the bourgeoisie was accompanied by a corresponding political advance of that class. An oppressed class under the sway of the feudal nobility, an armed and self-governing association in the mediaeval commune, ​here independent urban republic (as in Italy and Germany), there taxable "third estate" of the monarchy (as in France), afterwards, in the period of manufacture proper, serving either the semi-feudal or the absolute monarchy as a counterpoise against the nobility, and, in fact, corner stone of the great monarchies in general, the bourgeoisie has at last, since the establishment of Modern Industry and of the world-market, conquered for itself, in the modern representative State, exclusive political sway. The executive of the modern State is but a committee for managing the common affairs of the whole bourgeoisie.

The bourgeoisie, historically, has played a most revolutionary part.

The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations. It has pitilessly torn asunder the motley feudal ties that bound man to his "natural superiors," and has left remaining no other nexus between man and man than naked self-interest, than callous "cash payment." It has drowned the most heavenly ecstacies of religious fervor, of chivalrous enthusiasm, of philistine sentimentalism, in the icy water of egotistical calculation. It has resolved personal worth into exchange value, and in place of the numberless indefeasible chartered freedoms, has set up that single, unconscionable freedom—Free Trade. In one word, for exploitation, veiled by religious and political illusions, it has substituted naked, shameless, direct, brutal exploitation.

The bourgeoisie has stripped of its halo every occupation hitherto honored and looked up to with reverent awe. It has converted the ​physician, the lawyer, the priest, the poet, the man of science, into its paid wage-laborers.

The bourgeoisie has torn away from the family its sentimental veil, and has reduced the family relation to a mere money relation.

The bourgeoisie has disclosed how it came to pass that the brutal display of vigor in the Middle Ages, which Reactionists so much admire, found its fitting complement in the most slothful indolence. It has been the first to show what man's activity can bring about. It has accomplished wonders far surpassing Egyptian pyramids, Roman aqueducts, and Gothic cathedrals; it has conducted expeditions that put in the shade all former Exoduses of nations and crusades.

The bourgeoisie cannot exist without constantly revolutionizing the instruments of production, and thereby the relations of production, and with them the whole relations of society. Conservation of the old modes of production in unaltered form, was, on the contrary, the first condition of existence for all earlier industrial classes. Constant revolutionizing of production, uninterrupted disturbance of all social conditions, everlasting uncertainty and agitation distinguish the bourgeois epoch from all earlier ones. All fixed, fast-frozen relations, with their train of ancient and venerable prejudices and opinions, are swept away, all new-formed ones become antiquated before they can ossify. All that is solid melts into air, all that is holy is profaned, and man is at last compelled to face with sober senses, his real conditions of life, and his relations with his kind.

​The need of a constantly expanding market for its products chases the bourgeoisie over the whole surface of the globe. It must nestle everywhere, settle everywhere, establish connections everywhere.

The bourgeoisie has through its exploitation of the world-market given a cosmopolitan character to production and consumption in every country. To the great chagrin of Reactionists, it has drawn from under the feet of industry the national ground on which it stood. All old-established national industries have been destroyed or are daily being destroyed. They are dislodged by new industries, whose introduction becomes a life and death question for all civilized nations, by industries that no longer work up indigenous raw material, but raw material drawn from the remotest zones; industries whose products are consumed, not only at home, but in every quarter of the globe. In place of the old wants, satisfied by the productions of the country, we find new wants, requiring for their satisfaction the products of distant lands and climes. In place of the old local and national seclusion and self-sufficiency, we have intercourse in every direction, universal inter-dependence of nations. And as in material, so also in intellectual production. The intellectual creations of individual nations become common property. National one-sidedness and narrow-mindedness become more and more impossible, and from the numerous national and local literatures there arises a world-literature.

The bourgeoisie, by the rapid improvement of all instruments of production, by the immensely facilitated means of communication, draws all, ​even the most barbarian, nations into civilization. The cheap prices of its commodities are the heavy artillery with which it batters down all Chinese walls, with which it forces the barbarians' intensely obstinate hatred of foreigners to capitulate. It compels all nations, on pain of extinction, to adopt the bourgeois mode of production; it compels them to introduce what it calls civilization into their midst, i. e., to become bourgeois themselves. In a word, it creates a world after its own image.

The bourgeoisie has subjected the country to the rule of the towns. It has created enormous cities, has greatly increased the urban population as compared with the rural, and has thus rescued a considerable part of the population from the idiocy of rural life. Just as it has made the country dependent on the towns, so it has made barbarian and semi-barbarian countries dependent on the civilized ones, nations of peasants on nations of bourgeois, the East on the West.

The bourgeoisie keeps more and more doing away with the scattered state of the population, of the means of production, and of property. It has agglomerated population, centralized means of production, and has concentrated property in a few hands. The necessary consequence of this was political centralization. Independent, or but loosely connected provinces, with separate interests, laws, governments and systems of taxation, became lumped together in one nation, with one government, one code of laws, one national class-interest, one frontier and one customs-tariff.

The bourgeoisie, during its rule of scarce one hundred years, has created more massive and ​more colossal productive forces than have all preceding generations together. Subjection of Nature's forces to man, machinery, application of chemistry to industry and agriculture, steam-navigation, railways, electric telegraphs, clearing of whole continents for cultivation, canalization of rivers, whole populations conjured out of the ground—what earlier century had even a presentiment that such productive forces slumbered in the lap of social labor?

We see then: the means of production and of exchange on whose foundation the bourgeoisie built itself up, were generated in feudal society. At a certain stage in the development of these means of production and of exchange, the conditions under which feudal society produced and exchanged, the feudal organization of agriculture and manufacturing industry, in one word, the feudal relations of property became no longer compatible with the already developed productive forces; they became so many fetters. They had to burst asunder; they were burst asunder.

Into their places stepped free competition, accompanied by a social and political constitution adapted to it, and by the economical and political sway of the bourgeois class.

A similar movement is going on before our own eyes. Modern bourgeois society with its relations of production, of exchange and of property, a society that has conjured up such gigantic means of production and of exchange, is like the sorcerer, who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells. For many a decade past the history of industry and commerce is but the history of the ​revolt of modern productive forces against modern conditions of production, against the property relations that are the conditions for the existence of the bourgeoisie and of its rule. It is enough to mention the commercial crises that by their periodical return put on its trial, each time more threateningly, the existence of the entire bourgeois society. In these crises a great part not only of the existing products, but also of the previously created productive forces, are periodically destroyed. In these crises there breaks out an epidemic that, in all earlier epochs, would have seemed an absurdity—the epidemic of over-production. Society suddenly finds itself put back into a state of momentary barbarism; it appears as if a famine, a universal war of devastation had cut off the supply of every means of subsistence; industry and commerce seem to be destroyed; and why? Because there is too much civilization, too much means of subsistence, too much industry, too much commerce. The productive forces at the disposal of society no longer tend to further the development of the conditions of bourgeois property; on the contrary, they have become too powerful for these conditions, by which they are fettered, and so soon as they overcome these fetters, they bring disorder into the whole of bourgeois society, endanger the existence of bourgeois property. The conditions of bourgeois society are too narrow to comprise the wealth created by them. And how does the bourgeoisie get over these crises? On the one hand by enforced destruction of a mass of productive forces; on the other, by the conquest of new markets, and by the more thorough exploitation of the old ones. That ​is to say, by paving the way for more extensive and more destructive crises, and by diminishing the means whereby crises are prevented.

The weapons with which the bourgeoisie felled feudalism to the ground are now turned against the bourgeoisie itself.

But not only has the bourgeoisie forged the weapons that bring death to itself; it has also called into existence the men who are to wield those weapons—the modern working-class—the proletarians.

In proportion as the bourgeoisie, i. e., capital, is developed, in the same proportion is the proletariat, the modern working-class, developed, a class of laborers, who live only so long as they find work, and who find work only so long as their labor increases capital. These laborers, who must sell themselves piecemeal, are a commodity, like every other article of commerce, and are consequently exposed to all the vicissitudes of competition, to all the fluctuations of the market.

Owing to the extensive use of machinery and to division of labor, the work of the proletarians has lost all individual character, and, consequently, all charm for the workman. He becomes an appendage of the machine, and it is only the most simple, most monotonous, and most easily acquired knack that is required of him. Hence, the cost of production of a workman is restricted, almost entirely, to the means of subsistence that he requires for his maintenance, and for the propagation of his race. But the price of a commodity, and also of labor, is equal to its cost of production. In proportion, therefore, as the ​repulsiveness of the work increases, the wage decreases. Nay more, in proportion as the use of machinery and division of labor increases, in the same proportion the burden of toil also increases, whether by prolongation of the working hours, by increase of the work enacted in a given time, or by increased speed of the machinery, etc.

Modern industry has converted the little workshop of the patriarchal master into the great factory of the industrial capitalist. Masses of laborers, crowded into the factory, are organized like soldiers. As privates of the industrial army they are placed under the command of a perfect hierarchy of officers and sergeants. Not only are they the slaves of the bourgeois class, and of the bourgeois State, they are daily and hourly enslaved by the machine, by the over-looker, and, above all, by the individual bourgeois manufacturer himself. The more openly this despotism proclaims gain to be its end and aim, the more petty, the more hateful and the more embittering it is.

The less the skill and exertion or strength implied in manual labor, in other words, the more modern industry becomes developed, the more is the labor of men superseded by that of women. Differences of age and sex have no longer any distinctive social validity for the working class. All are instruments of labor, more or less expensive to use, according to their age and sex.

No sooner is the exploitation of the laborer by the manufacturer, so far at an end, that he receives his wages in cash, than he is set upon by the other portions of the bourgeoisie, the landlord, the shopkeeper, the pawnbroker, etc.

​The lower strata of the Middle class—the small tradespeople, shopkeepers, and retired tradesmen generally, the handicraftsmen and peasants—all these sink gradually into the proletariat, partly because their diminutive capital does not suffice for the scale on which Modern Industry is carried on, and is swamped in the competition with the large capitalists, partly because their specialized skill is rendered worthless by new methods of production. Thus the proletariat is recruited from all classes of the population.

The proletariat goes through various stages of development. With its birth begins its struggle with the bourgeoisie. At first the contest is carried on by individual laborers, then by the workpeople of a factory, then by the operatives of one trade, in one locality, against the individual bourgeois who directly exploits them. They direct their attacks not against the bourgeois conditions of production, but against the instruments of production themselves; they destroy imported wares that compete with their labor, they smash to pieces machinery, they set factories ablaze, they seek to restore by force the vanished status of the workman of the Middle Ages.

At this stage the laborers still form an incoherent mass scattered over the whole country, and broken up by their mutual competition. If anywhere they unite to form more compact bodies, this is not yet the consequence of their own active union, but of the union of the bourgeoisie, which class, in order to attain its own political ends, is compelled to set the whole proletariat in motion, and is moreover yet, for a time, able to do so. At this stage, therefore, the proletarians do not ​fight their enemies, but the enemies of their enemies, the remnants of absolute monarchy, the landowners, the non-industrial bourgeois, the petty bourgeoisie. Thus the whole historical movement is concentrated in the hands of the bourgeoisie; every victory so obtained is a victory for the bourgeoisie.

But with the development of industry the proletariat not only increases in number, it becomes concentrated in greater masses, its strength grows, and it feels that strength more. The various interests and conditions of life within the ranks of the proletariat are more and more equalized, in proportion as machinery obliterates all distinctions of labor, and nearly everywhere reduces wages to the same low level. The growing competition among the bourgeois, and the resulting commercial crises, make the wages of the workers ever more fluctuating. The unceasing improvement of machinery, ever more rapidly developing, makes their livelihood more and more precarious; the collisions between individual workmen and individual bourgeois take more and more the character of collisions between two classes. Thereupon the workers begin to form combinations (Trades' Unions) against the bourgeois; they club together in order to keep up the rate of wages; they found permanent associations in order to make provision beforehand for these occasional revolts. Here and there the contest breaks out into riots.

Now and then the workers are victorious, but only for a time. The real fruit of their battles lies, not in the immediate result, but in the ever ​expanding union of the workers. This union is helped on by the improved means of communication that are created by modern industry, and that place the workers of different localities in contact with one another. It was just this contact that was needed to centralize the numerous local struggles, all of the same character, into one national struggle between classes. But every class struggle is a political struggle. And that union, to attain which the burghers of the Middle Ages, with their miserable highways, required centuries, the modern proletarians, thanks to railways, achieve in a few years.

This organization of the proletarians into a class, and consequently into a political party, is continually being upset again by the competition between the workers themselves. But it ever rises up again, stronger, firmer, mightier. It compels legislative recognition of particular interests of the workers, by taking advantage of the divisions among the bourgeoisie itself. Thus the ten-hour bill in England was carried.

Altogether collisions between the classes of the old society further, in many ways, the course of development of the proletariat. The bourgeoisie finds itself involved in a constant battle. At first with the aristocracy; later on, with those portions of the bourgeoisie itself, whose interests have become antagonistic to the progress of industry; at all times, with the bourgeoisie of foreign countries. In all these battles it sees itself compelled to appeal to the proletariat, to ask for its help, and thus, to drag it into the political arena. The bourgeoisie itself, therefore, supplies the ​proletariat with its own elements of political and general education, in other words, it furnishes the proletariat with weapons for fighting the bourgeoisie.

Further, as we have already seen, entire sections of the ruling classes are, by the advance of industry, precipitated into the proletariat, or are at least threatened in their conditions of existence. These also supply the proletariat with fresh elements of enlightenment and progress.

Finally, in times when the class-struggle nears the decisive hour, the process of dissolution going on within the ruling class, in fact, within the whole range of old society, assumes such a violent, glaring character, that a small section of the ruling class cuts itself adrift, and joins the revolutionary class, the class that holds the future in its hands. Just as, therefore, at an earlier period, a section of the nobility went over to the bourgeoisie, so now a portion of the bourgeoisie goes over to the proletariat, and in particular, a portion of the bourgeois ideologists, who have raised themselves to the level of comprehending theoretically the historical movements as a whole.

Of all the classes that stand face to face with the bourgeoisie today, the proletariat alone is a really revolutionary class. The other classes decay and finally disappear in the face of modern industry; the proletariat is its special and essential product.

The lower middle-class, the small manufacturer, the shopkeeper, the artisan, the peasant, all these fight against the bourgeoisie, to save from extinction their existence as fractions of the middle ​class. They are, therefore, not revolutionary, but conservative. Nay more, they are reactionary, for they try to roll back the wheel of history. If by chance they are revolutionary, they are so, only in view of their impending transfer into the proletariat, they thus defend not their present, but their future interests, they desert their own standpoint to place themselves at that of the proletariat.

The "dangerous class," the social scum, that passively rotting mass thrown off by the lowest layers of old society, may, here and there, be swept into the movement by a proletarian revolution; its conditions of life, however, prepare it far more for the part of a bribed tool of reactionary intrigue.

In the conditions of the proletariat, those of old society at large are already virtually swamped. The proletarian is without property; his relation to his wife and children has no longer anything in common with the bourgeois family-relations; modern industrial labor, modern subjection to capital, the same in England as in France, in America as in Germany, has stripped him of every trace of national character. Law, morality, religion, are to him so many bourgeois prejudices, behind which lurk in ambush just as many bourgeois interests.

