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wanderingwolfwitcher · 14 hours ago

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"Mmm. You've always landed on your feet against all odds, more or less. And as I recall whenever you witches get together a lot of people suffer needlessly anyways. Draw a lot of ire. Maybe your fellow Lodge members have finally figured it out, between Radovid and Emhyr. You Aretuza 'ladies' are better off staying apart. I've kept tabs on all of you, among other mages, to be on the safe side. You, Stregobor and Eltibald, the old Council of Mages and Lodge really, are the reasons I've invested in Kovir's Dimeritium market over the years. You folk got my gratitude there, stuff saved my life and others more than a few times against all manner of magic throwing hags."

Eskel's low tone observed languidly, with a chuckle under his breath, viper eyes still watching the breakfast seemingly prepare itself, appetite growing all the while. He recalled the times in the past when Sabrina had made him breakfast, after a reignited passionate affair when their paths crossed, those times he had actually stayed afterwords, albeit usually briefly. Even in a royal bed or two together, back when she had been held high up on the Unicorn Dynasty's good side, a top place in their court, dressed in those familiar dresses of hers with the choker. Typically after they fought, of course, and he had contemplated seriously for the thousandth time slaying her. It was something he couldn't recall many others having done for him... more often they were gone by the time he woke, especially upper class ladies who couldn't afford to be seen or discovered laying with something like him... it would destroy their social standing and reputations. It was funny that one he despised and cared for in equal parts would seek to take care of him and his needs, where others better in most ways treated him like a Catriona plague carrying monster once they had gotten out of him what they desired. A completed contract, a monster slain, a curse lifted, an exorcism performed... and a roll around in their bed, or in the hay. Commoner and noble ladies alike... two of a kind, when it came down to it, where Witchers were concerned.

It figured it was his curse to be condemned to Sabrina, from the moment she had come chasing Deidre to Kaer Morhen... the moment she had saved him from a near death that had been her own fault and his alike, when it came down to it. It was his eternal punishment for failing and fleeing from his destiny... betraying Deidre as he had. It had never been as passionate and intense as it was when they lay together, with their magical bond. They were addicted to one another, bound by forces beyond either of their control, regardless of what they were capable of. He hated her... but hated that he needed her even more. At least he was aware, and ready for the worst, unlike Geralt or Lambert, smitten and blind to the machinations of their own Sorceresses. And at least he was still firmly on the Path. The Witcher began kissing along her neck slowly, hands moving about her perfect, pale body, one rising to her sizable breasts to fondle them, the other settling down between her legs to slowly, teasingly rub her womanhood again, lightly. Distracting her a bit as she carried out magically preparing their breakfast, a smirk writ large on his blade marred visage. Deep, amused and aroused voice murmuring in her ear again more boldly and gradually. The heat in his blood burning hotter, despite himself, but remaining in control of his desires, enjoying their faintly hostile flirtations almost as much as the intimacy.

"Ah... the limitations and over reliance on magic. Story of mages lives. Besides attempting to seize royal power, murdering, conspiring, along with creating and unleashing monsters on the world, of course. Destroying Witcher Schools as well, once we did their dirty work they considered beneath them. Better to have flesh and blood men around than magical youth, I reckon. Those that can handle you properly. Scared of losing me again, Madam Glevissig? I'm touched. Couldn't run away from you for long if I tried, and I have tried over the years. Even death didn't stop it. Besides, learned my lesson the hard way on attempting to defy destiny, as you doubtless recall. Figure the sensible thing to do then is enjoy myself with you, make the most of circumstances. Who knows, maybe if you ask me real nice, I may just come with you willingly, wherever you're headed next. Ain't like Witchers are on a strict schedule, on the Path, outside returning to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Can pick up contracts along our way. And you do have them useful portals, I recall."

@fallesto

“That is the problem, a dying breeds my kind is, your own as well. The lands have changed, wars and all of that happening here, there, everywhere you look, besides most of the witches I know, had fled or shared a fate that I had, and I have no intentions of aiding any of them, they left me to my fate when they could have done something about it and so I will do the same and focus only on myself. You would think my troubles would learn their lessons by now and leave me alone, but alas even now they are trying to nip at my heels, and not in a pleasing manner, it is annoying.”

He would remain there and she would as well for the time being, speaking about there paths and there lives as well, where they are and what they had to do. She had cheated death itself, something she could not have done without his aid, something that she would sooner die once more than to ever admit that her life had literally been within his hands at one point and he had made the choice to save it when he had every single right to throw it away. She knew a little about what he was going through, despite the hard and cruel fall from grace, from her courts, her castle and the court she had a firm and tight grip on. An entire kingdom she ruled, the king there, to be seen and not heard, that everything went through her and no one else, only makes since her kingdom would crumble and fall into ruin the moment she was removed from power and from court as well, fools. Yet she cared little, despite living back in a forest, ugh. She had a network, of spies and allies, who would keep an eye on the witcher and others for her, to ensure that if the time comes she needed them, she would come to them when they are desperate, like her, on fallen knees and waiting for that hand to be held out to them to pull them back up, only thing with him is that he would sooner swat the hand away and ensure the horrid little life he has, filled with so many problems, than to take her hand and be pulled up anew, but that was hardly something that needed to be talked about.

Still he had asked for breakfast, and she was tempted to have him do the walk of shame back to the nearest village, to have him awaken, naked on the forest floor, her tent, her scent, her presence, all removed and gone and him having to walk back and have nothing, amusing, very amusing, but as it was here she was, listening to the hum of his little medallion on his chest, as she lazily had her magic, take care of the most basic and such human task for her, all she had to do was lift a finger, and have the items around the tent, move with her flow and begin to make the breakfast for her, as she had no intention, of getting up out of bed and doing it herself, why? When she can use and abuse magic to do it for her, all that knowledge and all that power, might as well be put to use. She would close her eyes, feel his hand cup a feel and be bold and daring, and she did nothing other than direct the traffic of the plates and glasses to a table, to have it laid out and laying there for when the time demands for it, before she felt herself moved, to lay on her side, him behind her, holding her, just – hugging her. When truly she was more used to lovers, being gone before the dawn, or her being long gone before they would even know were they are or what had happened, as she remained still for the moment and pushed him back against him to give him the right, the honour and about all the privilege to hold her in such a manner.

“Despite my magic, I need something to make something, you know this. Otherwise, it is limited and while that illusion of the boy, is good company, there are somethings that youth cannot do, he is only there to tend to the worthless tasks that I cannot do and to keep this place cleaned as well, as good as company as he might be, you have seen that for the time being I don’t need him. Besides, I will be leaving here anyway, outstayed my welcome, need to move on and find another location to set up so I will be departing when you are, so enjoy this time then, and besides, you have never been one for looking a gift horse in the mouth, I know this better than anyone. Stay a while, and maybe longer, I’ll cover your contracts, but you already know this … looking for an excuse to run away again?”

#fallesto

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brn1029 · 1 year ago

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On this date in real music history….

August 31st

2006 - Ozzy Osbourne

The Times ran a story on the demands of rock stars when on tour. Ozzy Osbourne insists on an eye, ear, nose and throat doctor at each venue. The Beach Boys require a licensed masseur, Meat Loaf a mask and one small tank of oxygen. David Bowie requests that the dressing room temperature is between 14c and 18c and Paul McCartney must have a large arrangement of white Casablanca lilies in his dressing room. Mick Jagger must have an onstage autocue with the lyrics to all the songs, it would also tell him the name of the city in which they were performing.

2003 - Elton John

Elton John went to No.1 on the UK singles chart with 'Are You Ready For Love.' The song was recorded in 1977 and released in 1979, when it reached No.42. It was used by Sky TV for their Premiership football ads.

1987 - Fleetwood Mac

Fleetwood Mac released 'Little Lies' from their fourteenth studio album Tango in the Night. Written by band member Christine McVie and her then-husband, Eddy Quintela, the single reached No.4 on the Billboard Hot 100 chart and No.5 in the UK. It became the band's last top-ten hit in the US.

1985 - Dire Straits

Brothers In Arms by Dire Straits started a nine-week run at No.1 on the US album charts. The album also topped the charts in 25 other countries and went on to sell over 20 million worldwide.

1985 - Chrissie Hynde

UB40 with guest vocals from Chrissie Hynde had the UK No.1 single with their version of the Sonny Bono song 'I Got You Babe' a hit for Sonny & Cher in 1965.

1974 - Traffic

Traffic made their last live performance at the annual UK Reading Festival. Other acts appearing included; Alex Harvey, 10cc, Focus, Steve Harley and Procol Harum. £5.50 for a weekend ticket.

1971 - Brian Jones

The Rolling Stones plus the father of Brian Jones filed a high court writ against ex managers Oldham and Easton. Claiming they made a secret deal with Decca Records in 1963 to deprive the group of royalties.

1968 - The Rolling Stones

Decca Records released what has been called The Rolling Stones most political song, 'Street Fighting Man', written after Mick Jagger attended a March 1968 anti-war rally at London's US embassy, during which mounted police attempted to control a crowd of 25,000. The single was kept out of the US Top 40 (reaching No.48) because many radio stations refused to play it based on what were perceived as subversive lyrics.

1963 - The Ronettes

The Ronettes first entered the US singles chart with 'Be My Baby' the girl group's only top 10 hit. Lead singer, Veronica Bennett who became Ronnie Spector, took producer and ex-husband Phil Spector to court in the late 1990s for unpaid royalties.

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constitutionaladvocate · 1 year ago

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😮The Corpo Criminals: 😈Exposing the Corporate Government Alliance and Th...TO THE MASSES NO LONGER A SLAVE:WORLDWIDE///////////////////////*7/7/2023 2:17:48 PMNothing trumps the Constitutional supreme law. No emergency can supersede the real law supreme law. the fact of the matter is real laws say if there is a conflicting law of the supreme law, all laws are void and null and does not need to be proceed in a court of law. The court of law is supposed to be bound to the masses. Nothing supersedes the Constitution, and the Constitution controls all rules codes statutes and proclamations. My teacher even said it was even more important than your credit card. {Why do they want the greatest little law book the constitutional agreement contract iron clad contract to be void?} and yes its all from the bible .. the basic civics and of the government limitations and enumerated powers. If you don’t know it, then it is what they say it is. So, if I were you, I would read the little book that controls it all and utilize it in its timely manner by every answer and of all objections in the due process levels. Know it and be the American claimed designated beneficiary that was your entitlements and gift from the nation as its whole line of trials of life for the making of freedom. Hold it high and stand your ground. why because the agreement is there is only one branch can actually make real law, and they must only make laws that don't conflict with Gods basic laws and the Constitutional contract that was made from the line of secession and the enabling clauses to be only positive law. Do you know that corporations and institutions claiming to be a government institution and operating under the color of law has no actual protections or rights. the invisible men and women do not have rights either. make sense, the Constitution was made to protect from government and encroachment infringement and trespass and tort. if violated by anyone and at any compacity, then they are subject for lawsuit, // ********* Argument and lawsuit cases: If plaintiff is deprived of their rights in some capacity to which they are entitled: {Owen V Independence 100 vol. Supreme court reports. 1398 (1982)- Main V Thiboutot 100 vol. supreme court reports. 2502(1982)-officers have no immunity when violating Constitutional rights, from liability. Title 42 US Code Sec. 1983, Sec. 1985, and Sec. 1986 say the plaintiff can sue anyone who violates the Constitutional provisions. Case Byars V United States 273 US Supreme Court rulings 28- Encroachment. Miranda V Arizona 384 US 436-says no rule or law by legislation which would abrogate or abolish any Constitutional right provisions- {All delegated power’s} {Under the 10th Amendment of the United States Of America} {Attach all writ of assist- coupon- bill of attainder-direct Tax} {violating Article 1 Sections 9, and 10 US Constitution} {Title 18, U.S. Code Sec. 2381- if they fail to protect Constitution, they are subject to the charge count 1- felony treason} {Case law Murdock V. Penn. 319 U.S. 105: (1943)-state may not impose a charge for enjoyment of a right by the beneficiary of contract. {Count 2 title 18 US code sect 241,242: if upon conviction the violator is subject to a $10,000 fine, ten years in jail, or both and if theft result, life in prison} Cops have no rights when they are in the police compacity. government institution in their compacity has no rights /// corporations have no rights either, why a corporation is a llc and operating under the color of law. That’s the letter of the law my friends/ so read the supreme law of our lands the states in harmony, that all are bound to, and if not bound then then they are a deep state operatives and police state and operating under the color of law and they have no authority according to real law.

#youtube

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advocatepmmodi · 2 years ago

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antoine-roquentin · 3 years ago

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The #MeToo movement writ large often suffered from the same blind spots. Its selective focus on the potential for cathartic storytelling to take down individual abusers crowded out the possibility of building workers’ power to fight for structural change. Enlisting the top brass of the entertainment and politics industries reflects an assumption that workplace harassment is primarily a cultural issue that’s ideally combated through the endless raising of awareness in the hopes of shifting public attitudes. These tactics ignore the extent to which workplace sexual abuses are, first and foremost, a class issue.

