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Post by Sir Lancelot du Lac on Mar 14, 2016 3:27:22 GMT
All the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts
It seemed that this place desired for the bard of Albion to play yet another part, to strut across the stage and to work upon the very nature of the world once more; William was more than willing to answer the world's call, though he didn't have much choice in the matter, but he did so wish that the curtain would rise soon. As it was, he had been sitting backstage for the longest time and there was naught to catalogue here - something that was especially taxing considering the cast list.
The state of Chaldea was ludicrous - every single moment was filled with some errant spectre from the past that was haunting the world, bound by the most holy of holies. The ancient king of Babylon, a corrupted king of knights, and even minor heroes managed to find themselves with some role to play. Yet, with all these heroic protagonists bound together there was no kindling - nothing had successfully managed to spur them into movement, to bring them to band together for a cause proper - sure there was the occasional mission into the distant past, something that in of itself was worthy of a good play, but he could not catalogue what he was not there to see!
Shakespeare was one of those legendary names among the literary canon that competed for the illustrious title of "greatest writer ever", and he had gotten so not just by the power of his imagination but by the ability to manipulate actual world events into suiting a greater narrative. If he could but watch a single mission in action, if he could but feel the warmth of the fire lick against his skin as he observed the crafting of a new legend, then he would be content. Nay, he would be more than content - he would be enraptured.
But sadly no, they deemed it necessary to summon him and yet they never utilized him, leaving him like a toy on the shelf. He could make assertions, note the wounds of the spirits who returned and fill in a bridging narrative about how they got them, but it felt... lacking, in some way. Whilst he had fabricated a great deal of his plays' narratives, such as the hunch for Richard or the tragic death of Hamlet, that was because their true endings were either lost to history or simply lacking in convincing sorrow. No man wanted to come see a play about a charming, dashing prince who solves all his problems by burning people to death, that would make Hamlet the villain!
Still, if he could not convince the masters to allow him to watch a mission in motion, if he could not get first-class seats to these great men and women in action, then he could at the very least manage to find some inspirations for characters in his next work. Was that not how every last servant had been summoned into the modern world? Every last one of them, with the exceptions of a few (such as a particularly verbose midget he could mention), was a legendary character who had managed to obtain the interest of the populace. Whether that be for their romantic soul, like the fair lady La Maupin, or their bravery in the face of overwhelming odds, like the great hero Drake, they were here because people liked them. They found their narratives compelling for one reason or another and that was something he could capitalize upon.
Thus had Shakespeare decided to sit in the corridor of Chaldea, a blanket covering his legs and a trusty book resting upon his legs, taking sketches of those heroes that passed by. Those who had chosen to wear identifying clothing, such as armour or their sword at their waste, he took note of - these were people to pester later, get an interview with and observe their character up close. Everyone else? they were just background characters, to sketch in and fill narrative space.
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Post by Thaddeus Adeodatus on Mar 14, 2016 3:59:58 GMT
His second morning in Chaldeas had fared better than the first. For once, breaking fast during morning after finally achieving a peaceful repose under the stars had been pleasant, warm food resting inside aiding his body in regulating his temperature against the chill of this accursed facility. Second, it seemed that the nature of this place as the gathering place for Heroic Spirits had borne fruit in the nature of its reactions, so that the sight of a man more dressed to be an Executor on duty than a Master of Servants no longer surprised them on the second day in.
For somewhere where legends and kings share tables and sleeping quarters, Thaddeus only guessed this to be perfectly reasonable. After all, no workplace would be functional if all the staff laid mouth agape at every shift. Still, for a brief moment, he caught himself wondering how long had the state of Chaldeas had been exactly that, one of constant wonder and mystery, until even the progenitors and heroes of the human race had lost their luster.
The lack of activity, due to the very nature of how this assignment worked, still very much bothered him as the usually lonely monk braved the halls in silent stride, observing the daily motions of the people inside. As they'd informed him, 'quests' were handed out by compatibility between a Master's skills, the Servants available and the nature of the mission himself, leading him to guess his use fit more the combat of supernatural creatures and that his synergy would be best with Spirits of the Faith. This assumption had only been natural, after all, and secretly a desire of his was to see it concrete.