All the preceding classes that got the upper hand, sought to fortify their already acquired status by subjecting society at large to their conditions of appropriation. The proletarians cannot become masters of the productive forces of society, except by abolishing their own previous ​mode of appropriation, and thereby also every other previous mode of appropriation. They have nothing of their own to secure and to fortify; their mission is to destroy all previous securities for, and insurances of, individual property.

All previous historical movements were movements of minorities, or in the interest of minorities. The proletarian movement is the self-conscious, independent movement of the immense majority, in the interest of the immense majority. The proletariat, the lowest stratum of our present society, cannot stir, cannot raise itself up, without the whole superincumbent strata of official society being sprung into the air.

Though not in substance, yet in form, the struggle of the proletariat with the bourgeoisie is at first a national struggle. The proletariat of each country must, of course, first of all settle matters with its own bourgeoisie.

In depicting the most general phases of the development of the proletariat, we traced the more or less veiled civil war, raging within existing society, up to the point where that war breaks out into open revolution, and where the violent overthrow of the bourgeoisie, lays the foundation for the sway of the proletariat.

Hitherto, every form of society has been based, as we have already seen, on the antagonism of oppressing and oppressed classes. But in order to oppress a class, certain conditions must be assured to it under which it can, at least, continue its slavish existence. The serf, in the period of serfdom, raised himself to membership in the ​commune, just as the petty bourgeois, under the yoke of feudal absolutism, managed to develop into a bourgeois. The modern laborer, on the contrary, instead of rising with the progress of industry, sinks deeper and deeper below the conditions of existence of his own class. He becomes a pauper, and pauperism develops more rapidly than population and wealth. And here it becomes evident, that the bourgeoisie is unfit any longer to be the ruling class in society, and to impose its conditions of existence upon society as an over-riding law. It is unfit to rule, because it is incompetent to assure an existence to its slave within his slavery, because it cannot help letting him sink into such a state that it has to feed him, instead of being fed by him. Society can no longer live under this bourgeoisie, in other words, its existence is no longer compatible with society.

The essential condition for the existence, and for the sway of the bourgeois class, is the formation and augmentation of capital; the condition for capital is wage-labor. Wage-labor rests exclusively on competition between the laborers. The advance of industry, whose involuntary promoter is the bourgeoisie, replaces the isolation of the laborers, due to competition, by their revolutionary combination, due to association. The development of Modern Industry, therefore, cuts from under its feet the very foundation on which the bourgeoisie produces and appropriates products. What the bourgeoisie therefore produces, above all, are its own grave-diggers. Its fall and the victory of the proletariat are equally inevitable.

In what relation do the Communists stand to the proletarians as a whole?

The Communists do not form a separate party opposed to other working-class parties.

They have no interests separate and apart from those of the proletariat as a whole.

They do not set up any sectarian principles of their own, by which to shape and mould the proletarian movement.

The Communists are distinguished from the other working class parties by this only: 1. In the national struggles of the proletarians of the different countries, they point out and bring to the front the common interests of the entire proletariat independently of all nationality. 2. In the various stages of development which the struggle of the working class against the bourgeoisie has to pass through, they always and everywhere represent the interests of the movement as a whole.

The Communists, therefore, are on the one hand, practically, the most advanced and resolute section of the working class parties of every country, that section which pushes forward all others; on the other hand, theoretically, they have over the great mass of the proletariat the advantage of clearly understanding the line of march, the conditions, and the ultimate general results of the proletarian movement.

The immediate aim of the Communists is the same as that of all the other proletarian parties; ​formation of the proletariat into a class, overthrow of the bourgeois supremacy, conquest of political power by the proletariat.

The theoretical conclusions of the Communists are in no way based on ideas or principles that have been invented, or discovered, by this or that would-be universal reformer.

They merely express, in general terms, actual relations springing from an existing class struggle, from a historical movement going on under our very eyes. The abolition of existing property relations is not at all a distinctive feature of Communism.

All property relations in the past have continually been subject to historical change consequent upon the change in historical conditions.

The French Revolution, for example, abolished feudal property in favor of bourgeois property.

The distinguishing feature of Communism is not the abolition of property generally, but the abolition of bourgeois property. But modern bourgeois private property is the final and most complete expression of the system of producing and appropriating products, that is based on class antagonism, on the exploitation of the many by the few.

In this sense, the theory of the Communists may be summed up in the single sentence: Abolition of private property.

We Communists have been reproached with the desire of abolishing the right of personally acquiring property as the fruit of a man's own labor, which property is alleged to be the ground work of all personal freedom, activity and independence.

​Hard-won, self-acquired, self-earned property! Do you mean the property of the petty artisan and of the small peasant, a form of property that preceded the bourgeois form? There is no need to abolish that; the development of industry has to a great extent already destroyed it, and is still destroying it daily.

Or do you mean modern bourgeois private property?

But does wage-labor create any property for the laborer? Not a bit. It creates capital, i. e., that kind of property which exploits wage-labor, and which cannot increase except upon condition of getting a new supply of wage-labor for fresh exploitation. Property, in its present form, is based on the antagonism of capital and wage-labor. Let us examine both sides of this antagonism.

To be a capitalist, is to have not only a purely personal, but a social status in production. Capital is a collective product, and only by the united action of many members, nay, in the last resort, only by the united action of all members of society, can it be set in motion.

Capital is therefore not a personal, it is a social power.

When, therefore, capital is converted into common property, into the property of all members of society, personal property is not thereby transformed into social property. It is only the social character of the property that is changed. It loses its class-character.

Let us now take wage-labor.

The average price of wage-labor is the minimum wage, i. e., that quantum of the means of ​subsistence, which is absolutely requisite to keep the laborer in bare existence as a laborer. What, therefore, the wage-laborer appropriates by means of his labor, merely suffices to prolong and reproduce a bare existence. We by no means intend to abolish this personal appropriation of the products of labor, an appropriation that is made for the maintenance and reproduction of human life, and that leaves no surplus wherewith to command the labor of others. All that we want to do away with is the miserable character of this appropriation, under which the laborer lives merely to increase capital, and is allowed to live only in so far as the interest of the ruling class requires it.

In bourgeois society, living labor is but a mean to increase accumulated labor. In Communist society, accumulated labor is but a means to widen, to enrich, to promote the existence of the laborer. In bourgeois society, therefore, the past dominates the present; in communist society, the present dominates the past. In bourgeois society capital is independent and has individuality, while the living person is dependent and has no individuality.

And the abolition of this state of things is called by the bourgeois, abolition of individuality and freedom! And rightly so. The abolition of bourgeois individuality, bourgeois independence, and bourgeois freedom is undoubtedly aimed at.

By freedom is meant, under the present bourgeois conditions of production, free trade, free selling and buying.

But if selling and buying disappears, free selling and buying disappears also. This talk about free selling and buying, and all the other "brave ​words" of our bourgeoisie about freedom in general, have a meaning, if any, only in contrast with restricted selling and buying, with the fettered traders of the Middle Ages, but have no meaning when opposed to the Communistic abolition of buying and selling, of the bourgeois conditions of production, and of the bourgeoisie itself.

You are horrified at our intending to do away with private property. But in your existing society, private property is already done away with for nine-tenths of the population; its existence for the few is solely due to its non-existence in the hands of those nine-tenths. You reproach us, therefore, with intending to do away with a form of property, the necessary condition for whose existence is, the non-existence of any property for the immense majority of society.

In one word, you reproach us with intending to do away with your property. Precisely so; that is just what we intend.

From the moment when labor can no longer be converted into capital, money, or rent, into a social power capable of being monopolized, i.e., from the moment when individual property can no longer be transformed into bourgeois property, into capital, from that moment, you say, individuality vanishes.

You must, therefore, confess that by "individual" you mean no other person than the bourgeois, than the middle-class owner of property. This person must, indeed, be swept out of the way, and made impossible.

Communism deprives no man of the power to appropriate the products of society: all that it does is to deprive him of the power to subjugate the ​labor of others by means of such appropriation.

It has been objected, that upon the abolition of private property all work will cease, and universal laziness will overtake us.

According to this, bourgeois society ought long ago to have gone to the dogs through sheer idleness; for those of its members who work, acquire nothing, and those who acquire anything, do not work. The whole of this objection is but another expression of the tautology: that there can no longer be any wage-labor when there is no longer any capital.

All objections urged against the Communistic mode of producing and appropriating material products, have, in the same way, been urged against the Communistic modes of producing and appropriating intellectual products. Just as, to the bourgeois, the disappearance of class property is the disappearance of production itself, so the disappearance of class culture is to him identical with the disappearance of all culture.

That culture, the loss of which he laments, is, for the enormous majority, a mere training to act as a machine.

But don't wrangle with us so long as you apply, to our intended abolition of bourgeois property, the standard of your bourgeois notions of freedom, culture, law, etc. Your very ideas are but the outgrowth of the conditions of your bourgeois production and bourgeois property, just as your jurisprudence is but the will of your class made into a law for all, a will, whose essential character and direction are determined by the economic conditions of existence of your class.

The selfish misconception that induces you to ​transform into eternal laws of nature and of reason, the social forms springing from your present mode of production and form of property—historical relations that rise and disappear in the progress of production—this misconception you share with every ruling class that has preceded you. What you see clearly in the case of ancient property, what you admit in the case of feudal property, you are of course forbidden to admit in the case of your own bourgeois form of property.

Abolition of the family! Even the most radical flare up at this infamous proposal of the Communists.

On what foundation is the present family, the bourgeois family, based? On capital, on private gain. In its completely developed form this family exists only among the bourgeoisie. But this state of things finds its complement in the practical absence of the family among the proletarians, and in public prostitution.

The bourgeois family will vanish as a matter of course when its complement vanishes, and both will vanish with the vanishing of capital.

Do you charge us with wanting to stop the exploitation of children by their parents? To this crime we plead guilty.

But, you will say, we destroy the most hallowed of relations, when we replace home education by social.

And your education! Is not that also social, and determined by the social conditions under which you educate, by the intervention, direct or indirect, of society by means of schools, etc.? The Communists have not invented the intervention of society in education; they do but seek to alter ​the character of that intervention, and to rescue education from the influence of the ruling class.

The bourgeois clap-trap about the family and education, about the hallowed co-relation of parent and child, becomes all the more disgusting, the more, by the action of Modern Industry, all family ties among the proletarians are torn asunder, and their children transformed into simple articles of commerce and instruments of labor.

But you Communists would introduce community of women, screams the whole bourgeoisie in chorus.

The bourgeois sees in his wife a mere instrument of production. He hears that the instruments of production are to be exploited in common, and, naturally, can come to no other conclusion, than that the lot of being common to all will likewise fall to the women.

He has not even a suspicion that the real point aimed at is to do away with the status of women as mere instruments of production.

For the rest, nothing is more ridiculous than the virtuous indignation of our bourgeois at the community of women which, they pretend, is to be openly and officially established by the Communists. The Communists have no need to introduce community of women; it has existed almost from time immemorial.

Our bourgeois, not content with having the wives and daughters of their proletarians at their disposal, not to speak of common prostitutes, take the greatest pleasure in seducing each others' wives.

Bourgeois marriage is in reality a system of ​wives in common and thus, at the most, what the Communists might possibly be reproached with, is that they desire to introduce, in substitution for a hypocritically concealed, an openly legalized community of women. For the rest, it is self-evident, that the abolition of the present system of production must bring with it the abolition of the community of women springing from that system, i. e., of prostitution both public and private.

The Communists are further reproached with desiring to abolish countries and nationalities.

The working men have no country. We cannot take from them what they have not got. Since the proletariat must first of all acquire political supremacy, must rise to be the leading class of the nation, must constitute itself the nation, it is, so far, itself national, though not in the bourgeois sense of the word.

National differences, and antagonisms between peoples, are daily more and more vanishing, owing to the development of the bourgeoisie, to freedom of commerce, to the world-market, to uniformity in the mode of production and in the conditions of life corresponding thereto.

The supremacy of the proletariat will cause them to vanish still faster. United action, of the leading civilized countries at least, is one of the first conditions for the emancipation of the proletariat.

In proportion as the exploitation of one individual by another is put an end to, the exploitation of one nation by another will also be put a end to. In proportion as the antagonism between ​classes within the nation vanishes, the hostility of one nation to another will come to an end.

The charges against Communism made from a religious, a philosophical, and generally, from an ideological standpoint, are not deserving of serious examination.

Does it require deep intuition to comprehend that man's ideas, views, and conceptions, in one word, man's consciousness, changes with every change in the conditions of his material existence, in his social relations and in his social life?

What else does the history of ideas prove, than that intellectual production changes in character in proportion as material production is changed? The ruling ideas of each age have ever been the ideas of its ruling class.

When people speak of ideas that revolutionize society, they do but express the fact, that within the old society, the elements of a new one have been created, and that the dissolution of the old ideas keeps even pace with the dissolution of the old conditions of existence.

When the ancient world was in its last throes, the ancient religions were overcome by Christianity. When Christian ideas succumbed in the 18th century to rationalist ideas, feudal society fought its death-battle with the then revolutionary bourgeoisie. The ideas of religious liberty and freedom of conscience, merely gave expression to the sway of free competition within the domain of knowledge.

"Undoubtedly," it will be said, "religious, moral, philosophical and juridical ideas have been modified in the course of historical development. But religion, morality, philosophy, ​political science, and law, constantly survived this change."

"There are, besides, eternal truths, such as Freedom, Justice, etc., that are common to all states of society. But Communism abolishes eternal truths, it abolishes all religion, and all morality, instead of constituting them on a new basis; it therefore acts in contradiction to all past historical experience."

What does this accusation reduce itself to? The history of all past society has consisted in the development of class antagonisms, antagonisms that assumed different forms at different epochs.

But whatever form they may have taken, one fact is common to all past ages, viz., the exploitation of one part of society by the other. No wonder, then, that the social consciousness of past ages, despite all the multiplicity and variety it displays, moves within certain common forms, or general ideas, which cannot completely vanish except with the total disappearance of class antagonisms.

The Communist revolution is the most radical rupture with traditional property-relations; no wonder that its development involves the most radical rupture with traditional ideas.

But let us have done with the bourgeois objections to Communism.

We have seen above, that the first step in the revolution by the working class, is to raise the proletariat to the position of ruling class, to win the battle of democracy.

The proletariat will use its political supremacy, to wrest, by degrees, all capital from the ​bourgeoisie, to centralize all instruments of production in the hands of the State, i. e., of the proletariat organized as the ruling class; and to increase the total of productive forces as rapidly as possible.

Of course, in the beginning, this cannot be effected except by means of despotic inroads on the rights of property, and on the conditions of bourgeois production; by means of measures, therefore, which appear economically insufficient and untenable, but which, in the course of the movement, outstrip themselves, necessitate further inroads upon the old social order, and are unavoidable as a means of entirely revolutionizing the mode of production.

These measures will of course be different in different countries.

Nevertheless in the most advanced countries the following will be pretty generally applicable:

1. Abolition of property in land and application of all rents of land to public purposes.

2. A heavy progressive or graduated income tax.

3. Abolition of all right of inheritance.

4. Confiscation of the property of all emigrants and rebels.

5. Centralization of credit in the hands of the state, by means of a national bank with State capital and an exclusive monopoly.

6. Centralization of the means of communication and transport in the hands of the State.

7. Extension of factories and instruments of production owned by the State; the bringing into cultivation of waste lands, and the improvement ​of the soil generally in accordance with a common plan.

8. Equal liability of all to labor. Establishment of industrial armies, especially for agriculture.

9. Combination of agriculture with manufacturing industries; gradual abolition of the distinction between town and country, by a more equable distribution of population over the country.