The overwhelming majority of people who experience sexual harassment at work are, in fact, low-wage workers in precarious jobs, and much more likely to be working in fields like food service or home-based health care than in the aspirational professional fields where the high-profile downfall of a high-flying man might earn blockbuster media coverage. For the largely poor women who report harassment on the job, abuse is endemic for material reasons. For example, tipped workers put up with inappropriate advances from both customers and supervisors because pushing back could cost them both tips and good sections and hours, domestic workers have little recourse against harassment when working alone in their bosses’ private homes, and barely any of the millions of workers making near-minimum wage have enough of a financial cushion to risk rocking the boat.

While several members of Time’s Up did chip in to a legal defense fund that bankrolled lawsuits on behalf of working-class women, including McDonald’s workers, winning damages in civil court is hardly a scalable replacement for a world in which women have more control over their lives and working conditions. They don’t need saviors, they need unions. Merely “shifting conversations” about workplace abuse—as #MeToo often did—without bolstering workplace protections appears to have contributed to an increase of retaliatory firings in low-wage industries.

Ultimately, minimizing workplace abuse requires the willingness to wage class war: Low-wage workers need more power, resources, and social programs that support their basic needs, and that requires genuine downward redistribution of all sorts of capital. You can’t end sexual exploitation at the workplace on a wave of elite feelings, nor can you celebrity-endorse your way to justice. Genuine safety and autonomy of those at the bottom must come at the expense of the top. Time’s Up, indeed.

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faimrpg · 3 years ago

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Maccius arrives as it always does: with very little flair. Spring has fully settled now, and across Val Faim, trees blossom with pink and white flowers, nearly every merchant sets out grand bouquets in front of their displays to draw possible patrons in, and sailors return home from long excursions at sea to the arms of their loved ones—it is at this time of year that the Celestinian ocean is most peaceful. When Summer arrives, it will be so soft and lulling that the only way to move product to trade is by means of magic, and when winter comes, the waves will tower so tall any man who thinks to sail them will be dubbed out of his mind.

TRIGGER WARNING: Death, explosions, implied violence

Now, however, peace reigns. People settle back into their usual daily routines, and while the death of Hippolyte had been tragic, most are content to forget the event entirely. His blood was cleaned from the marble of the Summer Palace that same night—why should they carry his bones with them? It doesn’t take so much as a week before Hippolyte’s duty is replaced by someone else, who will tend the docks and its workers and ensure Val Faim gets what it needs. GHISLAIN in particular has taken much interest in this replacement, hoping to wring out of this execution whatever dor it will provide. A job on the top of the Azure Quarter, overseeing not only trade but also every writ of passage through the capital, is an incommensurate advantage. Maybe it’s crude to make a move so soon after a man’s demise, but Calandre’s word is holy: he was a traitor, and he got his due. Besides, the hunger for power consumes all else. Ghislain’s efforts come to the dismay of RÉGIS, who’d been hoping to wrangle a similar deal for themself, and become the new helmsman of the docks on behalf of Alain Gauthier.

Not all are content to return to the way things were—in fact, some find the idea abhorrent, and Alain has taken to tracking down those who speak with dissent about Calandre to a new level entirely. He has enlisted GISELE to pick out newfound dissidents, with a particular emphasis on ETIENNE. “Having someone as skilled as Etienne”, Alain explains, “certainly wouldn’t harm us, especially if they were already in our pocket.” As soon as Gisele is sent away with their goal, he calls for BEAU and explains in no uncertain words what he needs them to do, with a little bump in their pay to incentivize it.

Talk in the Underworld says that Hippolyte had some sort of allegiance to Widrowem, and that his plan was not to kill Calandre, but to warn her about Alain in order to earn Widrowem a foothold in Celestine’s court. Gauthier doesn't know how far back this scheme goes, or whether it has something to do with Widrowem’s insistence for Calandre to receive their ambassadors and listen to their offer.

Alain, as is ingrained in his nature, fears the worst. The Widrowish envoy has long whispered of the need to unite their two kingdoms in marriage, and Calandre sharply rebuked each of these attempts. It could very well be that Widrowem tired of waiting, and found another way to ingratiate themselves upon the throne. If BEAU could dig through Hippolyte’s abandoned townhouse in Hightown, there’s a chance they might find something of worth linking him back to the foreign southern kingdom. “Anything works,” Alain says, pressing a small purse of dor into Beau’s hands. “Journals, letters, ledgers, books—whatever you can find, take it. And one more thing: find PATRICE, ask for their help. They might be a noble scorned, but they’re noble regardless, and if you need to take your time looking, having someone from a high-standing house with you might save your neck. Tell them I sent you.” Whether BEAU needs to split their new wealth with PATRICE goes unsaid, because Alain is gone before anyone can think to ask him.

Across the city, LIANE listens intently as Calandre explains her next task for her esteemed spymaster, with CELESTE close behind: she, too, wants them to go rooting around in Hippolyte’s grand old house. Not to find any links to Widrowem, but to find what they can on Alain Gauthier, who the Empress thinks was pulling the strings behind Hippolyte’s poorly coordinated assassination attempt and untimely demise. She might have given the signal for the axe, but it was Gauthier who hung it overhead.

Standing on the balcony overlooking the gardens, with the air cool, the weather fair, and Calandre’s tone mild, it is difficult to recall that a month ago she had stood here and watched one of her detractor’s bodies burn on the Pyre.

It is the virtue of the Summer Palace’s unique positioning that gives all three of them a perfect view when a flash of light and fury shakes Val Faim. The very ground rumbles. In a heartbeat, bursts of flame and thick grey smoke rise up into the air, somewhere close to the Prophet’s Tomb—the Tomb is thankfully unharmed, alongside Odeline’s tall-towering figure. The city immediately drops into complete stillness. They are left to do nothing but watch as the smoke grows and grows and grows, and while the shaking hadn’t lasted longer than a few seconds, it seems to reverberate through their bodies, like the very foundation of the Palace had been shaken and reaped them along with it. Before the rubble even settles, Calandre is swept away by HECTOR and VICTOIRE, each of them hemming the Empress like wings of iron and steel. In their ruler’s wake, CELESTE and LIANE are left to simply stare at the coiling plumes on the horizon and tremble. They watch the ruins with their arms interlocked, as the smog carries over a bitter taste of omens and defeat. Even in this state, the two spies are already planning their next move. It is the life they’ve chosen.

SAINTE and AGRIPPINE bear the brunt of the shock. They are nearly taken off their feet when the explosion occurs, as they were just on the outskirts of the tomb. They help one another to their feet and rush to investigate. The city guards who join the scene are met with a perturbing sight. Rubble lies everywhere, windows of neighboring buildings blown out, and in the epicentre of the destruction stands a mage, shaken and trembling, arms wrapped around herself and desperately attempting to cover the body of her friend, both their faces streaked with soot.

“He didn’t mean to do it,” the mage cries, unwilling to let go of her compatriot as she is pulled away, even as his body goes limp among the stones. “Henri didn’t mean for any of this to happen!” The street is soon blocked off entirely, and stunned passersby are urged to visit the Tomb or the Lion’s Mane for a drink to soothe their spirits, much to the chagrin of DEGARÉ, who has more clientele on their hands than anyone could be reasonably prepared for in such a short window of time. Yet the deluge of customers entails lesser known advantages for the club’s proprietor—especially in times of despair, when purse strings are loose and tongues even looser.

MICHEL and CECILE are commanded to take point on the clean-up of the building. Michel is tasked with coordinating the guardsmen clearing away rubble. Cecile’s role is to smooth over the ruffled feathers of angered noblemen and politicians who come calling to ask why the pesky issue of a desolated building and a dead man in its grip have yet to be resolved by the Empress. It’s tricky work, with even trickier tempers to handle, but they see it done, and within three days of the incident, it is like it never happened. Where the building sat before, now there are only ruins, a barren foundation to be covered up and built upon again by someone with grander designs.

SIDONIE is called upon immediately by Calandre, once the Empress is informed of what happened, along with HELENE. They are to interrogate the surviving mage, and find out what was their purpose in the heart of her empire—and what they hoped to gain from splitting it open. Was the dead mage a madman, or a fool? Were they foreign assassins, an honorless path already trodden by so many of her enemies? Were they zealots of a hidden coven, whose aims to control magic got the better of them? On these questions their fate, and that of so many others, rests unevenly. When the two go to meet her, the woman, named Amelie, is shaken into stupor, entirely unwilling to speak. Not even Calandre’s favored advisors can get anything out of her. Calandre listens intently when she is informed of the matter, and dismisses the two with a simple wave of her hand. “If she won’t tell us directly, there will have to be another way to find out what happened.” It is as much an admonishment as it is an admittance of a dead end.

She does not tell them she has other resources to call upon, and call upon them she does. They come to Val Faim in the shape of ROTH, ADRASTE, and MEDRAUT: two Chevaliers, and one Chevalier-in-training, recalled back from the border of Widrowem to investigate the truth of what happened with the explosion, and whether Alain Gauthier had anything to do with it. MATTHIEU is sent to greet them, as the present superior of the knight order—yet he is quickly rebuffed by his own compatriots, who are apparently more loyal to each other than to their Empress.

The wound of the incident heals relatively quickly, as unspoken horrors do. The death of the man who was supposedly to blame is quick to soothe any worried souls, and Amelie, once she has come to her senses and understood the risk she was in, confirms it to SIDONIE when the other mage visits her in her cell. When she speaks, the girl’s eyes are wild: “Not all is what it seems. My friend only wanted to stop something awful before it began, and it cost him his life.”

That very same night, a faceless assassin attempts to kill SAVATIER in the deepest recesses of the library—only for ISEULT to spear them down from behind a shadowed pillar before they have a chance to draw blood. By morning, Amelie has mysteriously disappeared. Investigations into her vanishing bear no fruit, save for a farewell letter the mage left for her family, now fallen into the hands of VIOLAINE. Amelie was from a noble house: if VIOLAINE wanted to, they could reach out on her behalf and deliver the letter, or they could keep it for later blackmail.

In the midst of all this chaos, Calandre finds herself desperate for a distraction, and can see that her court may very well feel the same. She writes to one of Celestine’s most famed artists, and by the end of the week, SYLVIANE has returned from their expedition into the Obsidienne, alongside their bodyguard, VASKA. Calandre orders them to enliven the palace grounds and paints a series of murals depicting her reigns’ latest achievements—as well as a new portrait to replace the one she had commissioned when she first seized the throne. It is a clever reminder that sometimes a gilded foil hides real triumph beneath. Yet SYLVIANE & VASKA have not come empty-handed, nor are they tongue-tied before Calandre’s command. They are determined to inform the Empress about the concerning sights they’ve witnessed in the Obsidienne. Yet all these attempts are brushed away, first as baubles of passing interest, then as outright fantasies spurned by the solitude of the scorched desert. The shapes of dead bodies awakened to walk, or rifts in the very fabric of the air that shimmer and wrinkle like human skin, and lead to nowhere should a soul step through, are torn from a different cloth than Calandre’s designs for her progressive reign. These old wives tales might be of interest to others: courtiers and commoners alike, such as SIDONIE, SAINTE & AGRIPPINE flock to listen to the painter’s tales. All Calandre does when she is remembered of these discoveries is flatten her mouth into a tight, disapproving line. Some overlook how the Empress’s moods are darkening by the hour.

Not everyone can turn a blind eye to her displeasure, especially those closest to her retinue. CYRIL is witness to Calandre’s frayed nerves firsthand, when ZHENYA pressures the Empress that the North will need more incentive if they are to maintain their trade deal with Val Faim. They are quickly dismissed from her side, and they run into the imperial tailor on the fringe of the hallways. Neither of them can help but eavesdrop on the sobbing fit Calandre falls prey to when she thinks she is alone for the first time. Something is breaking, but neither of them know what, and the decision about whom to ask for help lands in muddied waters. MELODIE, her closest confidante, seems the most obvious choice to be called at her side for comfort, but will Calandre thank them, or resent them for having her weakness noticed and exposed?

In Emperor Tristan’s days, talk spread as fast as a wildfire bracketed by dry grass. While Calandre’s reign has seen some of that blood-hungering cease, the sharks remain desperate for whatever falls into the water, and that hunger has not vanished entirely. It does not take long for many others to discover that Calandre might not be faring as well as she presents herself, in spite of the grand dinners and parties she has hosted in the Summer Palace to try and distract herself.

ROSALIND is one of the first outside of ZHENYA and CYRIL to find out, a not-so-well-kept secret falling right into the palms of their hands. The information goes from them to Alain—who is pleased to be informed. In an effort to secure their loyalty, he gives ROSALIND a task. “See if you engage YVON in a little tête-à-tête, and find out where their true loyalties lie. Lure them on our side, but only promise them enough to prove a guiding light. They are still young and mercurial enough that they must believe the choice is their own. Do this, and I’ll see if I can coordinate a certain royal jeweler’s fall from grace by the time Aude is through.” He leaves them there in the bustling Silver Quarter to make the choice on how to proceed on their own.

Secrets are unearthed, vows and oaths amassed—old debts are summoned up like the souls of the dead, and new scores are forged from thin air. For a while, it seems that Val Faim is pitching to a critical point, a colossus capsizing on its own weight. The threads roped around its people tangle and thrum. And then the skein seems to unsnarl. It lies very still, too much distance between its knots to ever properly destabilize it. The tapestry of faith and power has weathered more tempestuous times than this. The wind smooths over the dust, the storm slackens, and even the spring becomes spring once more. It’s on this day that the tides turn for good.

