#in a past life i was some kind of farmer in the midlands or something

[keirametzbrassknuckles]

I do think that the British pass time of walking long distances through the countryside just to go to a pub and then walk back is one of the most wonderful hobbies of any culture

[erstwhile25]

Old Salts, and Bitter Fruits.

It was a brisk La Noscean morning, the kind where the bitter chill winds coming off the seas wrestled with the warm sun reflecting off the mountain slopes.  Most mornings the sun won out, but in the height of winter, the wind was such that it could slip under your clothes and shake hands with your bones.  Hannah knew from experience (as most of her knowledge was prone to spring from these days) that it wasn’t as bad as the ongoing frosts of Ishgard, still one needed to bundle up against it, lest they found themselves making friends with a fever.  She had just finished gathering up the last of the winter peas from the fields, and had set her basket aside to rub a little life back into her chilled knobbly fingers.  

Age had been kind to her, she reflected as she sat her bony ass down on one of the smooth stones that marked the borders of her son’s fields.  Most women who had seen as many seasons as she had needed the assistance of a cane to walk, and that was if they could leave their rocking chairs at all.  However she was still able to bend at her waist, and carry a basket that was half her weight in stone.  True, her joints ached terribly before the coming of a storm, and she’d no longer had a tooth in her mouth that wasn’t porcelain or silver, but to expect nothing from time but a head full of grey hair was folly if ever she heard it.

It was a subject of some debate back on her son Sigmund’s farm.  His wife, a pretty little midlander named Sarah who didn’t have so much as two foul thoughts in her head to rub together for fire, was opposed to the idea of her aging mother-in-law working in the fields.  She insisted that if Hannah kept it up, then one day they would find her out there, dead amongst the stones and weeds.  The girl, and she was still a girl in Hannah’s eyes, never even contemplated the possibility that Hannah would have it no other way.  After all it was probably the bull headed need for physical labor that kept her in such fine shape for her autumn years.  During her years on the salt, Hannah had never met a job she didn’t prefer to do for herself.  In fact, one of her hardest lessons aboard a ship had been to trust in the work of others.  

Hannah shivered, and rose off the rock, tugging her basket to her shoulder.  Near on twenty years had passed since she had set foot on a deck, and still every fourth thought out of her head was about her life on the waves.  It was what every sailor meant when they said “The Siren’s Call.”, since most were too chickenshit to call it their own stupidity, blaming a pretty woman seemed the next best thing.  Still they were right about one thing, there wasn’t any sense to be had in it.  She had a good life now, Sigmund shared her own love of steady physical labor, and between the two of them they had made his farm one of the best producers on the coastline.  Sigmund and his little wife hadn’t been coy in their marriage, and now they had a fifth grandchild on the way to swell the household even further.  Hannah had made the offer a while back to have a cottage built for herself on the edge of the property, giving them the space every married couple needed.  However they wouldn’t hear of it, bless their amorous little hearts, the pair insisted having their family under one roof, all of their family.

So here Hannah was, with no need for coin, or a roof over her head, besieged on all sides by love from gangly grandchildren and moon-eyed betrothed.  All of these things rested neatly in the palm of her hand...and there was still space for something else.  It made her feel like shit, but there was no denying it, some part of her longed for the feel of the rolling deck beneath her feet and the anticipation of the great unknown.  Rationally, she knew the reason she would never return to the waves, it was the same reason she’d fought so viciously with Sarah about planting the fig trees behind the house.  Not because Hannah had any particular inclinations about figs as a fruit, but because of how the trees looked when they were denuded of their leaves in the winter.  They looked like skeletal fingers clutching up through the sea water, always reaching for the sky. 

It was staring at those trees that her son found her.  She had walked the pebbled path home without realizing it, as mired in her thoughts as a cart stuck in the peat moors.  It wasn’t until he rested a cautious hand on one of her shoulders that she realized where she was with a little start.  

“Someone once told me staring at a tree won’t cause it t’grow fruit.”  He rumbled through a chest now broader than hers had ever been, when had he grown taller than she?  She smirked up at him, handing off her basket without needing to ask that he take it. 

“Depends on what ye came out t’pick, not all fruit grows green.”

“Mmmm” he set off on a slow plod towards the front of the homestead. “Sounds like bitter fruit indeed.”

“Tis at that.” She said out the side of her mouth, following at his side..

“Ye know…” he said, plowing on into the conversation like an ox “Ye need not be the only one t’eat this fruit.”

She smiled up at him fondly.  The trouble was he meant it too, he would patiently listen to everything she had to say about her past life, and forgive her for it to boot.  Trouble was some things weren’t for him to forgive, and she wasn’t deserving of forgiveness anyhow.  

“Some mistakes are jest that lad...bitter fruit only ye can eat in yer old age.  Now hush, n’let me be an old woman in peace.”

“Salty old bitch.” he said, without a hint of malice.

“Green little shit.” she spat, with all a mother’s love. “Thought ye would be out still pickin stones in the western fields, not herding old goats.”

“I was headed that way, but someone claimin t’be a friend oh yourn showed up on our doorstep.”

Hannah stopped as soon as he said it, her foot on the first of the sensible stone steps leading up to the porch of their home.  She eyed the door above them as though it was a serpent rearing to strike.  “That makes them either an idiot or a liar...what’d ye make them t’be?”

Sigmund set down the basket of peas, and as he bent over Hannah noticed a cudgel was tucked into the back of his belt.  It was a plain and heavy affair carved from one of the thick branches of the oaks that dotted the path to the house; Sigmund said he kept it around for wolves and men in need of manners.  Hannah had only seen him use it twice, and that was all she needed to suspect he’d inherited more from her than a need for physical labor.  Nodding towards the house, he gave his mother a knowing look. “He looked like someone who could be trouble iffin he wanted t’be, don’t think he wanted t’be though.  Said he jest wanted t’talk to ye, so I left Sarah t’entertain whilst I fetched ye.”