After all, many may cover themselves in the mantles of the saints and bring to battle their holy items, but not many could claim to have met the great pillars of the Catholic Fate. It filled his heart, ever so seeking of novelty, of new ways to explore his beliefs, with thunderous beats of expectation. It felt weird to have such selfish desires, yet prayer had not shook them away. Thus, they must be only natural to his soul. Perhaps, their theoretical fruition could serve some purpose in his life, mayhaps intended by the Lord himself.
His head lost in said ramblings of the mind, it is only then his black irises catch sight of a caucasian man sitting on the floor, scrabbling away at a notebook. It seemed odd to say the least, that an employee would simply submit to such apparent useless activity out of boredom alone, and it made Thaddeus worry over the mental health of his now colleagues. He approached, not necessarily curious, but ever so concerned, as his back laid against the wall the man clad in green sat against.
"Those are sketches of satisfactory quality." He pointed out, language showing little emotion beneath as he dissected the lines mercilessly. "Are you a stalker, perhaps? Or merely repeating such tedious activities to quench your boredom?"
Thaddeus Adeodatus briefly wondered if the same question didn't apply to him right now, too.
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Post by Sir Lancelot du Lac on Mar 14, 2016 12:05:55 GMT
It was almost inevitable that a master of the fine arts would be bothered during their day-to-day life to deal with the populace - people asking for interviews, nipping at his ankles as if that would make him release the next play quicker, and just generally asking if he had free slots in his troupe. Yet, this new world had given Shakespeare a new nuisance which he had never had to deal with before - anonymity.
Back in his day, he had been known by anyone who was anyone - whether they be rich or poor, male or female, even prince(ss) and pauper, one thing was constant throughout society; they loved his plays. That might have had something to do with their lack of alternate pastimes but still... He wasn’t used to being treated like everyone else.
The man’s comment made the bearded gentleman suddenly stop scribbling in his notebook, and caused a very dark look to spread across his face. Had Thaddeus looked into his eyes at that very moment, he would have been horrified - the silent fury, the attempt to rationalize what the man had just said, the burning desire to crush this man like a ripe grape beneath his boot. Satisfactory? SATISFACTORY?!
No... No, this man was just an ignorant fool. A modern-day plebeian. Or maybe, just maybe, he was one of those awful priests - those people were such dull, listless fools, who seemed to believe that wasting the one life they had was a guarantee to have a good second life that they had no way of ensuring that they had. Urgh, priests, he thought with an air of disgust.
He returned to his work, deciding not to reward the man’s rudeness with an answer. Instead, he decided to just get back to drawing, sketching the model of someone who just so happened to look like this man with characteristics 'tasteless', 'idiotic' and 'cuckold'. In fact, he was just finishing off the d in the word “cuckold” when the man’s second comment made his quill bare so hard down on the sheet that it physically ripped.
"I apologize, my good man, I am afraid that I must have misheard you." he said, his voice clearly restraining a form of fury that only a diva was truly able to express. "You see, I was so focused on my drawing - my excellent, flawless masterpieces - that I thought for a moment you had called anything I did merely 'satisfactory'."
Slamming the book shut, slamming it hard enough to shatter the quill that was still resting inside the crook of the pad, he turned his face up to look directly into the man’s eyes. If the man was even basically capable of sensing mana, he would be able to tell that the man that he had just so rudely insulted was a servant, and a servant who was turning his ire against this impudent brat.
"I am sure you’re not such a cretin as to make a comment like that, are you?"
A pause. A very, very pregnant pause. In fact, a nine months pregnant pause.
"Are. You?!"
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Post by Thaddeus Adeodatus on Mar 14, 2016 13:36:56 GMT
The mana signature that denoted bound to the World not by life but by Seal was all too familiar for him, a slight echo of his prana being relayed off his feet and dissipating in the white marble floor, golden waves nigh invisible against the light. Moderately powerful, in terms of raw quantity. Caucasian, possibly English given his attire and features, but a shot to the dark more than anything.
