#he’s just so. leader man cannot crumble because he cannot afford to. god give him a break please. 167 injured 82 dead | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

curiouslich · 5 years

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Rite of Tribute

The sun rose to greet calamity and chaos in the city of Allamar. Roar and outrage echoed in the streets as a single figure finished planting his banner and left. The massive troll made his message clear without any words. The sigil left was all that was needed.

Atal’jin calls on you.

Rumors to the east appeared to be true. The leaders of the Amani were gathering their forces and aimed to seize their moment. The borders were left unwatched, the guards removed from their posts. The destruction of eternal Autumn, brought winds of change.

At the center of the wilting city stood the nightmare tree Sin’drassil. Born of the blood of war and nightmare it stood as a monument to the tragedies of the past. A symbol to the growth of the future. As the citizens of Allamar began to start their day their three champions delved into the tree.

In the heart of Sin’drasil, at the epicenter of Allamar, was his sanctuary. Vines of black and red danced and welded to form walls and windows. Each snaking their way along the floor to meet and grow upwards. This was their altar, the anchor and source of their great tree. This place was sacred ground.

“M’ Lord, da Amani call.” Mau was always on the charge, and wasted no time explaining the situation. “Dey want us ta ride with dem against da elves. Dey demand our tribute.” The rite was an ancient custom among the trolls. Many of the druids of the vein were trolls, this rite called on their ancestry. When a new Chief was named he would plant his banner in rival’s territories, the message simple. Join, or die.

A pair of rubies shown from the darkness behind the altar. Light reflecting off the bloodied obrs cast a chill down the collective’s spines. The response was coll and subtle like the first breeze of winter. “And what would you three have us do?”

“We fight!” Zo’kar’s retort was much like the man, blunt and unrelenting. “Da Amani want us ta join dem, den we should. Wit Atal’jin we could crush da Crimsons and secure Allamar.”

“We can’t be joining dem? I be Amani, dey will take from us, and use us like a cog. Da war machine knows no end.” Mau turned from his War Brother to their leader. “Lord, we can’t be trustin dem.”

“Bah, Mau would you radda ride unda da Emberlight? Da elves which hunt ya people? Da elves that assaulted ya home more den once already? Dey want our blood even more!”

“I hate to agree with Zo’kar, but he is right.” Sperro the last of the generals finally cut between the two trolls. The elven man shook his head pushing them apart. “The Emberlight and most of Quel’thalas still sees us as monsters. Butchers that took the lives of half of this land. There can be no alliance with them.”

The Wargod was fed up with this debate. “Den its settled, if we wont join da Amani, or da elves, den we stand here.” Slamming his fist against the altar or roots. “We protect our home, our people, Allamar!”

Finally moving from the depths of the shadows Tzaka’jin rose his hand, he did not want to hear them bicker any longer.. Stepping away from his throne he paced towards his council. Slinking from one man to another he eyed each in kind. The powerful Zanadalri War-God, the brutal Bear Captain, and the Returned Phoenix Soldier.

“Allamar is just a city, Sin’drassill is little more than wood. Atal’jin will come demanding his tribute. Demanding that we join him in his crusade. House Netherstar will do the same. Forcing us to honor an oath from another life.…. Zul’Aman, Quel'thalas. They are just land, names and claims of ownership change nothing.”

“I will not trade the fist of one tyrant for another. If we are not at the mercy of the Dawnbringer and his zealots, then it will be at the wrath of Atal’jin, or even the blade of the Emberlight…”

Taking another breath ruby eyes fell ont he wargod. “No Zo’kar is right, we must protect our people. The Amani are not our allies, nor are the Emberlight. But neither are they our enemies. Both will ask for our aid…” Shaking his head the druid he reflected on their current dilemma. Pausing for a moment as he searched for the best words. The best idea.

“...and none will get it.”

“Give the word, to every woman, man, child. Pack your things, bring only what you can carry. We leave this place tonight. Head for the mountains. If they want this pile of rocks and memories its theirs. But they won’t use my clan for their wars, or their pyres.”

Resolve tightened he turned back to the trio. Seeing his three generals calmed the druid, it softened his expression and mind. “We have much to prepare. This was the first of Atal’jin’s envoys. It won't be the last. If we linger he will force our hand.” everything was colder now, tones, thoughts, even the air. Turning back to the dias Tzaka’jin twisted his finger above the altar.

Spiraling roots sprung to meet his grasp. Opening his palm the vines arched upwards before blooming into a small flower. Red pedals blossomed as if to greet the man.

“I did not survive the last winter... My life was stolen in war. I will not push my people into another one. Mau, locate a route, the quickest into the mountains. Take the bears. Take our druids. Take anything you need.”

The fur clad Knight slapped his hand to his painted chest. His orders were clear.

“Sperro, relay the message. Speak to them all, let everyone know we leave at sundown. We cannot afford any more time then that.”

Giving a deep bow the risen elf agreed.

“And Zo’kar, my Wargod stay with me for a moment.”

The final order given the trio’s mission was clear. Rising in unison two of the party left. Leaving just one figure alone with the Archdruid.

The Zandalari’s face twisted. “What can I do for ya my lord?”

Tzaka’jin’s hand rose to breeze against the petals of the red flower. “Zo’kar, My most loyal general. I have special orders for you.” Red eyes falling onto the flower his lips curled into a smile. “You were key in my return, you brought me back from the Nightmare, from the dead. You never questioned me. Before.”

“I will be taking my clan into the mountains tonight. Those that wish to stay will have my blessing, and my banishment. I will not pull those that wish to return to their family from them, let them make their fate.” Gripping the base of the flower he twisted it upwards. Exposing the petals to the light. “Family is something I learned a lot about when I was away.”

“I saw my sister again, I saw her child born.” squeezing the stem he slowly twirled the flower. “I saw death take them. Its cruel to outlive those you love.”

“Jin, m’ Lord?”

“Do you still want to fight, to make our stand against Atal’jin, and the others?”