A Widrowem ship is spotted on the quiet sea, its sails as white as bones. Two ambassadors, themselves of noble lineage in those intricate Widrowish ways, where Gods are ancestors and night is day, step on the shore. CASSIAN and ROWAN have been sent to Val Faim on a mission that feels almost sacred. Yet their Thane’s anger, the chosen ruler of their realm, has nothing holy in it. Their homeland was promised a treaty and a throne years ago. So far, not a single audience has been granted, and this strange Empress balks at marriage as if it were carnage. To add the salt of insult to an open injury, their most trusted man in court was murdered without the right to trial. Hippolyte was gutted for spectacle, a debacle that echoed the barbarians of centuries ago.

It’s Widrowem’s duty to put an end to tyrants. And that is what they came to do.

On that bone-sailed, hollowed-out ship rides another: KARINE, Alain Gauthier's closest compatriot in bloodshed. They, too, have been summoned from Widrowem with a similar purpose. With a hungry smile that cuts their jaw wider, they shake hands with Gauthier on the dock as he pulls them aside. They have business, and if there is anything KARINE thrives at, it is anything to do with death. Imagine their surprise, then, when they are tasked with a more simple duty. Not to kill, but to hunt. Amelie remains unfound, in a city packed to the brim with people, and no one trusts Alain enough yet in the Underworld to give him information of any worth. So he sets his favored assassin on the trail, and tells them not to return until they have what he needs in their grasp.

The stage is set, the spotlight positioned perfectly, the doors to the theater wide open to allow a spring breeze to flow through. Underneath that sweet scent is an undeniable trace of rot. With Widrowem Ambassadors on the scene, their expectations low and ambitions high, and warnings and whispers working their way through the Court—the show has truly begun. Hippolyte's death at Calandre’s command was a mere prelude. What happens now may very well change the fate of all those in Val Faim, forever.

Welcome to our second event! We realize this one is even lengthier than the first, so below, you’ll find a simplified summary and a timestamp breaking down important dates for the month. Like the first event, feel free to thread out flashbacks, continue your threads from the Anniversary timestamp at your leisure, and explore what your character might be up to throughout the month outside of where they’re mentioned in the event. It’s definitely a busy one!

SUMMARY: It’s Maccius, and springtime has officially arrived in Val Faim. What would be a relatively peaceful start to the season otherwise kicks off with catastrophe when a building explodes extremely close to the Prophet’s Tomb. Only one person dies, a man named Henri, who’d apparently been the cause of the explosion, but the details are murky. The only other individual who could provide any information explaining what happened, Amelie, is brought in to be spoken with but gives up nothing before eventually disappearing into thin air. All the while, Alain Gauthier is scheming in the background, trying to take advantage of both Hippolyte’s execution and the chaos caused by the explosion to get a step ahead.

He calls for one of his allies, KARINE, and asks them to help put the pieces together. Alongside KARINE come two Ambassadors from the not-so-far-away Widrowem, ROWAN and CASSIAN are here to negotiate a marriage contract between Widrowem’s Thane and Calandre… or to see if war might be the next best option, as Calandre’s stubbornness over the years has not improved. Calandre, wanting to lighten the mood in the Summer Palace and distract both herself and courtiers from these gloomy events, summons SYLVIANE to come to Val Faim and paint a beautiful new mural as a tribute to Celestine’s strength. With SYLVIANE is their bodyguard, VASKA. Less famous are the three Chevaliers Calandre brings back from the border of Widrowem to investigate the explosion and members of her court. ROTH, ADRASTE, and MEDRAUT might all be a little on the prickly side, but they’re here to see the rough work done. There is a general air of tension to the city. It feels like most people are waiting for the other shoe to drop.

TIMESTAMPS:

The Second of Maccius: The explosion occurs. Henri is dead, and Amelie is brought in to help figure out what happened.

The Sixth of Maccius: The rubble from the explosion is officially cleared away. Sylviane and Vaska arrive to paint Calandre’s mural.

The Twelfth of Maccius: Roth, Adraste, and Medraut make it to Val Faim and are set to the task of figuring out why Henri set the explosion off, how he did it, and where Amelie went. Calandre has given them full reign of the city and those they speak to for details.

The Nineteenth of Maccius: Karine, Cassian, and Rowan arrive in Val Faim. Karine is here on business for Alain Gauthier, but Cassian and Rowan’s goals are much more political.

If you have any questions pertaining to the event, please drop them in the Discord channel! If you need any help plotting, or getting things started, please reach out and we’ll see what I can do to help. The new characters (Roth, Adraste, Medraut, Karine, Cassian, Rowan, Sylviane, and Vaska) are all open for applications. Their skeletons will be posted throughout the day. Thank you again, to all of you, and happy one month of being open!

#faimevent

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amlawfrimseo · 3 months ago

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phroyd · 4 years ago

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Oh My, what terrible timing, and what a great loss! Rest In Peace Justice Ginsburg, thank you for all you have done for our country! - Phroyd

Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg, the demure firebrand who in her 80s became a legal, cultural and feminist icon, died Friday. The Supreme Court announced her death, saying the cause was complications from metastatic cancer of the pancreas.

The court, in a statement, said Ginsburg died at her home in Washington surrounded by family. She was 87.

"Our nation has lost a justice of historic stature," Chief Justice John Roberts said. "We at the Supreme Court have lost a cherished colleague. Today we mourn but with confidence that future generations will remember Ruth Bader Ginsburg as we knew her, a tired and resolute champion of justice."

Architect of the legal fight for women's rights in the 1970s, Ginsburg subsequently served 27 years on the nation's highest court, becoming its most prominent member. Her death will inevitably set in motion what promises to be a nasty and tumultuous political battle over who will succeed her, and it thrusts the Supreme Court vacancy into the spotlight of the presidential campaign.

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Just days before her death, as her strength waned, Ginsburg dictated this statement to her granddaughter Clara Spera: "My most fervent wish is that I will not be replaced until a new president is installed."

She knew what was to come. Ginsburg's death will have profound consequences for the court and the country. Inside the court, not only is the leader of the liberal wing gone, but with the Court about to open a new term, Chief Justice John Roberts no longer holds the controlling vote in closely contested cases.

Though he has a consistently conservative record in most cases, he has split from fellow conservatives in a few important ones, this year casting his vote with liberals, for instance, to at least temporarily protect the so-called Dreamers from deportation by the Trump administration, to uphold a major abortion precedent, and to uphold bans on large church gatherings during the coronavirus pandemic. But with Ginsburg gone, there is no clear court majority for those outcomes.

Indeed, a week after the upcoming presidential election, the court is for the third time scheduled to hear a challenge brought by Republicans to the Affordable Care Act, known as Obamacare. In 2012 the high court upheld the law by a 5-to-4 vote, with Chief Justice Roberts casting the deciding vote and writing the opinion for the majority. But this time the outcome may well be different.

That's because Ginsburg's death gives Republicans the chance to tighten their grip on the court with another Trump appointment that would give conservatives a 6-to-3 majority. And that would mean that even a defection on the right would leave conservatives with enough votes to prevail in the Obamacare case and many others.

At the center of the battle to achieve that will be Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell. In 2016 he took a step unprecedented in modern times: He refused for nearly a year to allow any consideration of President Obama's supreme court nominee.

Back then, McConnell's justification was the upcoming presidential election, which he said would allow voters a chance to weigh in on what kind of justice they wanted. But now, with the tables turned, McConnell has made clear he will not follow the same course. Instead he will try immediately push through a Trump nominee so as to ensure a conservative justice to fill Ginsburg's liberal shoes, even if President Trump were to lose his re-election bid. Asked what he would do in circumstances like these, McConnell said: "Oh, we'd fill it."

So what happens in the coming weeks will be bare-knuckle politics, writ large, on the stage of a presidential election. It will be a fight Ginsburg had hoped to avoid, telling Justice Stevens shortly before his death that she hoped to serve as long as he did--until age 90.

"My dream is that I will stay on the court as long as he did," she said in an interview in 2019.

She didn't quite make it. But Ruth Bader Ginsburg was nonetheless an historic figure. She changed the way the world is for American women. For more than a decade, until her first judicial appointment in 1980, she led the fight in the courts for gender equality. When she began her legal crusade, women were treated, by law, differently from men. Hundreds of state and federal laws restricted what women could do, barring them from jobs, rights and even from jury service. By the time she donned judicial robes, however, Ginsburg had worked a revolution.

That was never more evident than in 1996 when, as a relatively new Supreme Court justice, Ginsburg wrote the court's 7-to-1 opinion declaring that the Virginia Military Institute could no longer remain an all-male institution. True, said Ginsburg, most women — indeed most men — would not want to meet the rigorous demands of VMI. But the state, she said, could not exclude women who could meet those demands.

"Reliance on overbroad generalizations ... estimates about the way most men or most women are, will not suffice to deny opportunity to women whose talent and capacity place them outside the average description," Ginsburg wrote.

She was an unlikely pioneer, a diminutive and shy woman, whose soft voice and large glasses hid an intellect and attitude that, as one colleague put it, was "tough as nails."

By the time she was in her 80s, she had become something of a rock star to women of all ages. She was the subject of a hit documentary, a biopic, an operetta, merchandise galore featuring her "Notorious RBG" moniker, a Time magazine cover, and regular Saturday Night Live sketches.

On one occasion in 2016, Ginsburg got herself into trouble and later publicly apologized for disparaging remarks she made about then-presidential candidate Donald Trump.

But for the most part Ginsburg enjoyed her fame and maintained a sense of humor about herself.

Asked about the fact that she had apparently fallen asleep during the 2015 State of the Union address, Ginsburg did not take the Fifth, admitting that although she had vowed not to drink at dinner with the other justices before the speech, the wine had just been too good to resist. The result, she said, was that she was perhaps not an entirely "sober judge" and kept nodding off.

Born in Brooklyn, N.Y., Ruth Bader went to public schools, where she excelled as a student — and as a baton twirler. By all accounts, it was her mother who was the driving force in her young life, but Celia Bader died of cancer the day before the future Justice would graduate from high school.

Then 17, Ruth Bader went on to Cornell on full scholarship, where she met Martin (aka "Marty") Ginsburg. "What made Marty so overwhelmingly attractive to me was that he cared that I had a brain," she said.

After her graduation, they were married and went off to Fort Sill, Okla., for his military service. There Mrs. Ginsburg, despite scoring high on the civil service exam, could only get a job as a typist, and when she became pregnant, she lost even that job.

Two years later, the couple returned to the East Coast to attend Harvard Law School. She was one of only nine women in a class of over 500 and found the dean asking her why she was taking up a place that "should go to a man."

At Harvard, she was the academic star, not Marty. The couple was busy juggling schedules, and their toddler when Marty was diagnosed with testicular cancer. Surgeries and aggressive radiation followed.

"So that left Ruth with a 3-year-old child, a fairly sick husband, the law review, classes to attend and feeding me," said Marty Ginsburg in a 1993 interview with NPR.

The experience also taught the future justice that sleep was a luxury. During the year of Marty's illness, he was only able to eat late at night; after that he would dictate his senior class paper to Ruth. At about 2 a.m., he would go back to sleep, Ginsburg recalled in an NPR interview. "Then I'd take out the books and start reading what I needed to be prepared for classes the next day."

Marty Ginsburg survived, graduated, and got a job in New York; his wife, a year behind him in school, transferred to Columbia, where she graduated at the top of her law school class. Despite her academic achievements, the doors to law firms were closed to women, and though recommended for a Supreme Court clerkship, she wasn't even interviewed.

It was bad enough that she was a woman, she recalled later, but she was also a mother, and male judges worried that she would be diverted by her "familial obligations."

Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg is pictured in the justice's chambers in Washington, D.C., during an interview with NPR's Nina Totenberg in September 2016.

A mentor, law professor Gerald Gunther, finally got her a clerkship in New York by promising Judge Edmund Palmieri that if she couldn't do the work, he would provide someone who could. That was "the carrot," Ginsburg would say later. "The stick" was that Gunther, who regularly fed his best students to Palmieri, told the judge that if he didn't take Ginsburg, Gunther would never send him a clerk again. The Ginsburg clerkship apparently was a success; Palmieri kept her not for the usual one year, but two, from 1959-61.

Ginsburg's next path is rarely talked about, mainly because it doesn't fit the narrative. She learned Swedish so she could work with Anders Berzelius, a Swedish civil procedure scholar. Through the Columbia Law School Project on International Procedure, Ginsburg and Berzelius co-authored a book.

In 1963, Ginsburg finally landed a teaching job at Rutgers law school, where she at one point hid her second pregnancy by wearing her mother-in-law's clothes. The ruse worked; her contract was renewed before her new baby was born.

While at Rutgers, she began her work fighting gender discrimination.

The 'Mother Brief'

Her first big case was a challenge to a law that barred a Colorado man named Charles Moritz from taking a tax deduction for the care of his 89-year-old mother. The IRS said the deduction, by statute, could only be claimed by women, or widowed or divorced men. But Moritz had never married.

The tax court concluded that the internal revenue code was immune to constitutional challenge, a notion that tax lawyer Marty Ginsburg viewed as "preposterous." The two Ginsburgs took on the case, he from the tax perspective, she from the constitutional perspective.

According to Marty Ginsburg, for his wife, this was the "mother brief." She had to think through all the issues and how to fix the inequity. The solution was to ask the court not to invalidate the statute but to apply it equally to both sexes. She won in the lower courts.