10. Free education for all children in public schools. Abolition of children's factory labor in its present form. Combination of education with industrial production, etc., etc.

When, in the course of development, class distinctions have disappeared, and all production has been concentrated in the hands of a vast association of the whole nation, the public power will lose its political character. Political power, properly so called, is merely the organized power of one class for oppressing another. If the proletariat during its contest with the bourgeoisie is compelled, by the force of circumstances, to organize itself as a class, if, by means of a revolution, it makes itself the ruling class, and, as such, sweeps away by force the old conditions of production, then it will, along with these conditions, have swept away the conditions for the existence of class antagonisms, and of classes generally, and will thereby have abolished its own supremacy as a class.

In place of the old bourgeois society, with its classes and class antagonisms, we shall have an association, in which the free development of each is the condition for the free development of all.

Owing to their historical position, it became the vocation of the aristocracies of France and England to write pamphlets against modern bourgeois society. In the French revolution of July, 1830, and in the English reform agitation, these aristocracies again succumbed to the hateful upstart. Thenceforth, a serious political contest was altogether out of the question. A literary battle alone remained possible. But even in the domain of literature the old cries of the restoration period had become impossible.

In order to arouse sympathy, the aristocracy were obliged to lose sight, apparently, of their own interests, and to formulate their indictment against the bourgeoisie in the interest of the exploited working class alone. Thus the aristocracy took their revenge by singing lampoons on their new master, and whispering in his ears sinister prophecies of coming catastrophe.

In this way arose feudal socialism; half lamentation, half lampoon; half echo of the past, half menace of the future; at times, by its bitter, witty and incisive criticism, striking the bourgeoisie to the very hearts' core, but always ludicrous in its ​effect, through total incapacity to comprehend the march of modern history.

The aristocracy, in order to rally the people to them, waved the proletarian alms-bag in front for a banner. But the people, so often as it joined them, saw on their hindquarters the old feudal coats of arms, and deserted with loud and irreverent laughter.

One section of the French Legitimists, and "Young England," exhibited this spectacle.

In pointing out that their mode of exploitation was different to that of the bourgeoisie, the feudalists forget that they exploited under circumstances and conditions that were quite different, and that are now antiquated. In showing that, under their rule, the modern proletariat never existed, they forget that the modern bourgeoisie is the necessary offspring of their own form of society.

For the rest, so little do they conceal the reactionary character of their criticism, that their chief accusation against the bourgeoisie amounts to this, that under the bourgeois regime a class is being developed, which is destined to cut up root and branch the old order of society.

What they upbraid the bourgeoisie with is not so much that it creates a proletariat, as that it creates a revolutionary proletariat.

In political practice, therefore, they join in all coercive measures against the working-class; and in ordinary life, despite their high falutin phrases, they stoop to pick up the golden apples dropped from the tree of industry, and to barter truth, ​love, and honor for traffic in wool, beetroot-sugar and potato spirit.

As the parson has ever gone hand in hand with the landlord, so has Clerical Socialism with Feudal Socialism.

Nothing is easier than to give Christian asceticism a Socialist tinge. Has not Christianity declaimed against private property, against marriage, against the State? Has it not preached in the place of these, charity and poverty, celibacy, and mortification of the flesh, monastic life and Mother Church? Christian Socialism is but the Holy Water with which the priest consecrates the heart-burnings of the aristocrat.

The feudal aristocracy was not the only class that was ruined by the bourgeoisie, not the only class whose conditions of existence pined and perished in the atmosphere of modern bourgeois society. The medieval burgesses and the small peasant bourgeoisie, were the precursors of the modern bourgeoisie. In those countries which are but little developed, industrially and commercially, these two classes still vegetate side by side with the rising bourgeoisie.

In countries where modern civilization has become fully developed, a new class of petty bourgeois has been formed, fluctuating between proletariat and bourgeoisie, and ever renewing itself as a supplementary part of bourgeois society. ​The individual members of this class, however, are being constantly hurled down into the proletariat by the action of competition, and, as modern industry develops, they even see the moment approaching when they will completely disappear as an independent section of modern society, to be replaced, in manufactures, agriculture and commerce, by overlookers, bailiffs and shopmen.

In countries like France, where the peasants constitute far more than half of the population, it was natural that writers who sided with the proletariat against the bourgeoisie, should use, in their criticism of the bourgeoisie regime, the standard of the peasant and petty bourgeois, and from the standpoint of these intermediate classes should take up the cudgels for the working-class. Thus arose petty bourgeois Socialism. Sismondi was the head of this school, not only in France, but also in England.

This school of Socialism dissected with great acuteness the contradictions in the conditions of modern production. It laid bare the hypocritical apologies of economists. It proved, incontrovertibly, the disastrous effects of machinery and division of labor; the concentration of capital and land in a few hands; overproduction and crises; it pointed out the inevitable ruin of the petty bourgeois and peasant, the misery of the proletariat, the anarchy in production, the crying inequalities in the distribution of wealth, the industrial war of extermination between nations, the dissolution of old moral bonds, of the old family relations, of the old nationalities.

In its positive aims, however, this form of Socialism aspires either to restoring the old means ​of production and of exchange, and with them the old property relations, and the old society, or to cramping the modern means of production and of exchange, within the frame work of the old property relations that have been, and were bound to be, exploded by those means. In either case, it is both reactionary and Utopian.

Its last words are: corporate guilds for manufacture; patriarchal relations in agriculture.

Ultimately, when stubborn historical facts had dispersed all intoxicating effects of self-deception, this form of Socialism ended in a miserable fit of the blues.

The Socialist and Communist literature of France, a literature that originated under the pressure of a bourgeoisie in power, and that was the expression of the struggle against this power, was introduced into Germany at a time when the bourgeoisie, in that country, had just begun its contest with feudal absolutism.

German philosophers, would-be philosophers, and beaux esprits, eagerly seized on this literature, only forgetting, that when these writings immigrated from France into Germany, French social conditions had not immigrated along with them. In contact with German social conditions, this French literature lost all its immediate practical significance, and assumed a purely literary aspect. Thus, to the German philosophers of the Eighteenth Century, the demands of the first French Revolution were nothing more than the demands of "Practical Reason" in general, and the utterance of the will of the revolutionary French bourgeoisie signified in their eyes the laws of pure ​Will, of Will as it was bound to be, of true human Will generally.

The work of the German literati consisted solely in bringing the new French ideas into harmony with their ancient philosophical conscience, or rather, in annexing the French ideas without deserting their own philosophic point of view.

This annexation took place in the same way in which a foreign language is appropriated, namely by translation.

It is well known how the monks wrote silly lives of Catholic Saints over the manuscripts on which the classical works of ancient heathendom had been written. The German literati reversed this process with the profane French literature. They wrote their philosophical nonsense beneath the French original. For instance, beneath the French criticism of the economic functions of money, they wrote "Alienation of Humanity," and beneath the French criticism of the bourgeois State they wrote, "Dethronement of the Category of the General," and so forth.

The introduction of these philosophical phrases at the back of the French historical criticisms they dubbed "Philosophy of Action," "True Socialism," "German Science of Socialism," "Philosophical Foundation of Socialism," and so on.

The French Socialist and Communist literature was thus completely emasculated. And, since it ceased in the hands of the German to express the struggle of one class with the other, he felt conscious of having overcome "French one-sidedness" and of representing, not true requirements, but the requirements of Truth, not the interests of ​the proletariat, but the interests of Human Nature, of Man in general, who belongs to no class, has no reality, who exists only in the misty realm or philosophical phantasy.

This German Socialism, which took its schoolboy task so seriously and solemnly, and extolled its poor stock-in-trade in such mountebank fashion, meanwhile gradually lost its pedantic innocence.

The fight of the German, and, especially, of the Prussian bourgeoisie, against feudal aristocracy and absolute monarchy, in other words, the liberal movement, became more earnest.

By this, the long-wished-for opportunity was offered to "True Socialism" of confronting the political movement with the socialist demands, of hurling the traditional anathemas against liberalism, against representative government, against bourgeois competition, bourgeois freedom of the press, bourgeois legislation, bourgeois liberty and equality, and of preaching to the masses that they had nothing to gain, and everything to lose, by this bourgeois movement. German Socialism forgot, in the nick of time, that the French criticism, whose silly echo it was, presupposed the existence of modern bourgeois society, with its corresponding economic conditions of existence, and the political constitution adapted thereto, the very things whose attainment was the object of the pending struggle in Germany.

To the absolute governments, with their following of parsons, professors, country squires and officials, it served as a welcome scarecrow against the threatening bourgeoisie.

It was a sweet finish after the bitter pills of ​floggings and bullets, with which these same governments, just at that time, dosed the German working-class risings.

While this "True" Socialism thus served the governments as a weapon for fighting the German bourgeoisie, it, at the same time, directly represented a reactionary interest, the interest of the German Philistines. In Germany the petty bourgeois class, a relic of the 16th century, and since then constantly cropping up again under various forms, is the real social basis of the existing state of things.

To preserve this class, is to preserve the existing state of things in Germany. The industrial and political supremacy of the bourgeoisie threatens it with certain destruction; on the one hand, from the concentration of capital; on the other, from the rise of a revolutionary proletariat. "True" Socialism appeared to kill these two birds with one stone. It spread like an epidemic.

The robe of speculative cobwebs, embroidered with flowers of rhetoric, steeped in the dew of sickly sentiment, this transcendental robe in which the German Socialists wrapped their sorry "eternal truths" all skin and bone, served to wonderfully increase the sale of their goods amongst such a public.

And on its part, German Socialism recognized, more and more, its own calling as the bombastic representative of the petty bourgeois Philistine.

It proclaimed the German nation to be the model nation, and the German petty Philistine to be the typical man. To every villainous meanness of this model man it gave a hidden, higher, socialistic interpretation, the exact contrary of its ​true character. It went to the extreme length of directly opposing the "brutally destructive" tendency of Communism, and of proclaiming its supreme and impartial contempt of all class struggles. With very few exceptions, all the so-called Socialist and Communist publications that now (1847) circulate in Germany belong to the domain of this foul and enervating literature.

A part of the bourgeoisie is desirous of redressing social grievances, in order to secure the continued existence of bourgeois society.

To this section belong economists, philanthropists, humanitarians, improvers of the condition of the work class, organizers of charity, members of societies for the prevention of cruelty to animals, temperance fanatics, hole and corner reformers of every imaginable kind. This form of Socialism has, moreover, been worked out into complete systems.

We may cite Proudhon's "Philosophic de la Misere" as an example of this form.

The socialistic bourgeois want all the advantages of modern social conditions without the struggles and dangers necessarily resulting therefrom. They desire the existing state of society minus its revolutionary and disintegrating elements. They wish for a bourgeoisie without a proletariat. The bourgeoisie naturally conceives the world in which it is supreme to be the best; and bourgeois socialism develops this comfortable conception into various more or less complete systems. In requiring the proletariat to carry out ​such a system, and thereby to march straightway into the social New Jerusalem, it but requires in reality, that the proletariat should remain within the bounds of existing society, but should cast away all its hateful ideas concerning the bourgeoisie.

A second and more practical, but less systematic, form of this socialism sought to depreciate every revolutionary movement in the eyes of the working class, by showing that no mere political reform, but only a change in the material conditions of existence, in economical relations, could be of any advantage to them. By changes in the material conditions of existence, this form of Socialism, however, by no means understands abolition of the bourgeois relations of production, an abolition that can be effected only by a revolution, but administrative reforms, based on the continued existence of these relations; reforms, therefore, that in no respect affect the relations between capital and labor, but, at the best, lessen the cost, and simplify the administrative work, of bourgeois government.

Bourgeois Socialism attains adequate expression, when, and only when, it becomes a mere figure of speech.

Free trade: for the benefit of the working class. Protective duties: for the benefit of the working class. Prison Reform: for the benefit of the working class. This is the last word and the only seriously meant word of bourgeois Socialism.

It is summed up in the phrase: the bourgeois is a bourgeois—for the benefit of the working class.

We do not here refer to that literature which, in every great modern revolution, has always given voice to the demands of the proletariat: such as the writings of Babeuf and others.

The first direct attempts of the proletariat to attain its own ends were made in times of universal excitement, when feudal society was being overthrown. These attempts necessarily failed, owing to the then undeveloped state of the proletariat, as well as to the absence of the economic conditions for its emancipation, conditions that had yet to be produced, and could be produced by the impending bourgeois epoch alone. The revolutionary literature that accompanied these first movements of the proletariat had necessarily a reactionary character. It inculcated universal asceticism and social leveling in its crudest form.

The Socialist and Communist systems properly so-called, those of St. Simon, Fourier, Owen and others, spring into existence in the early undeveloped period, described above, of the struggle between proletariat and bourgeoisie.

The founders of these systems see, indeed, the class antagonisms, as well as the action of the decomposing elements in the prevailing form of society. But the proletariat, as yet in its infancy, offers to them the spectacle of a class without any historical initiative or any independent political movement.

Since the development of class antagonism keeps even pace with the development of industry, the economic situation, as they find it, does not ​as yet offer to them the material conditions for the emancipation of the proletariat. They therefore search after a new social science, after new social laws, that are to create these conditions.

Historical action is to yield to their personal inventive action, historically created conditions of emancipation to fantastic ones, and the gradual, spontaneous class-organization of the proletariat to an organization of society specially contrived by these inventors. Future history resolves itself, in their eyes, into the propaganda and the practical carrying out of their social plans.

In the formation of their plans they are conscious of caring chiefly for the interests of the working-class, as being the most suffering class. Only from the point of view of being the most suffering class does the proletariat exist for them.

The undeveloped state of the class struggle, as well as their own surroundings, cause Socialists of this kind to consider themselves far superior to all class antagonisms. They want to improve the condition of every member of society, even that of the most favored. Hence, they habitually appeal to society at large, without distinction of class; nay, by preference, to the ruling class. For how can people, when once they understand their system, fail to see in it the best possible plan of the best possible state of society?

Hence, they reject all political, and especially all revolutionary action; they wish to attain their ends by peaceful means, and endeavor, by small experiments, necessarily doomed to failure, and by the force of example, to pave the way for the new social Gospel.

Such fantastic pictures of future society, painted ​at a time when the proletariat is still in a very undeveloped state, and has but a fantastic conception of its own position, correspond with the first instinctive yearnings of that class for a general reconstruction of society.

But these Socialist and Communist publications contain also a critical element. They attack every principle of existing society. Hence they are full of the most valuable materials for the enlightenment of the working class. The practical measures proposed in them, such as the abolition of the distinction between town and country, of the family, of the carrying on of industries for the account of private individuals, and of the wage system, the proclamation of social harmony, the conversion of the functions of the State into a mere superintendence of production, all these proposals point solely to the disappearance of class-antagonisms which were, at that time, only just cropping up, and which, in these publications, are recognized under their earliest, indistinct and undefined forms only. These proposals, therefore, are of a purely Utopian character.

