Open On Power, its Trappings, and Dynastic Decline

[Toska]

Posted in the central forums of the Brahman Magisterium, where students, alumni, and professors alike congregate over news and occasion debates erring metaphysical in nature was the following script:

"[…] In summation, such rulership no matter how beloved will inevitably fall victim to the bored malice of the masses.

Look no further than the elvish Harannossë or the runefolk in their great cities beneath the Palm of the Father for illustration.

Elvish dynasties are mercurial, power shifting with the season. Despite living three centuries or more, few of their rulers managed, historically, to last beyond a score of years before being toppled by rivals. This cyclical nature is exemplified by the Harannossë. Three thousand years of culture, of purpose which served to excise extraneous politics and distill them to their core: war. Bloodshed, among the elves, is a matter of state.

Records dating back to the founding of Suldaza claim […]

The Arsha-centric worldview is widely known to favor the politics and ideologies occurring in the isolated region of the South Ilican peninsula, often to the neglect outside its immediate ken. This is understandable, even expected, for to the empire there can be no material threat beyond that of its own borders. Centuries of propaganda has cemented this as fact, occasionally noted in moments of lucidity by imperial scholars—magisters, by self-denomination.

Logically, to the devout Arshakan whose loyalties toward Raj and Ko remain fastidious, unquestioned […]

Thus, recognizing decay of power over time, the forthright method of ruling an empire is rooted in a clean transfer of dynasty. The Raj must not overstay its welcome nor question the limits placed upon it by the Senate. Even the great Raj Iplaa's dynasty spanned but two generations. Who are we to question the wisdom of the Sorcerer King?"

 

[Toska]

Atop the thesis, driven in by knife and written messily sat an anonymous reply:

"You've written such drivel as to make a diseased whore's piss look clean."

 

[Vorston]

Much chuntering in gathered splatters of schools of thoughts, pigment blots of robes and accoutrements of precious metallic brushed this way and that. Smears and slander discussed from generous muddled easels applied liberally across the canvas of opinions. Shoes realigned and postured as opinion was proffered and sentiment was danced about and did curtsy to the powers that were and have been. Did kick about and show disapproval through pointed toe in gathered sages and mages, angles of disagreeance in circles quick drawn and quartered. Forbearance of folious remark kept in step and check. Quick slide of sole, shaking of heads, tumbling words brushing aside and rearranging the frames of reference. Wheeled about the letter so pointed in place in wall.

Quite the picture, quite the stir, Vorston did think, peering upon the letter direct as the peoples did sway themselves into impassioned chatterings here and there, in covens quick forming and dissolving, cooling themselves not to cause too much a public opinion as to be policed. Some writing in luxurious envenomed pens their remarks and complots to be scrubbing this sort of thing away in the court of public opinion and academic breathings of shamings. One could tell this did heat the calm broth of goings on so regular supped as tepid balm in such bookish peoples without the flavourings of bold politics and snide scholarings.

Drink deep of it Vorston did, the gestures of discontent and disarray, the drafting of replies on the spot or in the brain enflamed, discourse doled out as dram to drama thirst. Round ears of gnomish origin did hear much of the downpour of the weathered opinion, the clouds of qualifications that culminated their strength of academic climates. Rumblings, none in complete concordance, each having their own flair in how they followed the letter.

Perched upon the nose were the frames that were peered through, through and through, as if the letter was but a pane of glass itself to reveal who did frame themselves in such transparency. Squat and alone from the pastiche of pointillist posturing and verbiages, the gnome did shuffle this way and that, his own shoes not seen for cone of robes that did give himself a cloche to protect his own position being told in the foot.

But conversation was such a lovely thing to serve and enjoy. Yet the mages and sages seemed not in want to collaborate in some artful words with one such as he, themselves forming powderkegs and pressures. Much cursing and fealties to the forms. Gestures and gallivanting. Dismissal and discussions renewed.

The gnome Vorston did place fists upon his hips, having assessed the letter for a few moments himself, and even the nature of the jab of dagger. Some feet away from the scene of the disturbance did he do this, for while his eyesight was strained to be perfect, once affixed upon a thing could align to meaning well enough given time.

"Bored malice of the masses, I say," Vorston did say to themselves, and wrinkled their nose to keep their spectacles rightful and poised. Hands went to small of back, a lean this way and that, as if this was a piece of art to be assessed for all the ripples that did flow from it boldly.

"What's the solution hm, bagels and bigtops? Quite the placement, quite the theatrics. Might this be some stunt, to gauge a people, a litmus test? Loyalty perhaps?"

Vorston gave a shrewd hum.

"Well, there's a reaction to be sure."

He reached into a deep well of a pocket on his brown robes and gingerly fished out a bagel he had cooked with lye himself earlier in the day, having missed them from home so much to bake. Chewy and proper browned, he did chomp away, making his beard bob in pleasing sways as others did chew on words and drank deep of the muddling soup of much savoured thoughts.

 

[Toska]

"A reaction?" came the sneer. "Surely you've more to say on such obvious blasphemy. Why, to liken the Raj to the likes of elves? Think you the church'll stay silent long?"

Another chimed in: "Fuck, this is what our tuition goes to? My grandmother earned Praetorship of Kaldon just so we could piss our tithes away on this shit. What care should we have of Suldaza? As if that'll be on the exam."

 

[Vorston]

"You might be missing the thorny splinter for the rolling log whirling," Vorston said, gesturing about with bagel as he finished his mouthful from it. Swallowed with a gulp the treat but not his words.

"If the thrust of the argument is bored malice of the people, what's the opposite of boredom? Rapt'd'ness. This letter serves it's proposition in that, however contrary to, um," Vorston said, who realised he was giving further gestures with his snack. Slid it into pocket for later, gave a downplay of a cough. "Contrary to sensibilities."

