"Like the professor, my views on Clay Men–would not Clay People be a superior term?–are a matter of public record and in accord with the opinions expressed here. And I quite agree that any position should be open to one who possess the wherewithal to adopt it. But as to criticism … if my work failed to generate any, I would count it an abject failure."
(OOC: A correction, Honeyaddict, the character is called Maria. Also, important question: can Clay Men talk? I miex them up with Pratchett, and… don’t know anymore)
Maria shrugs "Well, I am not sure about terms. English… well, not my language. I suppose in Polish we would stilll call them Golems… wonder what it means? Is it german?" she wonders, shaking her head "Before I go on a tangent. I, also, sadly have no staff. Not enough money." she adds, smiling at August "And well, do you have black tea? and some nice Jam?" she wonders, tilting her head "Either way, black tea, if I might."
Ondine pours tea and passes it to Maria. "Milk or sugar? No. Here we are, then."
"Criticism, oh now that’s the fun! Of course, real literary critics are strange people. Dangerous, in their way. Rare, though, and mostly read by each other. Veilgarden hacks, now those are cheaper. Our dear Professor once had quite the admiration society once. For my own amusement, I set myself up as president. Now that was a novel approach at criticism…" She takes a sip of tea, and looks to the Pirate-Poet. "Darling, after weeks of that, I can’t say I blame you.
"Since, however, our poet-in-residence’s poetry is sacrosanct, however, does anyone else have an appropriate verse to critique?" She raises an eyebrow toward Lady Sapho.
edited by Siankan on 12/14/2018
"There once was a Queen of a city
Who for her husband had pity
She was offered a deal
To help the man heal
But the bargain, turns out, was quite—
Ah … hmm … perhaps it is still too early for this type of versification."
Maria smiles "No milk. Jam." she requests, tilting her head. "And I know an awful verse:
Lithuania, my motherland,
how you must be praised
only those know, who have lost you…
and now imagine 13 sylables. Throughout a whole book. Awful." she shakes her head "I think I see why the okhranka tried to ban it…" she adds, smiling at Sappho "Still, the verse sounded good." she says "What is the problem?" she asks, completely unaware of anything untoward with the verse
Phiri rushes out to grab a tea tray should anyone else want tea. The Poet gives a pained smile at the reference to her work. “I must not have been clear,” she starts when Phiri runs back in, out of breath and carrying a dark stone tea set on a silver tray. She sets the tray on the table and passes the jam to Maria before leaning against the wall to try to catch her breath.
“I must not have been clear,” the Poet repeated. “The sign is in reference to criticisms towards Phiri’s and my beliefs in equality. Should you be interested, I would gladly supply a few samples of my work for scrutiny. Perhaps Phiri…?” She looks towards Phiri who shakes her head violently, her orange curls bouncing. “Never mind,” the Poet amends. “I was planning on turning Phiri’s cellar into a workplace for Clay People–” She nods towards Sapho. “–who need to come in for repairs. The sign would have gone on the door.”
She shrugs her huge shoulders. “I accept criticism on my work as all artists should, but my beliefs will not change no matter what people try to convince me of.” Her tone hardens. “This is what I believe, and should people come knocking on my door–” Phiri clears her throat. “–Phiri’s door, berating me for being who I am and believing I should be subservient because I was created that way and Phiri for aiding me and mine, I will gladly silence them.”
Phiri clears her throat, still nervous that someone would ask about the Perhaps that the Poet had brought up. What was she thinking? Of course Phiri would never share her own work. She hated it the moment the ink touched the page. A slight pause takes over the room as the Poet’s words settled like silt.
Sian broke it. "I must point out that such a sign will probably end up with your death. After all, it is almost begging for the Mayor of London to find his way over, which of course would quickly end in his cranial rearrangement. While London doesn’t lack those who would privately thank you for the deed, the powers that be would almost certainly find it impossible to ignore the indisposition of a sitting Mayor. Perhaps we could find something more subtle.
"Or, perhaps, you could just wait to hang it up until July."
Ondine, having finally located a small jar of armillaria jam, slides it to Maria.
"Mr August, you continue to surprise me!" Mr Oathes remarks frowning, as he watches him taking off his suit. "I suppose you weren’t freezing under all these clothes?" he quips.