The significance of Critical-Utopian Socialism and Communism bears an inverse relation to historical development. In proportion as the modern class struggle develops and takes definite shape, this fantastic standing apart from the contest, these fantastic attacks on it lose all practical value and all theoretical justification. Therefore, although the originators of these systems were, in many respects, revolutionary, their disciples have, in every case, formed mere reactionary sects. They hold fast by the original views of their masters, in opposition to the progressive ​historical development of the proletariat. They, therefore, endeavor and that consistently, to deaden the class struggle and to reconcile the class antagonisms. They still dream of experimental realization of their social Utopias, of founding isolated "phalanstères," of establishing "Home Colonies," of setting up a "Little Icaria" — duodecimo editions of the New Jerusalem, and to realize all these castles in the air, they are compelled to appeal to the feelings and purses of the bourgeois. By degrees they sink into the category of the reactionary conservative Socialists depicted above, differing from these only by more systematic pedantry, and by their fanatical and superstitious belief in the miraculous effects of their social science.

They, therefore, violently oppose all political action on the part of the working class; such action, according to them, can only result from blind unbelief in the new Gospel.

The Owenites in England, and the Fourierists in France, respectively, oppose the Chartists and the "Reformistes."

The Communists fight for the attainment of the immediate aims, for the enforcement of the momentary interests of the working class; but in the movement of the present, they also represent and take care of the future of that movement. In France the Communists ally themselves with the Social-Democrats, against the conservative and radical bourgeoisie, reserving, however, the right to take up a critical position in regard to phrases and illusions traditionally handed down from the great Revolution.

In Switzerland they support the Radicals, without losing sight of the fact that this party consists of antagonistic elements, partly of Democratic Socialists, in the French sense, partly of radical bourgeois.

In Poland they support the party that insists on an agrarian revolution, as the prime condition for national emancipation, that party which fomented the insurrection of Cracow in 1846.

In Germany they fight with the bourgeoisie whenever it acts in a revolutionary way, against the absolute monarchy, the feudal squirearchy, and the petty bourgeoisie.

But they never cease, for a single instant, to instill into the working class the clearest possible recognition of the hostile antagonism between bourgeoisie and proletariat, in order that the German workers may straightway use, as so many ​weapons against the bourgeoisie, the social and political conditions that the bourgeoisie must necessarily introduce along with its supremacy, and in order that, after the fall of the reactionary classes in Germany, the fight against the bourgeoisie itself may immediately begin.

The Communists turn their attention chiefly to Germany, because that country is on the eve of a bourgeois revolution, that is bound to be carried out under more advanced conditions of European civilization, and with a more developed proletariat, than that of England was in the seventeenth, and of France in the eighteenth century, and because the bourgeois revolution in Germany will be but the prelude to an immediately following proletarian revolution.

In short, the Communists everywhere support every revolutionary movement against the existing social and political order of things.

In all these movements they bring to the front, as the leading question in each, the property question, no matter what its degree of development at the time.

Finally, they labor everywhere for the union and agreement of the democratic parties of all countries.

The Communists disdain to conceal their views and aims. They openly declare that their ends can be attained only by the forcible overthrow of all existing social conditions.

Let the ruling classes tremble at a Communistic revolution.

The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win.

Working men of all countries, unite!

[cookie-nom-nom]

A timeline of events for a small resistance:

Like two days ago: A random girl singled me out of room with 80 people and tried to get me (and only me?) to join a pro life organization. Afterwards I resolved to dress more blatantly queer.

Today 11:00: Email sent out to all college students for the Young Conservatives club hosting a chalk art demonstration at 4:30 riddled with pro life messaging and protestors. It will be outside of the hall where the scholarship conference is being held. It’s a massive event for the school, afternoon classes are cancelled so everyone can go, many prospective students will attend. Many would see the pro life messaging, massive influence on how the college is seen. I’m in class and can’t do anything.

11-12:00: I finish a massive essay.

12-1:00: Tabling for our UN climate ambassadors program, I catch wind of what’s going on and we begin scheming.

1-1:30: We build a coalition of students that are pro choice inspired to take action. Make connections with multiple faculty to gain support for counter action including supplies and advice for the rules and procedure regarding demonstrations. Draft a proposal. Gather a group of independent students to contact student affairs president, hold a meeting. We bat our eyes and smile and talk a lot about how we just want to present the diversity of campus values to prospective students, and show how our college facilitates civil intellectual dialogues about human rights. It goes smoothly. As per rules they require a chartered organization to sponsor the event, so I use my position as a Guild head (admittedly one not related to politics, and I’m furiously texting my co president under the table for permission/forgiveness). Submit the proposal, with the student affairs president trying to sound very neutral but subtly relieved that counter action was occurring. Contact the president of the campus democrat organization and slap their name on the proposal for more credibility. With permission, I email the entire student body about a concurrent event for ‘bodily autonomy positivity’.

1:30-4:30: After that hectic 30 minutes, I run over to the scholarship conference because I am presenting my academic endeavors for the UN Climate Ambassadors program. Literally walk in on the others venting about the Conservative event going on, show them the plan and get them on board. As the conference goes on I subtly advertise to people I know. Large number of people saying they’d already planned to sabotage it lol. Mid conference, turns out of the other Ambassadors literally Knows the guy whose name is slapped on the Conservative event, calls him. Love this girl, she plays an AMAZING ditz when she needs to, and was like ‘heyyy I heard you’re doing some kind of event what’s that about teehee’ to draw out the dude’s story. And he was weirdly evasive?? Like saying it wasn’t a protest, that it’s just about art, very much not how the email was set up idk. Very. Odd. Rather spineless.

4:30: We start, blasting music on the speaker. Conservatives show up like 20 minutes late to their own event. There’s only five of them. We have well over 6 times that with only 3 hours notice and a small campus. A single chalk line separates our areas. The pro choice messages took up over 2.5 side walk blocks (after which we were restricted from doing more space, far more concentrated). They barely fill 1 and only have 9 messages/drawings compared to our well over a hundred. Things are mostly civil and fully safe, I make sure everyone has a buddy. Aside from some chalk arguments across the line, it’s not bad. Everyone had fun stayed safe.

I really, really enjoyed giving a water jug to the conservative girl (only one on their side) who tried to get me to join the pro life organization, so I could watch her erase their measly muster of chalk messages.

(Trying to avoid posting pictures w people of course lol)

[theshipsong]

short of making a whole other s/i this is the only way sabokat can have a glimmer of happening:

cross guild and revolutionary army encounter of some sort. shit gets wack and iva calls croc for a "favor," probably harboring them for a while or tbh chartering the big clown ship a la buggy's delivery's old mercenary activity. crocodile? stressed. this is the time for wanidragon. he's distracted but this is comfortably polycule times so i leave him alone, probably stick to buggy, but sabo walking in brings back my Big Old Crush From The Newspaper tbh like i can't even flirt with him or look him in the eye to perona and co's bewilderment and mihawk is the one who amuses himself trying to get us alone

meanwhile sabo is exactly what mimi said, charming and clueless but genuinely interested in getting to know me because i think my ancestral grand line island is not a world gov't member nation either so even though i haven't been yet sabo's ears perk up at hearing a coherent, non-libertarian, actually anti-imperialist worldview from a pirate with a similar interest in material history to robin so mihawk's efforts are more stopping me from hiding and telling me to get my pussy up

[angelseraphines]

THE PHANTOM MENACE | CHAPTER TWO

“hollow corridors, burning skies.”

the grand room was carved for ceremony.

its domed ceiling stretched high above, carved with the emblems of naboo’s noble houses, suns, leaves, spirals, and stars, all gilded in soft gold and lacquered cream, reflecting the pale light that filtered through the vertical panes of the arched windows. at the center of the chamber, surrounded by marble columns and veils of red and bronze silk, sat queen padmé amidala.

she was motionless, poised upon her throne in the elevated seat of state, her dark robes shaped in sculpted folds like the wings of some regal bird. her headdress towered above her crown, edged with golden beads and nacre, her face painted in the traditional white of the queens of naboo, a red stripe centered on her lower lip and two rouge dots beneath each eye. the folds of her sleeves draped nearly to the floor, and a gleaming collar of jet beads encircled her throat. she looked distinctly not young, although she was hardly fourteen years of age. she looked timeless.

at her side, seated on a lower platform just beside the royal dais, was vasharre rharrellis. merely eight years old, she was dressed in robes of deep violet silk over silver-grey underlayers, the hem embroidered with curling motifs of starlight and moons, her house’s ancient symbols. her long black hair, parted and curled into a coiled half-crown, had been pinned with narrow silver clasps shaped as if they were nova stars. her pale hands rested, folded neatly, in her lap. she said nothing. she watched everything.

to most, she would have appeared ornamental, a noble girl in ceremonial dress. but those within the court knew better. she was the heiress of house rharrellis, daughter of the noble lord naem rharrellis, and since the departure of her brother for the jedi temple three years prior, she had become the sole heir to the family’s political legacy. her education had begun early. she had been present at meetings of the planetary council. had spoken once before the trade guild on the matter of treaty language. she knew the titles of every house lord on naboo. she could recite verbatim the peace charter of the galactic core systems.

and today, she was to observe.

the chamber was brimming with tension. ministers stood along the curved perimeter of the council tier. guards from naboo’s royal security forces lined the walls in burgundy and bronze armor. aides with dataslates moved between tables, whispering to each other in near silence. and near the foot of the queen’s throne, standing in guardianship, stood a tall, tanned woman with green eyes and dark brown hair twisted into a single heavy braid.

ebos. vasharre’s handmaiden. her guardian. her shadow. when lady darmah, her mother, had fallen ill, she would become a guardian figure to the young girl. she had never left her side since.

“there is no proof,” came the voice, sharpened by mechanical transmission.

viceroy nute gunray.

his hologram wavered in the center of the chamber’s projection circle, sinewy, robed, his angular neimoidian face unreadable, voice distorted through the translator. the hologram flashed in the sun-filtered gleam.

“we are innocent of this invasion,” he continued. “you have no evidence.”

queen amidala did not move.

her voice, when it came, was commanding.

“you will not be so easily absolved, viceroy,” she said. “our system is under siege. the trade federation’s ships have surrounded our world. and now you claim ignorance.”

“we do not recognize your accusations,” gunray replied. “there are no jedi here. no ambassadors were ever sent.”

a glint passed through the room, barely perceptible. vasharre saw the way padmé’s fingers tightened against the embellished edge of her throne. the queen’s breath remained calm. her expression betrayed nothing. but vasharre had known her since before she wore the paint of the crown. she recognized the silence for what it was, fury held still by duty.

and then the central console lit with a new transmission.

a shimmer of blue took shape within the holoprojector.

senator sheev palpatine of naboo.

the image crackled into view, his robes elegant and unassuming, his voice familiar and polished.

“your highness,” he said smoothly, his tone honeyed, “we have received your transmission. the chancellor is livid. i have been in contact with the jedi council. they assure me that two ambassadors were dispatched days ago. master qui-gon jinn and his padawan.”

queen amidala’s tone remained level.

“we have received no contact from them.”

palpatine offered a look of carefully calculated concern.

“then something is terribly wrong.”

naem rharrellis stood among the queen’s inner council, his hands folded before him. he did not speak, but vasharre saw the tension deepening the wrinkles etched on his face. she knew that he, once the senator of naboo himself, would have spoken already had the queen not requested extreme caution among the council for this session. but his eyes remained sharp. his stance coiled, prepared.

palpatine continued.

“there is concern among the senate. many are eager to avoid escalation. but i have already spoken on your behalf.”

“as has crown princess breha organa of alderaan,” a minister murmured from the side tier. “she and statesman bail prestor condemned the federation’s actions this morning.”

palpatine nodded.

“they were… passionate. but you must be careful, your highness. if you speak too forcefully, you will provoke accusations of aggression. you are known as a pacifist. let us not allow them to paint you as anything else.”

padmé said nothing.

and neither did vasharre.

but the queen’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

beneath the throne platform, her hands curled in despair in her lap.

the queen of naboo would not be painted. she would speak with the colors she chose.

and no blockade, no council, no federation would prevent her from protecting her people.

as the transmission faded, the image of senator palpatine dissolved into pale static and then vanished entirely, the holoprojector darkening with a soft hum.

the room did not stir.

no one spoke.

for a long period of time, only the distant whine of an outer corridor’s security system could be heard, and the muffled whir of a data console cycling through failed transmission logs.

padmé amidala remained seated, elegant and poised, though her painted expression betrayed nothing. her fingers, folded in her lap atop the heavy beading of her robe, trembled so steadily that only someone watching very closely would have noticed.

vasharre did.

from her position at the queen’s side, she could feel the change, not in the atmosphere, but in the people. ministers exchanging glances without moving their heads. the governor’s chief aide biting the inside of her lip. one of the palace guards repositioning his stance a little too deliberately.

it was not fear.

not yet.

but it was its beginning.

lord naem rharrellis was seated at his place in the queen’s inner circle, hands folded within the long sleeves of his robe, his posture formal but taut. his gaze was on the console, though his eyes were distant. vasharre, watching him in her periphery, saw the minute way his shoulders had drawn inward. he had not spoken during the transmission, out of respect for the queen’s authority, but she knew her father. knew that he had once raised his voice against half the senate to protect the integrity of naboo’s neutrality in the border disputes. and he was not one to silence himself without cause.

the cause was trepidation.

not of war.

but of what he did not yet understand.

“this is a trap,” one of the councilors murmured, voice hardly audible beneath his breath.

padmé’s gaze veered subtly toward him, then back to the blank space where palpatine’s image had hovered only moments ago.

“we must appeal again to the senate,” she said.

the minister of transport spoke next, his tone more strained than before.

“we’ve sent multiple transmissions already. the trade routes have been jammed. they’re delaying recognition of our position, stalling until we give them a reason to legitimize the blockade.”

padmé lifted her head by a degree, voice tranquil, as always.

“then we will not give them one.”

vasharre’s hands folded more securely in her lap.

she had heard this tone in padmé before. it was not pride. not naivety. it was resolve.

resolve that did not waver, even when all logic said to bend.

ebos moved quietly to vasharre’s side. she did not speak, only placed one hand lightly on the back of the girl’s chair. it was a gesture meant to reassure, but vasharre’s spine remained stiff.

the nova star at her collarbone felt heavier than it should.

the doors to the chamber slid open with a hiss.

a palace security officer stepped in, helmet under one arm.

he approached the queen’s dais, bowed once at the waist, and spoke low.

“your highness… long-range comms have failed again. and we’ve detected atmospheric entry signatures.”

padmé stood.

slowly.

and the entire room began to move.

vasharre followed as ordered, standing from her seat and falling into formation behind the queen with the other handmaidens.

and as they moved together toward the exit of the chamber, toward the storm that had not yet broken but already surrounded the, vasharre felt, for the first time in her young life, the future narrow to a single point.

they were going to lose something quite precious.

they did not yet know what.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the light of theed had changed.

once bright and dappled through the high columns of theed’s royal square, it had grown grey, muted behind the veil of heavy clouds and the thick metallic shadow cast by the blockade vessels overhead. outside the grand windows of the royal palace, the skyline of naboo had shifted from elegance to occupation. the wide plazas and flowering archways were silent now, patrolled by rows of bronze-plated battle droids. the air smelled faintly of scorched stone and ozone.

the capital had fallen.

the droid army had moved swiftly through theed, their tanks flattening the outer districts in waves of mechanical precision. resistance had been brief, scattered. the royal security forces had fought valiantly, but they were outmatched, and the chain of command had fractured within hours. transmission lines were severed. government channels silenced. and before noon, the palace had been surrounded.

they had come for the queen.

and they had taken them all.

vasharre rharrellis stood among the captured delegation now, the young heiress, dressed no longer in the full regalia of ceremony, but still wearing the violet silks of the court, her hair pinned in the half-crown that ebos had styled that morning. her pendant, the nova star, still rested against her collarbone. she clutched it now without even thinking, the silver warm in her palm from the heat of her skin.

her breath was shallow.

they were being marched through the corridor beneath the grand staircase, flanked by droids on both sides, each clanking step echoing off the stone. vasharre tried not to show fear, but her throat was tight, and her stomach burned with the cold churn of dread.

she had not seen her father since the alarms had sounded.

she had not seen lady hiarmen either, or the young lady avella otrikus, hedna kanve, or the other members of naboo nobility who had stayed within the walls of the theed palace.

all of them had been within the council chamber when the invasion began. the last she had heard, they had sealed themselves in the inner wing of the palace along with the governor and several of the senior advisors. but that was hours ago. the power had flashed. the comms had cut. and then there was nothing.

she worried what that that absence meant.

a hand brushed hers lightly.

vasharre turned.

padmé.

or rather, the handmaiden who was padmé, but not truly.

padmé naberrie, her sister in all but blood, now played the role of a royal attendant, head bowed, eyes forward. her real identity remained hidden behind the face of sabé, who stood ahead in full regalia, draped in red and black with the white-painted mask of sovereignty. no one but vasharre, and perhaps only the most trusted of the other handmaidens, knew the truth.

but even now, padmé’s hand hung beside hers, a serene tether.