Slamming his hand against the golden beads on his chest. “Jin’Tzaka, I’d hunt down their envoy and pike his head on da gates.”

“I figured you would say as much. So here are my orders. When we leave, when I take my clan, you, my Wargod, will stay.”

Terror ran down the trolls spine. Eyes wide he pushed forward grabbing onto the altar. “YOU CAN’T DO THAT! I’ve lost everything too. Ma mate, ma son, ma daughter. Not you to Tzaka, Please, don’t leave me behind!”

Another frozen breeze howled between them. “Zo’kar.”

Plucking the flower the Archdruid brought it up to his face. The petals darkened. Separated from the tree they began to wilt. Linking eyes they both paused.. “To my people, to we the exiled from our clans. We are branded, the Unwelcomed. Forced from our families, from our loved ones because of our actions.”

“I have learned though, that what is sacred is what we call it. Words have little meaning other than to try and tame the world. We the Druids of the Vein have been exiled from our clans, our families abandoned us. so we will form our own. From this land, this flower, we will blossom.” As the petals fell away they exposed feathered seeds. Face faltering for a moment Tzaka’jin exhaled.

The seeds wafted from the now dead flower. Floating on the air before hitting Zo’kar in the face. With that the room began to spin. The Wargod’s legs crumbled as the earth fell away.

“... I will give you this final gift. When you wake up, you will be with your family.” The edges of the Zanadalri’s vison blacked as he struggled to stay on two feet. “They have been waiting for you in the House of Memories. In the space between here and death.”

“Go to your family Zo’kar. For if you return to this realm, to this place. We will alreadyl be gone.” The world faded away and with a thud the Zanadalri fell to the ground.

“And when you see them, give the Speaker and the Soldier my regards.”

@thesunguardmg

@stormandozone @felthier @retributionpriest

#Tzaka'jin #Mau #Sperro #Zo'kar #Phoenix Wars #Druids of the Vein #Flower Clan #House of Memories #Saronus #Tallerius

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evolutionsvoid · 7 years

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If you are reading this now, it means that you have found the book. I have done my best to hide it, but I knew that someday, someone would find it amongst my possessions. I cannot know who is reading this now, be it my children, my grandchildren or perhaps someone else entirely. In the end, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is that you heed my warning. Though it is just an ancient book, it is a dangerous thing. The knowledge within it is not the real danger. What you should fear is what it can summon. It was a lesson I learned when I was just a young boy.

When I was young, our family’s farm was not doing well. The growing seasons always seemed to be poor, and our crop yields were low. With our meager harvests, we were just barely getting by. Those years were rough, especially during the long winters. It was a heavy weight that sat upon the whole family, but I know it hung the heaviest on my father. He felt that the whole family’s well being was his responsibility, and he was failing everyone. It was his lands that bore little fruit, his hard work that came up empty each time. He did everything that he could, but it wasn’t nearly enough. His farm was failing, as was his brother’s. My father’s brother owned the fields near ours, and he was faring no better. The two had split up the land that they inherited from their own father, looking to support their family with their share. With how things were going, both families were equally suffering. That was until one strange season.

One summer, my dad came into the house one day and talked to my mother about his brother’s fields. He was saying that his crop was coming up quite early, and his fields were looking green. Sure enough, when we went out to look, his fields were indeed thriving. Young green plants were bursting from the soil, which was a great improvement from the past years. Our fields looked pitiful in comparison, and I am sure that was what my father was thinking about all day. He talked to his brother about this apparent success, but he claimed he didn’t do anything different. “Must finally be my year,” he cheerfully said, happy to at last have things going for him. For us children, we saw this as a wonderful sign. Surely that would mean our fields would be next. Our fields would be just as green and lively as his sometime soon. They just had to. My father, though, was not so naive. I remember the sour look on his face as he walked back to the house that day. That wasn’t the only thing that stuck in my mind from that day, though. When I was looking over the ripe, green field, I remember seeing a scarecrow posted in the middle. Standing tall over the young crop, a sentinel against the crows and pests. At the time, I believed he had put it up to protect his crops. Now that he finally had some good growth, he didn’t want the crows to ruin it all for him. It turned out, it wasn’t all that simple.

As the weeks went on, our family watched his fields grow in health and size. All while our fields struggled to match them. At first, my dad tried to appear happy for his brother. He would say that they deserved to have such a good break. That he was glad that his brother would have a good yield this year. Deep inside, though, we knew it tore him up. To have such success openly mocking him. His brother didn’t say such things; it was his fields that did all the talking. They stood tall and proud while his lands failed him. All his hard work coming to squat, while his brother’s efforts bringing absolute victory. When the time harvest came, his brother filled dozens of wagons with his crop. His store rooms were filled to bursting, and his purse soon followed suit when he went to market. Our family was nowhere close to such success. We could hardly afford to sell our own crop, because it was the only food we had to survive the winter. While we reaped the fields, I remember seeing my dad stare over at his brother’s property from time to time. Even a hardened man like him couldn’t overcome the jealousy. It got even worse when his brother came over and offered to help our family out. Some food, some money, anything we needed to help make it through the coming winter. To our family, they were gifts. To my father, it was a stab to the gut. Of course he accepted the help, because he wanted the best for his family. To have another man take better care of his own family then he could was soul-crushing. My mother did her best to assure him, but it did very little. I was afraid that the guilt would kill him before any winter chill could.

That bountiful harvest turned out to not be some freak accident. The next year, my uncle had another massive crop and the following years brought the same. Their poor, struggling family was now rolling in the wealth, at least to us. He used his new found luck to buy more land and goods. Their crumbling barn was renovated, and their house gained a few extra rooms. Their three children now went out of town for schooling, while we remained to care for the fields. While my uncle gained new wealth and lands, he lost his humbleness. There were some days when I wondered if he remembered we were related. Surely someone so successful wouldn’t be tied to such lowly peasants. As his brother grew more boastful, my father grew to despise his success more vocally. No matter where we were at, be it at the dinner table or in the fields, he always had a harsh word to say about his brother. He refused anything his brother tried to give us, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He didn’t want any of his sympathy or his help. My father wanted nothing to do with it.