Fetched me and that there cudgel, Hannah thought as she sucked on one of the silver teeth at the front of her mouth.  She supposed she could have berated him for leaving his family alone with a strange man, but there was time enough for that after she dealt with this.  She went to the wide stump near the front of the house, where they all took turns splitting firewood for chill evenings.  There embedded in the stump was a well worn hatchet no longer than her forearm.  It was hardly a weapon for most folks, but it was a tool she was intimately familiar with.  With a quick yank she freed it, and it slid easily enough into the apron straps behind her back.  Thusly armed, she stomped her way up the steps good and loud so whoever was in there heard her coming.  

Hannah had to admit, with the one exception seated at the kitchen table, she had walked into the picture of farmer’s hospitality.  Sarah had been an inn keeper’s daughter before Sigmund had offered her a life on his homestead, and thusly she had kept his hearth with the same inflexible sensibility that had commanded the line of innkeepers before her.  Everything was where it should be; from the fragrant cooking herbs hung to dry along one wall; to the color coordinated rows of jams and preserves they had sealed in the spring.  Every pot, every pan, every humble clay cup was precisely in the location it needed to be to convey a sense of welcome and warmth to those who were either returning home, or simply temporarily visiting.  It was this way, not because Hannah, or Sigmund, or any of his multitudinous get were particularly neat, but because Sarah Commanded It Be So.  The family bore it with good natured cheer, partly because they loved the small woman, and partly because they enjoyed their home being so.  Even crusty old Hannah enjoyed it; Which was why, when Hannah saw one of Tseng’s things seated at the table amidst everything she considered home, her blood ran colder than any Ishgard winter.  

It didn’t help that Juniper, the eldest of her grandchildren, was seated next to the lean salt haired outline of a man.  Juniper’s innocent grey green eyes were as wide as the tea saucers her mother was setting out, as the little girl of eight tapped one of the many ostentatious gold and silver rings on the thing’s spidery sea worn fingers. “What about...that one?”

 It opened its mouth, showing very white teeth in a wolfish grin, and a raucous laugh tailored to titillate rolled around the kitchen.  “I got that one from a princess of the Ananta, she dared me t’try dancin on one foot afore all her clan, as her people do.  I fell flat on my arse, but she claimed I should have aught t’show fer it anyhow.”

Juniper’s eyes narrowed, and her tiny mouth puckered in the inherent shrewdness of all eight year olds “Wot’s an..Antnata?”

“Oh they’re a sight t’be seen..” It winked (...or was it blinked?) to her and laid a finger along the side of it’s slightly crooked nose, as though the two of them in this bit of information had a precious secret to share. “Serpent women whose beauty tis beyond compare, they live in the outer Fringes outside Gyr Abania.”  

“Liar.” Shot back Juniper with no hesitation whatsoever. “No one’s prettier than Mum.”

This spurred a fierce blush from Sarah’s pale cheeks, and a second, even louder round of laughter from the thing. “How fool oh me t’ferget her” it said between guffaws. “Yer daughter does ye credit madam, she’ll have her pick oh the crews when she comes oh age.”

Hannah saw the spark in Juniper’s eyes as soon as the thing said it, and she knew, she KNEW somewhere in that little sprat’s mind, a life at sea was already painting itself.  It was that stupid, disregarding, need for adventure that still called to her as an old woman, and she would be damned it she let it claim one of hers. 

“She’ll have her pick oh the fields till then.” Hannah said archly from the doorway.  Before she had a chance to seat herself at the table, she was nearly bowled over by her granddaughter who flung herself into Hannah’s stained apron to hug her waist and then tug on the same strings that held the hatchet behind her back.  

“Nana! Nana!  Guess what??” With all the energy of a hummingbird in its prime, Juniper bounced up and down before her.  Hannah couldn’t help but run a gnarled hand through those curling brown locks and ask the expected question.

“What, my cherub?”

Sparing a suspicious glance behind her at their guest, Juniper went to her tiptoes and whispered in a voice that all present could hear.  “He’s a pirate.”  

Hannah smiled at that, how could she do anything but?  Still the important thing was to get Juniper as far away from the trouble at their table as fast as she could, if she had to lie to the child to do so, so be it.  “Taint nice t’call someone a pirate, even iffin they do look like one.  Asides, there’s no such things as pirates any more, the Admiral’s sweepin em all back out t’sea.  Now yer father’s out on the porch about t’start shellin peas, why don’t ye go help him?”

“But Nan..”

“Now child.” Hannah cut the babe off with a clipped tone that brooked no backtalk, a tone she hated using, but nonetheless had the desired effect.  With a bit of a wounded look, Juniper shot around her, and out the front door.  Hannah looked to Sarah, and for a moment, she thought she would have to ask the woman to leave as well.  However Sarah seemed to pick up from the look that this was neither a conversation for her or tea, and with a sigh set the pot off the stove.  Turning to leave for the door, Hannah’s prim and proper daughter-in-law paused to eye them both and then spoke.  “If you two are planning to kill one another, please do it outside.  If I come back and find anything in here broken, we’ll be digging two graves instead of just the one.” That said, she turned on a heel and followed her daughter out.  

“Some men rescue the damsel from the dragon…” It said, watching Sarah’s flouncing departure. “Other’s jest marry the dragon.” 

She stared at the man-like thing for a moment, carefully considering her words, diplomacy after all was the bedrock of civilization.  “Shut the feck up.”  