He brushed his sleeve twice. Moved his fingers as if he might produce a bouquet of flowers from a flick of the wrist. His drooping sleeves bundled at his beard, fawned over his white sign of sagedness. He made comment quick and swift, light hearted as a child's naive musing over the brooding moods of entrenched seniors.

"Might the church regular speak against such sociologists?" Vorston said, as if postulating something harmless in such a space. As opposed something that might be a whirring log to roll himself flat as he had done with rolling pin to dough to render his delicious bagel, safe in pocket half bitten.

@Toska

 

[Toska]

A clamor came in way of retort, voices a muffled medley that bled each other dry. Most belonged to students, those aspiring Magisters who sought little beyond the years ahead of bought freedom from responsibility.

One, demure and timid, managed to cut through the rest: "Aren't we demonstrating that very bored malice?"

Some within this particular bubble of conversation stilled.

The voice, yet unidentified and likely hiding behind a press of bodies that hovered around the forum, continued: "Well, maybe it's like an elaborate joke?"

 

[Vorston]

“I dare say, in what I might be seeing, from what forms about this daggerpoint, this delivery punched in such edge,” Vorston said waggling two digits at letter as if to tease the weave from the scribed meaning somehow, “if it be a joke, it's nature is to misdirect! Quite cyclical in it's ironies, yes! To follow up the garden path it grows, to uh,” Vorston said, taking step forward as if crossing a tripwire in someway, eyes upon the letter, “to get incensed and outraged is to follow it's fated thesis. That's the jest of it upon who don't know the setup.”

Another stroke of beard, forming quick tower of cards to the words that might tumble should he not be steady and sure in the placement.

Many eyes and voices were thrumming and ebbing, undecided in the pit of emotions in the belly it seemed to Vorston. He did continue, as if giving lecture, steady pace and sure of volume, so that those with ears to hear could, and those with discussion of their own were not seen as impertinent for overlapping his thinking aloud.

He walked, deducing his thinking in honest way, the clockwork of his mind snapping cog and turning opinion as it mind the tension in the mechanics. Public speaking unassuming and more inviting for the practice, what audience he had for brief moments given eyeful of his own warm smiles and friendly nods. It was if talking about some great famed chess game play by play, inviting admiration the victor did have with their manurers and solutions to pieces placed in challenge. Less a lecture, less parable, more akin to sharing recipes perhaps, of opinions and spices suited to certain palettes, of rightful ways of handling kitchen pots and pans for guests.

“To retort and think in calm and measured way, this avoids the duping prank it gives want to give rise to I'd say. The pillars it does seek to suggest are crumbling, this letter itself is not immediate a hammer to strike and crack these institutions to so describes. This phenomena it so postulates, it may induce itself by inviting us to take up tools of deconstruction. By our lifting hammer to strike it's words in outrage, to chistle at esteemed minds that lay and maintain foundations. In a way, this letter is most like inviting damp into a home by encouraging poor house keeping.”

He folded his hands behind his back, firmly happy to be speaking at length. This was clearly no politician, but an admirer of the game, and as if deconstructing the joke as to invite a playful banter and heckle back, instead of sharp wooden cane to drag a performer back in shock from center stage.

“When rain pours, we do not blame it for coming down so, such things run their course by pattern and climate. But we take measures to keep ourselves dry, this is common wisdom. Our timber beams varnished and supporting, our ceilings from dripping into our morning brew. Maintaining a home we find warmth in. Proper housekeeping is the way. Mindful of the weather, we our open ours windows when we can to save ourselves from damp, and to wipe our shoes and shake our umbrellas before the threshold when it arrives. Proper housekeeping, proper hygiene of the mind and institutions, good manners and rightful ways. Calmly, with some wisdom, hear the pitter patter, hear the waters rush, and bolster ourselves from such, before, during and the afters, yes? Vigilance then, calm vigilance, preparation and tools to mend and mind the creeping doubt. Do not shake fist at rain that it does pour and trudge in the mud it makes. Instead, maintain our homes, and good etiquette about our manners as we go about our days, home and afield, guest or host, hm? Let's not slip for want of dry ground, and bring the roof down in misstep, that would be a terrible shame I should think.”

Vorston did seem positively chummy, but made it seem that his opinion was not seen as too smart or wise and proud of itself. Like someone perhaps sharing a common way of preventing a soufflé from sinking, or perhaps the correct time for a fermenting drink to placed in bottle without breaking from the bubbling pressure.

 

[Toska]

The dramatic nature of its presentation did wonders in shaking the doldrums off academy life. Deep in the throes of research and academia, it was rare to find excuse enough to shout, let alone debate with such ardor topics typically reserved for publications. Some argued that the unorthodox method was a form of publication, granted weight by its anonymity. Endless inquiries over the mystique presided over the forum, even as those congregated listened with measured if occasionally belated respect to the gnome's repartee.

That small pocket of students mingling around the thesis formed an uneasy circle around Vorston, joined in time by curious Magisters and forum guests lured by the dialog. Others, less rapt in their attentions, occasioned breakfast in the nearby cafeteria, heads bobbing along to follow when they saw fit to turn an ear.

After a fashion, they did take to the gnome's advice, speaking not out of turn lest they lose their turns to speak.

That tremulous voice, dubious now, added, "Magister Breilly teaches that power is only corrigible when it is not absolute."

Another followed, "In this case, Sir Gnome, could we not say that the Magisterium is itself emblematic of the thesis? Besides, I wouldn't say we're exactly outraged. Excited, maybe. I'm more interested in hearing your thoughts on that last bit. What was it, the 'Arsha-centric worldview?' Unduly bold, surely, given no source to back the claim."