Phiri quickly distributed drinks as the Poet began a tirade on the evils of the King with a Hundred Hearts and the Masters. “We’re people too!” she said, nearly shouting. Phiri smiled nervously. “Why should our creation and our strength damn us to a life of forced servitude? Out on the zee–” she paused as Phiri frantically motioned for her to lower her voice a tad. “Out on the zee, your name doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if you’re clay or flesh. The zee will kill you all the same.” She took a long false-breath.
“I know some of my brethren find comfort in their bonds. I did too, once. Sometimes I even miss it. It was a simpler time, choices made for me. But that does not give anyone the right to make that decision for us!” The Poet jabbed her fist in the air as though she was rallying a protest instead of speaking to a few shaken guests. She suddenly realized this and lowered her hand sheepishly before nodding to the guests. “That’s what the zee is to me.”
“Any questions?” Phiri squeaked after a short silence. She knew this would happen and she appreciated the Poet’s passion, but she held rallies all the time. Phiri wanted a conversation for once!
"Oh, if you would excuse me for a moment? I forgot something most important! Again.", Mr Oathes remarks and hurries out to the front door, only to return a moment later with a hefty tome, wrapped in decorative ribbon.
"I am so sorry, please forgive my manners. It’s been a while since I had a good night’s sleep. Please, Ms Ulfur, accept this fine and concise selection of tomb-colonial short-stories. I’ve acquired it only recently on a… ahm… business trip in Venderbright." he explains sighing, handing it over to her, then quietly sitting down again.
“Ah yes, while I certainly am pro-Clay rights, I must point out that even when given the choice, most Claymen Finished and Unfinished chose to work with their choices made for them. Certainly, all Clay deserves a chance at living life with choices made for and one by them.” He said, seeing her passion for this discussion and he loved seeing people talk with passion. “The Zee is a place where choices both are made by and for Captain and Crew alike, the Zee doesn’t differentiate between rich, poor, Clay, Rubbery, Flesh, Wax, Lacre, anything! It punishes or rewards any who zail it in it’s own way.” He said, trying to rekindle the fierce discussion and trying to pull the others in it as well. Soon enough he was sure that the small flame of conversation could be seen as a veritable wildfire. “The only things I have yet to see with my own eyes and what I desire is to see the monsters of the bottom of the Zee! Explore the vast darkness.” He pointed to the roof and to a mirror. “And I wish to reclaim our right to stand in Sunlight again without being burnt. I know of an Island in the Zee where the Sun shines.” He said, being too swept up by the passion that he began talking about his own passion.
Perhaps not. Close observes will note that the new arrival is dressed in a rather low-cut crimson gown trimmed in white fur, not an Incarnadine Robe; is of considerably shorter stature and more feminine from than London’s most famous seasonal visitor; and wears a scent that is almost the exact opposite of lacre.
Lady Sapho Byron beams a radiantly Confident Smile about the assembly (with a special nod for Ms. Swan) and to the delightful hostess she presents a filled zee-zhell honey jar carved into the likeness of a zailing vessel.
“My dear Ms Ulfur, thank you for hosting such an exceptional salon! Clay, Flesh, and the Zee is such an exhilarating combination!”
“I see we all have a reason to love the zee, no matter how much it takes every time,” Jolanda comments. “Freedom. The Aestival Sun. Well, mine would be roses. Sun and roses. Bute before we get there, may I ask our hostess if she has found much support for her campaign in London? I know any talk of more rights sets certain people on edge.”
Maria tilts her head "Well, uhm… what to say about Clay… clay is a material for mugs?" she offers, shaking her head "Silly me! Golems! Right, uhm, I am opening up to them!" she says "You see, it was like a story I read at first, of the Rabbi, and the Golem who almost killed Prague…" she claims "But, I am most scared of them." she smiles "As to the zee, the only thing I remember is the festival of the zee." she shakes her head "I suppose I am not the adventurous sort, really." she adds, waving towards Sapho as she sees her
August looked rather shocked and quite happy to see Lady Sapho Byron had arrived, if she was here it meant this salon, even with few attendees would become the talk of the week, if not Month! He greeted her with a bow of the head. “Ah yes the Festival, a wondrous Zee Festival! However I prefer the Festival of the Rose and our current Neathmas.” He said cheerily, before turning the conversation back to Clay rights. “Ah yes, supporters for once’s cause is a most difficult thing to obtain down here.” He said pondering. “But the cause that is proposed is certainly a good one with good argumentation. One worth flocking to.” He said with a smile as he sipped from his glass and eyed the Honey jar, it was magnificent craftsmanship. “In the Empire I shall create either somewhere on the Zee or in Parabola, or in both… I shall make sure Clays will have the right to decide whether they want to decide or not.” He promised them.