The one yellow eye narrowed to a slit as she said it, and for a moment she thought they really would just kill one another in her family’s cozy little kitchen.  Instead the thing that looked like a man eased back into it’s chair, and with a lazy hand motion, admitted the floor was hers.  So she licked her lips and pressed on.  “No jokes, no fables, no amusing anecdotes...jest plain speech.  I know ye get somat from that other stuff...yer like her in that respect, but whatever that tis ye ent gettin it from this house, not from these people.  Not while I’m still alive and kickin.”

It looked slightly affronted by that, keeping its eye on her as it reached for the bowl in the middle of the table, and selecting one of the pears that sat there.  She blinked and there was a knife in its hand, cutting off the rind of the fruit into a neat little curl off to the side.  A small rueful smile curled its way across that face, not unlike the peel.  “Ye sit there, talkin about me like I’m some terror from the deeps come t’visit horror upon ye and yer family.”  it said.

Hannah kept her eyes steady and forward, not daring to look away.  She’d warned Argus Stormwater another lifetime ago never to take his eyes off this one, he’d ignored her advice, and had paid for it with his life.   With the same steady calm as her stare, she pulled out a chair at the table, and then rested her bones upon it.  “Convince me that yer otherwise Kail.” 

“Oh come now.” Kail said as it continued undressing the pear.  “M’a lawful citizen oh Limsa Lominsa just as yerself, aught that not warrant me a little faith?”

Hannah didn’t let her expression alter one jot.  “I was there the night ye gave Jehige a second grin then tossed him off the docks, I’m well familiar with what ye are cutter.”

There followed a silence thick enough to spread on toast after she laid that out between them, Kail’s knife paused in mid slice, and that yellow eye eased up to lock on with her gaze.  “Look me in the eye and tell me he didn’t have that comin.” It said, and there wasn’t a hint of regret in that voice.  

It had been as if the act had been cut wood, drawn water, or any one of a dozen chores that Kail had needed to do that day, and it would probably never see the murder as anything else.  Oh it was true that Jehige would have sold his mother to the slaving guilds for spare change, but the utter casual nature that Kail had discarded him was a stark reminder to Hannah.  It was a reminder that if Kail was ever doing figures in it’s head, and reached the answer of one dead Hannah, then that is what her grandchildren would find in her bed.  

“I don’t think either oh us are in any position t’sit in judgement.” She said, and even as she said it, she realized it was true.  With an effort of will she drew her finger tips from the handle of the hatchet, where they had unconsciously come to rest as her mind had wound her up even further during the conversation.  She set her hands upon the table, and left them there.  “What is it ye want Kail?”

It grinned wide and white, not unlike a shark ready to take a bite.  “As it so happens, I want t’do ye a favor.” It said, and then it did bite, right into the peeled pear with no shortage of vigor and relish.  As it chewed with juice dribbling down it’s chin, Hannah sat there staring, unsure as how to respond to that.  She found her voice after it took yet another bite of the fruit, seemingly content to wait and watch for her reaction.  “Ye say that, but somehow I’m convinced this ‘favor’ oh yourn tis goin t’look more like barter.”

Kail favored her with a deceptively casual shrug, she had seen it used more than a few times when this thing was a younger boy.  It meant simply that the can of worms went deeper than you thought, Kail was only showing you the surface.  Still she found herself listening to what it had to say.  “Tis an opportunity, and we elder salts know there ent no pay without a little pain.” It said, then it leaned in close. “But what pain wouldn’t be worth bein able t’have a night’s kip without havin nightmares oh Tseng?”

Hannah had known this would concern the old man, had prepared herself for it when she had seen Kail sitting at her family’s table.  Yet still when she heard his name spoken aloud, she felt the small hairs on her arm try to crawl skyward.  She wasn’t as superstitious as the rest of her peers, but she was almost certain that was one of those names that echoed back to the ears of its owner.  “Twenty years tis a long time t’hold a grudge boy, what makes ye even think he’s still about?”

For the first time, Hannah saw the cheer on Kail’s face roll back like the tides, leaving behind a very naked and raw anger still as fresh as that night so long ago.  It’s words were clipped and under control, but only clearly from a small lifetime of tempering them to be so.  “This tisn’t about a grudge, this tis about finishin what we started.  N’iffin yer old bones ent tellin ye that he’s still out there, then yer a better liar than I am.”

She couldn’t help but snort at the hypocrisy, and made to rise from the table. “There ye are callin me a liar, but yer about t’split down the middle fer a chance t’get at him.  Not about a grudge my arse.  Yer about t’get a whole bunch oh folk killed chasin a ghost, n”I fer one ain’t…”

Something landed on the table between the two of them, dropping with a strange permanence that suggested nothing but someone picking it up would ever move it from that spot.  Kail had fished it out a pocket and tossed it on the table, Hannah stared as the world seemed to twist about the small thing.  At first glance it was a gemstone, a tear drop of a strange opalescence, without a single facet to suggest a jeweler’s tools had ever touched it.  It was in her hand before she told herself to pick it up, and she was drawing it closer for her old eyes to see.  She had to be sure.  She dimly heard Kail’s slow growl of a voice somewhere in the distance, but she simply didn’t have the room in her head to listen as she slowly became lost in the folds of light beneath the gem’s surface.  There it was...that oily sheen was as sure a signature of Tseng’s hand as any lord’s seal.  Steeling herself, she tore the gem from her gaze and set it back on the table.  She turned her weary eyes upon Kail, and asked it...asked him, she would have to get used to that idea now if they would be working together.  “Where?” 

