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It’s not a bad thing, I just saw someone say “we never said who would eat the rich” and realized a lot of y’all might not have heard the full quote

It’s from Rousseau and it’s “When the people shall have nothing more to eat, they will eat the rich"

"We are starving. There is no more bread, and we have nothing to eat."

The rich man said,

"Not my problem you don't work for your bread,"

as if he did not snatch away the grain by his own greedy hands and create filling bread for his own overflowing mouth.

The poor cried,

"We are dying. There is no more medicine, and we're all ill."

The rich man said,

"Not my problem you don't take care of yourselves,"

as if he did not buy all the medicine and raise prices so high

the gods themselves would not

be able to reach.

The poor people

stopped crying,

and the rich man was satisfied...

Until they came knocking at his door one night;

their faces were sunken,

their flesh decaying,

their eyes sightless.

They were monsters

of the rich man's

own making.

As they devoured his flesh,

the rich man cried,

"Please, spare me!"

The ravenous zombies said,

"Not our fault

you fattened yourself

“No, no one hears the singing bones And no one sees the crying ghosts And everyone thinks I’m alone All alone” (x)

Parenting.

yoooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

FUCKIN YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

no BULLSHIT I KID YOU NOT! Look what I found while walking Home…..

OH MY GOD

OH MY F*CKIN GOD

THIS POST FUCKIN WORKS?!?!?! THIS IS PAST A COINCIDENCE NO WAY!??! NO FRIGGIN WAY!!! 

sam’s puns + reactions

bonus:

The bard is mute.

It’s not the first thing people notice about her, usually.  The first thing is generally that she’s young, and female, and lovely–the first thing people notice about their entire party is that they’re all young, and female, and lovely, and that’s gotten more than one would-be thief or mugger in far over their head when they haven’t noticed the the paladin’s hammer or the ranger’s axe.  It comes up rather quickly though, often enough.  Whoever heard of a bard who can’t sing?

She plays a lute, mostly, or a lap-harp made of shell and sinew, string instruments she can pluck while she smiles in secret and watches everyone around her.  She dances quick, except when she’s tired, when she’s scared, when she forgets to remember the feet at the ends of her legs.

She doesn’t tell her story to strangers, but enough of the other girls have learned to sign by now, and it’s easy enough to sketch out the outlines of the old bargain: the voice, the prince, the witch, the thousand shards of glass she walked upon on her way up the beach, the look in her sea-green eyes when they travel too near water.  The thousand shards of glass she walked upon when she left the palace, and turned back towards the sea to throw herself upon the rocks, and then made her way up the road inland, and kept walking.

.

The warlock is beautiful and mild and self-effacing and shy, is tidy and generous and charming.  She’s small with herself in exactly the right way to shout abuse to the half of her party who knows how to recognize that same look in the mirror in the morning.  The bird on her shoulder is too small, too bright, too sweet for a real warlock’s familiar.  The knife at her belt is sharp enough for anything that needs doing, though, cooking or otherwise.

Her fae patron visits sometimes, in the quiet hours between dusk and midnight, a sweetly old godmother made of moonlight and shadow.  She’s kind to the whole lot of them in her own chaotic way, free-handed with transmutations and illusions that break halfway through the evening, for better or worse.  She once spent three hours around their campfire drinking brandy and gossipping outrageously about the Feywild and teasing the wizard into fits of laughter.

She’s never told the story of how she met the warlock’s mother, or what debt was owed there, and the warlock doesn’t know herself.  It was never meant to be a debt paid in power and violence and the deft will-sapping enchantments the warlock weaves now, but, well.  The prince wasn’t meant to be cruel, the warlock says.  The palace was meant to be warmer than the fireplace cinders in her stepmother’s house.  The faerie was meant to be saving her from her lot, not throwing her into something worse.  The power’s an apology of sorts.

.

The wizard is awkward and joyful and nervous.  She has no fear of heights or small places, which just stands to be expected, she says, after all those years in that little tower, and she’s got no skill at lying or even edging around the truth at all, which is why she isn’t in the tower any more in the first place.  She says too much or too little or the wrong thing entirely, always, but the most well-socialized member of the whole party is the ranger who walks around with a dire wolf at her hip, or maybe their mute bard, so who are any of them to judge.

There was nothing to do in that tower but read, and brush her hair, and sort through the witch’s endless stockpile of dried herbs and potions ingredients, and watch out the window as woodcutters and hunters and princes rode by, and dream.  The reading was more interesting than the dreaming, most of the time, and the witch didn’t mind it as much when she talked about it.  She never bothered to actually use any of the magic in the witch’s books until the thing with the prince and the haircut and the desert, which she’s told them all about in all the detail they could ever ask for, but most of the girls get uncomfortable when she starts talking about princes.  It’s a little easier if she just starts rambling about conjuration and abjuration and illusion theory, about the 400-year-old history of a city that doesn’t exist any more, about the proper grammatical structure of Celestial, until maybe one of the quiet ones finally answers back.