"Amazingly," he recalled in a 1993 NPR interview, the government petitioned the United States Supreme Court, stating that the decision "cast a cloud of unconstitutionality" over literally hundreds of federal statutes, and it attached a list of those statutes, which it compiled with Defense Department computers.

Those laws, Marty Ginsburg added, "were the statutes that my wife then litigated ... to overturn over the next decade."

In 1971, she would write her first Supreme Court brief in the case of Reed v. Reed. Ginsburg represented Sally Reed, who thought she should be the executor of her son's estate instead of her ex-husband.

The constitutional issue was whether a state could automatically prefer men over women as executors of estates. The answer from the all-male supreme court: no.

It was the first time the court had ever struck down a state law because it discriminated based on gender.

And that was just the beginning.

By then Ginsburg was earning quite a reputation. She would become the first female tenured professor at Columbia Law School, and she would found the Women's Rights Project at the ACLU.

As the chief architect of the battle for women's legal rights, Ginsburg devised a strategy that was characteristically cautious, precise and single-mindedly aimed at one goal: winning.

Knowing that she had to persuade male, establishment-oriented judges, she often picked male plaintiffs, and she liked Social Security cases because they illustrated how discrimination against women can harm men. For example, in Weinberger v. Wiesenfeld, she represented a man whose wife, the principal breadwinner, died in childbirth. The husband sought survivor's benefits to care for his child, but under the then-existing Social Security law, only widows, not widowers, were entitled to such benefits.

"This absolute exclusion, based on gender per se, operates to the disadvantage of female workers, their surviving spouses, and their children," Ginsburg told the justices at oral argument. The Supreme Court would ultimately agree, as it did in five of the six cases she argued.

Over the ensuing years, Ginsburg would file dozens of briefs seeking to persuade the courts that the 14th Amendment guarantee of equal protection applies not just to racial and ethnic minorities, but to women as well.

In an interview with NPR, she explained the legal theory that she eventually sold to the Supreme Court.

"The words of the 14th Amendment's equal protection clause — 'nor shall any state deny to any person the equal protection of the laws.' Well that word, 'any person,' covers women as well as men. And the Supreme Court woke up to that reality in 1971," Ginsburg said.

During these pioneering years, Ginsburg would often work through the night as she had during law school. But by this time, she had two children, and she later liked to tell a story about the lesson she learned when her son, in grade school, seemed to have a proclivity for getting into trouble.

The scrapes were hardly major, and Ginsburg grew exasperated by demands from school administrators that she come in to discuss her son's alleged misbehavior. Finally, there came a day when she had had enough. "I had stayed up all night the night before, and I said to the principal, 'This child has two parents. Please alternate calls.'"

After that, she found, the calls were few and far between. It seemed, she said, that most infractions were not worth calling a busy husband about.

The Supreme Court's Second Woman

In 1980 then-President Jimmy Carter named Ginsburg to the U.S. Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia. Over the next 13 years, she would amass a record as something of a centrist liberal, and in 1993 then-President Bill Clinton nominated her to the Supreme Court, the second woman appointed to the position.

She was not first on his list. For months Clinton flirted with other potential nominees, and some women's rights activists withheld their active support because they were worried about Ginsburg's views on abortion. She had been publicly critical of the legal reasoning in Roe v. Wade.

But in the background, Marty Ginsburg was lobbying hard for his wife. And finally Ruth Ginsburg was invited for a meeting with the president. As one White House official put it afterward, Clinton "fell for her--hook, line and sinker." So did the Senate. She was confirmed by a vote of 96 to 3.

Once on the court, Ginsburg was an example of a woman who defied stereotypes. Though she looked tiny and frail, she rode horses well into her 70s and even went parasailing. At home, it was her husband who was the chef, indeed a master chef, while the justice cheerfully acknowledged that she was an awful cook.

Though a liberal, she and the court's conservative icon, Antonin Scalia, now deceased, were the closest of friends. Indeed, an opera called Scalia/Ginsburg is based on their legal disagreements, and their affection for each other.

Over the years, as Ginsburg's place on the court grew in seniority, so did her role. In 2006, as the court veered right after the retirement of Justice Sandra Day O'Connor, Ginsburg dissented more often and more assertively, her most passionate dissents coming in women's rights cases.

Dissenting in Ledbetter v. Goodyear in 2007, she called on Congress to pass legislation that would override a court decision that drastically limited back-pay available for victims of employment discrimination. The resulting legislation was the first bill passed in 2009 after President Barack Obama took office.

In 2014, she dissented fiercely from the court's decision in Burwell v. Hobby Lobby, a decision that allowed some for-profit companies to refuse, on religious grounds, to comply with a federal mandate to cover birth control in health care plans. Such an exemption, she said, would "deny legions of women who do not hold their employers' beliefs, access to contraceptive coverage."

Where, she asked, "is the stopping point?" Suppose it offends an employer's religious belief "to pay the minimum wage" or "to accord women equal pay?"

And in 2013, when the court struck down a key provision of the Voting Rights Act, contending that times had changed and the law was no longer needed, Ginsburg dissented. She said that throwing out the provision "when it has worked and is continuing to work ... is like throwing away your umbrella in a rainstorm because you are not getting wet."

She viewed her dissents as a chance to persuade a future court.

"Some of my favorite opinions are dissenting opinions," Ginsburg told NPR. "I will not live to see what becomes of them, but I remain hopeful."

And yet, Ginsburg still managed some unexpected victories by winning over one or two of the conservative justices in important cases. In 2015, for example, she authored the court's decision upholding independent redistricting commissions established by voter referenda as a way of removing some of the partisanship in drawing legislative district lines.

Ginsburg always kept a backbreaking schedule of public appearances both at home and abroad, even after five bouts with cancer: colon cancer in 1999, pancreatic cancer 10 years later, lung cancer in 2018, and then pancreatic cancer again in 2019 and liver lesions in 2020. During that time, she endured chemotherapy, radiation, and in the last years of her life, terrible pain from shingles that never went away completely. All who knew her admired her grit. In 2009, three weeks after major cancer surgery, she surprised everyone when she showed up for the State of the Union address.

Shortly after that, she was back on the bench; it was her husband Marty who told her she could do it, even when she thought she could not, she told NPR.

A year later her psychological toughness was on full display when her beloved husband of 56 years was mortally ill. As she packed up his things at the hospital before taking him home to die, she found a note he had written to her. "My Dearest Ruth," it began, "You are the only person I have ever loved," setting aside children and family. "I have admired and loved you almost since the day we first met at Cornell....The time has come for me to ... take leave of life because the loss of quality simply overwhelms. I hope you will support where I come out, but I understand you may not. I will not love you a jot less."

Shortly after that, Marty Ginsburg died at home. The next day, his wife, the justice, was on the bench, reading an important opinion she had authored for the court. She was there, she said, because "Marty would have wanted it."

Years later, she would read the letter aloud in an NPR interview, and at the end, choke down the tears.

In the years after Marty's death, she would persevere without him, maintaining a jam-packed schedule when she was not on the bench or working on opinions.

Some liberals criticized her for not retiring while Obama was president, but she was at the top of her game, enjoyed her work enormously, and feared that Republicans might not confirm a successor. She was an avid consumer of opera, literature, and modern art. But in the end, it was her work, she said, that sustained her.

"I do think that I was born under a very bright star," she said in an NPR interview. "Because if you think about my life, I get out of law school. I have top grades. No law firm in the city of New York will hire me. I end up teaching; it gave me time to devote to the movement for evening out the rights of women and men. "

And it was that legal crusade for women's rights that ultimately led to her appointment to the U.S. Supreme Court.

To the end of her tenure, she remained a special kind of feminist, both decorous and dogged.

Phroyd

#scotus #ruth bader ginsburg #rip

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seemabhatnagar · 2 months ago

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"Punjab & Haryana High Court Upholds Adult Daughter's Autonomy in Habeas Corpus Case"

The daughter’s autonomy, as a legally capable adult, is paramount, and her freedom to make her own life decisions could not be curtailed based on the social or familial concerns of others. The #HighCourt of #PunjabandHaryana dismissed the #HabeasCorpusPetition of the Petitioner-Father as there was no illegal detention of the Petitioner’s daughter.

Background

The detenue left her marital home due to ongoing #domesticviolence and harassment inflicted by her #husband and his family.

The #constantabuse and lack of safety in her marital home made it impossible for her to continue living there.

The father of the detenue filed a Writ of Habeas Corpus before the Court for the release of her daughter from the Custody of the Respondent.

The detenue, a 30-year-old woman, was adamant about not going back to her father’s place or anywhere else due to a history of physical and emotional abuse.

She stated in her recorded statement that her #father and #brothers had been #pressuring her to #return to her #abusivehusband, from whom she had already separated.

Moreover, she faced continuous harassment and physical violence from her brothers, making her feel unsafe at her father's home.

In her statement, she further stated that she left her father's house out of her own will due to the harassment and was now #independentlyearning her livelihood by working as a cook.

She made it clear that she was content living on her own and did not want to return to either her father’s or her husband’s home, highlighting her desire to maintain her freedom and escape the cycle of abuse and control.

Legal Issue

Whether the petitioner’s daughter was being illegally detained and whether the Court should order her to return to her father's custody.

Contention of the parties

Petitioner's (father) contention-

The father argued that his daughter had been manipulated by Respondent No. 6 and should return to his custody. He claimed that she was under undue influence and that her separation from her family, including her two minor children, was causing harm.

Respondents (including the daughter): The daughter categorically stated that she had left her family voluntarily due to physical abuse from her husband and coercion by her father and brothers. She expressed her desire to live independently and not return to her father's or her husband's home.

Court's Observation

The Court noted that the daughter had made a clear and voluntary statement before the Judicial Magistrate, confirming that she had left her family of her own free will.

The Writ of habeas corpus is intended to protect personal liberty, and the focus is on whether there has been illegal detention.

The social concerns or familial disagreements could not override the fundamental right of an adult woman to live independently if she chooses to do so.

#HabeasCorpus #PersonalLiberty #AdultAutonomy #IllegalDetention #ParentalRights #FamilyDisputes #PunjabandHaryana High Court #JudicialIndependence #RespondentsRights #VoluntarySeparation.

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sgt-paul · 5 years ago

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On Thursday, 18 February 1971, Paul filed a writ in the Chancery Division of the High Court calling for the dissolution of the Beatles partnership and asking for accounts to be made of the partnership's dealings and a receiver to be appointed to oversee the partners' assets. The case was actively opposed by the other three Beatles, who wanted things to remain as they were with Klein in control. Paul and Linda attended every day of the proceedings. John Eastman told Paul he had to wear a suit and tie. Paul wore his Tommy Nutter suit, the one he wore on the cover of Abbey Road, but refused to wear a tie. Paul told him, 'That's too humiliating. I'm dressing up so they'll think I'm innocent. There's no way I'm doing that.' Paul had a full navy beard, like the sailor on the Players Navy Cut cigarette packet, and wore a white open-neck shirt. None of the other Beatles made an appearance.

PAUL: I walked down to the Law Courts and sat on the second pew from the front, facing the judge. I turned round to look and right behind me was my counsel, David Hirst, QC, with his little glass of water, and then a couple of rows behind him, in a brown turtleneck sweater, was Allen Klein. I just looked at him, then turned away.

His barrister David Hirst put on a brilliant show. He told Mr Justice Stamp: Mr Klein cannot be trusted with the stewardship of the partnership, properly and assets... Mr Klein has paid himself commission to which he is not entitled and is asserting an entitlement to even more... Our confidence in Mr Klein has not been enhanced by the fact that on 29 January he was convicted on ten tax offences by a jury in a New York Federal District Court. David Hirst explained to the judge that three things happened early in 1970 that made Paul decide to leave the group. The first was that Allen Klein tried to delay the release of Paul's solo album McCartney on the ground that it was in breach of the partnership agreement. In fact, their partnership agreement only prevented the Beatles from appearing alone or with other artists. There was nothing to prevent individual records being made. (The Beatles were not even aware that this partnership document existed until Klein found it, but in any case, these clauses in the partnership agreement had been regularly broken, mostly by John, who had performed with the Plastic Ono Band and released several albums with Yoko.) Paul's second reason was that Allen Klein's company ABKCO altered Paul's 'Long and Winding Road' on the Let It Be album without consulting him. The third reason, David Hirst said, was that ABKCO, without any authority from Paul, had transferred the rights of the film Let It Be from Apple to United Artists.

[...] Seeing Klein in court changed Paul's feelings towards him. 'I felt he wasn't such a threat now. Once the ball is rolling you get a bit of an onward-going feeling. I would be there looking at the judge all the time and if ever there was a patent lie, I would do a shake of the head or something.'

[...] The judge was particularly scathing about Allen Klein, whose testimony he described as 'the prattling of a second-class salesman', and concluded that he was unconvinced 'that there is now in the office a staff able to disentangle the Beatles' affairs, or give the necessary directions to professional men, or make the necessary administrative decisions'. In other words, he distrusted Klein's ability to administer their affairs. He granted Paul's application for a receiver to take over the running of the partnership until a full trial could determine the long-term future of the Beatles and their companies.

PAUL: So anyway, what happened was I single-handedly saved the Beatle empire! Ha! Ha! He said modestly. I can laugh about it now; it was not so funny at the time.