He took a flask out one of those many pockets and passed it across the table to her, she gratefully took it and availed herself of the burning contents.  “I took it from a gunship I had t’scuttle back in Ala Mhigo.” He said “ Twas with a bit oh correspondence that suggests the captain was one oh Tseng’s.”

Hannah froze in mid sip, a horrible thought occurring to her.  “He ent workin with the Imperials is he?”

To her relief, Kail shook his head.  “He eats and breathes hate fer them, he’d slit his own throat afore it came to that.  Slipping a few pawns in their ranks and absconding with some of their resources though?”

She nodded in reply, it was a move that was just as much a signature of the old man as the sheen in the stone.  Kail was right, Tseng wasn’t just alive, he had a hand in the world stage.  Despite all the time that had passed, all the good she had done in the years between, she had helped him do so.  There was only one reply to that.  “What do ye need from me?”

  Kail removed the gem from the table, reaching for it with all the care one handles a snake. “I know how t’get Tseng’s attention.  To do that though...I’ll need t’sail into the Teeth.”

Hannah winced at the thought.  Far out to the east in the Sea of Glass were a set of islands known to sailors as the Seven Maws. As sailors were both poetic and original, they called the barrier of razor sharp obsidian glass that surrounded the islands the Teeth.  It was inaccessible from the air as the obsidian apparently carried trace amounts of aether, this aether caused a perpetual lightning storm to crackle over the islands.  Any airship that tried to pass through it was ripped apart by enough bolts to give even Raiden the Storm Father pause.  On the flip side however, to try and sail through the Teeth by way of the water was no task for the faint of heart.  Hannah could count on one hand the number of Captains who had told her they had sailed through the Teeth and that she believed.  Kail wasn’t one of them. “So what are ye talkin t’me fer?  Ye need the best navigator ye can lay hands on.  That ent me.”

“Well..” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ve a navigator already in mind, but I think he’s not of the mind t’accept iffin I’m the one doin the offerin.”

Hannah felt her mouth set into a grimace, here it came. “Why?”

“I sort of ...broke his leg and killed half his crew.”

In the swollen, pregnant, and morning sick silence that followed; Hannah wondered if she could break one of Sarah’s clay jars over Kail’s head without giving her daughter-in-law cause to carry out her earlier threat.  In the end she eschewed the fantasy to continue the conversation. “So yer the bastard Toumgara is swearing up and down the docks he’s going to murder at his earliest opportunity.” 

“T’be fair, he started it, and I ent the only one t’thank fer given him a black eye.”  If Hannah didn’t know any better, there was a fond tone in his voice as he said it.  

“Regardless how the feck do ye expect me t’smooth things oer?” She asked “Toum’s young enough t’still be floatin on his pride, he wouldn’t sail fer ye without a good reason.”

Kail took a sip from his flask, which she never remembered handing back to him.  “He also loves the old stories, and by extension the old crews that helped make them.  I don’t think ye could smooth things oer, but I think Hatchet Hannah could.”  He said, giving her a significant glance that seemed to pierce straight through what she had been building the past twenty years, and to the solid steel tool thrust through the strings of her apron.  She had to put effort into not flinching away from that. With a smirk sharp enough to cut oneself on he added. “Iffin that doesn’t work, tell him there’s treasure involved, that allus works.”  

Hannah blinked as he started to rise from her table, not even waiting for her answer.  She didn’t want to ask...but there was still that small part of her that roared for rolling waves, and sheets full of the southern winds, so she did. “Is there?”

Kail’s face didn’t shift an iota beyond that smirk as he rose, when he stood straight however...he winked at her...or was it a blink?  He left without another word.  She sat there staring at the bowl of pears in the middle of the table, not really sure what she would do now.  After a few moments Sigmund came into the kitchen, herding Juniper and telling her that no she couldn’t have a fox of her own, he didn’t care how cute the other one had been.  Hannah watched them, and knew, sure as spring was coming, that if she didn’t fix this, Sigmund would find out...and he would take it upon himself to do what she couldn’t.  So when her son sat down in the seat that her past had been warming, and asked her what had happened.  She didn’t answer, she just grabbed a pear from the bowl, and took a bite.  

[elizadoolittlethings]

Mark Gatiss on The Madness of George III at Nottingham Playhouse, The League of Gentlemen, Doctor Who and Dracula

'I’m writing Dracula for the BBC with Steven Moffat which will go into production next year.'

This week will see the opening of The Madness of George III at Nottingham Playhouse with Mark Gatiss taking on the lead role. We catch him during rehearsals to talk theatre, Nottingham and the Netflix society…

You’re starring in The Madness of George III at Nottingham Playhouse – what drew you to this story?

Adam Penford, the artistic director of Nottingham Playhouse directed me in The Boys in the Band two years ago and I’ve known him since he was an assistant director at the National Theatre when we did Seasons Greetings together. He asked me if I would do The Madness of George III and I said yes.I’m a huge Alan Bennett fan – he’s one of my formative influences. I love the play and I was very flattered and thrilled to do it. I also love being King!

Why should people come and watch the show?

It’s a marvellous play ��� obviously it’s one of Alan Bennett’s best-known and best-loved works and I think it’s an ambitious project to do for Nottingham. And it’s very relevant actually – as all the best historical drama is – you can pick out threads which are pertinent to the way that we’re living now… and the idea of a slightly dysfunctional head of state (or leader) - draw your own conclusions!

What drew you to the character of King George III? What can people expect from the show?

He’s an intriguing man - I did George III and his ministers for history ‘A’ Level so I knew, at some stage, quite a bit about Fox and Pitt and the whole set up of the Regency. The big characters of that period, I find, as Alan Bennett does, very interesting and the king himself is a very sympathetic character I think – unlike George I and George II he feels properly British as opposed to German and I think he had a kind of sensitivity – they called him ‘Farmer George’ – he was interested in actually making a success of the monarchy and making his family into an ideal unit – you could cite it as the beginning of the modern monarchy. But then obviously his illness threw everything off track and his terrible relationship with his son came into sharp focus. I think he’s a very interesting and contradictory figure.