“they will not harm you,” she murmured, her voice soft so that the droids would not hear. “keep walking. do not be afraid.”

vasharre did not answer.

she could not.

the dread in her chest was not for herself.

it was for her father, lord naem rharrellis, who had once stood at the heart of the galactic senate, who had once held her hand beneath the high banners of their estate and told her she would one day know the balance between words and power.

it was for her cousin, lady hiarmen, mysterious and steel-tongued, who had whispered sharp truths at formal dinners and taught vasharre how to see past smiles.

it was for ebos, who even now walked a step behind her, tall and still, her green eyes tracking every droid as though daring them to so much as raise a weapon.

it was for her world.

naboo was beautiful.

and she could feel that beauty slipping from her reach akin to breath from glass.

the queen, sabé, pretending, walked ahead, back straight, lips sealed in an expression of imperial calm. beside her, the viceroy’s envoy hovered, voice gliding with well-rehearsed courtesy.

“your highness,” nute gunray intoned through the thick distortion of his translator device, “we assure you, we are here only to bring order. the treaty is a formality.”

sabé did not respond.

she walked as a queen should, unchanged, unmoved.

the viceroy continued.

“it will be easier,” he said, his tone oily, “if you cooperate. the galactic senate will recognize the treaty if you sign it.”

they had reached the base of the staircase.

vasharre looked up.

she knew these steps well, the golden marble inlay, the torch sconces spaced evenly along the walls, the high dome at the landing overhead with the stylized sunburst of naboo carved into the stone. it had always felt like a place of safety.

now it was a cage.

one of the droids barked a mechanical order in its warbled dialect.

the group halted.

sabé turned slowly, robes trailing, her headdress catching the dim light.

vasharre’s heart was pounding so loudly she could feel it in her fingertips.

the viceroy stepped forward once more, this time with a datapad in hand.

“we simply need your signature, your highness. then we can ensure your people’s safety.”

padmé’s fingers tightened lightly around vasharre’s hand.

sabé’s voice came calm, formidable.

“i will not cooperate with a criminal occupation.”

gunray hesitated.

even he had not expected defiance spoken aloud.

the droids stiffened.

but sabé, queen in mask, did not flinch.

vasharre watched in silence, and behind the mask of her composure, her terror sharpened.

her father might already be gone.

her people might already be broken.

and the queen she served might already be risking her life for a choice that would lead to their demise or save them all.

one of the battle droids at the head of the column turned abruptly toward the grand staircase, its mechanical hands clutching its rifle in sudden alert. others followed, craning their heads toward the wide archway above the steps. the red glow of scanning sensors pulsed as they read motion, heat, the unmistakable presence of something alive.

there was a hiss.

not of steam, nor machine, but something fiercer, more final.

the queen, sabé, donning the disguise of royalty, halted. the handmaidens stopped behind her. captain panaka, standing to the side of the party, altered imperceptibly, one hand easing toward the grip of his sidearm, though the surrounding droids had not yet given clearance to draw.

vasharre, close at padmé’s side, held her breath.

they dropped from above.

two figures, cloaked and swift, descended through the archway in a flurry of fabric and movement, landing on the polished marble with the poise of creatures long trained for war. their boots struck the floor with resounding force, and before the droids could compute the action, the first of the two ignited his weapon.

a shaft of green light erupted from the hilt in his hand.

it split the shadows of the chamber like lightning.

the second followed, blue blade extending with a low hum.

the battle droids began to raise their rifles, but the blades were already in motion.

the one with the green saber, a tall man, long-haired and composed, robes dusty from travel, moved first, cutting through the first droid in a single strike, then pivoting on his heel to sever the weapon from a second before slicing it clean through the torso. his movements were disciplined, controlled, as though his very breath was in rhythm with the force itself.

master qui-gon jinn.

vasharre recognized the name the instant she heard the others call to him.

she had known the name through political memory, through court whispers and council transcripts. the last padawan of grandmaster soluke rharrellis, her great-uncle. a link to her own bloodline, and to the temple that had taken her brother. but until this day, she had never seen him.

and she had never seen him.

the second fighter, no, not a jedi master, a padawan, was younger. leaner. his hair was cropped short, save for the thin padawan braid behind his right ear. his jaw was set with focus, his blue eyes trained not on one enemy, but all of them. his saber moved in elegant arcs, cutting through droid limbs, redirecting bolts with precision. his movements were not as raw as his master’s, they were precise, methodical, deeply trained.

he moved without reluctance.

he stepped in front of vasharre.

only for a beat.

one of the droids had leveled its blaster at the queen’s platform. she did not see it. nor did padmé.

but he did.

he adjusted his stance, angled his shoulder, and with one clean sweep of his blade, he deflected the bolt. it struck the wall behind them. and then his saber cut through the droid’s rifle and chassis in the same breath.

he turned, eyes sweeping the royal line to ensure all were safe.

and vasharre looked up at him.

his features, even amid the chaos, were unmistakable, clear blue eyes, focused and serious, a mouth drawn tight with concentration but not anger, hair that caught the ambient light in copper-brown glints, a face not yet marked by age but already shaped by discipline. he was no older than his early twenties, but there was something deeply still in his presence. not cold. only peaceful. only honed.

her breath caught in her throat.

not because he was handsome, though he was, undeniably, but because he had placed himself between her and death without hesitation.

the battle ended in mere seconds.

the final droid collapsed with a screech of split metal, its torso sparking as it fell in two pieces.

the queen’s guard stood stunned.

captain panaka moved first, drawing his weapon fully now.

“master jedi,” he said, breath intense with relief.

qui-gon, blade smoldering and lit, turned to sabé.

“my padawan learner, obi-wan kenobi and myself are here to protect you, your highness,” he said. “we’ll take you to coruscant.”

sabé did not break character.

“thank you, ambassador,” she said.

obi-wan moved toward panaka.

“we must make for the main hangar,” he said briskly. “we can fly past the blockade if we move now.”

panaka nodded.

“this way.”

ebos placed a hand on vasharre’s shoulder, steadying her.

but vasharre’s eyes remained fixed on the jedi who had shielded her.

qui-gon turned to the group.

“stay close. we leave now.”

and together, they moved.

the queen. the handmaidens. the heiress of house rharrellis. the guard. the jedi.

they passed through the lower archways and toward the palace’s inner corridor.

and as the light from the hangar doors came into view, the world began to change.

the split second they stepped through the final archway, the scale of it opened around them, an enormous domed chamber of stone and durasteel, lined with royal starfighters and maintenance scaffolds, fuel pods, and the polished chrome gleam of the royal starship anchored at the far end. above, the tall hangar doors were half-drawn, their great panels groaning faintly as the afternoon wind swept dust and ash through the open slats.

and they were not alone.

a squad of battle droids had already formed a perimeter.

more were filing in from the southern corridor, their heads pivoting in sharp clicks toward the incoming group. the hiss of servos, the sound of heavy mechanical feet striking the metal flooring, vasharre heard all of it in rising waves. her heartbeat quickened again, but this time she kept her head high. not because she was not afraid, but because she had seen what the jedi could do. because she had seen what he had done.

qui-gon’s voice rang through the hangar.

“stay behind us.”

he did not shout.

he did not need to.

captain panaka lifted his blaster and fired the first shot.

the droids returned fire instantly, and then the hangar roared with the pulse of combat.

green and red bolts crisscrossed the open floor. one struck the wall just above the queen’s shoulder, leaving a scorching black mark in the otherwise pristine duracrete. handmaidens scattered to the side, drawing small concealed blasters from beneath their robes. they did not panic. they had trained for this.

vasharre saw padmé move with stable control, her hands steady, eyes observant. she was young, but she moved like someone who had already decided her courage would outweigh her terror.

and ahead of them, the jedi moved.

qui-gon surged first, saber cutting through the nearest wave of droids. his blade was a blur, deflecting blaster fire back into the chests of the machines who had fired it. sparks burst like fireflies. limbs fell smoking to the floor. he advanced without hesitation.

obi-wan flanked him to the right, faster, closer to the ground, striking with swift, decisive strokes. his cloak had come loose at the shoulder, trailing behind him as he moved. his eyes remained fixed on the advancing line of droids, his saber catching bolt after bolt and returning them with clean, sharp counterstrokes. his expression was unreadable, focused to the point of stillness. vasharre could not look away.

in the frenzy, another figure stood near the edges of the group, awkward, towering, and visibly alarmed. the gungan the jedi had rescued earlier in the swamps outside theed had remained close to master jinn throughout the escape. his long ears drooped in agitation as he shuffled after the group with clumsy urgency, muttering anxiously beneath his breath. he flinched at every blaster mark scorched into the floor and nearly tripped over a fallen droid limb before catching himself. she watched him hurry after the jedi, clearly unsure where he should be, but unwilling to be left behind. the others paid him little mind, but he stayed close all the same, his webbed hands flailing whenever he stumbled.

the skirmish was over in under a minute.

the last droid fell in two pieces at qui-gon’s feet.

the hangar fell quiet again, save for the buzzing whirr of engines powering up across the floor.

panaka was already waving them forward.

“this way,” he called. “get to the ship.”

they moved as one, sabé continued to lead, the handmaidens followed close behind, padmé walked at her side. vasharre trailed between them, her breath ragged in her chest.

the royal starship stood gleaming in the far alcove of the hangar, its surface polished to mirror-finish, a ship built for diplomacy and statecraft, not war. the landing ramp had already begun to descend, hydraulics whining softly.

sabé slowed as they neared.

she turned, pausing at the base of the ramp.

“we should not leave,” she said. her voice was forceful, but laced with something that pulled at the tension around her. “our people are suffering. i cannot abandon them.”

“your highness,” panaka warned. “we must go. now.”

sabé’s eyes swept the forlorn hangar.

“we are needed here.”

padmé stepped forward.

“your highness,” she said, and though she kept the tone of a servant, her words held significance. “the handmaidens are prepared. we are not afraid. you must go. the people need you alive. if we stay, we will be captured. if we leave, we can return with help.”

sabé held her gaze.

for a minute, the decision trembled in the balance.

then she nodded.

vasharre had not realized she had stopped moving until she felt ebos’s hand touch the center of her back, urging her forward. she turned slightly, her eyes falling on the high entry corridor they had emerged from.

her father.

her family.

her lineage.

the capital.

all of it was still there.

but she was not.

she felt the ache in her chest expand, twisting upward into her throat. she said nothing. she had no words for this kind of fear. she had read of war. had spoken the names of treaties. had recited the histories of conflicts and successions. but she had never known what it was to leave behind the people you loved, uncertain whether they would survive the hour.

she faltered for a juncture at the base of the ramp.

he was beside her.

obi-wan kenobi did not speak.

he only stood between her and the fading corridor, blue saber grasped in hand, eyes on the horizon of the open hangar.

she looked up at him.

and despite everything, she felt the fright lessen.

only scarcely.

but enough.

she stepped ahead.

the ramp groaned beneath their feet as they climbed.

and the door sealed behind them with a low hydraulic hiss.

the royal starship shuddered as it rose into the atmosphere.

vasharre held tightly to the curved brace of the observation railing, her fingers gripping the cool steel as the ship’s ascent tilted her balance. the chamber around her vibrated with the mounting pressure of acceleration. the smooth naboo floor, once hushed, once ceremonial, now thrummed with the violence of propulsion.

outside the window, the pale blue sky of naboo had turned silver with clouds. those clouds broke into black. the shadow of the blockade loomed above them.

the ship pushed through the clouds, past the stratosphere, toward the waiting line of trade federation vessels. their massive structures hovered like floating citadels, geometrically perfect and impossibly cold. vasharre had seen them in holograms. but nothing had prepared her for the size of them in the sky. they were not ships. they were prisons.

the first shots came before they breached orbit.

a tremor ran through the hull.

a red warning sigil blinked into view along the wall-mounted display, followed by a secondary alert in the pilot’s chamber.

captain panaka’s voice broke across the comm.

“incoming fire, portside shields active, holding for now.”

the floor vibrated sharply.

vasharre stumbled, catching herself against the far end of the bench behind her.

padmé, still in handmaiden disguise, steadied the tray she had been carrying. across the room, ebos moved fast to shield her from the bulkhead, her willowy frame instinctively placing herself between her charge and the exterior wall.

a second blast hit, harder this time.

the lights blinked.

outside, brilliant streaks of green light cut across the dark expanse of the upper atmosphere. fighter drones peeled from the blockade’s flanks, twisting toward them with predatory precision. turbolaser fire struck across their shield perimeter in flashes that left afterimages across the viewport.

inside the ship, the air had grown heavier.

vasharre could feel it.

not terror.

not entirely.

something deeper, something closer to gravity.

the shields trembled again.

this time, they beamed.

a chorus of voices rang through the ship’s systems, alerts, damage assessments, system fluctuations.

“main shield generator is hit, outer deflection matrix compromised…”

“rerouting power…”

“loss of secondary shield layer…”

impact.

a jolt ripped through the vessel, knocking several of the guards from their footing.

a panel on the upper wall sparked.

the artificial gravity momentarily destabilized before stabilizing again with a low pulse from the subfloor unit.

sabé, acting as queen amidala, gripped the edge of her seat.

panaka’s voice, urgent now, crackled over the comm again.

“we’ve lost the deflector shield, direct line to the hyperdrive exposed, repeat, shields are down!”

for one long minute, the ship dropped.

only meters.

but it dropped.

the air inside thickened with the sound of klaxons and system diagnostics. every passenger on board knew what that drop meant.

they were no longer protected.

vasharre looked up swiftly, her stomach clenched. she could feel the panic crawling at the edge of her throat, but she did not allow it to reach her eyes.

she was of house rharrellis.

she did not weep in front of strangers.

abruptly, a voice, one of the engineers, half-incredulous, rang out from the chamber below the corridor.

“we’ve got a droid on the hull, astromech, he’s stabilizing the unit!”

sabé turned her head.

obi-wan entered from the command deck, followed closely by qui-gon and panaka.

beside them rolled a small, dome-headed astromech droid, burnished silver and blue, panels slightly scorched from exposure, his domed head spinning in steady beeps and chirps of status confirmation.

panaka looked toward the queen.