The odd Servant's first reaction was silence, obvious disapproval of Thaddeus' question or remark, whichever it may be, something the man of faith did not bother himself with too much. Before moving on, however, his darkened irises caught glimpse of the man's new scribbles, a character entirely too similar to him being given the most rude characteristics. While he had no opposition to the first two criticisms, their nature being largely subjective, the third was wrong purely on the basis one necessitates a spouse or at least a significant other for it to be of any effect.
Before he could denote such a mistake from this man's part, the mockery of his lookalike had been stopped by the ginger's own accord as he spouted words of outrage at Thaddeus' earlier comment. As he went on and on about his apparent offense at the magus' choice of words, eyes burning like fire in apparent ire, the faithful man could not help but denote the childish, nearly diva-like behavior this Servant spouted.
While normally he'd given such thoughts no entertainment, Thaddeus found himself toying with concepts and theories on this man's identity. Figures of legend need not be so petty, so history was more likely. An artist, mayhaps? His artistic education had ended long ago still on his early teens, an insistent desire from his father to have his son's tastes match his, yet he could remember naught but one Englishman versed in the arts noted for such petty behavior. As his mentor at the time remarked, he remembered, such ills were reserved for the French or the Dutch, more often than not.
Thaddeus listened to his rant quietly, unmoving, nary a wince at being scorned at so brazenly by a Servant bound not by the natural rules of the Lord's very Earth.
"Apologies." He uttered first, voice just as invariable as before, a tone so perfectly controlled its patterns in air resembled more a line than a wave. "You seem to have misunderstood my intention. Your distaste seems to come from my choice of words, one you seem to equate with mediocre or something of the like, and thus I assume 'good' or 'great' would've been more to your liking. However, I propose this - are not such words largely left to one's own opinion? What would a man who dedicates his time to such activity have to do with the subjective ramblings of a passing man such as myself?"
The pause for breath was entirely too short - nearly unnaturally so.
"Thus, I opted for satisfactory, based on observations of the purely objective. The lines are consistent in their thickness, the shadows are soft without marking the paper, the style itself keeps through the same basic rules - if one were to denote them as such - throughout the entire work that is visible from my location, and the use of perspective is both correct and easy to translate to three-dimensional space without any aide of references and the like. Furthermore, the calligraphy that accompanies the sketches is impeccable."
Thaddeus finally blinks, hands still behind his back in a formal standing position.
"Thus, satisfactory."
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Post by Sir Lancelot du Lac on Mar 15, 2016 7:50:49 GMT
It seemed as if the man wasn't going to be so kind as to move along just because it was clear that he had upset a servant. William was not a man who cared much for brawls, preferring mental combat over physical, yet he was becoming very tempted to slap this man across the face with a backhand. How one could come to insult the great Shakespeare like this... it was like a peasant laying insults against the king! How very dare he.
What was worse was that tone that he did it in - the toneless monotone of a man who was either fundamentally broken in some way or was completely devoid of interest. Though, on some level, were they not the same thing when met with the great man who stood before him? Thousands of people everywhere longed to hold a meeting with him, with the father of the English language, and yet this man was apathetic... that was a personality fault if ever there was one. He was looking a gift horse in the mouth... no, he was slapping the gift horse.
"You presume to lecture? you attack me using my own weapons against me... no, my own children! Those foul words leaving your mouth belong to me, as I was the one who birthed them from the depths of my mind!" It was clear the man's attempt at placating his rage was not working in the slightest. Yet, another servant being this angry would likely result in conflict, so the fact that the man was going off on a tangent rather than simply drawing a blade suggested a strange identity to this figure.
"It would be best, wastrel, if you were not to presume that you can out-debate a man who has stood throughout history as the figure with the greatest command of this fair language we both speak. You could write a masterpiece that made the poor and the rich alike shed unbound brackish streams every single day until the day you died and you would not hold a flicker of the fame the fair people have put upon me."
