Our bittersweet farewell to youth.
The Queer Sort I
It has been a little while since I heard those drums. Nor much else. The last of the children returned to their monasteries and gymnasia some hours before. I do not envy their circumstances; bright and warm enough is the sun through the teahouse’s walls.Bits of toasted bread and green and brown custard uneaten. Half of a sip’s worth of black tea clings to the cup’s bottom. And still in his slumber is Ging. He’ll whine about the soreness of neck and headache when he wakes. He’ll whine about what was consequent to his doing, but for now, it is not so intolerable to have his head on my lap. A lection without audient is a bore, so the broadsheets seize my eyes and hands - my daily prescription of suffering.On the first page are: poor handling of fireworks and blown off and re-stitched fingers; quarrelsome men sobering through jail and pillories; and the monthly obligations of every publishing house — announcing the lottery numbers and reminding the folk of civic duty. On the other and third page are news less grave; news from the province; news from elsewhere provinces; news from the monarch. Nothing that interferes with the Fechtschule from the looks of it. A portion carved out for law folk. Taxes. Civic duty. Marriage. Inheritance. Trade cards for folk intending to keep away from suits, or intending to win them. If I had any intention of giving birth thrice, this would be of help. Beyond those are page-long apologia and addresses of the inkhorns. I have my doubts the youth (well, low company) would cease killing each other were the iron on their hilts a little less weighty, or carried not on their bum. Mastupration with a scalloped knife would do me more good than continuing this reading. In any case, what is of importance here is Vunpen. She will be out of town for three weeks and so will her store. I’ll need to get more tabaco soon.“Heya, punk.”“Hei.”
“Um. Hei. Yok.” A half-awake Ging looks up to Baiyok. “Ow.” She did not take too kindly of the circumstances of his headache. Another is judiciously given through a pair of wax tablets. “Five Udd grubs, by the way. That’s what you risked getting brained for.” Her fingers seize the blonde tufts. “No punk will let you fuck her cunt for that much. You can’t buy one-fifteenth of a horse with that much. Can’t even pay frontage taxes with that much. So why the fuck are you risking your life. Your limb. For some chickenfeed.” They squeeze and tug and pull. And relent. “Miserly little faggot you are.” Baiyok droops her head and sighs. “Promise me -swear on it now- you will not do this shit again. Don’t throw your life away for this- this chickenfeed. This cunthair’s worth of grub or whatever the fuck the case may be. I- I. I...” Her thumb slides down, catching his lips.“I know. I know it’s- I— you needn’t worry of it, yea? This. This. this appointment of ours. This does not ruin my poke. Not mine. Not hers. Not in the remotest. If something’s out of reach. If money truly is a difficulty, I shall tell you.” She idly rests the thumb on his teeth.“So.”“With that being not the case. Promise me, yea?” Before finally withdrawing.“Ye- yea. I do.” “I do promise. I shalln’t risk my life and limb for some chickenfeed- some cunthair’s worth of grubs.”“Then again.”“Yours is pretty long so the—”The fullest breadth and length of brain damage, judiciously put into words.“Ughhhhh. Look at this shit, Unshun. look at the way he talks to his seniors. Next time he falls, stomp his head in. Turn that shit into syruped bananas. With a mouth like that, how Unshun didn’t rape you yet is something I’ll never comprehend.” My skin is not that brown and my clothes are not impregnated with tumeric. So probably not. “I’m not a Guest.” Additionally, stepping on him would not have the result she wants. “You -ought- to eat more curry, then.” Walking on her knees, she plops onto our side of the table.“Sharing an eating place with such filth is not what I consider a worthwhile use of my time. And the stench that follows their ilk would—” Whilst I busy myself making the table less cluttered for this forthcoming lection, Baiyok is content with using his head as a handrest. And watching.“Mind getting the attendant? black tea. toast with green custard.” “That sounds like an excuse to stuff your tongue in his mouth whilst I’m gone.”
“it is.”
With the matter resolved, our lection may properly begin. It shall be ___>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint OngkulimarnWe, the Freefolk, have a saying: should you chance upon a snake and a guest, strike the guest. But there was an aera when such a race was not so low (or low enough it was tolerable, I suppose). When the guests were Our Honored Guests of the Jambu Continent. Our religion, our folkway, our food, and our crafts are the afterbears of their instructions. With great reluctance can I say it is all vestigial. “He was born under the great bandit star…” But cruelty was never inborn to him.[+Guestlore: religion and history]>Frankfolk stories - The FreeshootistNearly fifty years have passed since we have declared and won our independence, in no small part due to the outlandish arquebuses, guns, and volunteer corps. It’s been some time since the junks entered our port (these days, they much prefer the capital and her three rivers) nevertheless, much of our modern conveniences come from them; the coffeehouses, the broadsheets of the printing presses, even the kiseru Baiyok and I carry. And seldom smoke. “So be it. By the gates of hell tomorrow: he or you!” Samiel awakens the Free bullets, for a price. [+Franklore: outlandish folkway and instruments]
>>6315855>>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint Ongkulimarn
>>6315855>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint Ongkulimarnwelcome back, OP
>>6315855>>Frankfolk stories - The Freeshootist
>>6315855>Frankfolk stories - The FreeshootistHon hon hon, time for le baugette!