“we had four astromechs,” he said. “this one was the only one that made it.”

obi-wan nodded, his face marked with soot, his hair wind-swept from the emergency deployment.

“he restored auxiliary power. realigned the deflection coupling manually. the ship would not have survived the next blast otherwise.”

the little droid made a low chirrup.

sabé stood.

she walked toward the droid, her heavy ceremonial sleeves trailing as she did. her painted face did not betray surprise, nor emotion, only the calm regality expected of her.

“he is to be commended,” she said.

she turned to the handmaidens.

“clean this droid,” she said curtly. “see to it that he is repaired and polished.”

padmé stepped to the front without waiting.

“yes, your highness.”

qui-gon approached the queen.

“we need to land,” he said. “the hyperdrive is leaking energy. we will not make it to coruscant without refueling and repairs.”

“where?” sabé asked.

“tatooine,” he said. “a small outer rim world. remote. no federation presence. local merchants. enough to find a part.”

“that planet is dangerous,” panaka said. “the hutts control the system.”

qui-gon met his gaze warily.

“so do the traders. and it is outside the federation’s control. it’s our best chance.”

sabé was still for a moment.

then she gave a single nod.

“very well. proceed.”

padmé had already exited toward the auxiliary deck, r2-d2 rolling at her side.

vasharre watched her go.

the ship rumbled again as the course correction began. the stars outside shifted slowly as the vessel angled toward its new vector.

vasharre paused only shortly before she turned, following the hall in the direction padmé had gone.

when she reached the droid maintenance alcove, the hum of tools greeted her.

padmé had a cloth in hand, wiping the soot from the side of the droid’s chassis. r2 whistled contentedly, blinking and rotating his head as she worked.

vasharre walked closer, her steps devoid of sound.

“he saved us,” she whispered.

padmé looked up.

there was soot smudged at her wrist.

“he did.”

vasharre placed a hand tenderly on the edge of the workbench.

“does he have a name?”

“r2-d2.”

the droid let out a low, proud trill.

vasharre smiled, the expression small but sincere.

she reached forward, ran her fingers along the newly-polished edge of his dome.

“thank you.”

r2 turned his head toward her.

chirped once.

and for the first time in what felt like hours, vasharre felt something settle in her chest.

not relief.

but the first trace of hope.

the transmission alert blinked faintly on the side console.

it was nearly missed among the navigation reports and automated course corrections now flooding the ship’s systems. the royal starship had leveled from its steep escape climb, and the noise of battle had long since faded into a steady hum of interstellar passage. most aboard had retreated to their chambers or assigned alcoves. engineers were buried in maintenance reports. the handmaidens had begun checking the supplies that remained. padmé, still in her veil of servitude, had returned to the astromech chamber to continue tending to r2-d2.

vasharre had stayed behind near the corridor hub, her hands loosely clasped, her mind circling the images of that afternoon, her father’s last glance across the throne room before the palace fell, the last words she had heard from the ministers, the sudden thrum of escape beneath her feet. it was not silent in her mind. nothing about this journey was quiet.

but then the console light pulsed again.

soft.

green.

incoming.

her eyes moved to it without expectation.

and then she saw the identification line.

rharrellis-seal-transmission-alpha.

her breath stopped.

padmé was at her side in seconds, alerted by the shift in vasharre’s expression. she followed her gaze to the console and recognized the seal at once.

without words, without hesitation, the two of them turned and made for the private viewing chamber at the rear of the ship.

they entered without summoning anyone else. the guards remained stationed in the corridor. ebos, ever vigilant, allowed the girl her moment. the chamber lights dimmed automatically as the door sealed behind them, leaving only the low metallic glow of the holographic pad.

vasharre pressed the activation key with fingers that trembled more than she meant them to.

the projection flashed into being.

and there he was.

naem rharrellis, lord of house rharrellis, former senator of naboo, once guardian of the galactic senate floor, now a trapped voice beneath a field of static and light.

his face was weary. the hardships of sleepless hours pulled at his features, and the wrinkled lines around his eyes had deepened. but he was alive.

and he was speaking.

“vasharre,” his voice echoed, stable and serious. “padmé.”

the sound of his voice broke something beneath her ribs.

padmé took a step forward.

“you’re alive.”

naem bowed his head.

“for now. theed has not fallen completely. the central wing is sealed. the palace is occupied, yes, but we remain fortified in the governor’s hall.”

vasharre moved forward so that the projection caught her full face. her hands were now at her sides, clenched in trembling fists.

“father,” she said, her voice breaking softly, “we thought… we didn’t know if…”

“i know,” he said gently. “i feared the same of you.”

his pale eyes passed between her and padmé.

“you are both safe?”

padmé nodded once.

“the jedi rescued us. we are en route to coruscant.”

“and the others?” vasharre asked quickly. “hiarmen?”

naem’s expression softened with vague surprise, then reassurance.

“she is unharmed. she’s taken shelter with pavanak at their estate in the southern lake provinces. his age makes travel difficult, so they have not attempted evacuation. for now, they are thankfully untouched.”

vasharre exhaled once. the tension in her chest shifted, but did not release.

padmé’s voice came next.

“and avella?”

naem’s gaze moved to her.

“she is with me. as are hedna kanve, the governor, and several others, ministers, nobles, aides. we are holding ground within the primary council chamber. the trade forces have locked the corridors, but they’ve not breached the doors. the blockade is preventing communication from reaching beyond naboo. i am sending this message through an encrypted senate relay, piggybacking off the queen’s vessel signal. it may be the last message i can send.”

padmé’s hands clenched in the folds of her skirt.

“she was frightened,” padmé said, her voice sorrowful. “avella. before we were taken. she looked at me before the doors closed. i promised her i would return.”

the mention of avella conjured something nebulous in vasharre’s thoughts. she could picture her, brown-haired, with round eyes akin to indigo crystals, always standing a few feet apart from the court yet never forgotten within it. though she had been raised by the naberrie family after the death of her parents, avella carried herself with the soft dignity of someone born to nobility and tempered by grief. she was delicate in the way a decorated window was dainty, elegant, rare, but not easily broken. vasharre had at times caught sight of her in the council halls and garden promenades, sensing in her a gentler strength that most failed to bear.

naem’s eyes, grave and understanding, rested on her a while longer.

“she will wait,” he said. “she is strong. raised by your kin, is she not?”

padmé nodded her head once. she did not speak. not yet.

vasharre felt the next question forming before she could stop it.

“are they… hurting anyone?”

naem’s expression changed, subtly. the kind of change that came not from deceit, but from withholding pain.

“they are enforcing martial presence. shipments are blocked. docks are closed. food is scarce in the city proper. the outer settlements are faring worse. i receive no reports from the western continent. it is likely the blockade has severed all aid corridors.”

padmé looked up immediately.

“they are starving our people.”

“yes.”

vasharre’s became agitated. her fingers wrapped unconsciously around the pendant at her neck, the nova star glowing against her white skin.

“we must return,” she said. “we cannot leave them…”

“you must not return yet,” naem interrupted. “i say this as your father. as the leader of house rharrellis. surrender cannot happen. if we sign anything under their terms, it will not be peace. it will be precedent. the trade federation will devour world after world behind the mask of bureaucracy. this must be challenged before the senate.”

padmé nodded.

“we go to coruscant for that reason.”

naem’s projection faded as the transmission weakened.

“padmé,” he said. “you are as a daughter to me. i trust you. with her. with our planet. do what must be done.”

he turned his gaze to vasharre once more.

“sharre.”

the name, soft and delicate, spoken only in times where duty did not interfere with love.

she stepped closer.

“i am proud of you,” he said. “and i am with you. forever.”

the projection shivered again.

vasharre wanted to speak, but the light collapsed before she could.

the chamber darkened.

emptiness returned.

padmé placed a hand softly on her shoulder.

vasharre did not turn.

but she did not cry.

she only stood motionless.

and the glimmering stars outside the ship kept moving.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

from the vantage of the starship, high above the outer rim hyperspace lanes, the view beyond the curved durasteel windows no longer shimmered with the silver sheen of naboo’s skies. now, the cosmos was endless, an ocean of darkness, broken only by the faint blue pulse of passing starlight and the wide, luminous trails of hyperspace drifting in long, ghostly ribbons across the void. it was a silence that bordered on unnatural. a silence that pressed against the windows and sealed itself across the hull, as though the galaxy were holding its breath.

inside the ship, the lights had been dimmed.

most aboard had long since gone to rest, their forms tucked into modest sleeping chambers scattered across the inner deck. the engineers had powered down the repair systems. the handmaidens, exhausted by the weight of the day, had retired without ceremony. even r2-d2 had been placed in a corner alcove, his blinking sensors dimmed to a soft, idle rhythm. the royal quarters remained sealed, the false queen still cloaked in ritual rest, her face scrubbed clean of ceremonial paint for the first time in days.

and beneath the solitude, in one of the smaller diplomatic guest rooms near the aft corridor, vasharre slept.

the room was modest in size but finely appointed. smooth walls of cream-tinted durasteel were inlaid with bronze moldings, carved in floral motifs. a slender silver fixture at the ceiling’s center gave off a soft amber glow, now dimmed to narrowly a glint. beneath it, a narrow bed was set into the wall, framed by curved paneling and a velvet-wrapped headboard, pale violet in tone. one small desk rested against the far end, beside a polished drawer table and a vast, shuttered window looking out into space. there were no personal decorations. only the presence of a warm blanket, folded neatly at the end of the mattress, and the figure curled beneath it.

vasharre’s midnight-black hair spilled across the silken pillowcase, her breathing slow but uneven.

she did not sleep deeply.

she did not sleep peacefully.

beneath the weight of her lashes, her eyes blinked, small, rapid movements. her fingers meandered in toward her palms. her breath caught and became erratic, intense and unsettled.

and within her dreaming mind, there was no comfort.

only heat.

darkness.

and red.

she did not know what it was she saw.

it had no name, no shape.

only color, burning black, impossibly deep, and streaked through with veins of crimson, pulsing like blood. it moved without rhythm. it breathed without air. it surged around her like fire and smoke, but there was no flame, no warmth. only fury. it howled not in sound, but in sensation, a rage so vast it drowned the air from her lungs and pressed against her chest with the weight of something ancient and cruel and unrelenting.

she tried to scream.

but her voice was sealed.

she tried to run.

but there was no floor beneath her feet.

only space.

only stars.

only pain.

she woke.

her body jerked and she lurched forward. her shoulders tensing, a cry caught sharp behind her teeth.

the room was dreadfully dark.

the silence was real again.

for a period of time, she could not breathe.

her chest rose in short, shallow gasps, her eyes wide and unfocused as they adjusted to the dim light. the nightmare clung to her, not as a memory, but as a burden, festering around her lungs like a whisper that had not yet finished speaking. her pale skin was cold, her hands damp with sweat. the pillow beneath her had fallen askew.

she turned her head.

ebos was there.

her handmaiden sat beside the door, not in a bed but in the old soldier’s rest, a straight-backed chair, her long frame tilted slightly, chin tucked to her shoulder. her braid had loosened at the end, one hand resting near the handle of the small blaster holstered discreetly beneath her cloak. she had fallen asleep sitting up, watchful to the last.

vasharre didn’t call out to her.

she didn’t speak.

instead, she turned around, drawing back the blanket from her lap. the room was frigid, but she did not tremble. her feet touched the smooth floor with no sound. she rose, adjusting the hem of her nightrobe, and stepped cautiously toward the corridor door. her hand passed over the sensor panel, and the metal slid open with a faint hydraulic hiss.

ebos did not wake.

vasharre stepped into the darkened hallway.

the air was cooler here, tinged with the antiseptic smell of well-maintained ships, polished metal, filtered oxygen, the faintest trace of engine plasma and recycled heat. overhead, the lights had been dimmed to their nighttime setting, deep violet panels casting low shadows across the corridor floor, creating a dreamscape of hollow silence and shifting gleam.

she walked gradually.

barefoot.

alone.

the nightmare seared in her thoughts.

but now the anguish was reality.

and the ship carried her onward into stars that did not speak.

the corridor outside the navigation deck was long and dim, brushed in soft blue light that spilled from the hyperspace current beyond the curved transparisteel windows. no noise accompanied her footsteps. the floor beneath her was smoothed durasteel, cool beneath the soles of her feet, and the air smelled somewhat of ozone and oiled mechanics. the ship was quiet, truly quiet now, not only with sleep, but with the kind of silence that settles over a vessel between stars, when the engines are stable, the course is clear, and nothing on board stirs without purpose.

vasharre strode slowly, her robe trailing lightly behind her. she had not dressed for wandering, nor had she intended to leave her quarters for long. but her feet, once set in motion, had carried her forward without resistance. she had passed through the sleeping corridor, turned past the starboard auxiliary cabin, and followed a passage she had never studied, her hand grazing the wall as though it might guide her somewhere safer than the echo of the nightmare lodged in her chest.

it was there, at the end of the corridor, that she saw him.

he stood near the central control console of the maintenance alcove, his posture upright but unhurried, his head bowed as he examined the monitor before him. he was alone. the glow of the console bathed his face in faint silver, the light catching the edge of his cheekbone and the subtle bronze-gold tones in his short hair. his cloak was folded over one arm, and his free hand rested near the base of the communication display. a thin band of blue light flickered up from the base of the transmission disc, revealing the translucent figure of a man vasharre recognized only by voice.

“we cannot allow this delay to cost us what little ground we have,” the hologram said. “the blockade’s presence in the mid-rim is shifting. we must remain ahead of it.”

the voice was serious and purposeful.

it belonged to master qui-gon jinn.

the younger man responded with calm precision, though there was a dryness to his tone, the kind that carried the faintest edge of unspoken opinion.

“we are not delayed, master,” he said. “we are en route to coruscant with the queen, the delegation, and the surviving nobility. we have adapted to every shift in your path.”

the hologram spoke nothing, but the change in its posture suggested restraint.

the young padawan deactivated the communication panel a moment later, ending the exchange without ceremony. the hologram flickered out. the alcove dimmed again. the only sound remaining was the ambient thrum of the starship and the distant hum of the reactor core.

he turned then.

his eyes landed on her.

he did not startle.

he assessed her with the kind of poised vigilance that suggested he had already sensed her presence moments before his eyes confirmed it. the blue light caught the slope of his jaw and the curve of his shoulders. his silhouette was lean and composed, shaped not by idle strength but by years of measured training. his tunic was worn without ostentation, his lightsaber clipped precisely to the leather of his belt.

when he spoke, his voice was hushed, formal.

“my lady.”

his tone held no amusement, but neither was it cold. there was something stable about it, something trained, as though every word was placed with care. he inclined his head slightly, not bowing, but acknowledging her presence with a reverence appropriate to her title.

she did not answer immediately.

her breath caught in her throat. she had not meant to see him again, not like this, not alone. he was not what she had expected a jedi to be. she had imagined someone older. someone remote. someone towering and unapproachable. instead, he was young, perhaps only two decades or so in age, and yet carried himself with the unshakable calm of someone far beyond his years.

his eyes, a crystalline blue, held no condescension. only inquiry.

“you could not sleep?” he asked, softly.

she shook her head. her voice felt thin.

“no.”

he did not press her for more.