One year, though, things started to change. It was the year that my uncle sought to build a new house for his family. They had people working around the clock building their new home. They even had to move some boxes of their own stuff into our barn while construction progressed. Father raised a lot of ruckus when that happened. Their old farmhouse was run down and old, it needed replacing. If you asked my dad, he would claim that his brother was doing this because he didn’t want his family to look poor. Their farmhouse was too dirty and plain to be worthy, so it had to go. They needed new and flashy, they needed the opulence. I don’t know if that was the reason or not, but my father was sure of it. He hated his successful brother like the devil. He wished that God would come down one day and strike some humility into the greedy man. It seemed someone heard his words.

It started with some things going missing. His kids came to our doorstep asking if we had “borrowed” some of their tools. My father was furious at the accusations; my mom had to stop him from stomping over to his brother’s house and dragging him out by his ears. We had nothing to do with their missing tools, but that soon became the least of their worries. Other sorts of bad luck began to plague them. A blight came to their crops, bringing wither and rot to them. What cattle they had began to grow sick, and their henhouse was raided by some nocturnal predator. Not long after, their oldest son broke his arm. He had been up in the barn when the floorboards broke beneath him. Which was odd for such a new barn. When we heard these stories, we secretly smiled at their misfortune. While we weren’t doing any better, at least they weren’t having it so easy. I know my father enjoyed every one of them. He wouldn’t show it, but I know at night he would go to sleep with a smile on his face. Someone was knocking his brother down a peg, and he loved every second of it.

Things took a bizarre turn when my uncle came to our doorstep one night, begging to see our father. He was frantic, I remember him having a wild, desperate look in his eye. Though my father hated his brother, he was concerned with his distress. The two went into the house to talk, leaving the business between men. Though the kids were not allowed to hear, I snuck outside to listen by the window. I just had to know what terrified my uncle so. The first thing I heard was my father arguing with his brother. My uncle had asked to buy our entire harvest, every bit of it. My father was sure it was some cruel joke, some kind of mockery of our situation. We needed that food for ourselves. To sell it all would leave our pantries empty for the winter. His brother claimed we could just use the money to buy more food, but my father refused. This seemed to throw my uncle into an even greater panic. He practically demanded to have our harvest, no matter how much money it cost. He said that “they” needed to be paid, like he was in some kind of debt. My father scoffed at this and told him to give them his money if he was so ready to throw it away. My uncle cried out that “money means nothing to them.” I remember being so confused by that statement. Why would someone not want money? You could buy anything you wanted with it! It seemed strange for debt collectors to not want money. My father told him to use his own crop, but his brother claimed he had already sold too much. No one else around had enough alone to “make the payment.” He needed to buy every bit he could find to break even, and if my father refused he would be a “dead man.” My father angrily refused any offer he gave, unwilling to help his brother in the slightest. He figured it was time my uncle learned a lesson. Perhaps now he would learn some humility. At that point, his brother practically lost his mind. My father threw him out our door and told him to never come back. If he saw him steal a single ear of corn, my father would nail his hide to the barn.

I told my siblings about this panicked confrontation, and we were all curious about what was going on. We came up with the idea that our uncle owed money to some mob leader or something. Some loan man that gave him the funds to build this brand new house. Now his goons had come to collect, and he was empty handed. What didn’t make sense, though, was the idea that they didn’t accept money. What thug didn’t want money? We couldn’t figure it out, but we all made sure to keep an eye on our uncle’s property the next day. We didn’t want to miss the show.

The following day, our curiosity paid off. We watched our uncle run out into his dying fields, out to the scarecrow that stood amongst the rotting crop. I was confused by his actions. What did he want with an old, worn scarecrow? It had been stuck in the field for years, what could it possible offer? It surely didn’t have anything of value. My sister joked that he was going to try hiding in the scarecrow so the collectors couldn’t find him. It was funny at the moment, but that didn’t turn out to be the case. He started screaming at the dummy, spraying it with curses and swears we were too young to understand. He stomped and fumed at the thing, jabbing his finger at it and making all sorts of noise. Obviously, the scarecrow said nothing in return, and that somehow offended him. In frenzy, he tore the scarecrow from its post and flung it to the ground. He kicked it and stomped on it, screaming to the heavens as he did. We laughed at him, it seemed so comical. He was fighting a man made of straw and burlap. It didn’t exactly seem like a fair fight. To finish the assault off, he brought out a torch and lit the scarecrow up. The dried dummy went up in an instant, consumed in flame. At last, a sense of calm came to our uncle and he disappeared back into his house. We did not see him the rest of the day. We told our father about the odd behavior, but he didn’t comment much about it. I wonder if it made him think of the night before. Was this threat his brother was ranting about truly real? I didn’t know, as my father said little else about the situation. Perhaps there was some truth to his crazed words. When night fell, that uncertainty quickly vanished.

I remember waking up in the middle of the night, for what reason, I didn’t know. Something just seemed wrong when I was roused. As if I could feel a storm brewing before it even arrived. The air itself felt wrong, and I wondered what was going on. My room was still dark, lit only by the glowing moon outside. My siblings were still asleep in their beds; I was the only one who had been disturbed. Everything around me seemed in place, so I decided to take a look outside. Perhaps something outside was the source of it all. I got out of my bed and went to the window. I didn’t see anything near our home, so I turned my eyes to my uncle’s property. His fields were cut and harvested; only a few sparse stands of stalks remained. The fields were not empty though. There were figures standing in the dirt, beings who were slowly stalking their way to the new farmhouse. I was too far away to make them out, but something seemed off about them. Their silhouettes were all wrong, their shapes didn’t seem human. I was terrified by the sight, but was drawn to it just the same. It was so bizarre; it had to be a dream. Perhaps that was why I had the courage to creep outside and take a closer look. I didn’t think it was real, I thought it was all just some strange nightmare. I slipped out the window, leaving my sleeping siblings behind. I slunk my way through the weeds and crept to a hiding spot where I could get a better look. At last, I could make out the figures that stood in my uncle’s fields. What I saw was so outlandish; my mind couldn’t even believe they were real.