"I myself have some Clay Men working at my warehouses at the docks." Mr Oathes remarks, taking a sip from his glass of wine.
"Of course I hired them because of their exceptional strength and superb discipline. And of course I pay them the exact same wage as the other workers that I employ. Most of them don’t seem to know what to do with all that money, but that isn’t my fault, is it?"
He leans over, looking at August. "If I understand correctly, dear Mr August, you plan to try your hand in state founding? Isn’t that a field highly competitive? You must be exceptionally wealthy and well connected. Or alternatively mercilessly idealistic. And who shall be the citizens of your Empire?"
Lady Byron drops a tiny curtsy to Ms. Konstantynopolska and Mr. August before obtaining a glass of Broken Giant and a seat near Ms. Swan.
"I must admit to being torn between discoursing on Clay rights–a natural subject for such a salon," she observes, flicking her eyes to the Poet, "and a matter of some little discussion in certain circles of London of late–and state founding: a subject that is ever of great interest." edited by Lady Sapho Byron on 12/13/2018
From outside, there came a knock at the door, echoing through the fluted vaults above the low, quiet resonance of the ambiance. The rapping folded in on its own echo, manifold layers of the Knock left hanging, dimly burning, in the hollow cavities of the zhell. Perhaps this was not altogether appropriate for a casual salon, but memories of the Cavity are not idly forgotten, etched deeper than even irrigo can cleanse.
Azoth didn’t wait for a response. This was the address, she knew, and she recognized the sounds of conversation within.
A wave of warmth fled into the cold winter air as she stepped inside, shutting the door gently. She gave a curt nod to their host before taking a seat cross-legged on the floor. She’d brought no gifts, only a violin - symposiums tended to become more interesting with a touch of music, she thought. Her left glove found its way into one of her thousands of pockets. Her right arm was cold as stone, mottled grey. Frost had accumulated along the veined cuts - Azoth swept it aside without a second glance. The discordance of this commingling no longer bothered her as it once did - she was content to allow it its natural color.
"No drink for now," she said, waiting for the conversation.
Professor Kan had so far merely listened, intently, to the conversation, although he did nod smilingly toward each new arrival and pass over the amuse-bouches. Now, however, he leaned forward toward the Pirate-Poet.
"I do have one question for you, if it is not impertinent. You spoke rather harshly just now of the King with a Hundred Hearts. However, it seemed you spoke of him more gently last we met, when you called him ‘my King’ and his dreams. Is there a reason for the change? After all, there is a sense–and again, forgive me if I am impertinent–where anything said about the King applies to the Clay Men, too." edited by Siankan on 12/14/2018
An alarmingly short man practically tumbles through the doorway. He runs a hand through his hair, sending a cloud of lacer flying in the process.
"Sorry for the intrusion, I hope I didn’t interrupt anything too important. I am dreadfully late, no?" He blinks and takes a second to look around the room.
"Well! This is much more of an event than I thought it would be. I figured there wouldn’t be many people interested in talking about clay men’s rights. No offence, Miss Poet." He says, nodding at the Pirate-Poet.
He takes a moment to adjust his suit and close the door. It seems he rushed very quickly to get here, even at this late time. "Osborn Draiss." he said, nodding, "At your service. I apologize for my lateness, I had business that simply had to be attended to, no matter how much I wanted to be here."
He pulls out a purple wine bottle. "I figured bringing an exceptional vintage would make up for being so late, but it seems someone has out done me in that regard. I’m afraid that my First Sporing is no match for a bottle of Broken Giant."
Osborn seems of the opinion that he’s interrupted something vital, and seems very embarrassed by it. Nevertheless, he pulls up a seat and sits down.
"Come and sit, friend!" Sian makes space on the divan, and passes Osborne a tray of fungal scones. A wine glass gets produced from somewhere as Osborn seats himself. "We were just discussing that very subject; I’d love to hear your opinion. Just give our esteemed guest speaker a moment to answer the latest question."
For the briefest of moments a furrow creases Lady Byron’s elegant brow. It is bad enough for one person to be more fashionably late than she was. But two … it is most vexatious. Still, one most overcome this sort of thing with grace and composure. She relaxes back in her chair and observes her evening’s companions.
“I see, Clay Labourers are some of the best out there due to their extraordinary stamina and resilience. Amazing Dock workers!” He said with a smile. He saw miss Azoth arrive and tipped his hat to her, before realising he still wore his hat, quickly taking it off. “With this many exceptional people I have no doubt that this salon and it’s discussion topics will be the talk of entire London for weeks to come, maybe something good will come out of this!” He proclaimed as he stood up to help refill glasses for those who wanted more.