It’s a very moving and slightly harrowing drama about mental illness but it’s also a grand, sweeping, historical epic with lots of fascinating political characters - many of whom you can find modern comparisons for.

You said in an interview that before a play you feel ‘terror’ – what makes you so nervous/ terrified/ excited about performing?

Same thing as any actor – weirdly I went to see Alan Bennett’s new play Allelujah at the Bridge Theatre the other night and I got out of the car and saw my friend Sacha Dhawan tucked around the back of the theatre, pacing up and down, nervously going over his lines and I thought I wouldn’t interrupt as I knew exactly what he was going through.

Everybody goes through the same thing – you can’t really imagine why you put yourself through something so stressful and bowel-wracking yet again, but you do – and then you get through it and then it’s ok.

The play is set to be screened as part of the National Theatre Live – what makes this so exciting for audiences and cast alike?

The NT Live scheme I think is a fabulous thing and I’ve done one from Donmar – a nerve-wracking but exciting experience. To think you’re being beamed all over the world from the theatre at that point - it’s lovely to have a record of the show but also to know that it’s reaching far beyond the narrow confines of its original base.

I remember doing Coriolanus and getting a message from a friend in Canada who said they were sitting down in a small cinema on Vancouver Island to watch it – slightly thrilling idea that it was being beamed from Covent Garden all around the world.

NT Live is an amazing opportunity for Nottingham and the East Midlands as a whole – why is it important regional theatre gets a share of the spotlight and raises its profile?

I think the reasons are obvious – this is one of the first NT Live events from outside of London which throws a spotlight on the fact that there is great theatre happening outside the metropolis. It’s fantastic to make people aware and also celebrate regional theatre and its incredible contribution to the national whole.

Do you think performing in a city like Nottingham will be different to London and if so, how?

Yes, I guess so – I’ve toured a lot and there is an interesting difference from city to city. Different places have a certain feel to them and you can get the sense of how audiences are different especially compared to London. I think what’s wonderful is that Nottingham has such a loyal audience and I know Adam’s play about the miners’ strike [Wonderland] recently had an extraordinarily different audience profile to the one you might expect and we can only try and encourage more of that and get people to the theatre who wouldn’t normally think of going.

Why did you want to work with Adam Penford?

It was blackmail, mostly. No, I’ve loved working with Adam and I think he’s immediately done a fantastic job taking over as artistic director at the Playhouse – there’s a real buzz about it which I think is so exciting.

I was very flattered to be asked to play a classic part in a great play and with Adam directing, it’s a great package.

What led you to becoming a writer, actor, producer – who or what inspired you in your life?

Well it’s all I ever wanted to do and I’ve been fortunate enough to get away with it so far. I was genuinely inspired by all kinds of actors – particularly people like Leonard Rossiter and Alistair Sim - people who combined great comic timing with proper dramatic skill – who could make you cry and make you laugh. Those were my heroes.

Alan Bennett himself was a massive influence on me – a fantastic combination of melancholy and truth and proper “Northerness” which is what he’s managed to celebrate. I remember seeing a film of his called Our Winnie with Elizabeth Spriggs taking her daughter to a crematorium on a Sunday and every single thing about it rang so true. I remember thinking: “How does he know all this?” – it was like he’d taken a peek into my own life. That’s why he remains a hero.

If you weren’t an actor and writer, what do you think you’d be doing now in terms of your career?

The only other thing I actually wanted to be was a palaeontologist, but I didn’t have the Latin (as Peter Cook used to say).

What was the first ever production you starred in - were you ever cast as a tree in a school production?!

I was never a tree – the first thing I was in was definitely Old Macdonald had a Farm in 1971. Then I was a carpet bearer to the 'Tsar of all the Russias' in ‘Baba Yaga ‘– the house with hen’s legs. My first starring role was in an adaptation of a children’s radio series called Journey Through Badlidrempt and I played Brains! I can still remember the song I had to sing in it.

In an on demand, ‘Netflix society’ what continues to make the theatre relevant for young people?

Well I think everything goes in cycles. It’s very interesting what the Netflix revolution has done for storytelling. You could argue that longform stories and the boxset mentality has returned us to a similar era when people used to read very long serials or huge Victorian novels. I think it’s all part of the same desire and hunger for stories which people have always had and will continue to have. With theatre it’s genuinely different every night and actually watching people live in front of you is an entirely different experience.

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The League Of Gentlemen at Motorpoint Arena Nottingham - first night review

What’s the most valuable piece of advice you were given that you pass on to young people working in this highly competitive industry?

My motto is “Work Hard, Be Kind” – that’s the clean version of it! I would say in terms of writing there’s no such thing as a would-be writer – just get on with it. Have a go. There’s nothing to stop you except the voice in your head telling you that you can’t do it. It may not be great, it may not be any good at all but unless you actually pick up that pencil or tap that keyboard for the first time you’ll never know. Don’t let that stop you from doing it. Generally, as Woody Allen once said: “90% of success is turning up”. There are a lot of people who don’t turn up and there’s always a thought that they might have been able to crack it had they had a go. Don’t hold yourself back – you’ll regret it.

Have you been to Nottingham before? What do you like about the city? What do you like about the theatre?

I toured there with The League of Gentlemen. I’d like to do the Robin Hood experience very much. I went to visit the theatre with Adam to have a look around all the departments. It’s a fantastic theatre – I love its history and the fact that John Neville, who’s one of my favourite actors, used to be the AD there.