His fields were filled with scarecrows, of all shapes and sizes. Creatures scrapped together by cloth, metal, straw and bone. Some walked like men, some stalked about like animals, and others were too alien to understand. Heads made of bags, buckets and skulls. Limbs crafted from wood, rope and metal. Some skittered on spidery legs, while other squirmed through the soil on boneless tendrils. They filled the fields, seemingly appearing from nowhere. All heads were turned to my uncle’s house, and they all lurched their way to the house. The creaking and squeaking of their limbs filled the night air, and a strange murmuring sound seemed to resonate from their false throats. A violent crashing sound startled me, and I realized that the first wave of scarecrows reached the house. They were all armed with farm tools, each of them coated in a layer of dirt and rust. They smashed their weapons against the doors, tearing at the wood that stood between them and their victims. The windows shattered as other attackers breached the house. As the junk-built puppets climbed into the broken windows, I heard a piercing scream come from within. The family was now awake, and they were trapped in the middle of a very real nightmare.

The screams and cries within the house didn’t bother the scarecrows in the least. Their assault continued on as they ripped through the doors and walls. I couldn’t hear much over the chaos, but I was sure a struggle was taking place within. Suddenly, the scarecrows pulled away from the house, as if it was a cornered animal ready to strike. Those that had gone into the house now poured from the broken orifices. A group of the fleeing scarecrows held something between them. It was a torn red thing, reminiscent of a slaughtered cow. I knew it was not an animal, but I refused to accept it. The scarecrows had retreated into a circle around the house, creating an impenetrable wall of straw men. Had they claimed what they wanted, or were they waiting for something else? My answer came from a shudder in the earth. Somewhere in the darkness, the soil and plants surged and boiled. A great form erupted from the earth, and stomped its way to the encircled house. The scarecrows parted their masses to allow it passage to the trapped inhabitants. It was a scarecrow like them, but massive in size. Its face was flat and wooden; there were no eyes or mouth. Torn clothes hung from its frame and barbed wire entwined every limb. It was its hands that caught my eye. The fingers were blades of all shapes and sizes. Axes, sickles and swords that whirred and chopped the air. Without hesitation, the giant abomination plowed its way into the house, shattering the wooden walls as if they were glass. The screams grew louder, but they couldn’t overtake the crunching of wood and the shearing of planks. The other instrument that joined this horrid symphony was laughter. The scarecrows were laughing and joking as the monstrosity tore its way through the home. This nightmare was just a fun outing for them.

Something ran past my hiding spot as I stared at the carnage. For a second I thought of running back to the house, but I was afraid I would give myself away if I moved. I buried myself deeper in the weeds, searching for the creature that passed by. The startling arrival wasn’t by some animal or scarecrow, but by my father. Still in his night clothes, he ran through the field to the house of his brother. He was armed with an ax, and was yelling something out to the beings that encircled the home. I was shocked to see my father, as I had assumed this strange dream only involved me. How was he here amongst all this? His charge forth faltered as he caught sight of his enemies. Never had he imagined facing a foe so warped and strange. He screamed something at them, and resumed rushing to his brother’s aid. One scarecrow broke away from the crowd and approached him. He raised his ax to cut down his opponent. An arm no thicker than a broom stick swung out and sent him tumbling back like a rag doll. He scrambled in the dirt, trying to regain his bearings when the scarecrow came up to him and yanked the ax from his hands. He tried to fight back, but a swift kick from a cow bone leg caused him to fly back even farther. The rickety being just turned around and rejoined its brethren. Just as it did, a few scarecrows in the front burst into flame. Their brothers stood beside them with lit torches, striking the burning scarecrows with the burning ends. With a cackle, these flaming beings sprinted to the crumbling household and flung themselves inside. Within seconds, the entire house burst into flames. The chaos inside the house had died down, and the massive scarecrow exited the building as the flames claimed it. In its claws were two squirming figures. It dropped them to the ground, and the scarecrows swarmed. They grabbed the prisoners and began to drag them to the fields. The giant being raised its claws in the air, and the moonlight flickered on its blood-soaked claws. It was then I finally screamed.

I cried out at the horrible sight, of bloody blades and burning homes. Of my uncle and one of his sons who struggled to escape the clutches of the scarecrows. I screamed as loud as I could, hoping that the noise would wake me from this horrible nightmare. My father’s head whipped to my hiding spot, shocked by my presence. I was too scared to run, to even move from my spot. For a second, my father looked between me and his captured brother. Torn between two of his kin. With a cry, he turned away from his brother and ran to me. I caught a glimpse of his face before he swept me up in his arms. His eyes were wide and scared. My father, the man of stone, was terrified. He grabbed me and ran back to the house, never slowing for a moment. He didn’t dare look back at the gruesome scene, but I did.

As my father fled, I looked back at the family we had abandoned. I saw the burning house and bloodied creature, but I caught sight of something worse. I saw the scarecrows that pulled the screaming humans behind them. They were lurching their way to the weeds and corn, which swayed wildly in the breezeless night. The one thing I will always remember is that they glowed. Something beyond the corn glowed with the light of the harvest moon. A sickening searing orange that burned like a world on fire. I gave one last scream as the scarecrows stepped into the blinding light and then I passed out.