Pulling the blanket off his lap and moving to stand up, the dandy servant stood at nigh exactly the same height as this stranger. Yet, the passivity and apathy of the brunette's posture was outshone by the dignity and poise of the bardic legend before him. Even had his flaring temper not revealed to the masses that this was indeed a servant, his mere appearance would have given the game away.
"Though your questioning of my interest in your ramblings, knave, is not without fair cause. Many men when reaching the pinnacle of their wealth and fame have long since forgotten the simple cares of wanting to better oneself. Yet one does not become regarded as the greatest playsmith in the history of the world without some constant desire to grow stronger, to become better, to outshine even the sun himself with their next work. Thus a declaration of an implied fault is something I care greatly about.
I know not who you may be, foul stranger, but you disgust me nonetheless. 'twas I who spoke it best - There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so. Art, like every great pursuit known to man, is entirely subjective, and all are truly entitled to their own opinion. Yet you have not raised a single complaint against my work, despite attacking it so."
The man extended a finger, waggling it in the face of this errant priest who believed that he could insult the great Shakespeare without cause for worry.
"You have not faulted it, nor brought out some hidden errancy that I may correct, yet you consider this 'impeccable calligraphy' and the art that you yourself have claimed is 'correct' and 'consistent' not to be worthy of the term 'good'. Were you not to have ended your sentence thus I may have mistaken your words for compliments for they mimic such in all but their presentation!
So tell me, foul knave who presumes to lecture the bard of Avalon with nary a complaint, what is it that stops it from being good? How is my beautiful masterpiece so fundamentally flawed that you can present me with all these sweet gifts of kind words and yet still find it to only be 'satisfactory'?"
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Post by Thaddeus Adeodatus on Mar 16, 2016 0:03:50 GMT
Thaddeus sighed. He'd little patience for tomfoolery in any situation, but that of the kind of those that were unable to placate their own ire when said anger was unnecessary seemed to bother him the most. That the legends of old would be egotistical, mayhaps even self-centered, he'd expected, but not to the degree to childish pettiness over a simple choice of words. Both puzzled and befuddled at his apparent outrage for something so seemingly simple, the man of the Faith cleared his throat before replying, nary a hair moving out of place so graceful and devoid of emotion that was his movement.
"I assume you are a man of wisdom, out of politeness if nothing else." Wouldn't do to fool him into some sort of fake praise, for even someone as dead-eyed as Thaddeus could find flaw in his own acting skills. "Thus, one such man would derive nothing from what which you seek. I have merely stared my observations upon your work, finding myself unable in both interest and ability to judge it based on any actual quality. What you seek of me - criticism, I now assume - would be merely kind lies to conform to your requests, a pointless waste of time on both ends."
He dusted off his priest's coat with an idle hand, still not breaking direct eye contact with the odd ginger. Yes, indeed, he'd made naught a move for attack or something of the like, which brought inquiries even to a man such as himself. He partially blamed the idleness imposed on him by Chaldeas for such useless thoughts.
"If that is what you desire - then I can abide, although I'd fear it would be great insult for someone such as yourself, able to catch such subtleties in one's intent." Not a stroke of his ego, but a mere logical outlook at their interactions so far. "But alas, I fear there is no best way for us to finish this quarrel but for you to simply answer my original question, that being if you invaded others' privacy for your own gain or strange obsession. Should my guess be correct and you simply be sketching out of tedium, or as you state, a desire to improve your craft, I have no moral obligation to pursue and thus no point in being here."
Thaddeus blinks and breaths, without an ounce of need added to these actions, as if he'd been not talking for dozens of seconds on end.
"I believe such an accord reasonable?"
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Post by Sir Lancelot du Lac on Mar 23, 2016 9:41:20 GMT
Shakespeare did not like this man.
Even as Shakespeare raised what he truly believed to be a fair point - if you are to criticize one's work then only do so when you know what you want to criticize - the man seemed to act as dispassionately as one who without a soul, merely carrying on his day to day life without any passion or interest whatsoever. Such a dull man... even the masses had thoughts, feelings, hopes and dreams that they could bank on and that he could write about. This man... it was like he was a simulacrum of human existence without those defining traits that make life worth living.