Phiri shakes her head, giddy with the amount of people in her parlour, not a bit bothered by the latecomers. She offers drinks, nodding to August in thanks, retrieves more tidbits from her recently rat-ridden pantry, and graciously attempts to make everyone comfortable. Meanwhile, the Poet sighs. "My relationship with the King is complex," she said, directed at Professor Kan. "He is my creator, and a piece of him resides in me. Still, I cannot help but feel animosity to the one who keeps us captive as such." She gestures to the recently returned Phiri. "Phiri’s been repairing the Clay Men of London as often as she can–" Phiri curls her fingers, still dry and cracked, clay dust crescents apparent under the fingernails. "–and has been kind enough to listen to my often diatribes." Phiri nods, smiling a little. "Clay rights are controversial for a reason, and I try to understand both sides. It would be easier to prevent ruin to our city to have the strongest members subject to obedience. Riots are truly a frightening concept when one factors in the fortitude of beings who do not bleed the same as we do. It’s oft debated simply as a conversation topic." She shrugs. "That’s why I had this salon, besides the fact that the Poet can finally stay long enough to attend." She turns to Ms. Swan to address her question. "I am harangued occasionally for harboring an "Unfinished Man"–" The Poet scowls at the term. "–but overall many seem not to care. I would face more opposition if I began an entire revolution in my cellar, or sheltered displaced or fugitive Clay Men." She winks at the Poet, who gives her a sheepish look. "Whatever belief you hold, you’re welcome here. Just be aware that, ah, the Poet asked me to put up a sign." She pulls a sheet of iron from behind a couch. Painted boldly on it are the words "CRITICISM WILL BE MET WITH IMMEDIATE AND PERMANENT DEATH." Phiri smiles at it affectionately, as if it was a private joke instead of a harsh, violent threat. "I won’t, of course. Remember this is a free conversation and I invited any and all people. The Poet shall be putting it on her ship, and hopefully be able keep it a while, as Alcaeus classes don’t seem to last too long in her care." She chuckles slightly at the Poet’s mock gasp of offense and takes a breath, suddenly embarrassed. "Sorry, I’ve talked so long! Any thoughts?" she asks hopefully. edited by Iona Dre’emt on 12/14/2018
Jolanda laughs, and pours Sapho some more Broken Giant wine. “I think that to matters of Clay rights, I stand with our hostess. And i Understand that dock work is only the beginning for most of them; there are so many other careers one can excel in, and they should all be open to whomever proves they can do a good job. But in matters of poetry, I will brave death to offer my critique. Apologies, but the muses won’t allow anything else.”
Maria sighs, shaking her head "Well, at least they do a better job as poets than as lawyers, Jolanda." she says, tilting her head "Also, does anyone have some tea? Never Acquired a taste for wine. And speaking of Tea, would there also be jam for the tea?" she requests, smiling "Still, back to my point about careers… I somehow can’t imagine a clay lawyer. Although, frankly, I suppose any lawyer would do better than his task than the one I got back in Warsaw." she mutters "Although, for the defense of that one, I didn’t go to death Row, at least." she adds, shaking her head "Still, clay rights may need to go slowly. First menial tasks, and then maybe, People would consider Clay Men for… how to put it… more complicated tasks? I lack the word…"
"Well, indeed, as Jolanda and our Hostess said the options to obtain whatever profession they desire should be open. I wonder how good a Canon a Clayman could be. And I’d love to read some poems, I do find your aversion of criticism both a bit sad and delightfully unorthodox!" August said as he inspected the iron sheet. "Criticism is the mother of all improvement, be it negative or positive!" He proclaimed bravely, willing to be stabbed a few times over for his proclamation. "But indeed, to avoid a revolution, the rights should be slowly accumulated, not at once by storm. Since that could lead to situations like the French Revolution or a failing version of it. I’d hate to see lives lost if it can be avoided."
He said as he took off his Parabola-Linen suit, in order to look inside his pockets of the Smock he wore under it and pulled out a small kettle. "What flavour of tea would you like Maria?"
At this point it was clear that the social lubricant known as wine had done it’s job to help the conversations start up. edited by Honeyaddict on 12/14/2018
Sian laughs as well, before turning seriously to his hostess. "My views on that subject are public knowledge, but I shall certainly restate them here. Anything that can think and feel as well as a human deserves the same standing and respect as a human. I don’t care if it’s a Clay Man or a Rubbery one, or for that matter a rat, cat, bat, or bird. Even, if you force me to admit it, a Master."
There was a moment’s pause at that one. Even here, Master cracks might not be the safest remarks to make. If Sian noticed, he didn’t seem to care.
"My staff include humans, Clay Men, Ratti faberi, cats, birds, articles of clothing, and an irritable tigress. Each are employed by their special talents, each have given me good service, and each have been remunerated accordingly. London would be poorer without them.
"It must be said, however, that in at least one sense, our argillaceous cousins are more like us than anyone else."