I woke the next morning, unable to recall anything that happened after my blackout. Our family quickly dressed and rushed outside. The fields were empty in the morning light, no life stirred. Our uncle’s house was a pile of ash and blackened wood, weak coils of smoke trailing from the torched remains. The ground was torn and stirred, as if an army had rushed through the fields. We searched the wreckage for any survivors, hoping that someone was spared during this nightmarish attack. We found no bodies in the burnt rubble. We searched the fields, hoping to find them. We finally did. Three posts were erected in the barren fields, each one baring a scarecrow of their own. Except these scarecrows were made from the family, or what little was left of them. They were the bodies of my aunt and two of her children. My uncle and his other child were not there. They weren’t anywhere. We spent hours searching the fields and the weeds. They were nowhere to be found. It was as if they had simply vanished from this world.

It wasn’t until years later when I truly understood what had happened that night. I was an older boy then, searching through the junk in our barn for a replacement part. It was there I found the boxes. The crates that came from my uncle’s house before that horrid night claimed them. Curious, I rummaged through it. I don’t know what I hoped to find, but I certainly found something interesting. It was on old book, so old that I thought it would crumble in my grip. The paper was ancient and stained, the cover wrapped in dried corn husks. I opened it, wondering what it could possibly contain. It held the words of soil and root. It held the words of the scarecrows.

What I learned from that book I shall not write here, you can easily read all that yourself. What I shall say is that you must be wary of the things that book promises. It speaks of ceremonies that can bring forth the scarecrows, to call a meeting with beings old as the earth itself. Of how you can make a deal with these beings, one that can make barren fields bountiful and failing crops thrive. The scarecrows can make such things happen, but this comes with a price. The scarecrows do not work for free, they require payment. A portion of the harvest must be sacrificed to them, so that the deal may continue. They care not for gold or coin; they seek the bounty of the fields. One must pay this price, lest the deal become void and the scarecrows reclaim what is theirs. My uncle was lured in by this deal, desperate for any path to success. He called forth the scarecrows and struck a bargain with them. They would make his fields bloom, and he would repay their services. It was a fair deal, until the infection of greed crept in. Until someone wanted more and more. Asking for more than they could pay. The scarecrows demand equal payment. They demand that their services be repaid. They demand that no harm comes to their emissaries. Each being who deals with the scarecrows is given an emissary, one who speaks to the crows. They are the ones who bring the crops and the growth. Those who ward away the pests and disease. Not a hand should be laid on these emissaries, lest the wrath of the scarecrows come down upon them.

To whoever reads this, beware the scarecrows. They are beings older than you can imagine, and capable of more than you think. The deals they make are tempting, offering a way out for those in need. That is why I have not destroyed the book, because there may be a time when we truly need their help. When our family’s land is threatened by drought or debt, perhaps we shall make the same deal then. If that time does come, obey the laws of the scarecrows. Honor the deal. It seems like a perfect deal, one without flaw or loophole. There is a flaw though, and it is us. Scarecrows are incorruptible beings, but we are not.

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Well, that went way longer than I thought! Sorry about that! If you somehow read all that, congrats!

And it is October! Halloween season! Lets get them scarecrows out!

#scarecrow #scarecrows #monster #creature #art #drawing

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libertariantaoist · 7 years

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Cosmopolitanism is under assault from across the political spectrum, both in the United States and abroad. Just yesterday President Donald Trump’s chief strategist, alt-right leader and self-described economic nationalist Steve Bannon, told the Conservative Political Action Conference that “the center core of what we believe [is] that we’re a nation with an economy, not an economy in some global marketplace with open borders, but we’re a nation with a culture and a reason for being,” This is a false alternative of course, but Bannon’s preference for nationalist tribalism is revealing.

The rejection of cosmopolitanism is bad for liberty, peace, and prosperity because they all go hand in hand. The link between liberty and cosmopolitanism is more than conceptual. Of course freedom includes the freedom of individuals to associate peacefully with anyone anywhere of their choosing, which in turn generates peaceful interdependence and prosperity. But the link is also existential: rising generations, no matter what they have been taught by their elders, naturally will be curious about other people and their ways of living, their cultures. They naturally will question what has been presented to them as sacred (even if “secular”) tradition. This will inevitably lead to cultural and material exchanges and hence further social evolution. The “ideal” of a culture insulated from change is a chimera, especially these days; it would be unachievable even if it were desirable — which it most assuredly is not. Even totalitarian states struggle in vain to shut out “subversive” foreign influences, as the old Soviet Union demonstrated.

We may not go so far as Aristophanes and say that “Whirl is king,” but unforeseen change is inevitable and also reasonably assimilable in normal circumstances. In a freed society most change occurs at the margin — the world does not start afresh each day — because no central authority has the power to make society-wide decisions. But with freedom, the cumulative effect of change is dramatic and largely benign.

Original cosmopolitan liberalism, what we call libertarianism today, embodies this fact of life. It embraces it with gusto. Liberty and the prosperity it produces enable us to grapple with — and indeed relish — the uncertain future that, being the product of human action but not human design, spontaneously unfolds before us. Serendipity happens. We can therefore view liberalism as occupying the ground between conservatism/traditionalism and rationalism/Jacobinism.

As F. A. Hayek wrote in “Why I Am Not a Conservative”: “As has often been acknowledged by conservative writers, one of the fundamental traits of the conservative attitude is a fear of change, a timid distrust of the new as such, while the liberal position is based on courage and confidence, on a preparedness to let change run its course even if we cannot predict where it will lead.”