Her hair is too short.  She keeps an illusion up over it whenever she can, while it grows back slowly, tickling the side of her face and the back of her neck and leaving her head too light and unbalanced.  

.

The ranger doesn’t care about princes, which makes one of them at least.  Then again, the ranger doesn’t trust anyone, really, prince or no, not wolves or monsters or the men who kill them.  She more or less trusts the rest of them by now, mostly, when the wind blows in the right direction.

She wears bright red in the middle of the woods and it shouldn’t help her slip into the shadows half as easily as it does, but most beasts can’t see color and red’s just another shade of gray if the light’s low enough.  She never uses her axe against trees.  She doesn’t need to.  She can find a path through any brush without it.  She picks flowers when she finds them, and tucks them into the other girls’ hair.

Her wolf’s mother killed the man who taught her to use the axe, and the man who taught her to use the axe killed that wolf’s mate before that, and the mate had an old woman’s blood on his teeth when it happened.  The ranger’s blade found the wolf’s mother’s throat.  The ranger’s mother sent her out into the woods in the first place.  It’s not as though anywhere is really safe, cottage or forest, axe or teeth.  One of these days maybe her wolf will turn and go for her in return, and maybe one of these days her axe will be faster and maybe it won’t.  In the mean time, there’s flowers and berries and pastries and enough game to keep everyone sated, for a little while.

.

The paladin’s hair is raven black and her skin is chalky as a corpse.  She’s not undead, mostly.  The undead are her job.  She knows that much.

She was sweet, once (they were all sweet, once) but apples are bitter now and so is she, and there’s judgment to lay out in the world.  Her grip on her warhammer’s all wrong–she holds it like a mining hammer, but it hits as hard as it needs to.  Her armor’s all dwarven make, and her shield’s black and red and white like snow.

She was sweet once, and frightened, and when she says it quietly around the campfire in the night when none of them can quite make out the glimmer of understanding on each others’ faces, everyone still nods.  She took a bite of poison and somebody left her a full year in a glass coffin of Gentle Repose, dangling on the edge of the Raven Queen’s domain while all the other newly-arrived dead passed by and faded away.  She woke up to somebody’s lips and hands and skin on her lips and her hands and her skin.  She doesn’t like princes.  She doesn’t like necromancers.

She was young once, had a mother and a father, brothers and a clan.  But families turn on each other and little girls are expected to grow into silent women who give their bodies to whatever man claims them.  There was a witch and a potion and the others have lived their own version of this part of the story, so they pass the wineskin to wipe the phantom taste of tart from her mouth.  When the war came – death is never satisfied with a happy ending – the fire burned the last of her illusions as towers crumbled and boys she thought were friends became men who killed without remorse. 

Will-o-the-wisps cling to the hem of her cloak and, on some nights when the moon is bright, they light the party’s way, ringing their campsite and casting shadows as tall as stones. 

The fighter’s armor is light, his sword curved with a single-edged blade, silk-wrapped pommel always at hand. His eyes are hooded, haunted by death and blood and battle. He’s long ago quit praying to his family’s gods; there’s no great dragon to save him, no ancestors to offer advice. 

No one asks his story and he doesn’t volunteer more than a name that’s not his birth one. They know, can see the scars when he bathes in the river, can hear the nightmares that leave him sweating and awake in the odd hours of the night.  No one presses him; he’s saved all their lives multiple times with his quick thinking, impromptu plan, his ability to be what he needs to in order to get the job done. What else do they need to know? 

She walks with her shoulders taught. She speaks with the grace of a Courtier. She pushes herself to the breaking point anytime she can - those closest to her wonder if this is in some sort of act of self-harm.

Not that she would be the first among them to harm herself.

“Close” was a relative term, as well. She never spoke of her emotions. She never spoke of her past. There is a sense of restlessness in her cold demeanor. A sense of a violent river churning just beneath a sheet of ice.

She hates herself, but she hates her powers more. Late into the night, when the last of the campfire’s embers dwindle, she allows herself just a moment of rest. She lets the facade fall. Her eyes are haunted, and the grief she feels is unbearable. But then comes the guilt. And then the anger.

She cannot undo what she’s done, she finds no relief from her sister’s ghost. But the battlefield… that’s somewhat cathartic.