I think it’s a fantastic regional beacon and I’m hoping it will once again really boost the East Midlands. It’s a brilliant stage with a brilliant history and you look at the walls of past productions and at John Neville’s past seasons and you can’t quite believe they did all these amazing plays in one season. It has a great history and a great future.

Do you have any other personal or professional links to the East Midlands?

Derbyshire – only because The League of Gentlemen was filmed there in Hadfield. I don’t really know much about the area but that’s the bit I know quite well.

What role/ character do people tend to ‘shout out’ to you the most?

It will be for Sherlock or The League of Gentlemen. Mostly people just say they like my work which is a very nice thing to hear.

What’s been your proudest career moment to date?

I’ve had a lot and I’ve been very lucky. One of my happiest experiences was making An Adventure in Space and Time – my drama about the creation of Doctor Who. That was a lot of things I love coming together at once and it was an almost entirely trouble-free shoot. A very beautiful experience. I’m always very excited about the future and the idea of playing this part is very exciting so hopefully George III will be one of them.

Do you ever get star struck?

Rarely – and I’m not being blasé about that. I always think of the story that the great Anthony Hopkins once told about his father meeting Laurence Olivier and talking to him about the football and Anthony Hopkins getting slightly sweaty that he wasn’t giving Lord Olivier the deference he deserved. His dad just looked at him and said “Well, he breathes air doesn’t he?”

However, the first time I was properly star struck was when I met Michael Palin who, again, was a huge influence on me. I got a bit tongue-tied around him.

Where in your home do you store all of your awards?

They’re on a small shelf that we’ve recently discovered damp under. That must be a metaphor for something.

After The Madness of George III, what’s next for you?

I’m writing Dracula for the BBC with Steven Moffat which will go into production next year.

The Madness of George III runs from Friday, November 2 until Saturday , November 24, including a special Gala performance on Thursday, November 22, with proceeds going towards Nottingham Playhouse’s 70th Anniversary Fund.

The Madness of George III will also be broadcast to cinemas across the globe as part of National Theatre Live on Tuesday, November 20.

For tickets visit nottinghamplayhouse.co.uk or call 0115 941 9419.

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[kodie-ffxiv]

Prompt 30 Close

~Burning Wall, Eastern Thanalan Three Years Ago~

It was the Rising, which meant Kodie was at his usual spot, cliffside overlooking the Burning Wall. Four glasses on the ground as the Midlander poured Limonian Rum to each, grabbing one of the glasses he held it up to the sky looking upward. “Abel, Elly, Pell. Miss you guys,” With that he took a quick swig of the drink, clearing his throat.

Kodie made every effort to visit the site at least every Rising, it’s where he lost his family with the exception of Rhyn, who had since retired and disappeared. Sharing a bottle of their mutually favorite drink, while Kodie talked about how things were going.

His attention turned towards the sounds of footsteps, one hand reaching for his gun, just incase the visitor was hostile, standing up. But there stood just a man, a tall one not too far from him. He was dressed in common clothing that looked as if he was a farmer of sort, a bandana over his head. Right away he noticed Kodie was going for a weapon, and quickly raised his hands.

“Forgive me for startling you. I come in peace. I’m also unarmed...” His accent didn’t seem typical for one to be in Thanalan though.

The Midlander nodded as his hand moved away from his firearm, reaching for the bottle of rum and pouring some more in the glass. “Ah sorry about, you never know around here who might pop up. How can I help you?”

The farmer replied with a headshake. “Oh nothing, just wanted visit here, it’s been awhile for myself...still remember here like it was yesterday.”

Kodie’s head tilted at the farmer curiously, his eyes studying the man’s features. The farmer moved closer towards the cliff, looking over to the otherworldly structure close by. “Just like that, everything stopped that day. The battles we were in, meant nothing for that very moment.” He removed his bandana and faced Kodie, revealing the Garlean eye.

The Midlander’s eyebrows furrowed, but he made no movement to his weapon. Stepping closer to the Garlean, his eyes narrowed studying him. “You were the one I saw….” He kept a certain distance between them, though by now he didn’t deem the other man a threat. “Just when I had awoken, I remember seeing a Garlean soldier, looking just as confused, scared, and wounded as I was…”

The Garlean turned back to face the Wall as he nodded. “And we both realized that moment, our fight was meaningless, and turned towards opposite directions...I was glad you didn’t come after me, I was wounded pretty badly, I barely stood up…”

“Heh that made two of us...was usin my bow as a crutch…” He took a full swig of his drink, clearing his throat again as he refilled the glass and offered it to the Garlean. “Though I’m surprised you came back here, long way from home.”

The Garlean took the glass and nodded in thanks as he took a few sips.  “Actually I’m not far from home now...I live in a village nearby. After leaving here, I fell unconscious soon after, I was ready to make peace, but then I had awoken and found myself in a small house, decorated in bandages, arm slinged, and a not so kind nurse telling me that I should be grateful that the other villagers found me, as she would have left me to rot….we married two years later,” He grinned as he finished off the drink.

“So you ended up stayin….what about where you were from?”

“What about it? No one came to search for me, or our lost. That village ended up burying the bodies of my fallen troops. The Empire didn’t even consider sending anyone to recover them our personal effects to our family. Like many villages in the Calamity, they were also in dire need, but no one would assist them. So when I recovered enough, I did what I could to help them. It was the least I could do. I was going to leave, but they asked me to stay, it was then I realized my home was there and no longer Garlemald.”

“Guess that explains the bandana huh?”