Hayek’s openness to change may seem in conflict with the apparent conservatism of The Constitution of Liberty (1960) and his final book, The Fatal Conceit (1988). (The fatal conceit lies in believing that our principles of moral conduct were originally the product of reason rather than of spontaneous social evolution as people grappled with reality in search of better lives.) But no actual conflict in Hayek exists. (“Why I Am Not a Conservative” is the postscript to The Constitution of Liberty.) In the absence of good cause to depart from traditional practices, one tends to accept those practices because, among other reasons, their longevity may be an evidence of their value. (Longevity is no guarantee of this.) The case for such “conservative” deference dates back at least to Aristotle. (See Roderick Long’s discussion of the importance of endoxa, “the credible opinions handed down” [Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy], in his Reason and Value: Aristotle versus Rand. Long’s essay suggests that cultural innovation reasonably begins with defeasible received wisdom as opposed to wholesale rejection of it.) But the good sense in defaulting to credible opinions provides no case for freezing traditions in place, for this would imply an unjustifiable hubris regarding the current state of our knowledge. After all, today’s traditions were once new: how do we know there aren’t hitherto undiscovered better ways to accomplish our ultimate objective, namely, the flourishing of individuals in society? Why would we want to deprive ourselves of the opportunity to learn of such knowledge? And on what grounds do we assume that anything worth knowing is to be found within our national borders? Hence liberal cosmopolitanism, from the Greek suggesting “citizen of the world.” (I’m reminded of Adam Smith’s observation that “the division of labor is limited by the extent of the market.”)

Apparent efforts to romanticize tradition and cultural preservation (aka stagnation) have a way of teaching a different lesson. Think of the beloved musical Fiddler on the Roof, based on the Yiddish stories by Sholem Aleichem. The protagonist, Tevye the dairyman, opens the show by celebrating the tradition that has enabled him and his neighbors (and their forebears) to keep “our balance for many years.” As he explains, “Because of our tradition, everyone here knows who he is and what God expects him to do.” (At the same time he confesses: “You may ask, ‘How did this tradition get started?’ I’ll tell you. I don’t know. But it’s a tradition.”) At sundown on the Sabbath, Tevye and his wife pray that God will keep their five daughters “from the strangers’ ways.”

Yet almost immediately the traditional structure that Tevye believes he can’t survive without begins to crumble at the margin, and he is powerless to prevent it. When he agrees to marry off his eldest daughter, Tzeitel, to the much older butcher, as arranged by the village matchmaker, she begs her father not to force her to go through with the marriage. A year earlier she and her childhood friend, now the village tailor, had secretly agreed to wed as soon as he could afford a sewing machine. (Aside: when the tailor Motel Kamzoil gets his sewing machine he boasts that from now on clothes will be made quickly and perfectly — no more handmade things.There’s an economic lesson in that for another day.) Now under pressure from the matchmaker, Tzeitel asks her father for permission to marry the man she loves. Tevye at first is furious at her impertinence, but when he looks in his daughter’s eyes as she stands by her beloved, he can’t help but relent. His daughter’s happiness outranks tradition. (Before this scene we saw Tevye celebrating the marriage agreement with the butcher by participating in a Russian dance with Russian gentiles in the local tavern, indulging, it would seem, in the strangers’ ways.)

Tzeitel’s break with tradition is only the beginning. Tevye’s second daughter, Hodel, then falls in love with Perchik, a poor young radical teacher from Kiev, the big, strange, distant city. This was the same young visitor whom villagers had denounced as a “radical” for saying that girls should be educated and for dancing with a female (Hodel) at Tzeitel’s wedding. The “attack” on tradition kicks up a notch when Hodel and Perchik decide to marry: they do not ask Tevye for his permission — only for his blessing. He is scandalized at this further blow to the structure, but in one of his trademark dialogues with God, Tevye acknowledges that “our ways also once were new” — a subversive thought for one who wishes to keep his children from the strangers’ ways. Again he relents and gives his blessing (and his permission), explaining to his wife, “It’s a new world, Golde,” one in which people marry for love. He then alarms his wife, whom he had met only on their wedding day, by asking, “Golde, do you love me?” Tevye is clearly warming up to the new world.

But Tevye finally draws the line when his third daughter, Chava, marries a young Russian she has fallen in love with. As he is packing to move his family out of their shetl, Anatevka (from which the tsar has expelled the Jews), he relays his blessing to Chava and her new husband. It is noteworthy that Tevye, like Sholem Aleichem himself, moves to “New York, America” not Palestine. (Tevye’s brother had previously moved to Chicago.)

So even insular little Anatevka could not shield itself from change and the outside world. Was Sholem Aleichem a subversive? If so, many people seem to have missed it. But how can you celebrate traditionalism while showing the virtually inevitable erosion of particular traditions at the hands of the young and free seeking only to be happy? There’s a lesson here for all of us, especially those who seek to “make America great again.”

Whirl is king, despite one’s wishes and efforts. Of course this does not mean that all change is good, but attempting to prevent all change in order to prevent bad change is and futile and self-defeating. Moreover, change that one person sees as bad another person may see as good. People should be free to shield themselves against change they do not like, but coercive power must be kept out of the picture.

The history of original liberalism overflows with acknowledgments that openness to change, which is the essence of cosmopolitanism, is vital to flourishing. The free and competitive marketplace of ideas, like the market for goods and services, was championed by early liberals precisely because it was the way to dispel ignorance not just in how we think but in how we live. Thus they showed an appropriate humility — a recognition of the limits of knowledge — in their praise for the free marketplace of ideas.

John Stuart Mill’s On Liberty (1859) is well-known in this regard, so I’ll limit myself to one quotation:

“That mankind are not infallible; that their truths, for the most part, are only half-truths; that unity of opinion, unless resulting from the fullest and freest comparison of opposite opinions, is not desirable, and diversity not an evil, but a good, until mankind are much more capable than at present of recognising all sides of the truth, are principles applicable to men’s modes of action, not less than to their opinions. As it is useful that while mankind are imperfect there should be different opinions, so is it that there should be different experiments of living; that free scope should be given to varieties of character, short of injury to others; and that the worth of different modes of life should be proved practically, when any one thinks fit to try them. It is desirable, in short, that in things which do not primarily concern others, individuality should assert itself. Where, not the person’s own character, but the traditions or customs of other people are the rule of conduct, there is wanting one of the principal ingredients of human happiness, and quite the chief ingredient of individual and social progress.” (Emphasis added.)

