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| A Discourse; tag: zeno | |
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| Topic Started: May 25 2014, 03:07 PM (329 Views) | |
| Gislin | May 25 2014, 03:07 PM Post #1 |
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Zeno Phloropoulos, Allow me to introduce myself: I am Lord Gislin of Øster. I have read the majority of your histories and found them scintillating, especially those concerning Soto and Ashoka in recent years. Your philosophical postulations, in addition, intrigue me. Therefore, I would gladly attempt to help you in your studies, with all the resources that I have in my possession, meager though they may be; I extend to you an offer of patronage, indeed, in exchange for a question or two of my own answered, and perhaps a debate. I have traveled and conjectured much myself, but I have had little opportunity to discuss my thoughts with other men. My reputation may precede me; if so, have no fear. I am aware of how you feel about the nobility, and I can assure you that things are different in Morrim; I myself, also, am what many of my fellows consider a newly-raised nobleman, and have been common for much of my life. For any other unsavory rumors that might have reached you, I shall ensure your safety in my court, though there has never been any real cause to be concerned in the first place. Mankind hates the lonely, and those it does not understand. I am sure you, in your wisdom, have grasped this. Cordially, ![]() (It’s almost childish—as if someone was tracing awkwardly over what they thought was a good guide to calligraphy.) ---------------------------- How do men deal with fear? Do they weep? Do they return to mothers they cannot remember? Lord Øster is in residence, they whispered, because they knew—they knew by the ravens that flocked overhead all day, the ones that perched on stone walls and watched you, level, as if daring you to question them or their master. He’s here. Our useless, decadent patron is here. The monster was afraid. A week at least, he’d lounged in his quarters, blood-fat and melancholy. Fear had seized him and pitched him into the inertia of anxiety, picking up speed and strength until the coils and tangles of stress on his intestines were borderline unbearable. Is my death coming? Is it coming on the wind? Some harbinger of fate pressed against his temples and made him cry while he lay under the pall of slumber. He had many dreams of men from the village with crossbows come to kill him in his sleep, knowing finally what he was. So he read. (Is this how men deal with fear? Learning? Learning is always something to return to. It grounds one, makes one believe one is human, or could be in some other life.) He’d collected a great many books in his rambles; his shelves were full of histories and philosophical conjectures, physics and social issues. Of late he’d begun to delve into recent history, because he found that learning about things that he had experienced from different points of view pleased him. The name Phloropoulos had recurred a great deal in his studies and questioning, and he’d sought out a few of the man’s books. The wretched thing had found them to his taste, in a strange, devil’s-advocate sort of way; he devoured every history he came across, gobbling down the information as greedily as he might blood. He might’ve read Zeno Phloropoulos’ entire bibliography—he couldn’t be certain. In a slump, one tends to brashly marathon the things that make one feel fulfilled, and this was the case with Øster’s reading of Phloropoulos, after he’d done with some of the more famous authors. How do men deal with fear? He decided this: They demand to be entertained. He had questions. His learning up until this point had done nothing but sate his appetite for more, and it staved off the insubstantial, animal fear of death, grounded him, ironically, in the metaphysical: Memories he didn’t have, thought, and projection. Opinions, something he’d always thought of as a luxury than a necessity, were beginning to bubble up in his frayed mind. He liked this foray into philosophy. It made him feel comfortable, intelligent, and mortal. Without blood-hunger nagging at his bones, he was free to think and write and read as he would, though he’d no one to talk to about these newfound thoughts. He knew better than to ask Witt. He could imagine how that conversation would go. “Ciaran, what do you think about Hesperés’ anti-Mianorite policy?” “Whatever my liege would like me to think about it.” “Indulge me a moment. Was it cruel, or justified?” “It is not in my nature to comment.” A thought had budded one afternoon, after he’d exhausted his supply of reading material. He sent a servant bearing a letter. Over the past while, he'd waited for some sign that Phloropoulos had received his letter, requesting that the servants keep the courtyard and foyer meticulously clean. If Zeno showed up, he would be prepared to receive him. Edited by Gislin, May 25 2014, 03:17 PM.
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| Zeno | May 26 2014, 12:32 PM Post #2 |
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τὰ ὄντα ἰέναι τε πάντα καὶ μένειν οὐδέν.