The Garlean nodded. “It’s easier to conceal it than explain to anyone who traveled to the village. Not many come by though, but I keep it on just incase. I rarely leave the village anyways, and I intend to the remain that way for the rest of my days if possible. Though today my wife insist I visit here, she knew that thinking about the past continues to plague me, and said maybe visiting here would bring me closure. I constantly ask myself why did I survive when so many of my friends, didn’t. What made me so special compared to them…”

Kodie shrugged as he grabbed another glass handing it to the Garlean as he poured more rum in it. “I ain’t gonna lie, I still ask that question myself. You got people that’ll tell you, maybe you’re needed for a bigger purpose, or you were just lucky, but I guess it can be both. I guess you figure out what you wanna do with your life after something like that..” Sitting back down on the ground, he poured more rum into his own glass.

“May I join you?” The Garlean asked, which was quickly met by a nod from the Midlander. He lowered to sit next nearby, acknowledging the other drinks glasses nearby. “I guess I found my place, didn’t imagine my fate would end up here. But I at least wanted to give here one last look before finally moving on. I’m sorry if I was responsible for the loss of any of your allies here..”

“Don’t be, it was war. I probably killed a fair share of your colleagues too. We both probably did things we ain’t proud of, but I don’t see you a an enemy now.”

The Garlean again took a sip of his drink. “One day I hope my people will realize the mistake they are making by trying to conquer the world. Perhaps one day we can all drink together when the wounds have fully healed, though I expect such a thing wouldn’t happen for a long time.”

“Eh maybe sooner than you think..” Kodie held up his glass. “To those who fought and died here, be they Alliance or Empire...maybe they be all drinking together now, and all sides being annoyed with a piss drunk Abel.”

The Garlean tapped his glass with his own. “For those we had lost."

[zuriwanders-blog]

Eastern Thanalan. Age 21.

The desert was the ugliest thing Zuri had ever seen.  She stared out at the road, dismayed in a way she couldn't fully explain, and looked back over her shoulder into the thinning trees, the edge of the border of the Twelveswood.  This was Eastern Thanalan, according to what Elder Arhus had told her, and it would be her first stop on her journey into the outside world.  

Zuri had never wanted to see the outside world.  Her home had been all that she'd ever wanted to experience, with all the things she ever could have wanted.  The panic was bubbling up in her chest again, and she planted her feet solidly on the dirt road, breathing in and out, slowly.  She was a hunter of her people.  Crying at something so silly wouldn't behoove her.  She was a representative of her tribe, now.  Even as an exiled member.  

Her lower lip quivered, and she tightened her belly, firming herself against it.

Suva.

Dirt crunched as she took a step forward, and then another.  It was necessary.  She was necessary, even if the trees were forbidden to her now.  Her tribe was small, and quickly outpaced by the rest of the world.  Without someone procuring new and better tools, and technology, to make their own craftswomen more relevant, to help them extract every last bit out of the small allotment of forest's bounty they were allowed, they would be lost.  She knew that.  They weren't farmers.  They wouldn't be absorbed into the larger towns and the scar on the land that was Gridania.  No.  

She resettled her pack and kept walking, numbly absorbing the details of the changing landscape.  She could feel the edges of the forest, feel when she left its shade -- even though there was still some scant trees left.  No, this was no longer part of her home.  It was just...dead things, and dryness, and heat, and dirt.  Lots of dirt.

Eventually she came upon a small settlement beside a bridge.  The wind was picking up, which was a relief; it was hot.  Uncomfortably so: the wide expanse unbroken by anything but small rocks and shrugs was dastardly.  The breadth of it made her skin crawl.  Even as she wandered up to the edge of the cliff and looked down, she couldn't see anything that would give her any reason just why anyone would want to be out there.  Lack of choice?  It looked depressing.  Brown, and dead, and dirty.  Not the good kind of dirty, like the thick loam on the forest floor, but just...dirt dirty.

She grew tired of staring down into the abyss and ambled over to the settlement, where she found a smattering of people.  She'd successfully avoided people thus far, not wanting to talk to outsiders -- a limited luxury, since that would become her new task in life.  Her mother had told her she was still hunting for the tribe, just for different things.  Without being allowed to come home.  Unless she was successful and proved herself, again, then, maybe...

Maybe.

Zuri gritted her teeth and approached one of the groups, assessing each with quick, furtive glances.  She did not think they would attack her, but outsiders were strange, and sometimes fey.  Plus, Zuri would not be surprised to learn that being out under so much sun in so much open space had made them crazed.

There were three of them.  They stood  far distant from each other, at least a fulm, so Zuri wondered how they could really understand what each other had to say.  None of them looked at her as she approached, or questioned her right to walk there, or even seemed curious about who she was and why she stood there, slowly coming closer.  They were strange.  She knew what they must be, by their physical aspects: the tiny one was of the small folk.  The one with the hideously rounded ears and stature near her own was likely one of the midlander folk.  The last another of the midlander.  Their clothing was plain, but to her eye finely, finely woven.  Amazingly so, surpassing anything like what her people wore.

Her fingers itched to touch it, but as she closed in on them she finally attracted their attention: three fulms, two, and there was plain hostility in their gazes, and in the raised voice of the midlander woman.

"Can I help you?"  Sharp.  High.  Sneering.

Zuri nodded, curiosity in the curve of her shoulders and the upward tilt of her chin, fingers spreading wide in entreaty as she reached to touch the woman's sleeve.

Her hand was slapped away.

"Excuse you!" The woman said.

Zuri tipped her head to the side, ears folding back in uncertainty.  Excuse her?  What was she being excused for?  She held her hand to her chest, wondering if perhaps she had missed a nonverbal greeting-statement.  She leaned in, to touch shoulders with the woman, and this time was given a harsh shove.