To take an earlier example from across the Channel, Charles Dunoyer, a pioneering French radical liberal and one of the originators of class analysis (which Marx explicitly borrowed and distorted), criticized the socialism of Henri de Saint-Simon precisely because it failed to recognize the value of the competitive marketplace of ideas. Dunoyer wrote in 1827 that the Saint-Simonians’ “complaints against what they call the critical system, that is to say, against a general and permanent state of examination, of debate, of competition, attacks society in its most active principle of life, in its most efficacious means of development.” They don’t want to “leav[e] society to itself,” letting it develop “by the free competition of individual efforts.” Yet they contradict themselves by conceding that “free discussion is necessary” sometimes. But if that’s true, Dunoyer asked, what can be the case against freedom?

Dunoyer continued:

“Is there, in the course of centuries, a single instant where society does not tend, in a multitude of ways, to modify its ideas, to change its manner of existence? To accuse liberty of what remains of confusion in moral and social doctrines is to see evil in the remedy, and to complain precisely of what tends to make the confusion cease.”

Thus he concluded that “the error of the organic school [Saint-Simonians] is the belief that liberty is only a provisional utility…. It is … in the nature of things that liberty of examination will be perpetually necessary. Society which lives chiefly by action, acts, at each instant, according to the notions that it possesses, but, to act better and better, it needs to work constantly to perfect its knowledge, and it is only able to succeed by means of liberty: research, inquiry, examination, discussion, controversy, such is its natural state, and such it will always be, even when its knowledge has acquired the greatest certainty and understanding.”

In pursuit of this life-enhancing knowledge the political program based on liberal cosmopolitanism — libertarianism — centers on unconditional free trade and freedom of movement, that is, open borders for people, capital, producer goods, and consumer goods. This program represents not merely an adherence to an abstraction, liberty. Rather it embodies the understanding that the flourishing of flesh-and-blood individual human beings, like the division of labor, is limited by the extent of society and that therefore the boundaries of society should be expanded through peaceful voluntary exchange to include the entire world. Trump’s and Bannon’s nationalist, tribalist program is thus exposed as a threat to human flourishing.

#sheldon richman #tgif_the goal is freedom #libertarian institute #cosmopolitanism #donald trump #free trade #nationalism #protectionism #tribalism

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heartofbasara-blog · 6 years

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A Deal With Mori

The moment I learned of the forging friendship between Tokugawa and that uncivilized pirate of the west, I knew the gods had placed a gift perfectly in my lap. Anyone with an inkling of a brain knew of the passionate ‘love affair’ that Chosokabe Motochika and Mori Motonari’s rivalry. Chosokabe, who was rumored to be close friends with Tokugawa, has paid less attention to his little quarrels in the Seto Sea. Leaving Mori all by his lonesome. Mori Motonari…a poor fool, isolated by his own pride, left him nothing but a hollow existence as he tries to make himself relevant in the minds of others. His ego was fragile, so fragile that if he learned that Tokugawa, who mirrored the ‘legendary’ Child of the Sun, could wipe him from the face of this country.

Which made him the perfect candidate for an alliance, one that would engulf that traitor with sunlit smile into a never ending abyss of despair!

And so I arranged to have an opportunity to speak with Mori. I had told Mitsunari that I would be combing the west in search for potential allies, though I didn’t name any specific candidates. This would have to be off the record, of course. Mitsunari had too much on his mind to worry about something such as this. Not to mention I do not believe he would approve, being so indirect as this plan was. He would rather confront Tokugawa face to face, whereas I knew that plan was destined to fail. After all, to defeat a traitor you had to play them at their own game.

When arrived at Mori’s palace, his guards were all in shock, a tad fearful perhaps based of the wild look in their eyes. But I was able to convince them to have an audience with their leader, even they told me it was be futile. Mori was a private man, after all…but even a private man could not help but be curious of an unexpected visitor. Which was a correct assumption, for to the surprise of the Mori solider, he was to bring me to him.

When arrived at Mori’s office, I was not surprised by its state. Large, but barren. Grand in its architecture, but hollow with no sense of personal belonging. Mori sat in the far back behind his desk, his tiny self absorbed by the nothingness around him, the nothingness in his dark, distant eyes. He appeared lost in thought, where his solider had to speak a little louder to get his attention. He blinked, somewhat startled, but he was quick to dismiss the solider so that we may talk. Amusement flowed through me, sensing just how lost he appeared, bring him to my side may be easier than I anticipated.

“I thank you for this opportunity, Mori Motonari,” I began, giving him a small bow as a sign of respect. “I am pleased to see that Aki and the rest of your providences are doing well.”

Mori blinked. “It is to be expected. I take great care for my lands, my city. Now, state your business here.”

His voice was harsh and cold, clearly not in the mood for pleasantries. The walls were put up high, and I could not help but let out a small chuckle.

“No need to be so hostile, Mori. You act as if I was a parasite draining you of all your energy.” I levitated up to his desk, in an attempt to make a better connection with him. “Would it not be beneficial to leave an option for simple greetings? Negotiations may fall better in your favor if friendly banter can occur.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, “but that is not in my nature. I have no interest in keeping alliances based off ‘friendships,’ or go to war because of ‘enemies formed from hatred.’ I do what I simply must. So I ask you again, what is your business here?”

Ah…already on edge. While it only lasted for a second, in his narrowed eyes I could see a flash of discomfort in them. I wonder…has this man been so alone that just simplest interaction, a positive one at that, cause him waver and become undone?

“I see…” My voice trailed off as I got to the point of my being here. “…The west does like to stand on its own. You do not have a large amount of conflicts, do you?”

For a split second, Mori’s stoic expression cracked with a look of annoyance. “We have as many conflicts here in the western and southern factions as you do in the north and east. The difference is that there is a hierarchy, a type of balance that keeps everyone else in line to make sure there is some order in these chaotic times. I happen to be at the top of that hierarchy.”

“Oh, no doubt. I can remember Takenaka expressing how impressed he was with your skills.”