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The thing that made Zeno accept the invitation was the signature. Gislin of Øster was quite right to guess that the old man tried to avoid the nobility as much as possible, and if he had not signed his letter so childishly, with such roughness, than Zeno would have assumed he was just another one of those people and he would have used the invitation for scrap paper. But instead, he took it from the hands of the young messenger who had brought it, read it over, folded it neatly and thought about it. He wasn't interested in taking money from the man since he was pleased with the life he had been given, in that he was only ever given as much as he was needed. However, it wasn't as if he often received words of admiration from anyone. Usually it was only the upper class with the resources to read his books, and usually it was the upper class that Zeno criticised. Thus he'd received more than a little hatred, though he knew that, many years after he had died and many years after everyone else had died, people would appreciate his work much more. But to hear it in this life was oddly tantalising. The name Gislin of Øster had sounded familiar to him so he spent the rest of that evening shuffling through his notes, searching for the one place in which he had mentioned the man. Finally, in a stack of notes that was seven or eight years old, he found a mention of that fief by the Falann River, wherein he had mentioned that the family governing Øster had suddenly abdicated and disappeared, leaving an advisor named Gislin to rule instead. Zeno had doubtless written down this rumour just in case anything else came of it, but nothing ever did, and Gislin remained a mysterious figure in his mind. Curiosity provided the last little bit of motivation that he needed to pack his things together and bring his goats to a neighbour to take care of. It had been hard to get him to go far from his cave lately. His run-ins with giants and magically controlled animals had made him more than a little bit reluctant to leave his spot on the earth. But hopefully this journey would be uneventful enough that he wouldn't have to see anyone die this time around. Sure enough, the journey was uneventful, except for a run-in with an incredibly drunk man who thought he could steal Cyno. The man got the whalloping he deserved and Cyno got lots of head-scritches and affection. However, when Zeno arrived in the yard of the castle of Øster, he wondered if things would stay uneventful. The wind had sailed gray clouds across the sky and now the potential gift of a heavy spring rain seemed more like a threat. Crows lined the trees and the walls, chattering over space and scraps of food. They strutted about as if they owned the place and Zeno could not fathom why their behaviour was like this and what attracted them to this place. It certainly put him on edge, and it upset Cyno as well, who wandered beside Zeno on shaking legs. Zeno explained his presence to the guards and one went off to fetch someone who would then fetch Zeno for Gislin. Until then, he waited, carefully avoiding the other guard's eyes and watching the crows sending their croaking cries through the cooling air. |
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| Gislin | May 26 2014, 09:16 PM Post #3 |
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The place seemed decaying on a whole—all crumbling arches and vines crawling up stone, man-made black shapes casting themselves against the horizon like paper cutouts of towers. The foyer, while appropriately grand enough, seemed cramped and... ill: Shadows clung to the walls despite the bright sky outside, and torches illuminated dampness and webs in forgotten corners on the windowless stone. The seconds stretched, labored, as the guard Zeno had spoken to huffed up the great staircase and disappeared into one of the many archways on the second floor foyer. The corvids delighted at the pair’s discomfiture. They played with more than a little malice, darting in close to Cyno as if daring the dog to lash out rather than cower, wheeling above among the ribs of the vaulting. The guards, perfectly aware of the pair’s attempts to avoid their eyes, were just as irritated and awkward themselves. Only one real item stood in the dim stone room to characterize the fief’s owner and show off his wealth : The two sides of the stairway flanked a wall, squarely in the middle of which hung a painting. The subject sat, all black doublet and black hat and black curls, offering the viewer an archaic smile and raising a hand as if in prophetic peace. Rather typical for the area and the time, if a bit five minutes ago in terms of artistic fads. The artist had no grasp on sfumato. A black-clad gentleman with close-cropped gray hair emerged, descending the stairwell with an arthritic sort of grace; a taller man in a shirt and black jerkin moved at his back, seeming tired but full of a sort of manic, unnatural alertness that piloted his limbs to move with electric fluidity. He was immediately recognizable as the man from the portrait. “Master Phloropoulos!” he called; at the sharp, hoarse greeting, the birds in the rafters seemed disturbed, skittering this way and that and cawing all at once. He surged past his steward, though his feet seemed to have trouble with the stairs and his calloused hands gripped the railing hard. “Oh, by the gods. A relief it is to see that you have arrived safely.” And at all, he wanted to add. He tipped his head, examining the pair from afar with beady eyes. I did not know you would bring your dog, philosopher. He was rather more unimpressive than Gislin had pictured him, with his gray hair and his slump and his cane—though he did rather fit the picture of the aging historian, something about his face amplifying the dignified, wizened anger he couldn’t help but to think suitable. He had no doubt there was more to the man, of course, as often it was with humans. When he reached the bottom, he gestured at the other man, introduced him as his steward—dismissed him with a word. “You will excuse me if we skip formalities. I thought they would displease you.” There was a hunger, a curiosity, in his eyes. His rings clicked as he knit his fingers. “I should introduce myself—it is I who sent the letter. Gislin of Øster, lord of this place. It is an honor to meet you.” An awkward pause. “But enough of that! Come, come”--he gestured--“you must tell me of your journey. There is a fine parlor and a good fire going—plenty of places to sit. You must be weary.” |
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| Zeno | Jun 15 2014, 10:02 AM Post #4 |
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τὰ ὄντα ἰέναι τε πάντα καὶ μένειν οὐδέν.