Even with the weight on her back from her pack and her bow, she didn't stumble.  She did take a step or two back.  Perhaps she was to touch foreheads?  She made an apologetic grimace, and stepped in again.

"Whoa," the midlander man said, even as the woman said in sharp and strident tones: "back off!"

"It's one of the forest savages from the Shroud," the small one said, his eyes full of something sharp enough to cut.

Zuri reached out again, in apology, and the  woman backed up behind the other midlander male.  "Gods," she said. "Make it go away."

"What is it you want?" He asked.

"Looking for handouts, or to sell some ratty hides, I've no doubt," the small one yet sneered.

Zuri frowned at him and made a dismissive gesture.  "I don't know your greeting."

"What did it say?" The woman asked.

"I think she said hello."

"What do you want?"  The midlander male had puffed his chest out, standing before the female as if protecting a babe.  Perhaps the woman was sick, and that was why she was hiding.

Zuri stepped back, not wanting to catch the illness.  "This is Camp Drybone?"

The small one laughed.  "Camp Drybone?  Hardly.  You've more distance to cover.  That way."  He pointed  westward.

Zuri turned her eyes to follow the ribbon of road until it disappeared into the distance, over a small dip in the land.  She could make something out in the distance that was, perhaps, a town.  Or a bit of funny shaped rock.  She wouldn't put it past the desert to be shaped oddly.

"There?" She asked, pointing.

"'Swhat I said, isn't it?"

She considered asking for a guide, and then considered them, and their attitude.  She couldn't blame them; if she had met them within her own territory she'd be like as not tempted to put arrows in them.  But they, despite their obvious scorn and mistrust, didn't pull weapons on her.  Perhaps this was a trading post, then. Perhaps they were stupid and slow, like the farmed animals in the Gridanian villages.

Perhaps this was life now, and she should get used to it.

She shouldered her pack, nodded to them, and started walking.  She learned two things on that long, dusty walk to Camp Drybone.  One, she needed to carry much more water for the trip; and two, that the sun really was her worst enemy.  She'd been dehydrated before, but never quite enough to push a headache from oppressive to dizzying.  There was no water, anywhere, and as she stumbled into the camp (it should have been called Village Drybone, or Town Drybone; camp it was not), she could have kissed  a talisman to the Old Ones in thanks.

She didn't feel that way for long.

There were too many people, to start.  The sun was following its descent down, which was the only good thing about the place.  The mix of people seemed so foul compared to what she'd seen before.  Some wore fine garments, others poor.  And so many scents!  It nose-blinded her, made her eyes water up with the various unfamiliar stenches.  Chocobo, under it all, combined with body odor, refuse, odd spices, food, waste, and something almost dusty and stale.  

There was too much talk.  It was hard to keep track of, as she slowly wandered in, catching snatches and snippets, each person more guarded and sneering than the last.  Out of this tangle of flesh she was supposed to find a single person, some hyur, in and amongst the rising walls and cut off buildings that felt like suffocation writ large.

Zuri lasted a quarter bell.  She asked a total of four people directions to the person she'd been instructed to find, and had been met with hostility in a variety of forms, or else questions she didn't have the answers to.  Before she knew it she was up above the camp, looking down into it, fingers rustling through the arrows in the quiver at her hip.  Thinking.  Watching.  Feeling the sun beat on her, feeling her headache growing worse, smelling all the awful things...

Before she knew it, she was dizzy and leaning heavily against a rock, panting.

Before she knew it, she'd passed out.

Never had Zuri truly considered herself to be a stupid individual, or especially lacking in common sense.  And yet, when she awoke feeling as if a creature had crawled into her ear and now attempted to claw its way out from within her skull and out through her eyes, she realized how stupid she'd been.

The sun had dried her out.  She'd let it dry her out, despite advance warnings, despite the powerful thirst and dryness she'd felt.

Grimacing, she let it go as she pushed herself towards wakefulness.  She lay on something soft, in a cool, dark room.  Gods bless for that, even though opening her eyes was difficult.

"You must be Zuri," a man said, his voice terribly grave, a distant rumble around the edges not unlike thunder.

She managed to crack her eyes open into slits, and groaned for her effort.

"Here," he said, something pressed against the back of one of her clenched hands.

She sniffed, and smelled something like an elder's concoction.  Sniffed again, and smelled too much about the man, the room, and knew she was still in Camp Drybone.

The cup held a tonic, one she knew, and she fumbled it into her hands and drained it.  She was already incapacitated, and if he'd wanted her dead, it would've been easy enough.  After that, he pressed a cup of water into her hands, and then another, until she could drink no more and refused the next.

She curled up into a little ball, while the man sat there, unspeaking and patient, and sought out sleep once more.  The pain in her head was too much for anything else.

The next time she awoke, he wasn't there, and she had a raging need to void her bladder.  A quick search found a heavy, lidded pot that smelled of previous uses, and she used it.

The room was incredibly quiet.

It was also incredibly empty.  There was a pitcher of water -- which she drank -- her pack and hunting items, the bed she'd slept on, and other things she knew the city-goers used.  She hated it.  She hated the closed in walls, the overlapping smells, and most of all its emptiness.  Her ears near rang with the silence, her head filled with the sound of her own breath and her own thoughts, devoid of nearby chatter and children and any number of necessary things.

It was just empty.

Everything was just empty, now.

A faint reprise of her earlier pain built behind her forehead, and she forced herself to take a deep breath, stepping towards the door; she'd rather face the Camp than spend more time in the mausoleum that was the room she'd been placed in.

Suva.

She opened the door, and stepped out to meet the man it was her duty to find.

That was all that she had left.

It was all she was, now.