A tie. Huh. I’ll be checking again tomorrow.
>>6315855>Frankfolk stories - The FreeshootistOur friends don't seem too fond of the "guests," so let's go along to get along. Also: guns are fun!Welcome back, QM.
Frankfolk it is. I’ll try to get this out in a couple hours.
>>6315855>Tales from the Waking Path - Saint OngkulimarnWhy does OP like the word cunt so much
>>6316225sorry if I did not make this clear, but voting’s closed, afraid.
about halfway done. See you tomorrow.
>>6316225It's a pretty good word.>>6316250See you soon!
Hello hello. While writing, I realized this update is a bit bigger than others. Can’t finish it tonight, so I’ll be releasing two-thirds of it now then finish up tomorrow morning, ideally.
The Queer Sort II
>Frankfolk stories - The FreeshootistSome ideas are universal. Garum.Ketchup.Fish sauce.Little wonder, then, civilizations so different in coalescence would cherish similar qualities.“The removal of foreskin without the consent of the person?”… let us shun the mosalman for now, Yok. “I thought we already do that?”Might being chief among them. The skill to put forth your will and force the world to yield to it. Whilst not the entirety of it, violence -is- the chief way of doing so. The ancients knew it as much as their descendants. And from this, folkway. The celebration of arms. The Art of Defence. Our tale begins in a time where not the bow, rather, arequebus accompanies the hunter in the forest and the festival. Standing before Wilhelm's marriage to Kathe, sole daughter from a family of hunters, and his station as the new forester is a trial. A man of good character, but a good shootist he is not. A Kasper approacheth. A Free bullet is produced.“He’s a fraudsman!”He once sought the very same station as Wilhelm, but was turned away by Kathe.The shot is pushed down with a scouring stick. Powder fills the pan and a gentle blowing shoves away the excess. The pan is closed for now. A slow-burning cord is fixed to a serpentine. The pan is opened. The eagle becomes little more than a smudged droplet of ink. His hands unevenly jitter and cook under the afternoon sun. The serpentine lunges at his fingers’ command. A flash. A bigger flash, scantly visible from the eyes of someone behind the barrel. And smoke. Two-thirds of a second passes before it drops the eagle.As so often is the case, that was the last one he had. He needs Wilhelm’s help in forging a new batch, midnight at the Wolf’s Glen — but he mustn’t tell a soul. In the meanwhile as the shot, a picture of Kathe’s forebears falls. A splinter pricks her as she tries to hang it again. More unnerving is Wilhelm saying he needs to venture into the Wolf’s Glen later in the night to fetch a bird he shot. Frightened, she goes to the local hermit for advice.
The moon, milk-like in brilliance. A cool air and a cooler-blooded man arrives before midnight. “Samiel, Samiel!” With his hand on a skull of a late Player of the Free Arts, he calls forth the black huntsman. Your time is almost up.To delay his immediate obliteration, he offers his friend’s soul and the family — with the seven Free bullets he intends to forge; one will be under the devil’s lordship; a shot to slay and murder Kathe would sunder the family and Wilhelm. “So be it. By the gates of hell tomorrow: he or you!” The day arrives. And with it, a bridal wreath for Kathe. What ought to be that, but its visage bears too closely a semblance to one from a funeral. Their bullets go through small and large beasts alike. One remains.Shoot this dove, the prince commands. The folk watch and murmur. Powder. Shot. Pan. Cord. The serpentine springs forth. Dust and smoke, and a collapsed Kathe. AND a collapsed Kasper.The wayward shot was deflected by the hermit and struck him in her stead. “Who would lay so strict a sentence upon him? Who shall cast the first stone?” As the truth came out, the prince intended for the marriage to be rendered null, and Wilhelm banished under threat of death. “Only the love and the fear of losing her force such a man to stray from a life without fault.” The hermit pleads his case. It pans out - the sentence is reduced to a year of faultless behavior. End.But a lection is more than reading printed text, of course.“The bollocks-shaped hilted daggers you see on Kasper and Wilhelm are… bollock daggers. Before the close-hilted ones of today, or these were frequent companions to men of all stations.”“We actually do have written reports of how these Free bullets are supposedly made in [law]suits; among the ways of making them are shooting at a crucifix, a picture of Cristo, or at crossroads.”“Much like the Fechtschule, the Schutzenfest can vary greatly in length and breadth; some are a gathering of a few close friends and relatives, whilst others are city-wide and attended by the local lord. The one we’ll be having soon is probably the largest we’ve had...”
Huh, so the religion of this world is very, very similar to the real one, just with several demihuman races. We know that magic works, and that there is a Vedic-style tiered afterlife, though... Garuda-like birdmen and nagas are canon, too. But so are Jesus, and the devil? Interesting.
Sneak-peek of the next post.
good news. Update’s in six ish hours. This is probably the longest it’ll get for a while. Thanks for sticking round.
>>6317131Waiting warmly!