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Cyno barked at the crows, which darted in to tease her, cawing in their play. Zeno winced at the noise but didn't try to shut her up, knowing that it would only cause her to become more frantic. One bird came in particularly close, clapping its pointed beak at Cyno's tail, and the dog whirled around and lunged, teeth bared. The bird leapt into flight, wheeling above the bones of the rotting walls. The image had Zeno thinking of carrion. His hopes for this meeting, whatever they were, sank away, and were replaced with a vague sort of trapped despair. What was he supposed to do now? Could he just turn around and leave? No, a dreary guard was leading him ahead voicelessly, his hobnail boots clumping on the weathered stone. Cyno calmed down once they got past the walls and stayed close to his legs, low growl rumbling in her chest. Heavy doors creaked open for them and they entered the castle. The sight that greeted Zeno was of the wide stone staircase and a large, untalented portrait of a morosely-dressed man. Zeno stared at this for a moment, his random, sourceless despair yawning bleakly as he did so. Movement caught his eye, and he caught sight of the subject of the portrait and his attendant just a moment before the lord spoke. Looking at living, breathing version of the portrait made that pointless chasm close itself a little, though it would be hard to put into words why. He thought about writing an account of this man's appearance in one of his histories, assuming Gislin of Øster ever did anything noteworthy with his life. There had to be a way to avoid the painting's downfall, which managed to make the man seem depressed but in a relatively attractive way. The reality was much different: he was a perfect avoidance of aesthetic, at least in his face, which reminded Zeno of the blocky cliff-faces he had once seen at the northern coast of Morrim. Birds nested and fluttered about on those cliff-faces, and in a similar busy way this man had sporadic energy gracing his solid body. The waves bashed their fists on the cliff faces but to no effect. In the same way, Zeno had an impression that Gislin of Øster had been struck more than most in his life and yet the bedrock of his being had yet to waver. Zeno hefted a smile onto his face and bent down to restrain a growling Cyno by the scruff of her neck. She liked most people, so it was a bit mystifying to find her so averse to this character. It had to be those crows that had upset the dog, or at least that was how Zeno would choose to interpret her mood until he knew more about the man. She calmed a little under his hand, giving Zeno the chance to respond with, "It is a relief to arrive here safely. I have encountered many troubles on the road these days." Øster arrived at the bottom of the stairs and waved his elderly steward away. He advanced closer, causing Cyno to begin trembling. Her tail slipped between her legs and she let out a short, sharp bark. Zeno hushed her and got her to sit. She glanced between her master and her master's acquaintance, whimpers scraping about in the depths of her throat. "It is an honour to meet you as well, though I must apologise for my dog. She was frightened by some crows, it seems." Zeno stepped in the direction that Øster had gestured in, clicking his tongue for Cyno to follow. She stood and was obediently quiet. "I am of the opinion that journeys are frequently a waste of time to recount. They take a long while to recount, longer than they actually take to walk sometimes. Suffice to say that it was uneventful, except for that someone tried to pick up my dog and walk off with her." Glancing down at this untrusting creature, he said with an affectionate humour, "Perhaps he should have, given her behaviour." After a few more steps, then he said, "Weary I am, but I am not so tired that I must wait to see what conversation you have invited me here for." |
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| Gislin | Jun 26 2014, 12:45 PM Post #5 |
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“Ah. Of course. Ever brusque.” For a moment, the gentleman’s face became unreadable; his heavy, dark features assumed a chilling blank. Then a rare smile tore at his lips. “I expected no less. Though I am sure you will excuse some exchange of pleasantries--I am, after all, accustomed to catering to fussy Morrimian gentry.” Then--a whirl, a stretch of shadows on the wall. They’d gone down a brief corridor, a startling darkness sandwiched between two torchlit rooms. The next took the form of a cozy sitting-room, two well-stuffed chairs facing one another across a diminutive table of polished oak; a fire crackled in the background, squirming in the confines of the hearth. A few bookshelves flattened themselves out on the wall, drab and simple but full of velvety dark books cast in shadow. Occasionally the flicker of the hearth would pick out gold letters on a spine. The titles ranged from the Mianorite Question to a Brief History of Sotoan Cuisine. The dark-haired lord gestured at a seat. “Please be seated--I will not force you to speak of your travels, as... interesting as the kidnap of your dog seems. My, my.” He took his place behind the other seat, bathed in a contrast of crackling firelight and rich shadow; he drummed his fingers on the back, broken nails sinking into the moth-bitten upholstery. His eyes flicked to Cyno again and his lip twitched. “I am certain your dog will grow accustomed to this place. My birds can be... intimidating at times, but they are mine. They keep some