— paul mccartney: many years from now, by barry miles

#paul mccartney #mcbeardy #linda mccartney #the beatles #beatlesedit #allen klein #*m #my edit #(i know this quote is really long but i didnt want to leave anything out)#(also i didnt want more photos of allen in this post)#(lol)#(so i thought i would put there the logo that barry miles mentioned)

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songfell-ut · 5 years ago

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Chapter 2, bc this is happening

Yo. I’m charging ahead on this project because I’m a terrible mother and my kid is getting a lot of (educational) screen time during the day while my husband works from home and I get this written. It remains based on this comic by @lostmypotatoes. It’s so long that I split off the end and it’s mutating into Chapter 3. Lots of talking, with Stuff to come of it very soon, no worries.

Now featuring a cut! Thanks (what’s an easy nickname for you? “Lost”? “‘Tatoes?”) for the tip on how to very easily do that.

Lastly, I have login shenanigans to deal with, and have been chatting with Lost (?) using @ikustioa on my phone, so I suppose that’s my blogging/personal handle now. Anyway, here we go:

Three nights later, Sans woke with a jerk. Someone in the next room was sobbing. It wasn't a memory or nightmare, he realized a moment later, and it wasn't the priestess; it was a small child, crying so hard that it could barely breathe. Steeling himself, the boss monster slid out of bed and listened intently.

He heard a woman whisper something, and the child's sobs quieted as a familiar sound came through the door. It was the same humming that had de-powered his blaster the other day, though not the same tune. The skeleton took a moment to be sure that the glow in his eyes was out, then cracked the bedroom door open.

Frisk was kneeling, bare-headed, with her arms around a little boy of perhaps eight or nine years. In the light of one lamp on the worktable, Sans saw a dark patch of blood in the child's hair. Frisk glanced at the skeleton, giving him a wan smile, still humming. Sans closed the door enough that the child wouldn't see him.

The priestess waited till the boy had calmed down to the occasional sniffle, then leaned back and reached for something on the table. "I've got a treat for you," she said cheerfully. "Do you like peppermint?"

The child thought it over, and nodded.

"Wonderful, because that's exactly what this is. You'll feel better in no time." She held out a glass bottle. "You can have three big swallows, but only three, all right?"

Well played, Sans thought, framing it as something he got to have, not something he had to take. Sure enough, the little boy gulped it right down, smacking his lips as the young woman retrieved the bottle. "Good. Can you do something very important for me?" she asked. Nod, nod. "Can you lie down and count to one hundred? That'll make the magic work better. Let's go to my office."

The child went with her quite willingly. After a few minutes, the High Priestess re-emerged into Sans' field of vision. Her pleasant expression was gone, replaced with one that actually made him feel a little sorry for whoever had pissed her off. Then he remembered the blood on the kid's head. "Anybody you want me ta kill?" he asked through the door.

"Don't tempt me." Frisk jerked a sheet of paper from a stack on the desk, grabbed a pen, and began writing rapidly.

Sans checked the time. "God damn, what's that kid doing awake at two in the morning?"

"Being beaten." The pen scratched viciously across the page.

He decided to shut up. Frisk soon finished the message, blew the ink dry and folded the paper in thirds, then sealed it and marched to the outer door, where she woke up the guard on duty. Sans heard her reaming the guy about doing his job properly, serving a writ, and not letting a guy out of the castle. She came back in, only to return to the office.

This seemed to be typical for her, as far as Sans could tell, though it usually wasn't this dramatic or this late at night. If she wasn't off at church or giving him lessons, she was talking to someone who needed help and apparently couldn't get it elsewhere. He had yet to see her do something for fun, or sleep more than five hours at a time.

Meanwhile, his daily routine had been surprisingly low-key. The first day, after being flagrantly mind-controlled into agreeing to stay, he'd eaten some more, then slept for another dreamless twenty-four hours. The next morning, she'd let him have another pile of food, then started his apprenticeship by showing him the most common ingredients for potions and how to identify them by sight, as he couldn't smell and didn't have much sense of touch. Yesterday had been a review, emphasizing that a mistake could literally kill someone, and she'd given him a book of basic recipes, asking him to make a list of any ingredients he found that she hadn't already introduced.

It was kind of annoying to have homework, and he was starting to get cabin fever, but otherwise, the whole experience hadn't been too terrible. He was relieved and disappointed that she kept the veil on almost all the time, which reduced the distraction somewhat, though she persisted in having a fantastic shape, and he was really starting to enjoy the sound of her voice. When he could focus enough to ask questions, she was patient and encouraging, and let him use all the paper he wanted to write down the answers. She was obviously pleased that he cared enough to take notes, though not in a smug or irritating way; it just made her happy, and that made him...not unhappy.

It was also still novel to talk to a human who wasn't afraid of him. He hadn't seen many humans up here besides the little boy, and figured they were forbidden to come into her rooms unless they desperately needed help, or could sneak past a sleeping guard. That was fine with Sans, though he'd overheard one cleaning lady being so persistent that he really wanted to come out of the bedroom and tell her to piss off. Unsurprisingly, Frisk had asked him to not do that.

There were only a few real mysteries so far. One was a pile of letters she'd brought in on the second day and tossed into a basket of also-unopened envelopes standing by the roaring fireplace in her workshop. He'd caught her looking at the basket a couple of times, as if debating whether to burn them all, but she never did it, or opened any in front of him.

The biggest question was how she knew he could teleport, and the nature of his blue magic, even if was getting more red than blue these days. He had unthinkingly used the latter to grab a couple things yesterday, and his magic had almost immediately died out. He didn't know exactly how she was doing it, but her barriers weren't just blocking him in: they kept his power so muted that he couldn't have summoned a single bone. It seemed that he'd be allowed to use some magic to make the actual potions, and that was it.

Well, there was time to worry about that later. The injured kid had made him think of Kris again, which made him think of the book passage Frisk had quoted at him. He'd have to ask if she...wait, no, he didn't have to ask. She'd given him carte blanche to read anything he found in her bedroom or workshop. Sans tapped the nearest witchlight on, noting that it was much weaker than the ones Underground, and started perusing the shelves.

Fifteen minutes later, Frisk knocked on the door, waiting for him to grunt acknowledgement before she came in. "I'm sorry for waking you," she said, dropping into her chair with a deep sigh. "There's going to be hell to pay in the morning."

She did look like hell, with bags under her eyes and a smear of blood on her cheek. Sans put the book down and tapped his own face, and she got the hint, rubbing her cheek with the back of her hand. "Ugh. That poor child." She sighed again, curling up and resting her head on the arm of the chair. "I'll wash up in a minute."

"Didn't you just get back from a thing?" he asked, wondering if she was always this cavalier about bodily fluids.

"Yes. His Holiness decided we needed more midnight services, and I have to be there every other night." She rubbed her eyes. "Flynn must have followed me back here. People aren't supposed to know where I live, but word is spreading. At this rate, I'll have to move again."

Sans drummed his fingertips on the bedpost. She'd found an oversized stool to use in the workshop, but there were no armchairs big enough for him, so he spent most of his leisure time on the bed. "Bein' High Priestess sucks. How long ya been at it?"

"Three years. The last Thea was assassinated, and they had to find a replacement as fast as possible. Out of all the minor priestesses available, I was the only one who passed all the tests. It's been...instructive."

"Hm." That didn't surprise him. A human strong enough to block a boss monster's focused attack had to be pretty rare. "How old are ya, anyway?" he asked, suddenly curious.

Her eyes shut. "Twenty-two. I was educated in a convent, ordained at sixeen, High Priestess at nineteen." A mighty yawn was partly hidden in her arm. "Lucky me."

Sans didn't know much about humans, but he was pretty sure that was young as hell for so much responsibility. The problem was that she was good enough to handle it, which meant they'd pile on more and more until she went nuts. "Nah, it sucks ta be you. Any way you can get out of it?"

"Well," she mumbled, eyes still closed, "I can die, or marry, or go back to the convent and become the Mother Superior, which would also be until I die." Frisk yawned again. "The Feast of All Saints is next week. That's when the last High Priestess was murdered."

Something prickled up Sans' spine. "You spend all yer time doin' church stuff, kissing babies and healin' puppies or whatever. Why the hell would anyone wanna kill you?"

"I meant it when I said I have influence in the Church and at court. I don't hate monsters, which is inconvenient for several people, and I'm not quiet about it, which is extremely inconvenient for many more of them. Besides, my natural father is very wealthy, and his other childr—"

"'Natural' father?" he queried. "What, do some humans have unnatural kids?"

Her eyes opened. She looked lovely in the soft light, but troubled and sad, so much that he wished he hadn't asked. "I'm illegitimate. My father never married my mother, and our life was...bad. Very hard, for a very long time." The priestess rubbed her fingertips together, as if seeing more dried blood. "He was a very busy man, but he only has one legitimate heir. After his second wife died, he started tracking down his children born out of wedlock, and it's an open secret that he'll leave each of us a large amount after he passes."

"And whoever's left gets a bigger piece of the pie?" Sans guessed.

"Exactly. As far as I know, there were fourteen or fifteen of us, but magic runs in his side of the family, and most of his children became sorcerers. Almost all of my half-brothers have been killed fighting monsters. Two of my half-sisters blew up in an experiment that went wrong. There are only six of us left, including the—his heir."

Sans' eyes narrowed. "What is it with humans an' explodin' stuff by accident?"

He couldn't read the look on her face. "If we knew the answer to that, history would have taken a much better course."

Of course, that made him think of Kris again. It seemed pretty inevitable, so he might as well ask... "I don't s'pose," he mumbled, "there's a record of the humans who went t'the Underground on that last trip? Maybe what happened to 'em after they got back?"

Frisk raised her head a little. "That depends. We know exactly which nobles, sorcerers, and other dignitaries attended. Do you mean one of them?"

"Nah, this was a servant, I think. Prob'ly. I dunno." The skeleton felt his eyes lighting up again. "He was only 4 or 5. S'comin' up on thirteen years ago, so he'd'a grown up by now."

The priestess frowned. "No one that young was in attendance, so far as I know, and I've read every account that I could find. May I ask why you want to know?"

"Nah." Sans flexed his hand around the bedpost. "Forget it."

Frisk sighed, carving a design into the plush chair with her thumbnail. "Well, I'm afraid the answer is no. There's no record of the servants who came along, except the ones who were killed, and that didn't include any children. You'd have to check with each of the—" She sat up. "Wait. I know someone who was there—my mother. Do you want me to ask her?"

"Hell yes, I do!" Sans' hand tightened, splintering the bedpost. He guiltily released it. "Did she talk much about it? What all did she tell ya? Can I ask 'er a coupla things?"

The priestess laughed, quieting him with a wave of her hand. "Sans, please! She's been very sick recently, and I don't want to excite her too much. I will ask her anything you need to know, thank you. And yes, she talked about it to anyone who'd listen. She's the one who told me all about monsters, and what you're actually like."

Sans sat forward, but she forestalled more questions with another gesture. "First, her name is Rosa. Did you ever meet her?"

It did sound familiar. "I think so. Little, blonde, wore her hair up?"

"That's her. She would've been in charge of any children they brought along, but she never mentioned any of them to me." Frisk tapped her finger on the chair arm. "She did say there were things she wasn't allowed to talk about. She worked for the Duke as a nurse, and she would never disobey him."

He wondered for a moment if that meant the guy was Frisk's father, but was too excited to dwell on it. "What'd she say about us?" he asked curiously.

Frisk hesitated. "Well...she didn't talk very much with individual monsters, but she said the Queen was very kind and made sure to tell each of the humans how glad she was to have them visit. The King was also very courteous. He tried his best not to frighten anyone, and he thought it was rude that the servants weren't allowed to eat with the nobles."

Sans' foot started tapping. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he reluctantly stopped. "Who else?" he demanded.

The next moment, they both heard the office door open into the workshop. "Miss?" came a plaintive voice.

Frisk was at the bedroom door in an instant. "What is it, Flynn?" She closed the door most of the way.

Damn it all to hell. Sans grumpily listened to the child explain that he'd scratched his head and sorry, there was blood on the couch now. Frisk explained that wounds got itchy as they healed, and to please not scratch it, and that it would be much better to wipe his hands on the towel she'd put down than on the furniture. Then he had to be cleaned up again and a bigger bandage applied, and someone was sent for to take the boy somewhere he could sleep safely.

A thought stabbed at him as he listened to the proceedings: that was how she knew he could teleport and zip things around without touching them. King Asgore had insisted the monsters show off their powers in various amusing ways so that the humans would be less afraid of their magic. Sans thought it was a bad idea at the time, and look what came of it!

Frisk eventually came back to the bedroom, drying her hands on her skirt. "Let's cut t'the chase," Sans said quietly as she sat down. "Did she tell ya about any skeletons?"

"Yes." Frisk folded her hands and looked straight at him. "Two brothers, Sans and Papyrus."

Sans laced his fingers together to avoid accidentally destroying anything else. "And...?"

"She liked them very much," Frisk said calmly, "especially Papyrus. Sans was friendly, but she said he watched their every move, and it made them nervous." The priestess smoothed her skirt over her knees. "Papyrus was a joy to be around. He was very full of himself, but there wasn't a mean bone in his body, and he considered it his duty to welcome the humans as much as possible. My mother talked about him more than any other monster." She coughed. "Apparently, his spaghetti was terrible."

"...Sounds about right."

Frisk looked at him sharply. "I wanted to ask you about that, but...are you all right?"