Then he turns over to Mr Kan… "Esteemed Professor, you seem to share my appreciation of… exotic… company. My loyal and very tentacled dog Hootson is one of my oldest and best companions. On the other hand I reckon that he might not have the cognitive capacity to realise the great many other things he could… slobber on. Okay, maybe I am just expecting to much. I cannot complain about the ravens though. They are a very valuable resource. And I wouldn’t dare to suggest that the Literate Leopard in my parlour was inferior to me. At least not in front of it. It’s pretty full of itself. And seems to forget once in a while who is providing the firewood and cat food."
"… But regarding that sign, dear Clay fellow," he directs his words to the Poet, "… I would advise against such extreme and violent wording. Much more against such thoughts. The world may be full of evil enough already, without us putting even more bile and hatred into it. Violence is rarely a solution for finding outer peace. And never for finding the inner one. I regrettably know well what I am speaking of."
He sighs and looks at Phiri. "Ms Ulfur, would you happen to have any other, possibly non-fungal, spirits in your cabinet? But I would be happy to resort to tea if that would be a burden to you of any kind. I know very well how hard it is to acquire good liquor that is not some variation of rancid mushroom juice. Or kills you in an instant."
–
edited by Jeremiah Oathes on 12/15/2018
Sian quietly nudges him toward the bottle of Surface claret Drake had brought in.
edited by Siankan on 12/15/2018
“I mean…” Osborn said hesitantly. “In terms of rancid mushroom juice, I think I’ve managed to bring the best of of the best. I’ll agree that I’d rather drink out of the stolen river over some of the newer wines, but surely you can appreciate the First Sproing, no?”
Osborn looks at the sign, rubs his chin nervously and says “I think you should calm down with the wording. I understand anyone who doesn’t believe in clayish equality, or whatever new sentient race comes out of the alleyways of London probably should be killed, but perhaps you could be more subtle about it? This public disaster waiting to happen is just going to bring the coppers down on your head, and probably all of the clay people, as that seems suspiciously revolutionary like.”
“Now.” Osborn said to the pirate-poet. “Do you have a plan about how we are supposed to bring rights to clayish gentlemen? As while talk is well and good, it’s not really going to fix anything. I think that really, we would have to do things peacefully, as the only way that the man on the street is going to accept the clay men as their equals, is to properly demonstrate that clay men are sentient, have emotions, and truly are equal to humans, rather forcing them to say “give the clay rights” and not believing it. We do not need another American south and Jim Crow, thank you very much.”
A knock at the door announces a figure dressed in a singed coat and bearing a stack of Correspondence Plaques for the host.
"Terribly sorry for the lateness on the arrival, I am Rolemaster. Please don’t let me interrupt anything."
Proceeds to find a vacant seat.
“I’d love to see some of your works!” August said excited, loving to read some poetry, it was always nice to have a salon with Poetry. He sank further down into the chair he had been sitting in next to the fire with Miss Swan and Lady Sapho.
"Oh, the '68 was a fine year for Greyfields, and its first sporing doubly so; in fact, if you’d be so kind…" He tipped a now-empty glass toward Osborn.
There did seem to be an awful lot of open bottles in the room, especially this time of morning. Only Maria’s vodka had so far survived intact–which, given the salon’s purposes, might be for the best. Alcohol, controversy, and strangers could be a dangerous mix. Also, one should not forget a touchy Clay Woman when one shared a room with her. Hmmm… He quietly rechecked exit lines for himself and his companions. There should be time enough to escape, should anything important be destroyed or catch fire.
Still, in defiance of the bottles the company remained genial and reasonably sober. He could afford himself another glass for kindness. So he smiled while Osborn refilled his wineglass with purple stuff. Two for silver.
"Regarding your statement, Mr. Draiss, you’ve made a good point. One must change minds, not merely create a legal veneer. That forces people to act on what they disbelieve, and that will simply cause trouble further down the road. On the other hand, there are quiet young men down in Spite who believe themselves entitled to the contents of my pockets, and it is the job of the Law to disabuse them of that notion. (Well, the Law and myself. I had to instruct one on the way over on the dangers of picking a pocket that had been to Polythreme.) The Law and the People must be changed together; neither can be done alone.
"That said, no serious change in Clay rights is going to come through the people of London, Lords or Commons. Have you ever attempted to free a Clay Man? It’s easier to get souls out of the Brass Embassy. No, the place of Clay Men in our society is set first and foremost at the Bazaar, and that, my friends, is not going to be changed by any amount of action by the citizens of London."
"Unless someone kills Mr. Fires." This last, stage-whispered (perhaps unintentionally), had no obvious source. Its owner didn’t seem eager to be identified after the fact.