“that is not uncommon,” he said. “dreams often grow troubled when the soul is unsettled.”

she hesitated, her hands curling at her sides. she had not expected him to speak as though her fears were valid. she had expected dismissal, perhaps even mild rebuke. instead, he looked at her with the expression of someone who understood that sleep could be broken by things words could not name.

she looked at him more carefully now.

his hair, short but neatly parted, bore the traditional padawan braid, auburn with a streak of gold near the end, tied with grace. his features were refined, but not delicate. there was a kind of carved strength to them, a discipline that showed not in his physique, but in the way he held his shoulders, in the set of his mouth. there was no boyish arrogance in him. he was not unkind, but he was not soft.

“you are padawan kenobi,” she said.

he inclined his head again, an obscured trace of acknowledgement in his expression.

“obi-wan kenobi, apprentice to master qui-gon jinn. at your service, my lady rharrellis.”

her throat tightened.

“you… you saved me.”

he did not respond with pride.

“i protected a child in danger,” he said simply. “that is the duty of any jedi.”

“so i was only a duty.”

he looked at her now with a touch more clarity. not sternness. not pity. something more delicate. something more understanding than she had expected from a warrior.

“you are a citizen of naboo. you are a noble daughter of one of the oldest houses in the galaxy. you are your father’s child. that makes you many things. it does not make you only a duty.”

her breath caught again, but for a different reason.

he had not raised his voice.

he had not reached for reassurance.

but something in his words settled the painful ache in her chest that the nightmare had left behind.

he straightened, the folds of his tunic moving with the transition of his posture.

“it is not safe to wander the ship alone,” he said. “even in peace, it is easy to lose direction. would you allow me to walk you back to your quarters?”

she thought twice, then nodded.

he moved beside her, adjusting his pace so that it matched hers, neither too slow nor too fast, perfectly even. they walked without speaking for a time. the corridor lights shifted gently as they passed, illuminating the blue-silver sheen of the ship’s walls and the smooth elegance of its design.

she glanced at him once, from beneath her lashes.

his gaze was set forward, his shoulders square, his presence calm.

and she felt, for the first time in hours, that she was safe.

not because the danger was gone.

but because he had stood between her and it.

and he would again.

their footfalls were muffled by the corridor’s cushioned flooring, the ship humming low around them in its gliding passage through hyperspace. the artificial lights overhead remained dim, softened to a gentle golden hue that barely brushed the upper edges of the walls, casting elongated shadows that flickered and disappeared with each step they took. ahead, the curve of the passage bent toward the sleeping quarters assigned to the royal attendants and honored guests.

vasharre remained half a pace behind him, watching how he moved. there was something precise in the way he walked, not stiff, but impossibly measured. every step taken with confidence, his hands folded behind his back, posture straight but never performative. there was no vanity in the way he carried himself. only a practiced stillness, as if every breath he took had once been part of a lesson.

she wanted to ask him something else, anything, really. wanted to find a reason to make the walk last longer. but the words clung to the edge of her mouth and refused to cross.

as they neared the chamber doors, he stopped.

he turned towards her, the lights catching again at the fine line of his brow and the pale gleam in his eyes. his expression, though unchanged, had softened somewhat, not in emotion, but in recognition of her presence, her trepidation, her composure.

he bowed his head.

“you are safe now, my lady,” he said. “should you need anything, there are guards posted nearby. your handmaiden is close.”

she nodded, her heart stammering against her ribs.

“thank you,” she said gently, her voice scarcely above a whisper.

he stepped aside, allowing her to approach the door.

she turned once before it opened, the dim light from the panel casting a warm glow across her face.

“good night, padawan kenobi.”

his expression did not change, but he inclined his head once more.

“may your dreams be gentler, lady rharrellis.”

the door whispered open.

she stepped inside.

the room was dismal, unchanged from when she had left it. the overhead lights remained dim, the air cool from the climate control systems. across the room, ebos remained seated in her chair, still asleep, her figure folded gracefully in the low curve of the backrest, arms crossed, her long braid draped across her chest like a ribbon of shadow.

vasharre closed the door behind her, the sound so soft it might have been imagined.

her fingers lingered at the panel for a moment before she turned, her feet soundless as she crossed the room. she moved slowly, carefully, as if any sudden motion might betray her or wake her guardian. the memory of his voice still echoed in her ears, may your dreams be gentler, and she felt her face warm, though there was no one to see it.

she slid beneath the covers, the sheets were cool against her skin. her heart was still fluttering, soft and strange. she closed her eyes. and for the first time since they had left naboo, her mind was at peace.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

the celestial beings in orbit had aligned themselves with the living force.

outside the hull of the ship, the bright tunnel of hyperspace shuddered once, then fragmented, breaking apart in long splinters of color that faded into darkness. the gentle thrum of the drive systems quieted as the vessel emerged from hyperspace, its sleek frame gliding into the void beyond.

ahead, a large yellow planet hung in the stillness of space, its surface rough and weathered, the edges rimmed in scorched light.

tattooine.

dry, desolate, dangerous.

but untouched by the reach of the trade federation.

inside the ship, the crew moved with bustle, the jedi moved toward the command deck, the queen prepared for descent, and lady vasharre rharrellis stood behind her, poised and wordless, her dark eyes fixed on the sands rising beyond them.

[kaihuntrr]

The Sea Prince; Hunting Party announcement!

okay maybe this isn’t the oneshot I promised but it’s gonna be good I promise-

SO! As of recent, I finished up the revised outline to The Sea Prince’s act one, named Hunting Party! The plot has a lot more going on and I’m in love with this story so much more. This means sooner or later the prologue will come out! As soon as it does, we’ll come to the next important thing;

Beta readers!

Preferably, I’d want three! I have one already, so two more would be great!

What do beta readers do?

They help give feedback and act as a sort of test audience! I’ll need it with all the things packed into this storyline ehehe. There’s a lot in store! I’d want to make sure I’m giving off the right impression with my writing and the like.

I will give the summary of The Sea Prince (and Act One!) under the cut, and as a treat, here is a doodle I’ve made of Act Two Scott and Martyn, they get little changes in their designs <3

There’s one doodle under the cut that has blood (it isn’t red, but blood is blood!) so here’s your warning for it!

THE SEA PRINCE.

In a world full of deadly, man-eating sea monsters there are specialized teams of people who’s job and legacy is to eradicate the horrors of the deep. Monster hunters, hunters for short, are funded by guilds to personal employers to seek out the dangerous beasts and let the sea live in a peaceful, monster-free environment for the animals and humans to thrive.

A notorious hunter group, the Canaries, are led by brothers Joel and Grian Solidarity and are personally funded by His Royal Majesty as one of the best hunters the kingdom has to offer. Such luxuries give them the access to powerful weapons and a rivalry with the best naval commanders, known as TIES. These two groups are summoned to a meeting as the King sends them on their most daring commission yet; find and capture a sea prince.

Sea Princes are, by nature, mythological. They don’t exist. They’re hunter stories meant to scare children and keep the population from wanting to explore the seas, if not for the very real monsters that infest the waters. Capturing one, not to mention proving they exist would be a challenge. This is the King they were working under though, and if he says to find a sea prince and capture it, they’ll do it. Besides, if they were able to, they would be put down in the history books.

Martyn always believed they existed. A child born from hunters, stories about their bloody past and murderous rage haunts and excites him. From the god-like treasure they hide underneath the waves to the feuding war against the mermaids, he’s made it his goal to kill a sea prince. It’s what he wants the most after all.

Well. There was also Scott.

Scott Major is a beautiful man who works in a tavern, never in his life has he been out to sea. Martyn swears to him that once his life goal is complete, he’ll stay. The call of the sea is somehow always there, as if it was right in front of him. Martyn risks his life every single moment he boards the ship, but he always comes back in one piece. He has to.

He can’t risk losing Scott too.

ACT ONE: HUNTING PARTY.

Being sent on a mission to capture a sea prince, the Canaries and TIES form a bet; whoever finds evidence of a prince first can lead the mission. Agreeing under pride, they set out. Martyn has his heart set on fulfilling his dream, but it doesn’t look like Scott is too thrilled with the idea. He’ll understand.

What the hunters don’t know is that their goal charters out of their control and they are forced to seek refuge on an island everyone believes to be cursed. The Scarlet Witch haunts the isle, and every hunting ship that enters will never exit.

They’ll be the first to prove that wrong.

Elements/ general themes the story will contain;

- Nightmares

- Sea horror (monsters attacking ships, fear of the ocean, those types of things)

- fights and injuries (they bleed!)

- character death

- slow burn. really slow burn but a lot of flirting and sweet moments between the two

- worldbuilding

- found family

- there’s likely more to which I’ll add unto!

This story has become a very big passion of mine and I’d love to be able to tell this with the most clarity and enjoyment I can provide! If you’re interested in becoming a beta, I’d like you to comment under the post or reblog it to why you’d want to beta read it and the like :D it’s not a first come first serve basis and it will be open until I finish the prologue, which is in about a week or two from now. Goodluck in applying! I and @mewhoismyself are going to look through what you guys got, but no pressure, seriously! <3

With the beta readers and synopsis out of the way, here’s some sneak peeks to the next batch of designs along with some sketches I made for Act One! I wonder if you can figure out the context behind those words ;)

Just some minor changes with Martyn and Scott! Scott’s hair is more red tinted and darker so he’s more ginger, while Martyn is more clean-shaven! Maybe he has some stubble the next time I sketch him, but he looks more youthful here! I also realize that these are all the winners, but it does make sense with how important they are to the story :0!

Now, unto the designs! Can you guess who’s who?

Super excited to finish this batch and work on their lore; I’ll finish this before the prologue!

And that’s all i got for now, I hope you’re all just as excited as I am as the project gets to come to life after all these months. Act One is coming soon!

[letters-from-himring-hill]

Charter for a Religious Order (which needs a name), under a cut because it MIGHT have spoilers. ( @scleroticstatue I don't think it does, but I'll subject it to your approval before tagging Bri.)

@sunflowergardens-world @kanerallels @sweetcardamom @awwyeah-rambles enjoy a glimpse at one of Morwen's tasks and how she's trying to carry it out in light of Terran morality. Or lack thereof.

Pillars of the order:

Sanctity of life: The capacities of reason and moral freedom can only be received from the God outside all worlds, or the gods of Terrafell. Therefore, any being whose species possesses those capacities (hereafter, 'sapient') is a creation of God or of the gods, and that sapient's life shall be considered precious from the moment of conception to the moment of final, natural death. Age, number of lives remaining, and species are irrelevant to this truth. From this principle proceed the following rules for this Order:

Any sapient who will vow to uphold the principles of the Order and obey its rules may join the Order.

All members of the Order shall support and defend, as much as it lies within their power, the rights of sapients to life, liberty, and property. This includes the right to self-defence and the duty to defend others who cannot protect themselves. This duty shall be carried out regardless of any potential benefit to the brother or sister. This Order shall extend its benefits to rich and poor, slave and free, child, adult, and aged, humanoid and hybrid races, but special care shall be taken of those who do not have the power to protect themselves or to pay others for such protection.

Where it is possible, members of this Order shall seek to deescalate conflict and resolve it through diplomatic means. Do not start fights unnecessarily. Do finish them once they have started.

Members of the Order shall provide for the poor and needy of their communities. This may take the form of covering Guild fees for those who have no means of livelihood, or taking orphaned children as wards of the Order. The Order shall offer substance and shelter to individuals which the Tamed Garden cannot or will not assist, but will not compete with the services offered by the Garden.

Members shall be chaste when unmarried and faithful to their spouse when married.

Obedience to God/the gods: the first duty of all sapients should be to obey the commands of the gods. All members of the Order shall obey these commands above all else.

Obedience to civil authority: in all cases where laws and civil authority do not conflict with the will of the gods, members of the Order shall obey these laws and authority to the full extent of their abilities. Members of the Order shall show all appropriate respect to civil government and governors.

The Order shall not seek to supplant the Tamed Gardens or the Guilds of any location. Training for members, where applicable, shall be sought from the Guilds, healing from the Tamed Gardens, etc. In locations where there are no Guilds or Tamed Gardens, the Order shall offer the services which are needed by the population. Should a Guild later be established in that area, the Order shall arrange to hand off to that Guild the services it provides which the Guild would ordinarily cover. At the discretion of local Guild or Garden Masters, the Order may offer services in addition to those of the Guilds, i.e. sheltering an influx of travellers for whom there is no room at the Garden or Inn. Members whose calling within the Order overlaps with the purpose of a Guild are strongly encouraged to join the appropriate Guild.

Service to the community: this Order does not seek profit. Tithes from members, whether given in specie, goods, or time, shall go first to the maintenance of wards of the order, second, to the provision of necessities to members who have need and to the internal business of the Order, and third to the support of the community. Members who have no other livelihood may receive room and board or stipends, as is most appropriate to their circumstances, and shall be maintained in all reasonable comfort, but without unnecessary luxury.

Order members who are also members of Guilds may and should engage in any forms of trade supported by that Guild, so long as those trades are consistent with the foregoing pillars of the Order. They may and should receive wages for their work, appropriate fees for their goods and services, etc. They shall not charge unreasonable prices nor shall they take advantage of their customers or refuse service to customers who need it and can pay for it.

Members shall distinguish between work done for the Order and work done for the Guilds. Work done for the Guilds is governed, as above, by the rules of the Guild and basic morality. Work done for the Order shall be done for the service of the community and may not be profitable. Members are not expected to impoverish themselves in the service of the Order, but when working in their capacity as members of the Order, they shall place the pillars of the Order above their desire for profit.

Branches:

This Order shall have both lay and consecrated branches. Within each branch, there shall be classifications for those who serve the gods with their various gifts.

Lay:

Lay brothers and sisters may attach themselves to any branch of the Order, but those who believe themselves called to an ascetic life, or any lifelong vow, are encouraged to seek consecration. Individuals who merely wish to engage in a time of contemplation may remain as lay members.

Lay members are expected to contribute 5% of their yearly income to either the Order, or to causes or individuals which support the Order's goals. Contributions may be made as money or goods. Members who have no active income are expected to contribute in the ways in which they are able, such as by gifts of time and work. In general, this contribution shall be taken upon honour. However, in cases where a member is believed to be in default, his or her local abbot or abbess may request some proof that the contribution has been made, and failure to provide this proof, when proceeding from defiance, may lead to censure.

Lay members shall at all times be free to leave the Order at will, though courteous notice given some time before leaving is encouraged.

Lay members are free to marry or be given in marriage, save when already married.

Lay members, if unmarried at the time of joining the Order, may take no more than one spouse at a time while members. Lay members shall not divorce their spouses for any cause less than adultery or abuse. Violation of this rule may lead to censure or expulsion.

Lay members, if married at the time of joining the Order, shall not take additional spouses while members. If a lay member who is married to one spouse loses that spouse to death or to warranted divorce, that member may remarry. Individuals who have multiple spouses may join the Order, but may not marry additional spouses except in the event that all their current spouses die or are divorced for good cause, in which case they may marry one. (Such cases may be investigated for veracity at the discretion of the abbot.)

Lay members may own slaves, where permitted by civil law, but must treat them in accordance with the Order's first pillar, refraining from cruelty or excessive workloads and providing them with adequate food, shelter, medical care, and a feasible method of achieving their freedom should they desire it. At no time should owners of slaves forget that, in the eyes of God, they and their slaves are equals.

Consecrated/set apart:

Consecrated members who have active income are expected to contribute 10% yearly to the Order or some patronage or cause thereof. Outside contributions should be reported in brief to superiors to avoid confusion.

Consecrated members take vows which are binding upon them for life. Should they wantonly break those vows, they will face punishment up to and including expulsion.