Sans couldn't answer. He'd avoided thinking too much about home, especially the fact that he'd already been gone for a week when he got caught. It'd been easy to tell himself that he could always bust out of here if he needed to, or that the lady would let him send a message or even go have a quick visit before coming back here, but...

"Are you Papyrus' brother?" Frisk asked.

"Yeah," he ground out.

The priestess shook her head. "I don't understand. R—Mother said that Sans was shorter than any of the humans who came to the Underground, and the only boss monsters mentioned in the official histories are Asgore and Toriel. Can you tell me what happened? I wasn't sure if you were the same skeleton, you seem so diff—"

"A lot of shit happened, that's what." Sans lurched to his feet, and she had to tip her head back to look up at him. His sockets were glowing again. "Ya know what? I'm tired, an' you look like crap. Time for night-night." He jerked the door open, rattling the hinges. "Good luck cleanin' up. Blood's a bitch to get out. Trust me, I know."

She rose quietly, folding her hands in the style he recognized from the very first time he'd seen her. "All right, then. Good night, Sans," she said, and walked past him, out of the room.

He didn't slam the doors shut behind her, but it was pretty close.

Once she had control of herself again, Frisk wiped her eyes and resumed scrubbing the couch. She kept glancing underneath it, and as she threw yet another towel into the laundry basket, she decided, To hell with it, and pulled the couch aside. A nearly invisible seam in the floor showed where a board could be pried up to access her hidden safe. There was no lid, no lock, and no key, just a solid golden film that vanished when she pressed her thumb into its center.

The High Priestess surveyed the contents: several tight-folded papers, a bag of high-value dinar, a sack of silver ingots, a few pieces of jewelry, and a small box. She selected the box and removed its rosewood lid to reveal a tiny glass orb, something swirling around on its surface like smoke. She stared at it for so long that her knees began aching, but she didn't notice. Her vision blurred again, and she jammed the lid back on the little box, shoving everything back into the safe, re-sealing it, thumping the floorboard into place and pushing the couch back. Not today, she told herself fiercely. She didn't care what Sans said or how he acted. It couldn't be worth it. Nothing could!

The next day, after a late breakfast, Frisk quizzed him on the differences between various herbs and powdered animal bits and their uses; they looked over the list he'd made of new ingredients, going through the recipes and identifying how each item worked in each potion. That was the first time she demonstrated how to mix and infuse something, and the first time she warned him, "You have to be careful how you feel when you make potions. Intent is always important when you're using magic—you fully intend to cause damage, and I fully intend to protect, which is why we're good at what we do, yes?"

He shrugged philosophically, and she half-smiled. "Well," she continued, "it's similar when you're making something for someone else to take. If you're in a foul mood and you want to cause harm, or you simply don't want the person to get better, you might as well be concocting poison, or giving them water. Of course, your feelings don't matter if you're just throwing herbs into a pot, but these work as well as they do because you're putting a tiny bit of yourself into it. You have to make sure that it's a good bit."

"Pretty sure all my bits are bad by now," Sans remarked. "How's about I make some poison instead?"

Frisk shook her head, leaning over the table. "No one is all bad, Sans. Here." She took the glass stirrer out of the miniature cauldron bubbling away in the middle of their workspace. "I'll infuse it now. Watch."

He did observe closely as she bent forward, though probably not the way she'd intended; he just made sure he was looking at the potion when she glanced up at him. "Try thinking of someone you care for, and imagine it's for them." She opened her hand over the cauldron and, to his surprise, let out a low whistle, piercingly sweet.

A mote of light drifted from her palm and settled into the mixture. It seemed to sparkle for a moment, then resumed being a potion. When he concentrated, though, he could feel a little tingle of magic in it. "I won't ask you to try it till you have better control of your emotions," she said. "Right now, you're so angry that I don't know what would happen."

A different note had crept into her voice. Sans shifted his bony weight on the stool. "S'not like I can help it."

"Perhaps," she said. "You probably don't even notice it anymore. It's become a part of you, through whatever stuff has happened since the humans left the Underground. And before you ask, my mother is ill again. We can't speak with her until she's better."

There it was; he'd wondered if she was going to pretend he'd never snapped at her. "Well, you can only ask me so many personal questions before I get touchy, lady. Frisk." He tapped the worktable a couple of times. "Look, I know ya have a lot on yer plate, an' havin' to deal with me isn't much help. I just want t'know...is there any way to tell the others I'm not dead or somethin'? My brother's gotta be out of his mind by now, and I don' want someone comin' after me and gettin' caught."

Frisk shook her head, and his SOUL sank to the floor. "I'm sorry, Sans, but that's out of the question," she said, soft but firm. "Our King has forbidden any humans from coming within a day's walk of the entrance to the Underground, and let's be very honest—what would happen if a human came up to you out of nowhere and said they had an important message to give the monsters?"

Sans' jaw clenched so hard that the priestess put her hand out, not quite touching his arm. "Sans, please. If there was any way to—"

"Forget it, okay? Just...never mind." The skeleton glared at the windows facing out from the workroom. Like everything else in this damn place, they were too small for him to fit more than his head through. He'd gone through this in his own mind a dozen times: even if he could break through the wood and stone, he could sense the barrier set behind the wall to block his shortcuts. The one along the outside wall was heavier than the ones in the bedroom, which were permeable, purely there to track his movements. It was debatable whether this one could be physically broken with...something, but the moment he tried, she would know he was trying and stop him with a stronger barrier.

Hmm. What if...what if he waited till she wasn't here and couldn't get back in time to stop him? If he broke through when she was distracted, and far enough away – say, doing her church stuff in the middle of the night – then there wouldn't be much she could do. He could escape and decide later whether he wanted to come back or—

Wait. Come back? What the hell was he thinking? Why would he choose to be locked up by any human? No matter how pretty, and gutsy, and sweet and nice-voiced and...

Crap.

Anyway. He wouldn't come back. He'd have to be sure to grab his notes and a few books for Alphys; Frisk could always get more copies. He already had plenty to report to King Asgore, though he felt a little uneasy about letting ol' Gorey know that the most powerful barrier-making human was a determined sorceress whose SOUL could probably make you invincible. Actually, he felt a lot uneasy. Maybe he'd keep that to himself for now.

Too bad he couldn't bring her with him...

"...ans. Sans?" Frisk was touching his radius. She'd lifted her veil, large brown eyes turned up to his. "Are you all right?"

Sans studied her for a long moment, reflecting that Papyrus had always wanted a pet. The idea was more appealing than he'd have liked to admit; he had to dismiss it with a shake of his head, and shake it again to get it loose. "'m fine, kid. Remind me what this stuff was for?" After all, he thought darkly, he'd always told Pap no. Pets were too much trouble, especially if you got attached to them. Besides, what would they feed her?

A knock on the outer door startled them both. Before Frisk could respond, the door opened, and in strode a tall, thin man in dark robes, holding a box under his arm. "High Priestess. Honored guest," the man said in a cool, whispery voice, giving them a short bow.

"Dr. Serif? This is a surprise," the High Priestess responded, replacing the veil as she stood up. "I wasn't expecting you so early. Sans, this is Dr. Serif, the royal sorcerer. Doctor, please meet Sans the skeleton."

The man regarded Sans with mild curiosity. "I am very pleased to see you again, Sans the skeleton. Has Her Eminence been treating you well?"

"Uh...yeah," said Sans, nonplussed. "Do I know you from somewhere?"

The royal sorcerer bowed again. He was unnervingly pale, the effect enhanced by dark eyes and long black hair framing his face. "I helped transport you from your cell to this room."

"It took magic," Frisk said helpfully.

He'd figured as much; magic was the only way humans could do any damn thing. The boss monster looked at the box under the doctor's arm, which had a strange feel to it. He couldn't tell what it was, but he knew he didn't like it.

"This is for you, as we discussed, Your Eminence," the man said smoothly. "I will leave it in your office."

Frisk looked so uncomfortable that Sans glanced at the sorcerer, but nothing was visibly wrong. The man ignored them both, striding past the table and opening the door to her office. They heard rustling, and the doors closing as he stepped back into the workroom. "That will be all. Good day, my lady, Sans." With another bow, the doctor turned and left.

"Weirdo," said the ten-foot skeleton. He found he didn't want to look away from the door lest the guy come back and catch him unawares. He hadn't been threatening, but something about him was very off.

"He's...unique." Frisk sat down again. "Now, this infusion is almost ready. We'll leave it at room temperature for another ten minutes or so before we stir it again. In the meantime, you can add two drops of peppermint oil, mint, orange or lemon extract..."

The rest of the day passed without major incident. Frisk had to stop in the middle of concocting a burn salve and leave Sans to finish it, though she cautioned him not to infuse it yet. She rather envied him; she had to walk to the other side of the castle to go over her parish's monthly accounts, balancing foot-long columns of tiny numbers to check that tithes and alms had come in and gone out properly. They never quite did, though it had gotten better in the past year, as she had made it increasingly clear that she was not interested in stealing from the poor or turning a blind eye to it, even for a few hundred extra dinar in her own column.

The attempts at bribery were particularly insulting because she didn't need it. The realm's High Priestess was entitled to half a percent of the Church's total monthly income, and through the magic of frugality and compound interest, her personal fortune had grown to the point where she didn't want to use any of it. Life was so strange; as a small child, she had only eaten once every couple of days, and now she could decide not to buy her own estate and maintain a huge staff for it.

She was starting to wonder, though, about a rumor she'd heard regarding several hundred acres of land that would supposedly be up for sale in the next few months. They were principally wheat and barley fields, no more than two days' walk from the Underground's main entrance. That was food for thought, indeed.

Frisk eventually finished and stopped by the kitchens on her way back to her room. Sans was still wary of what he ate, and she took care to have more than one damned fork now when she tasted his food for him. She wasn't worried for herself: if she didn't have time to eat in the kitchen, she routinely paid several of the staff a bit extra to make sure that everything they brought her had come straight from the pot or the pan, with no chance for someone to add any surprises.

That had felt hypocritical at first, but she'd soon realized that she couldn't rely on people's consciences or sense of duty to keep her safe. Many, like the guard captain, were loyal for loyalty's sake, but many more of them needed external motivation, and she was helping the cooks and servers support their families. And she wasn't literally stealing from orphans to do it!

An overstuffed basket sat outside her chambers, and the guard hastened to open the door and push it inside for her. Frisk carried the tray to the table, setting it by Sans' elbow as he compared nearly identical recipes in two separate books. Then she dragged the laundry basket over, pulling a sail-like garment out end over end. "Here you are," she said around an armful of fabric.

The skeleton looked up, scowling at the interruption. "Wha?"

"This is for you." Frisk tried to hold up an enormous shirt, then an enormous set of trousers. "I had them measure your clothes when we washed them for you. They made you another set."

Sans slowly got up and took the shirt from her, holding it against himself. It was sturdy linen, almost as thick as the canvas shirt he wore now and much softer. The skeleton turned it this way and that, poking the material. "What's this for?"

Pause. "It's a shirt," said Frisk. "It goes on the top half of your body. Humans need it for protection against the elements, and modesty, but for you, it's principally so that you have a shirt on."

He acknowledged her smartassery with a respectful nod. "I mean, wasn't this a pain to make? I hope nobody expects me t'pay fer this. Not my fault if what I got on ain't pretty enough for ya."

"Oh, it was. Getting something that size made up so quickly cost me more than I paid for all the clothes I've had this year combined. But you're not a slave, you're my apprentice. That means you're working for me, and I'm keeping track of your wages. It'll take a while to pay this off—" Frisk stuck her arm through one of the trouser legs, flapping it to shake it out. "—but I think you'll manage it before you leave."

Sans had another odd expression. "Yer payin' me for the stuff I make? I thought apprentices were the ones payin' to learn."

"I consider the knowledge you'll bring back to the Underground to be your apprenticeship fee, and as this arrangement wasn't your idea in the first place, we're bending the rules," she said patiently. "I see you've made three sets of burn salve, two of which look useable, and you're almost done with a cough elixir. Fair market value for those is about ten dinar total, so minus the infusion I'll do for you, you've earned about seven already."

"Hm." He scratched the side of his head. "What am I payin' you for my food?"

Frisk laughed, shaking out the other leg. "The pleasure of your company." At his blank stare, she shook her head and uncovered the tray. "No one charges their apprentice for room and board, Sans." The priestess put down the trousers, picked up the fork and leaned in for a bite of baked fish.

The skeleton pulled the tray away, making her stab the table instead. "If I owe ya money, you're definitely not gonna poison me," he pointed out, and began shoveling it in.

"You're right," Frisk said gravely, trying and failing to hide her grin. "I'm glad you've had time to mullet over."

Sans pounded the table with his free fist, rattling the glass vials. "Might as well, just for the halibut. Right?"

She covered her mouth with the back of her hand. "That was weak. Think of a better one and let minnow," she said around it.

"You're right," he said, and waited for her to take a bite before he added, "We really need to scale back."

They had to stop laughing long enough to eat. By the time dinner was over and Frisk had carried the dishes out, both were relaxed enough to be sleepy. "Dunno why I keep wantin' to go t'bed, all I've done is read 'n catnap," mumbled Sans, trudging into the bedroom and flopping onto the mattress. "'m not even usin' my damn magic."

"You're eating human food, so your body is getting more nutrition and working harder to process it," Frisk pointed out, settling into her chair. "Mother said the humans all had to eat more to stop being hungry Underground." She tried not to burp out loud. "Besides, you're probably still recovering from the energy you spent being captured and then trying to kill me. Thrice."