"I.." For once, the great bard of Albion was stumped for words.
Perhaps it was the man's priestly nature that made him act this way; The priesthood had many different groups and sets of values within it, and he would not be even slightly surprised if one of those groups attempted to limit human thoughts and feelings, just as this man was clearly inhibited - such a travesty, to squander and waste the life you are guaranteed simply for the hope of something promised, when those who had promised said ever-lasting paradise were themselves the type to squander their own lives. It was a cycle of misers and misery.
Still, continuing this argument would grant him no ground - it was like fighting a war with someone who would never push forward nor be pushed back. Though discovered well after his time, he knew from his research into this modern world that, in their own words, this argument was 'an unstoppable force meeting an unmovable object'. Therefore, to prevent it continuing ad infinitum, he would need to be the one to back down since it was clear this plebeian was not mentally equipped to do so.
Deep breath in, deep breath out, deep breath in, deep breath out. 1. 2. 3... 10.
"As we have both failed to obey one of the simplest rules of courtly manners, let me restart this conversation of ours."
The green armoured gentleman gave a bow that one would normally have only seen in the theatre, dripping with ego and self-pride even when he was the one having to chew on his words.
"The name, pastor, is William Shakespeare - greatest poet, playwright and actor in all Albion. Nay, all Europe! Perhaps even in the entire world, were I to be so bold. As you can almost certainly detect, judging by your position on CHALDEA's staff, I am a member of the Caster Class.
Knowing this fact, and knowing what I am famed for above all else, are you really surprised that you should find me performing such an act as the one you caught me in? Realistic characters do not come from thin air, and even with my beautiful mind spinning awe-inspiring gossamer dresses of narrative and conflict, there must always be an origin point. Every good character has his start somewhere off the pages, and any author who tells you different is a rogue and a self-inflating braggart."
A snort of air blew through his nasal passage as he indignantly flared his nostrils.
"It is most insulting that you would accuse me of such a perversion, pastor, a slight unbecoming of your position as a man of god. I believe that I am due a most humble apology."
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Post by Thaddeus Adeodatus on Mar 28, 2016 2:51:30 GMT
Thaddeus reacted not with surprise, or amazement, or dislike, or displeasure.
He reacted, as only he could, with acknowledgment.
"I am Thaddeus, head of the Magus House of Adeodatus." The man reacted in kind, in a tone so devoid of personal pride he could've been talking about the weather. There was nothing special in one's name, as the very essence of Servants showed - they could carry the most legendary acts in life, but in death, all were either gone or tools. Which was worse was left to a case to case basis. "I received an education in your plays, and remember some of your work. I believe many would be pleased in meeting an artist such as yourself, and thus I shall respond in such a manner."
Like a thief announcing his own arrival, the man of the faith offered the playwright a nod of his head, eyes unblinking, unfeeling like a dead animal's. Yet even in his mind, Thaddeus thought of this not as falsehood, but simply courtesy. He had no interest in discoursing over any matter with a man such as this, specially one who seems so passionate about himself, yet it was obvious most would consider him deserving of respect.
"I am glad to have met you, Caster. I believe it to be an honor to meet one of such importance to the Arts." He announced, neither truthful nor insincere. His head returned to its original position, staring into Shakespeare's eyes, a predator devoid of hunger, a prey devoid of fear. "If I am to understand your explanation well, you were taking to observing those who came and went in Chaldea's halls for inspiration?"
For once, black irises moved to inspect the corridors, bustling with activity as always as staff moved about to fix whatever floor two fighting servants broke or to analyze the results of spreading one's temporal signature over three different decades.
"That is a fair prospect. After all, doing it in such a public location - per the definition of public, none here intend to hide their daily activities, or even whatever personas they wear as their personalities." Implying all wore masks, the head of Adeodatus simply stated it as fact. Truth to most, there was no reason to think any but him in this facility weren't like so. "I apologize for my assumption."
Another short bow of his head.
"I'll take my leave now, then." He stated, much like one points out water is indeed still wet. "Thank you for your time."
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