Consecrated members shall be considered free to marry or be given in marriage; however, they may take voluntary additional vows of celibacy, for a time or for life, which shall be considered binding upon them by the Order.

No member of the Order shall take an Oath by means of bloodbinding, or any other unbreakable oath. The given word is a solemn thing, but sapients are fallible and may make promises in error. Should a member of the Order become convinced that he or she has taken a vow which it is unwise to keep, that member's superior shall assist him in revising the provisions of the vow or removing it.

Consecrated members may not at any time be married to more than one spouse. Individuals with multiple spouses must remain as lay members, unless they separate from all but one of their spouses. Such separation shall not abrogate any obligation to provide for the separated spouses or any children by them.

Consecrated members may likewise take voluntary vows of poverty, but this is not enjoined upon any. Should they do so, they may choose to donate their wealth directly to others or entrust it to the Order for distribution.

Individuals who own slaves and desire to become consecrated members of the Order must offer freedom to all their slaves before their vows will be accepted. Slaves who, by reason of devotion, do not desire to leave their masters, shall be permitted to remain so long as they will it. All others shall be set free and provided with sufficient goods and training to make their way as free citizens. The Order may assist the former master in providing these things, at the discretion of the abbot or if the master's means are unequal to the task.

Individuals desiring to become consecrated members of the Order shall first enter upon a novitiate, of a duration ranging from one to twenty years, depending on strength of conviction, species, and external circumstances, before swearing lifelong vows. No lifelong vow is recommended without first a temporary vow of a year's duration, at a minimum. Novices may end their novitiate and leave the Order at any time, just as lay members may.

Wards of the Order:

Children who have no parents or guardians capable of caring for them may be taken as wards of the Order until they are adopted, or until they come of age. No binding vows shall be laid upon them until they come of age; however, a ward of the Order who desires to be consecrated may, at the discretion of his superior, have a shortened novitiate period. It is recommended that wards desiring to enter into the Order shall take a period of time to live among the ordinary citizens of Terrafell before making such a decision. The Order shall provide shelter, food, and care for its wards, and shall arrange vocational training for them in the manner most appropriate to their location and gifts.

Wards may be adopted by any married couple who demonstrates both ability and will to provide for them until adulthood. Wards who have reached an age where their preferences can be known shall have those preferences taken into account in any placement with an adoptive family, and may return to the Order in the event that the family proves unsuitable or unwilling to maintain them.

Classifications:

Military: For those whose gifts and training lie towards battle, including combat mages. Military members of the Order shall be organised into units as is most expedient for the needs of the city in which they live. If possible, they shall coordinate with the Adventurers', Wizards', and Crafters' Guilds. They are encouraged to be members of those guilds.

Ascetic/Contemplative: For those who desire to spend their days in prayer, study, and contemplation. They shall follow a schedule of worship, private prayer, and work, which may be set by the abbot or by the head of the Order.

Active civilians: For all those whose gifts lie in craft, farming, healing, etc. Active civilian members shall use their time and talent to advance the Order's purposes as is most appropriate to their gifts. They shall seek to be members of appropriate Guilds and to respect the rules thereof. Members who desire Guild membership but are not able to afford Guild fees may petition to have the Order cover their fees, which shall be done promptly, except in cases where there is some cogent objection.

Discipline:

Wrongdoing by a member of the Order, lay or consecrated, shall be established upon the testimony of two or three sworn witnesses before the member's superior. In cases where no certain verdict can be reached, the accuser and accused shall appeal up the Order's hierarchy, until they reach the current Superior.

Violation of the tenets of the Order will be punished proportionally. Those who steal shall return what was stolen. Those who strike another without justification shall receive a blow themselves.

Corporal punishment may be used for egregious wrongs. Such punishment shall not exceed forty lashes, less one to avoid miscounting.

Members of the Order who have committed such crimes as murder, rape, etc. shall submit to civil justice. If penitent, they shall not be expelled from the Order, but they may be stripped of rank or otherwise censured.

The Order shall be considered obligated to report crimes committed by its members as it becomes aware of them. Where possible, it shall maintain a healthy relationship with local civil authorities.

In cases of miscarriage of justice, the Order may, at its discretion, shelter fugitives. Fugitives who come seeking shelter must disclose the reason for their flight to the abbot as soon as is reasonably possible.

Unrepentant and persistent violation of the Order's tenets may, at the discretion of a member's superior in consultation with two or three others, lead to expulsion.

Expulsion shall not be permanent. An expelled member shall be restored to the Order's ranks upon clear demonstration of penitence, though at the discretion of his or her superior, that member may be stripped of rank at this rejoining and begin again as a novice.

[racefortheironthrone]

You mentioned that GRRM is weaker on the sociological aspects of Medieval times. Does this include the severe neglect/abuse of the lower classes? It works well to explore his theme of 'True Knighthood' and existential heroism in the books, but what could a real peasant count on his lord to actually do for them during siege or chevauchee? (Even if only in a self-interested sense of 'I need X peasants alive to work my fields and tax myself into splendor.')

As we might expect from a writer of his generation, GRRM does better with class than he does with race or gender or sexuality. He's still imperfect - one major non-noble POV in a book made up largely of noble POVs isn't exactly representative - but you do see his depiction of class inequality through the impact of the War of Five Kings on the Riverlands, the Broken Man speech about the War of Ninepenny Kings, the King's Landing riot and the Sparrow movement, etc.

At the same time, while GRRM certainly knows what town and city and guild charters are, he doesn't really show the burgher class as an active force in Westerosi politics (outside of the Antler Men) the way they should be given the degree of urbanization that's supposed to exist.

[ellynneversweet]

So one of the things I have been thinking about is how charter magic in the old kingdom is a form of literacy. A very complicated form of literacy, full of synonyms and obscure symbols, the ability for the signifier to literally call the signified into existence, and, theoretically, a unique signifier for every conceivable thing. It works, arguably in at least two ways — some very powerful things might have a single signifier but could also be called forth using a long compounded string of signifiers that amount to the same signified item, depending on the skill, power, and knowledge of the charter mage doing the thing (think, say, Chinese written language vs German compound words vs a long and rambly post in English.)

This has some interesting implications. First, language in the OK is probably fairly consistent over time, because the meaning of charter marks do not change, and, while there is mundane written and spoken language, this would make consistency in spelling, meaning, and pronunciation important. You want to describe a subtly different concept? You need a new word.

Second, because widespread literacy has a complicated symbiotic relationship with complex and consistent culture (the existence of schools and the ability to attend them, educated teachers, complete-ish written references that have not been destroyed) periods where charter magic is on the wane should coincide with and maybe accelerate more general loss of civilisational knowledge, literacy generally and peacetime habits. There’s a nod to this in the gestured-at extensive guild and apprenticeship systems we see throughout the books. And, of course, the frequent, loving references to librarians.

Third, it requires active maintenance. It’s very, very difficult to revive a language you don’t know, especially if you have no or little concept of literacy generally. Archeologists with PhDs will spend whole careers attempting it. The state of the kingdom in Sabriel isn’t just the result of the broken charter — it’s the result of the loss of institutional knowledge. Characters might be baptised into the charter, but unless they’re unusually instinctively talented (Elinor arguably is like this, like someone who has a natural ear for languages) they can only do as much as they can find someone to teach them how to do, or how much they can guesstimate themselves (with the risk of burning off their tongues or fingers if they get their estimations wrong).

Just, y’know. Culture is an ecosystem and everyone’s responsible for maintaining it. (This may be a bit of a rant about attitudes towards AI. I am not a complete Luddite, AI is interesting and sometimes useful, but the amount of people who are outsourcing all their thinking to it and thinking they will never have to learn again, because their AI girlfriend will use an AI voice to read them an ELI5 on how to build a bridge built to AI schematics is…concerning.)

[communist-manifesto-daily]

Manifesto of the Communist Party

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A spectre is haunting Europe – the spectre of communism. All the powers of old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exorcise this spectre: Pope and Tsar, Metternich and Guizot, French Radicals and German police-spies.

Where is the party in opposition that has not been decried as communistic by its opponents in power? Where is the opposition that has not hurled back the branding reproach of communism, against the more advanced opposition parties, as well as against its reactionary adversaries?

Two things result from this fact:

Communism is already acknowledged by all European powers to be itself a power.

It is high time that Communists should openly, in the face of the whole world, publish their views, their aims, their tendencies, and meet this nursery tale of the Spectre of Communism with a manifesto of the party itself.

To this end, Communists of various nationalities have assembled in London and sketched the following manifesto, to be published in the English, French, German, Italian, Flemish and Danish languages.

I. Bourgeois and Proletarians*

* By bourgeoisie is meant the class of modern capitalists, owners of the means of social production and employers of wage labour. By proletariat, the class of modern wage labourers who, having no means of production of their own, are reduced to selling their labour power in order to live. [Engels, 1888 English edition]

The history of all hitherto existing society† is the history of class struggles.

† That is, all written history. In 1847, the pre-history of society, the social organisation existing previous to recorded history, all but unknown. Since then, August von Haxthausen (1792-1866) discovered common ownership of land in Russia, Georg Ludwig von Maurer proved it to be the social foundation from which all Teutonic races started in history, and, by and by, village communities were found to be, or to have been, the primitive form of society everywhere from India to Ireland. The inner organisation of this primitive communistic society was laid bare, in its typical form, by Lewis Henry Morgan's (1818-1861) crowning discovery of the true nature of the gens and its relation to the tribe. With the dissolution of the primeval communities, society begins to be differentiated into separate and finally antagonistic classes. I have attempted to retrace this dissolution in The Origin of the Family, Private Property, and the State, second edition, Stuttgart, 1886. [Engels, 1888 English Edition and 1890 German Edition (with the last sentence omitted)]

Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guild-master‡ and journeyman, in a word, oppressor and oppressed, stood in constant opposition to one another, carried on an uninterrupted, now hidden, now open fight, a fight that each time ended, either in a revolutionary reconstitution of society at large, or in the common ruin of the contending classes.

‡ Guild-master, that is, a full member of a guild, a master within, not a head of a guild. [Engels, 1888 English Edition]

Our epoch, the epoch of the bourgeoisie, possesses, however, this distinct feature: it has simplified class antagonisms. Society as a whole is more and more splitting up into two great hostile camps, into two great classes directly facing each other – Bourgeoisie and Proletariat.

From the serfs of the Middle Ages sprang the chartered burghers of the earliest towns. From these burgesses the first elements of the bourgeoisie were developed.

The discovery of America, the rounding of the Cape, opened up fresh ground for the rising bourgeoisie. The East-Indian and Chinese markets, the colonisation of America, trade with the colonies, the increase in the means of exchange and in commodities generally, gave to commerce, to navigation, to industry, an impulse never before known, and thereby, to the revolutionary element in the tottering feudal society, a rapid development.

The Communist Manifesto - Part 1

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[basedonconjecture]

I have this loosely held headcanon that the Crow Houses do operate like guilds in the sense that they do rely on their relationships with the royal family to provide them with charters and that the internal structure is largely based on political and economical reasons. A House’s ranking then being determined, largely, by power and influence as well as profit they bring in through contracts or other means. The relationship between Crow Houses and merchant Houses then being somewhat symbiotic as there’s crossover there and we know the merchant houses have more influence over the politics of Antiva than the Crows do. Also, then, controlling the number of influential assassin houses as well as the number of cuchillos seeking to establish themselves as houses, thereby keeping the balance of power sort of precariously balanced. Feeding into the question of who really rules Antiva: the king, the merchant princes, or the Crows?

If you take Viago’s word as the prevailing sentiment among the entire faction, then it’s the Crows. Perhaps the Antaam invasion and occupation of Treviso did tip the scales in their favor and this is true. Perhaps it did not but it is their aim after the events of Veilguard. It certainly seems to be Viago’s. At any rate, I do think the relationship between all three of these sides is much more entangled and the Crows do still rely on the ruler to allow them to operate, ultimately. And I think it might also explain why Viago and Teia retain their positions at 5th and 8th if they weren’t able to operate normally and/or suffered losses to their houses during the period of occupation. Also, too, if any new houses replaced old houses, it’s possible they were slotted in, to be evaluated later if things were changing too fast for it to be feasible to keep rearranging the ranks. In the same vein, it’s also why I don’t think House Dellamorte was all that diminished as a house regardless of what was going on with the family members at its center. They were all seemingly focused on responding to the Antaam (very sensible of them) but after? Hmmm hmm hmm. Could be messy.

(This headcanon also kinda ties into being part of the reason Viago really rankles when it’s implied he gets any special favor from Fulgeno, since we know he communicates with him directly and reports to him.)

[theygotlost]

so basically red admiral's appearance on the scene pisses the monarch off SO bad that he momentarily forgets about dr venture and declares her his new arch enemy and theres probably some rule in the guild charter about villains arching each other but whatever. and red admiral doesnt have the haters temperament like the monarch does so she thinks its just a silly game and has fun absolutely kicking the monarchs ass over and over again. and outside of this gary and aditi have been seeing each other for a couple months now and neither knows anything about the other being a henchman cause they keep making up increasingly ridiculous excuses. so i have this vivid sequence in my mind of 21 and swallowtail having to face off against each other during one of these archings and swallowtails god her badass knife and 21 has his arm blade thing and theyre both taking the fight super seriously until 21 says or does something that causes swallowtail to recognize him and shes like WTF GARY????!!!! and hes like WTF ADITI??!!!? and ofc the monarch is pissed off that his henchman is sleeping with the enemy but red admiral treats it like a gotcha of "MY underling has seduced YOUR underling to weaken your defenses! all a part of my plan!"

[wonder-worker]

"The administrative system within Boulogne grew in complexity during Ida’s rule. Four towns were given keures (law texts) and were governed by mayors aided by echevins (aldermen) and price-setting officials. The mayors of Boulogne and Desvres witnessed the act recording the terms of their daughter Matilda’s marriage to Philippe Hurepel. In Calais, Ida and Renaud granted the merchants a guild, fronting two-thirds of the cost, and establishing that they would receive two-thirds of the revenue. Merck too had a merchants’ guild. The communal charters reveal that the counts retained the rights of the ban, high justice, and the mint. The household officers continued to play an important role in Boulogne: Bald win of Ermlighem (and Wissant) was constable, while Raoul of Lens (1182–1188), Renier Morsel, and Eustace le Moine served as seneschals. Arnulf, advocate of Boulogne, Henry of Belle, bailli of Desvres, and William Niels, bailli of Merck, were also frequent attestors of comital acta.

Like the Flemish counts Philip and Baldwin VIII, Ida and Renaud relied upon the bailli to maintain peace, although there is no surviving ordnance concerning the baillis’ jurisdiction. They do not seem to have gone quite as far as the Flemish counts in relying upon the bailli as their local agents (replacing the castellans) and their representative over the local feudal courts. In both counties, the castellans continued to provide military service. Similarly, Ida and Renaud, like the Flemish counts, controlled the granting of privileges to towns, establishing fairs, reclaiming land, and enforcing balfart (corvee for building fortifications). There is no evidence for a chancery or an official responsible for overseeing the collection of comital revenues or guarding the comital seals, as there was in Flanders and Hainaut. Two clerics, Henry and Nicholas, wrote letters, writs, and acta for Ida and Renaud. It seems likely that Ida and Renaud, like Waleran of Meulan, used letters to trusted local agents to administer their dispersed lands."

— Heather J. Tanner, Lordship and Governance by the Inheriting Countesses of Boulogne, 1160-1260