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that." The skeleton stretched all the phalanges of his toes, flexing them in turn. "Probably won't do it again," he added truthfully.

"Thank you." Frisk also stretched her legs out, Sans noticing how absurdly tiny her feet were as she got up from her chair with the recipe book. She reached down to dog-ear the page they were on. "Well, I—"

He whisked the book out of her hand and flipped it open to smooth the page out. "Use a bookmark, woman! What are ya, some kinda barbarian?"

"It's an old book! They're all creased anyway," she argued, trying to take it back. He held it over his head, roughly a mile out of reach. "All right, then, fine," she said with a smirk. "I'm going to take a bath. Read through and find five more ingredients to discuss when I get back." She shut the door on quiet skeletal griping, smiling to herself.

The next day passed in a similar fashion, at least outwardly. Frisk took careful note of everything Sans made, ignoring his suggestion to dock him the price of the ingredients when he screwed up; luckily, he was catching on fast, even if she wouldn't let him infuse anything yet. She also wouldn't tell him how much his new clothing had cost, saying only that she'd let him know when he broke even. What really got his attention was her adding, "If you make enough money, we'll send a few bushels of wheat back with you. No one can be upset that you were gone for so long if you come bearing gifts, can they?"

Sans was glad he didn't have facial muscles or anything similar to betray his inner turmoil. He'd had a lot of second thoughts last night about bashing his way out of here, due in small part to the new outfit and the possibility of bringing food to the Underground, but mostly because she was working her brain-magic on him again, being attractive and kind and easy to talk to like the terrible, sadistic person she was...not. She was not remotely terrible or sadistic, and that was the problem. He still didn't understand it, or how it was getting worse so much quicker than he'd anticipated. He just wanted to get away before she entangled him any further.

Then he'd started thinking of Snowdin right before he fell asleep, and for the first time since he'd been captured, he had dreamed of home. He dreamed their house was cold and dark, with no one upstairs and a single light on in the kitchen. A female form was silhouetted in the kitchen doorway, hands on hips, facing something slumped over the side of the couch. "C'mon, Pap. He's probably just out on another hunting trip," she argued.

"...IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER?" The thin, nasal voice hurt Sans' SOUL, and not just because he'd desperately wanted to hear it again. This wasn't his boisterous, indomitable, recklessly cheerful brother; this was a small, heartsick Papyrus, one Sans hadn't seen or heard in a long, long time. The last time it happened, at least Sans had been there for him. Now Sans was gone, too.

"Hunting animals, Papyrus! He's hunting animals. Not humans." The woman thumped the wall for emphasis, knocking little bits of plaster from the ceiling. Dammit, Sans had told her to quit doing that. "That's gotta be it. We don't eat humans, and he knows how bad the food situation is, right? So..."

"I DON'T CARE WHAT HE'S DOING. ...WELL. NOT MUCH." The skeleton heaved a sigh, raising his face from the couch cushion. "...UNDYNE, I...I CAN'T REACH HIM. IF HE'S ALL RIGHT, WHERE IS HE?"

And then something had seeped out of the darkness and gently enclosed Sans' mind, blotting out the dream like a sponge on spilled water. He had woken up knowing that it wasn't a dream, and was instantly enraged—he'd been so grateful that the nightmares had stopped, and too damn stupid to figure out that she'd set a barrier up against external influences, including dreams shared with Pap. He'd ponder the full ramifications of it blocking nightmares another day; the memory of his brother's expression had decided him. Agreement or no agreement, he was getting out of here tonight.

Of course, he couldn't pack up the stuff he needed before their lesson was done, or right afterward. He wasn't worried about giving himself away: as an accomplished bullshitter, he knew he was behaving perfectly normally. The moment dinner was cleared away, he called dibs on the bathroom, which had a nice, huge tub that he wanted to use one more time. When he was done and she'd gone in and locked the door – and after the usual stab of curiosity as to what she looked like outside of clothes – Sans quietly put everything he wanted into a satchel he'd found under the worktable, and stowed it behind the door in the bedroom, where he had to wait until she was done getting dressed.

The one odd thing was that after she emerged from her dressing room in her full priestess-y regalia, she went into her office and spent a few minutes doing nothing that he could hear, after which she was wearing a different brooch. She'd had a white one on the first day they met, but this one shone with a greyish light under her veil.

"Goin' so soon?" he asked carelessly. It was ten o'clock.

She smiled. "If my duties only included saying words and a few songs, I would sleep much easier. There's always someone to speak to before and after services."

"Gotcha. Well, have fun. 'm gonna read somethin' with a damn bookmark 'fore I go to bed—I forgot t'ask, mind if I try ta make a few things while you're not here?"

"Go right ahead. You'll pay for it if you burn down my workroom, so I'm trusting you to behave." Was he imagining a weird little inflection there? No, she looked totally wonderful. ...Normal. She looked totally normal. "Good night, Sans," she said, adjusting her veil.

"G'night, Frisk." He stretched out on the bed as she shut the door.

That was it, then. He might not ever see her again. It...wasn't a good feeling. In fact, it felt pretty bad. Time to quit feeling it, think of Pap, and focus on his plan of action.

The plan: well, for starters, it would be dumb to try breaking out immediately. He wished he knew exactly where the chapel was. He'd heard occasional church-type singing off in the distance, but that didn't give him an idea of how far away she'd be during the service, or for exactly how long. Instead, he watched the clock and fidgeted, as nervous as the first time he'd faced down a group of human sorcerers.

Maybe this was a dumb idea. Maybe he should just ask her to take down the barrier keeping him from dreaming with Papyrus, just for one night. She was too kind to refuse, and intelligent enough...

...to ask him for more information in exchange. Frisk knew he used to be a normal monster, and might think to ask if he'd always been able to speak across dreams; it wouldn't be too far a stretch for her to keep questioning how he became a boss monster. She'd also realize that if she let him communicate with other monsters, he could tell them several things that she would prefer they not know, including her identity and full capabilities. It was one thing for her to take a calculated risk and let him go back to the Underground with that information, or – much more likely – to make him forget it before he left; some humans had the ability to excise bits of memory like that. It'd be another thing entirely to permit a conversation that no one else could even hear. She was nice, not stupid.

So Sans waited until eleven forty-five, and then he sat in the workroom with the satchel looped around his wrist for another ten minutes, nerves humming. Then he got up, went to the double doors leading out of her rooms, and silently picked up a seven-foot decorative statue standing at the room's threshold, wedging it inward across the doorframe. He went back to the workroom, judged the weakest place in the outside wall, reared back, and slammed his fist directly between two of the windows.

Frisk had started to relax as the organist began playing and incense floated in the chapel air. She was opening her mouth for the first hymn when a warning note sounded in the back of her mind: the barrier to her workroom's outside windows was tingling, and then it suddenly burned away, the warning note sliding all the way up to a full-blown klaxon.

She gritted her teeth so hard that it hurt, controlling her expression with a supreme effort as the voice in her head screamed, Sans, you two-faced sack of fertilizer!

The only good thing about the situation was that she wasn't leading this service. Therefore, it was odd, but not completely conspicuous, when she stepped to the back of the choir, touched her new brooch, and vanished.

#frans this fic brought to you by ABC Mouse

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leviathangourmet · 4 years ago

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Progressives have a visceral hatred for America, its Judeo-Christian values, its free market system, its freedoms, opportunities, and material comforts. They want to change it fundamentally -- or destroy it. Our founding documents guarantee the right to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness” with a functioning, limited government that serves the people. But such a milieu of healthy competition is an anathema to the Left, which thinks it offensive that Americans are free to work hard and pursue their dreams with minimal government intervention. Instead of letting such a meritocracy prevail and deliver the best to the nation, the Left wants to impose a system that obsesses over race, gender, sexuality, and perceived inequities associated with these identities. Leftists seek proportional quotas to reward targeted minorities for arbitrary criteria of identity and dismiss effort and talent as “privilege.”

This dumbing down of America in the service of equity is occurring everywhere -- in schools, universities, the workplace, and beyond. Paramount to this effort is the idea of diversity uber alles trumping merit, competence, or exceptional effort. This tyranny doesn’t spare members of minority groups who, out of experience and conviction, may believe in rising through merit and effort: deemed “unwoke,” they are reclassified as “multiracial white.” This misguided ideology peremptorily negates the multifarious influences that shape each individual’s unique perspective; it assumes a person is branded for life with the stereotypical characteristics of a particular race, gender, or sexual identity. Thus, the Left denies the heterogeneity of individuals and the influences on them even as it clamors for diversity. It prejudicially assumes and demands ideological uniformity.

Here’s how the Left’s nefarious design is playing out. Schools and universities are forcing Leftist diversity standards on students, parents, and faculty at the expense of excellence. At the nation’s top high schools, the most represented race (by a significant margin) is Asian, followed by whites. Blacks and Hispanics are underrepresented. But is this evidence of racism? No, for it turns out that the admissions process at these institutions is blind to gender and ethnicity and based solely on the highest grades and test scores. In fact, these schools are forbidden to consider race and income as acceptance criteria. Attempts to coach black and Hispanic applicants for the admission tests and encourage more of them to apply have been unsuccessful in improving their representation in the student body. So the question is: Should academic standards be sacrificed, hard work penalized, and meritocracy substituted for mediocrity in order to achieve diversity?

To give minority students a leg up, San Diego, America’s second largest school district with about 106,000 students, has dispensed with grading. The policy was apparently launched to “combat racism.” Since more minority students than white students have failed, grades will no longer depend on class participation or annual average. Deadlines to submit assignments will be suspended. Surely, minority students’ failure to measure up to standards cannot be blamed primarily on racism in the educational system. Besides, by abolishing grades and not holding students responsible for their performance, excellence is stifled.

A 2009 Princeton study showed that to be admitted to top universities, Asian students had to score 140 points more than whites; 270 points more than Hispanics; and 450 points more than blacks. After Harvard University instituted a quota for Asian-American admissions, a lawsuit was filed by Students for Fair Admissions (SFFA), a nonprofit that seeks to eliminate the use of race in college admission. Last November, an appeals court upheld a lower court’s decision against SFFA, clearing the college of racial discrimination charges. In February, SFFA petitioned the Supreme Court for a writ of certiorari on the same issue. Hopefully, the Supreme Court will let meritocracy prevail, ignoring the Leftists’ credo of equality of outcome for groups they deem victims.

Most Americans believe that diversity should not be attained at the expense of merit. A 2019 Pew Research Center report on race found 75% of respondents believed that employers should only consider a candidate’s qualifications -- even if the result is less diversity. Despite this, the diversity delusion -- that “diversity is our strength” -- is omnipresent in the corporate world and in government. Even vital domains like defense, political appointments, and air traffic control haven’t been spared.

After the Congressional Black Caucus demanded a black secretary of defense, the Biden administration selected retired General Lloyd Austin for the position. This necessitated waiving the requirement that a nominee be out of active duty for at least seven years. Critics faulted the appointment on three grounds. While at Centcom, Austin had downplayed intelligence on the rise of ISIS and was responsible for a less-than-stellar outcome in the Syrian civil war. Additionally, they felt he lacked knowledge and experience of the rising China-Russia threat. In the end, Austin’s skin color won out and was a major determinant in his securing the position. More identity drama followed. Feminist groups were upset at his nomination and lobbied for a female secretary of defense. Their dissent centered on identity politics rather than a candidate’s ability to handle military threats.

Yet another example of the pernicious pursuit of diversity is under way in California. After Kamala Harris vacated her position as senator, California governor Gavin Newsom gratuitously affirmed his plans not to name a white man to the seat. Although an election would be the fairest way to choose the best among qualified candidates, activist groups have been lobbying Newsom to appoint a black woman, a Latino, or a member of the LGBTQ community. Rather than California’s real concerns -- like skyrocketing homelessness and the highest tax rates in the country -- Harris’s replacement will be decided by the irrelevant ‘optics’ of race, gender, and sexual preference.

The sidelining of merit and competence is already endangering lives in the air nationwide. In 2015, the Obama administration ordered changes to the Federal Aviation Administration’s (FAA) rigorous, longstanding admission standards for air traffic controllers. This was solely in the interest of raising minority representation after the National Black Coalition of Federal Aviation Employees complained that the workforce was “too white.” The new standards gave preference to those who were unemployed and those who fared poorly in high school science over licensed pilots and those with post-high school ATC training. Racial parity won over public safety.

Corporate America, too, is in the grip of the diversity delusion. NASDAQ has proposed that the Securities and Exchange Commission (SEC) mandate new securities listing criteria, requiring that corporate boards have at least two members representing diversity: either a woman and a member of a minority group, or a woman and someone from the LGBTQ community. The objective is “inclusive growth and prosperity to power stronger economies.” NASDAQ makes the fallacious, risible claim of a correlation between diversity and better company performance. But if diversity per se were good for business, mandating it would be unnecessary, corporations would have embraced race and gender parity long ago.

Former President Donald Trump’s ‘Make America Great Again’ ideology focused on strengthening the economy with pro-American, pro-business, and free market policies. But the new administration is influenced by the Left’s “woke” policies and kowtows to its diversity quotas, which seek to impose burdensome requirements that militate against effort and excellence.

From a meritocracy, America is declining into mediocrity.