This might, perhaps, be the wrong place to let the conversation pause. Ondine stepped into the gap. "You know, my friend," she said, turning to the Pirate-Poet, "you have given us much prose today, but not two words in verse. You wouldn’t have any new numbers to share on the subject, would you?"
edited by Siankan on 12/15/2018
This may be a salon called for purposes of intellectual discussion, but that’s no reason to neglect the social graces. Hieronymus Drake was raised to greet people properly even under artillery fire. It’s quite a colorful group. Apart from Professor Kan and Ondine, he knows only the hostess personally.
“Phiri Ulfur. A pleasure to see you again. How is your cousin? I fear that I haven’t spoken with her in too long.”
Another guest he knows by reputation. “Lady Sapho. I am delighted to meet you at last. Extraordinary as it is, it seems that what I’ve heard of your beauty and charm has not been exaggerated. I might add that your wit and kindness were praised just as highly.” His tone is warm and sincere, but he does not acknowledge the unspoken punch line of the lady’s poem.
A third guest he can help. He smiles at Maria. “As it happens, I do have some biteys,” he tells her. He pronounces her accidental neologism with confidence, his aristocratic accent wrapping it in an aura of legitimacy. Drake rummages around in his pockets. His suit is elegantly cut, but his constant demands for more pocket space cause his tailor nearly as much grief as his frequent need for repair of bullet-holes and bloodstains. Drake produces a few small wedges of real Surface cheese - “I have numerous Rat friends” - and several pieces of smoked and salted meat - “and keep a variety of beasts.” He nods to Mr. Oathes, who seems to share this enthusiasm. Within a minute or two, he has assembled an impromptu charcuterie plate.
“If I may?” Drake pours two wineglasses full of vodka, pairing a kipper with each. He hands a glass to Maria and raises the second in a toast. “As this is a Salon on the Zee - Rybka lubi popływać!” His pronunciation is clear enough, though his English accent is marked.
Well, the vodka’s open. Sian checked his exit lines again.
“At the Salon,” Jolanda echoed. “I believe, our hostess has some verses to share though? Or not yet?”
“I truly hope so, I heard she has some very beautiful verses, and some co-authored by our Guest Speaker, miss Pirate-Poet herself.” August mused in with Jolanda.
Phiri coughs on the sip of tea she just took and turns several shades of beet. Only at the Poet’s insistence does she scuttle off to scrounge up a few sheets of her poetry. She anxiously tries to find the least embarrassing verse, but eventually just picks one at random. The Poet nudges her gently forwards out of the foyer so she isn’t hiding behind the wall.
Her voice is soft and fast as she starts off, occasionally looking to the Poet for reassurance.
"Megalops fall
With deafening wails
Bound-shark’s cage
Shrieks with rage
All the beasts
Of the great dark zee
But all I see
Leaving shining trails
Are the tiny shells
Of the zee-beach znails."
Her face is burning by the end of it, and she hopes no one will ask for the next verse. Of course it had to be the zee-znail one! She gives a tiny shrug and only offers "I like znails" in explanation.
edited by Iona Dre’emt on 12/17/2018
There is, of course, polite applause. Before it is over Ondine, seeing the hostess could use some fortification, has poured her a gill from the warm flask she had brought in. It was sweet and spicy and burned with something more than alcohol, but oh, did she feel better!
Meanwhile, Professor Kan addresses himself to the poem. "I rather think I like it. Dimeter is tricky, you know; pulling out anything from it that feels like a poem is an accomplishment. So, well done there. I like to see a poet who’s willing to flex the structure and not force every line into regularity; the defective meter of the second couplet is particularly fitting to the bound-shark. Also, the tonal progression is exquisite. It reminds me of Japan. (Have you read any of their poetry?) I am not sure, though, that you’ve really got it yet on the first couplet. Perhaps fails for the perfect rhyme? But perhaps that’s too much…" He sits back, considering.
[OOC: We’ve talked about criticism, so I felt he should offer some, as friends do over poetry. I don’t want to derail the conversation, though; feel free to go off in a different direction. Also, I usually avoid using characters as mouthpieces, but given the circumstances, Sian the Professor of ______ is basically saying what Jared the Professor of English tells him to.]
edited by Siankan on 12/17/2018
Phiri downs the burning something gratefully, clearing her throat to avoid coughing. “I was sort of experimenting with the rhyme scheme. It’s very nontraditional. ABCCDEEBFB.” She shrugs weakly and almost makes to hand the Professor the sheet, but thinks better of it.