-

The monk comes from power, and in a twist of bitter irony, was given none at all. She shares the archer-druid’s history of being pawned off to men, though she did once dream of romance.

She was to be married off to a friend of her father’s, a man twice her age with eyes that lingered far too long and a snake- tongue that whispered threats. She instead fell in love with a street rat who promised to marry her.

She was young and in love. She believed him. But when her “honour” was gone, he vanished into the night. She was abandoned to marry an old man who controlled what she did, what she could wear, who expected a servant to be at his beck and call.

She was no servant. She fled riches for rags, seeking asylum in the desert. She found it in the monastery that lived within the tiger cave, and discovered her own power.

The only one she trusts is the tiger that shadows her. Impulsive, blunt, and brash - the monk lets no man treat her like a prize to be won.

-

The cleric knows many things.

It would seem infinite knowledge is at her finger tips, her bag filled with books and little else. The one thing she didn’t learn from leather-bound pages is to never make deals with monsters.

She traded her soul for anothers. She walked the halls of a mansion-turned-prison with a volatile, violent beast. She found her faith in the library, the one place where something lived that was more fearsome than her captor.

It takes a certain mental fortitude to escape a cursed beast. It takes even more to stand on even ground with Illsensine. Her experience both makes her a master manipulator, and impossible to fool.

She is master at things she’s never practiced. She has inexplicable sight into things that once were. She even knows the crevasses in the minds of others.

Occassionally, she will speak of another land, of flying fish and a great power made up of their ancestors that makes hers pale in comparison. She is the last of a race, she tells them, hands clutching the journal. There were others that came in false peace and took her and the power that fuelled their whole world. When she returned, only a single man was left, their long lives having caught up to her people. He taught her much, retaught her the language of her people, but she could not give the gift of healing and long life in return and he eventually passed away. She had no princes to ruin her world, just a man that failed to save it and spent his life atoning.

After those nights, she reads the journal for hours, hands clutching the crystal shard around her neck and the tattoos of the faces of her ancestors glowing on her shoulders.

… . .

Their druid seems to blow into their lives with a gentle breeze that doesn’t match her hard eyes. She doesn’t speak their language, but they recognize suffering that seems familiar to them and she seems to as well. When they fight, she never attacks first, merely defends and they believe that is what she will only do up until their bard is nearly killed. A cold light of certainty comes to her eyes then and the fight ends quickly.

Her forest gods whisper to her and the only times they see her smile is when the animals gather to her. She covered her markings, but they’ve each seen and recognized them for a hunted race and say nothing. It isn’t their place.

… . .

Their first rogue is a young girl with eyes like a dreamers right until she kills you. Many mistake her for a bard with her soft laugh and tales dripping from her tongue, but she smilingly shakes her head every time and says that the instruments were always better played by her boys.

The professional name she carries is the Mermaid and when their wizard asks why she replies that it seemed fitting. When mermaids kill, she elaborates, they don’t mean anything personal. They are only trying to drown you. She wears soft blues that fade into deep blacks like a night sky, has stars carved into the handles of her daggers, and always sleeps with the windows locked.

When their bard asks where she wishes life would have taken her to instead, she says that she liked the idea of piracy. Red-Handed Jill would have been her name and every boy dreaming of adventure would know that she was the shadow that followed.

… . .

Their second rogue has weary eyes like the sky when you cloud gaze and she says the most peculiar things sometimes, but her face goes shadowed when she sees lazy smoke rings and she hates riddles and questions, so they don’t ask.

I’m lost, she says, but I’ve forgotten where I’m going, so I suppose that’s not a problem. She drifts with them like a wandering tendril of smoke and smiles when she catches a glimpse of a cat or a top hat.

Her oddest trait is that she scratches out every heart she sees, whether it’s on a page or carved into a tree around the names of lovers. The world could do with less hearts and dreams, according to her.

… . .

Their necromancer hates what she does and it is only that and her story that allows their warrior to tolerate her. She spent her life being tricked, by her first love and then her second and she made a deal with the God of death for them, only for them to abandon her for other girls to trick. She serves her god still, but does her best to twist his commands as best she can.

Warlock - Cinderella

Wizard - Rapunzel

Ranger - Red Riding Hood

Paladin - Snow White

Archer - Merida

Fighter - Mulan

Sorceress - Elsa

Monk - Jasmine

Cleric - Belle

2nd Wizard - Kida

Druid - Pocahontas

Rogue - Wendy

2nd Rogue - Alice

She sleeps only two or three hours at a time, scarred fingers wrapped around her wrought-silver dagger. Anyone who tries to touch her in her sleep would pay in blood. Her poisons, made from the roots and stems collected by the twins, are almost as quick as her blade.