I was partly amused by that comment. Back when he was an ally of the Toyotomi, Takenaka would say the little Aki general was, how he had a great eye for detail and to keep order. He had a strange fondness for him, as he did for everyone who was under his watchful eye. If he were allowed to live to see the damage Tokugawa has done…

“He mentioned,” I continued, trailing my thoughts to the present, “if I recall correctly, you had the potential to take the entire country for yourself if you wanted. However, going back to this hierarchy you mentioned, do you not have a rival who causes you such dismay?”

Mori hesitated. “…Possibly.”

“And isn’t that rival the current warlord of Shikoku, Chosokabe Motochika?”

That made his mouth shut tight. Though subtle, Mori’s shoulders tensed up, to where his arms that rested on his desks grew closer together. His eyes locked on mine where I gave the ghost of a friendly smile.

“It appears that I am correct, that the rumors and stories about the intense rivalry between Mori and Chosokabe are true. Have you heard of these stories, Mori? About how the stoic, callous, heart as cold as stone Mori Motonari becomes a light of undeniable passion when his ringblade collides with the anchor of the ruthless, full of life, Sea Devil of the West?”

I went into further detail about these tall tales and myths, all of them I was able to get from the villagers on my way here. And to see the heatless general crumble before my very eyes was a beautiful sight. There was only so much a human with a heart could hide, and unlike myself, Mori did indeed have one. His dark eyes gave the faint longing for someone close, but not just any someone, a someone with the roar of the sea around them, with white hair that blew wildly in the wind… A someone who he was destined to never have, but was the someone who he wanted to have. A glorious story of unrequited, miserable love…

“It is just with all these tales in mind, it makes your previous statement about how friendships and the intense emotions towards your enemies seem rather…inaccurate.” I suppose I should end the torture. From the way Mori shook, I couldn’t have him break just yet. “Whether you say it or not, Chosokabe has made an impact on you. On your heart, on your soul…”

“…Where are you going with this?” He stood up from his desk, pure anger filling his gaze. “What is your point? I have far more important matters to attend to than listen to your tales of peasants. The Toyotomi is dead, I doubt you will have anything to interest me. So unless you actually have something for me, I suggest you leave.”

At the mention of the Toyotomi being deceased, I can feel my body unconsciously tense. In that split second, images of my dead men and collogues, Takenaka and Toyotomi himself standing out the most, played in my mind. The disrespect in Mori’s tone…he had no sense of respect for the dead, for those who died in an unjust way. How dare…

“I advise you to keep your speech in line, Mori,” I finally replied, holding back my rage I couldn’t afford to lose control of. “We are not dead, only slowly being revived by Toyotomi’s successor, Ishida Mitsunari.”

“Is that so?” Mori’s expression became stoic once more, his tone emotionless. He isn’t a fool, so I am not surprised he caught my little moment of weakness. A mistake on my part, but not something I could not fix. “Is that why you are here? On Ishida’s behalf so that I may align with you to regain power?”

“No,” I answered. “Mitsunari had nothing to do with this. I am here for my own purposes. I do wish for you and Mitsunari to form an alliance in the future, but what I propose right now is a far more personal issue for the both of us. That through working together, we can both benefit.”

“…Is that so?” Mori paused briefly. “And what would that be?”

“Tokugawa and Chosokabe’s friendship.”

I had put a little extra emphasis on the word ‘friendship,’ for as far as I knew, it could be much more than that. Chosokabe is a pirate after all, it wouldn’t take much to seduce him, or the other way around. It was unknown at this point, which placed Mori right where I want him, as his walls collapsed with the unavoidable truth if his beloved rival were to steer further and further away from him.

“I’m sure you have noticed how close the two of them have become recently. Dangerously close, enough to form an alliance. Tokugawa is the reason for the fall of the Toyotomi and I wish to see him feel the consequences, the misery he brought. And if he and Chosokabe become allies it would make him much more influential, much more powerful than he is already. And I’m sure you would like to see their friendship fall…for Chosokabe cannot be fighting his rival all the time if he is seeing arrangements through with Tokugawa. You would become a side thought; someone he needs to make sure doesn’t wander too close to his shores as an insignificant warlord of the west whose potential has been wasted on clans, on warlords who matter little. Tokugawa, the rising hero, will take your light away, become the new Child of the Sun that Chosokabe chases after. Tokugawa will be all that you were never to achieve, and unless he is put an end to soon, you will always be in his shadow.”

I intentionally paused once I saw the panic fill his expression. The fear of not being acknowledged by others, to be forgotten and to be as little as those under his ‘hierarchy,’ was one of the most pathetic moments I’ve seen in a leader. His heart was hideously weak, no wonder he kept himself so isolated. Just the tiniest amount of companionship, the smallest amount of positive interaction could give his heart pause, and then once the walls were back up it would shatter to return to the loneliness of before. The slow, agonizing journey to isolated despair was the path Mori was going on, whether he or Chosokabe knew it or not.

“If you are not careful, Mori my friend,” Otani said, “Tokugawa will effortlessly steal away all you have worked for. Your rival, your lands, your image… You will become a ruin just as you claim the Toyotomi to be. I have a plan to put an end to this unholy alliance, and it can only be accomplished by your assistance, Motonari.”

He flinched at the use of his first name, confirming my theory even more. His internal struggle was obvious, vicious even, for he knew that he was trapped. He knew he was going to be used, but he could not deny I was offering him a chance to take back what was ‘his.’ I am a patient man, so I allowed him to take his time, till finally, he spoke, where he claimed that for the Mori Clan’s sake, he would accept my offer.

I knew full well that was a lie, this was about himself and only about himself, but I smiled and complimented him on making the right decision. For in the end, it didn’t matter, who this was for. What mattered was that without Chosokabe’s alliance, Tokugawa would hit a severe blow, bringing him one step closer to destruction.

One step closer to Tokugawa’s death, and the vengeance of all those who have been wronged by him.

#Yoshitsugu: Headcanons.#Yoshitsugu Drabbles.

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