noise in the place when silence threatens to eat a man alive.” His lip twitched. He dug his fingertips into the seat, chest moving with a shuddering breath. It seemed something bothered him for a moment, for his eyes--though difficult to read in the dimness--clouded over; but, like clouds, his irritation was soon gone, blown over in favor of his previous sunny and enthusiastic manner. “Well. Since you prefer to skip to the details. “I have invited you here, Zeno Phloropoulos, for a number of reasons. One is rather selfish--I am bored and lonely, to be frank. I have no one to talk to. My staff are frightened of me, the villagers are dull and uneducated, and any men of learning anywhere near my estate are too caught up in their studies to correspond. I expect the arrival of a woman of an old bloodline soon, but she is a fighting sort, and does not seem one to question the orders and beliefs of her superiors. “I was not always a gentleman, you understand; I am not accustomed to this treatment. Indeed, I am...” He chewed his lip. “Accustomed to--being an outcast. Before I came into this money. And I came into it just around the beginning of that strange century--so it has been a stretch, on and on, of the same faces. I enjoy my luxuries, but my social status alone has convinced me that I would not be a lord if I did not have an obligation to the estate.” A complete lie, but this man does not need to know that. He gestured at the books on the walls. “I have a larger library, but this alone should tell you what I have spent my time doing. I have strongly desired some discourse on the things I have read about. And I especially liked your histories; they have taught an isolated man much about a world that is much larger than his estate and his home country.” For once, something true and innocently happy crept into his smile; he leaned forward over the back of the seat, face cast suddenly into shadow. “So I... so I must apologize for asking you to traverse the roads. I am well aware of how widespread the bandits can be these days; for this trial, I apologize, and I apologize for your dog’s anxiety. “But I would like to... discuss things. Anything. And perhaps I could ask to employ you in the business of writing something, but... but we shall discuss that later, I hope--for now, please sit down. Tell me of politics in Soto now, in Ashoka, anywhere. Tell me of the world, please. I have no one to tell me these things without lying and misrepresenting events to curry favor with me. And in return, I will answer any questions you may have about my estate, about me--it is the least I can do, though I am sure it all seems dull compared to what you have to offer.” |
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| Zeno | Jul 21 2014, 05:09 PM Post #6 |
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τὰ ὄντα ἰέναι τε πάντα καὶ μένειν οὐδέν.
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Not for the first time, Zeno wished it was considered socially acceptable to take notes on someone right in front of them. He could feel the fresh sheaf of parchment he'd stowed in his himation; it itched. Sitting in the chair opposite Lord Ølster, he made a mental list of the oddities he mentioned, twitching one of his toes to keep count. First, Ølster claimed ownership of the birds, somehow, even though they were not cages and not trained as pets. The conclusion from this was simple: he had some sort of supernatural affinity to them. Second, the Lord had gone suddenly from "outcast" to nobility, which suggested more foul play than Zeno had originally picked up on. He still felt ostracised, unable to hold a good conversation, and he even seemed to be somewhat upset in the head. Zeno was certain that he'd be able to figure who exactly was visiting him with some light sleuthing. If that was even relevant to his interests. As he settled back in consideration of the man's conversation starter, he found himself wishing that Ølster would go off and do something dramatic and history-making just so he'd have some reason to do all this sleuthing and research. He seemed far more interesting than the aggressive, arrogant airheads that motivated politics in Soto and at this point, he seemed even more interesting than Empress Isra, who had been revealed to be a banshee, which apparently had no bearing on her proclivity to do anything interesting. Cyno had laid down on Zeno's feet, though she kept her eyes on Ølster. Zeno wiggled his toes under her as he said, "Well, it seems like the Soaren countries have been relatively quiet these days. Which of course means something will happen soon, don't you think? Orion will undoubtedly do something ridiculously inhumane soon, or else his attack dog, Sophia, will. But their behaviour is so unpredictable, so it's anyone's guess what they will do, just that this structure they've made for themselves will collapse. Though I have heard rumours that Orion is more restless these days, that all his old activities bore him...So his quiescence cannot be long-lasting, I believe. He has such power that the inevitable explosion will burn all the Ashokans. "And, well, I think there's a lot of prominent people in Soto who are not alright with the Ashokan government, exactly. Sure, they put on smiles and pander, just because they're afraid of Ashoka's military, but given the chance, given the ammunition...anything could happen. I don't know about Morrim though, since our Empress has yet to show much of herself. Have you any opinions? Am I making this all up?" |
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