#article #opinion #diversity #equity #affirmative action #politics

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dougmeet · 3 years ago

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SMC Clusterf***: Richmond Inn & Suites, Baton Rouge, La. Only Good Ol' Boy Hotel Group in Shreveport -- Hotels for Walmart Corp. -- Could Have Anti-White GM, Trudi Veals, F***-up The 'One-car Funeral' Which Was My 10-month Stay ...UNTIL BLACK JANITOR & COP EVICTED ME CHRISTMAS 2020!

(via Who Kicks Out Hotel Guest During Pandemic? Wyndham Hotels Richmond Inn & Suites GM Trudi Veals Baton Rouge LA, Owner SMC Hotels Group, President Delton Smith, Trademark Collection : mrjyn : Free Download, Borrow, and Streaming : Internet Archive)

Richmond Inn & Suites, Baton Rouge, Louisiana, 225-924-6500 Front Desk, 24 Hours, Trudi Veals, GM

In retaliation with protection of owners, SMC Hotels Group, Wyndham Hotels Resorts, Trademark Collection, a concerted campaign of Constructive, Self-Help Eviction and Violation of Federal , CDC Eviction Moratorium, 12.27.2020, this commemorates Trudi Veals first extortive influence of former Front Desk Clerk, Faith, her first principal conspirator.

Faith tried what the Janitor did succeed, in temporarily impressing a sullen -- from censure -- Trudi Veals had her momentum halted by superior, Senior Vice President of Hotel Holding company, SMC Hotels Group, John Holmstrom, who upon hearing from an ex-employee through me what had been happening, had ordered Veals to fire her Assistant, Faith, but because of Faith's faithful efforts in helping her boss, Trudi’s illegal force-out of long-term tenant (me), Veals refused, with a tbsp of lies, and with that, crossed the line of no-return, forcing, on the morning after, a pall throughout the employees faces. And they all blamed me, courtesy of the rumor-mongering Trudi Veals.

Dispatch one employee to preserve stability, assuage a resident offended is necessary business to corporate execs, and if they happen to stop the personally motivated machinations of an employee like Trudi Veals, which they had no idea existed, then all the better. Whether it was rabidly disputed, although well-known among her confidants and helpers, they knew she was lying because they’d blown it and given her free reign.

For Trudi, just groom another assistant in the final intimidation -- the same spoiled dinner which put her appetite down -- only whetted it now.

Commission, as agent of Hotel, someone with no authority, who could then be explained away as acting autonomously in whatever foolish, non-procedural lunacies he decided of his own to commit, as what occurred with the janitor, whom she picked as her favorite, one day after Christmas Holiday Weekend, standing in my hall among his posse commitatus, all in the presence of a silently nodding BRPD, as if to say to any question I definitely had about the absurdity of this shitshow of authority, “... n da tom perrod'f tree our firm nah (read in Jamaican patois) ...” officer nodding, there wouldn't be an answer. Just a command by the janitor to vacate, as a paid in full, with no court writ or order or notice to leave, to pack and be gone in three hours during the height of COVID-19 lockdown and Presidential Eviction Moratorium, December 27, 2020 -- 10 months since I had, a tenant in good standing occupied legally the dwelling at Richmond Inn & Suites, Baton Rouge, La.

Flight of Ideas and Magic Thought with a virulent predilection of her fantastical imaginings; her inability to control her trait -- relating as fact, lies of incredible construction, Dalian Hotel Policies of absurdity meant to entertain her during these manic episodes which, if confronted, she would blithely revisit, delighting herself again in her shock at admitting, ‘yes, it was all true,’ -- the grievances at Richmond Inn & Suites left unaddressed for at least the year I was there were accommodated under the management of Trudi Veals.

Two coequal haints visit themselves upon unsuspecting whitebread rubes causing chaotic dustdevils of indeterminate origin.

What number in a year?

How many in a decade?

Of what percentage in the recent past did she dispense with issues in precisely this manner?

Veals enjoyed (as i would see it perpetrated) the $250 assessment.

A rainbow of dreaming washes over me to see its filthy lucre pour from tablespoons of sugar which Trudi administers herself and stirs in that same Macbeth Witches cauldron, while she is now rendered diabetic, debited of limbs and digits -- payment for criminality which through mawkish tears to a shrill interlocutor, she will respond in her Video Sentencing, as the culmination of a life in hospitality.

Inhospitable. No matter, Judge, nor Virtual Jury, Habeas Corpus Delecti, let him / her / it prevail.

That when HIS HONOR enter through Virtual Gallery his Courtroom, Hizzoner, heard bursting from Bailiff, virtual or corporeal, motions remanding to house arrest, not withstanding, an ankle device shackles, which she did through counsel plead, too much like slavery its burden, her ankles hurting; unto which, adjudged too late, she fell prostrate, her clangorous show farced, and from request of referent obdurate did the Seersucker clown, whose Public Defense came from her diminution of payment -- she was entitled to her Constitutional Right to an attorney -- provided freely by the court, from the unrefined cowshed, overburdened, he couldn't remember which case was hers again -- from his car, to his watch, to his heels -- and through motions improper to a stickler at home for Kramer Vs. Kramer, but not in this Federal District Court of Appeals, appellate counsel for appellant to Bard of the Bench, his days at Harvard and Oxford and his rise through the ranks, horsehair wigs, robes, bibs and gavels,

Criminal barristers will keep wigs and gowns, as the Lord Chief Justice intends to keep the current court dress in criminal proceedings. The Bar is a single advocacy profession with specialisation in particular practice areas. There is logic in having the same formal court dress, where formality and robes are required, for criminal and civil barristers... There is strong identification of the Bar of England and Wales in the public's mind and its formal dress nationally and internationally.

to Justice whose scales weild equal to the malice practiced by those whose Liberty it steals, the gavel heard in the Barrister’s Vatican, like a Solomonic Revelation brought from unsealing those Seven Seals -- no Branch Davidian to waste judgement further, enthroned, not by Holy Rood,, but Terrible Swift Sword -- the Word of Law -- and before it ,she ask Mercy, which jurisprudence disinclines, a Judicial Granting on what she was standing, on grounds that she just couldn't stand up much longer, Honorable man in the robe she did cling to as he floated on issue to his decision, a final declination to a continuance deemed by court; that, And hereby, on this day, now, Say:

By preponderance of irrefutable evidence and with special circumstance, a verdict of guilty, through choice of Defendant -- wishing no man to judge her, but the eminence through Law Whom Ruleth Equal All. No Prejudice Nor Fear, did he set down sentence which should end thus: To a term no longer than that which Defendant should be incarcerated, as to the amount of days and nights in moral turpitude she squandered her victims, he rendered the craven acts with special malice and cruelty of intent, as a mere agent Lessor of Lodgement, an Innkeeper, unlawfully with deprivation in violation of Plaintiff’s Covenant of Peaceful Existence, did she relieve.

And so by Order of the Court, she SHALL serve out her sentence under the overpass where the I-10 ends in a maze of Los Angeles’s Skid Row, in a tent where she be remandered, although not really standard, under the lowermost overhanging awning, in a place of habitation -- already, before her, the I-10 so loud and fumid, where she'd be able to think clearly throughout the ordeal.

Warranty durable, should it of necessity in its fulfillment of determinant, subsection policy of coverage to which no clause, nor likelihood of risk amortization, through those Great Bodies of Bayesian Logic, Probability Statisticians, managed to assess that which boldness demurred, with warning our proclivity of enjoyment, times of danger and lack of inhibition, such courageousness wasted of adrenalized wash, natural narcosis, which we enjoy, compared with our duty to dispatch one-quarter century of pent-up niggling, as visited our frustration, whose credit shall present us who read this, no obloquy which I caused, you hear, as that to same degree, I shall enjoy a fireplace on the side of the transcontinental dedicatory slab to the movement of all our narcotics, this land, from its West to its East, an hyperbolic Woody Guthrie pharma-colonized mixture, which is our land now, and made for you and me.

In the deep, wretched South of my birth, says Barry Hannah -- wretched, but, still howling -- like the dinning rubber meeting road of Mario Andretti on nights you hear high-whining Formulae, its Straightaway Quarters where races are won; cacophonous to God -- to the Devil such an idea of fun -- inner-perturbation become discomfit as in dreaming, you find yourself lost in its midst, the ringing never respite, tintinnabulation -- this starts, so you now do, clangorous noise you weren't dreaming, remember the concept of Hearth, warm like home, your stay it may see you through this place, the same way as Religion absolves, guarantees of mortals to Glory and Promise of sinning, wanting you commit your memory as Gospel, when you from sweating awaken into a sub-tropical destination, at 90 degrees humidity, it's really not the heat, it's the torpidity which require strong one-two punch to cough-up your lunch, from economy of motion lost is gained 90 degrees insight whose side of the Highway is not paved with gold, nor paved with sound barriers, when looking across, it is seen, the thing which precludes asking aloud when outside, but which would provide perfect protection from eavesdropping G-Men tailing John Gotti and Sammy the Bull, who loved nothing more than eluding them through Bridge and Tunnel traffic massing upon Little Italy Gravy Joints, FBI packing in for home; the other side, where I, from my third story watch as you, like the painting by Munch, I cannot hear, but the shape of your mouth is as though you appear, ready to scream.

I know because it happened to me, I, like you, now also deafened by sounds only Eviller ears hear, they abound on both sides of the Slab, I-10, where you hear -- its squeals, through the name of the One, it to you hearkens with dread, and dead cursed squall, its sequel, again, and once more, it screams: Trudi Veals!

You late check-ins may wish her, or beware (by reading) The Curse of Richmond Inn & Suites, a Wyndham Hotels and Last Resort Trademark Collection, or the story of Trudi Veals. She is most simply recognized by her bromidic, counterfeit deficiency of presence, resembling the Executive doubles, who, saved by the Plague and its Social Distancing, indispensable to onerous owners of Inns and Suites which are inhospitable and untenable, and cannot be defended. Though Katrina would finish a Century of Death denied it by five years with interest, and finally restore it through penalty of profiteering, abusive mobs, unlike the present Gallows Humored fable, 'Ring Round the Rosie,' illustrative of Corporate Raiders and bottom-tier Hoteliers, whose review provides, simply through teetering acquisition by newly installed CEO, for reasons illustrated by its janitor, Mike, with two unopposable thumbs, the minimum rating it can receive is 'Two Thumbs Down.' SMC Clusterfuck, only Good Ol' Boy Hotel Investment Group of the Shreveport Country Club, Marina, building Hotels for Sam, over to Alabama, Walmart Corp., right in their back yard, who through anti-white racist tending by a General Manager of one-quarter century employ, Mrs.Trudi Veals, to fuck up the 'one car funeral' which was my brief 10-month stay at his lodge, Richmond Inn & Suites, a Wyndham Trademark no one wants to steal. But everyone wants to read what really went on in the NEW Hospitality Horror Mystery Novella: The Curse of Richmond Inn & Suites Repeats - a Trademark Collection John Holmstrom, through what strikes me as sensible, and intuitive in his initial resistance in support for Trudi Veals -- refusing to authorize her request to evict me over what was transparently fallacious.

but President, Delton Smith, Number One Son of great old man Henderson Smith who has just passed, to carry on a family business with as much respect, courtesy, decorum, and hospitality, as a preppy rich kid in a Beemer, wheeling through cherry-picked gig of 8 years at the Hyatt®, a riot of paychecks, nothing really his, everything free to take, the helm, the Presidency of Boards and even Louisiana Hotel and Lodge Association (a derelict clubhouse), even the spotlight at the Socialite event of the Season, marrying another Shreveporter, Dame of Vassar, probs. Together through wealth and throwing money at things, may their short time together, as they settle down in a place, well, since they both hate it there, it is excellent indeed, that Delton's a Hotelier.

Grandson of former Times section editor feted at engagement party Maggie Martin Shreveport Times Elegant black and gold invitations requested the presence of friends at the Nov. 10 engagement party for Delton Smith and Caroline Wiggins, who marry on the most glittery of evenings — New Year's Eve.Invitees gathered at the Pierremont area home of Dr. Kurt and Prissy Grozinger with others co-hosting.

It was an evening to remember with lamb chops on the dining room table and fried oysters passed by wait staffers, the talked about offerings of the evening.

Smith and Wiggins met through mutual friends, and Smith proposed at Capella Resort near Singapore. 101 is a lucky number for

Capella as well as promising 101 alluring waterfront accommodations, the hotel opened

its doors on 10.1 - October 1st

The two went were there for wedding of friends Smith met when he worked in the city. Smith is in hotel development and Wiggins is manager at Poppy's Monograms.More:

Fireworks surprise newlyweds after Coushatta reception

Smith's parents are Harrison and Cissie King Smith. His maternal grandmother is the late Beverly King Hand, a former Times editor well remembered for revising a Times style section. The bride's parents are Susie Wiggins, of Shreveport, and Pat Wiggins.Spotted in the crowd: Brian A. and Ginny King Homza, Drs. David and Carol Clemons, George and Clare Nelson, Bobby and Maura Pugh, Andy Querbes, Gary and Lisa Love, Dr. Charles and Katherine Sale, Lounelle Black, Mary Patrick Baucum, Bill and Nancy Broyles and the groom's paternal grandparents Shelby and Adelaide Smith. Maggie Martin is a Times reporter/columnist. She can be reached by calling 820-7404. Email: [email protected].