The brexit vote was a scam. Do not take my for it, take the
Conservative parties word for it.
First, the PM - before the vote - wanted to resign. This was not
Second, when did a non-binding vote ever
cause this much consternation, in both the UK and on the Continent?
Normally, they would repackage this vote and try again if they wanted
a different result. So why have not they? The obvious answer, is that
this is the vote that the Conservative party wanted. But there were
additional things that they wanted.
If they had wanted PM to resign in the
normal way, Scotland would still be part of the union – and people
would be questioning the next choice of PM. This way, Scotland will
be removed – by its own choice – and there is no question as to
whether the PM has two go. Of course that means that the one thing
that the continent wants – a swift and certain divorce – will
happen, rather than what the elites of the UK want – a rather
legibly divorce, sleeping in the same room so to speak. The labour
party is dysfunctional, and in the interim, will get a rather more
Blairish leader – which is again what the Tory party wants.
What is more important however, is that
when a conservative party is in charge, this is why it does not want
lots of money in circulation. Allow me to explain.
When one looks at the difference between
conservative and liberal parties, one sees that liberal parties want
money – while conservative parties do not. This is usually framed
as a difference that favors the liberal party. But think of it in
another way – money is not what the conservative party, either high
up or low down, wants. They would rather have a scarcity of money,
that the conservative party controls. Liberals want more money,
because at the bottom, that is what their contingency wants – money
to spend. But conservatives do not want money to spend, because that
will mean that the poor do not think about money with every second –
which is the way that the conservatives want them to think, they want
them to think about money every possible second.
Thus liberal parties want money, and
conservative parties want scarcity of money. Liberal parties want more, the conservative parties want less - and it is under their control. It does not matter
whether, in the conservative view, the rich are richer in terms of
money – instead it matters if the poor are short of money. Because
after all, the money that they lost on a two-week bender is really
not that important, what is important is the ratio between the money
they have and the money you have. A ratio means that it does not
matter how much money they have, but can they wait out your spending
money faster than they spend money. And losing money happens to work
out for the Tory point of view.
In conclusion, they get what they want
– as is seen by them not taking a vote when they could – they get
rid of Scotland – which is so bad if you think about it, because
the Scots are anti-Tory – and the poor lose – and if your Tory,
what is bad about that?
Niccolo abandoned ship, alone. He knew
that there was nothing he could do, and to stand and die on deck was
not his desire, or worse, to be dismembered and drift in pieces to
the shadowlands. Part of him castigated his doing so, but it had been
the plan for him to jump if it came to that. To get word out required
someone to do it, and he was the only pilot. The discussion on this
point had gone round in circles, but finally, if anyone was going to
take the leap into the void, it would have to be him. Still as he
drifted downwards, swinging back and forth like a pendulum under the
octagonal canopy of silk, it felt as if he had spent a chunk of his
spiritual wealth to do what he just did, and he owed the gods that
looked over his soul some great geste or deeds as payment for their
For hours he drifted down, his muscles
straining by the straps, and then burning. He thought he saw black
brackish water, and tried to steer a course. While hanging there he
came to the realization that the courage he had been displaying,
while a magnification of his usual ferociousness, had been augmented
in some way by Morwethe's god and his fuming smoke. Now fear roiled
up and down his intestine, and he reflected on what madness this plan
had been. But no matter, it was done.
With each tick tock swing down, he
felt gentle winds carry him, and rapidly the details of the land
below grew more discernible to his eye. Everything was black, but
there were shades of black, and highlights of sparkling white. There
were rolls where the frail sun streaked, and those that were abyssal
from the blocking shadowlands. He tried to memorize a map of what was
below, seeing at least a few signs of human inhabitation, including a
bone white city far to his east, a sea that he remembered fed into
the great cataract that fell into the center of Korana, and what
seemed to be a black circle with roads running into it, whose details
never resolved in to his vision.
Finally he landed easily, not far from
what seemed to be some kind of pool or pond, or oasis. He recalled
the dream that Morwethe had sent, or inspired, in him, and wondered
if it were touched by foreknowledge of what was here. He decided to
hold the thought, but not let it overtake his expectations, since who
knew which order dreams and waking came in.
Once on the ground he crouched, but
did not let himself rest for long. His legs were like jelly, but he
forced himself to methodically fold up the parachute, and then hide
behind a large outcropping of rock that was not far from where he had
landed, Fortune had been kind in depositing him on some particularly
soft sand, but not too kind, as he found himself half stuck in it,
and in places nearly slogging through it. He remembered tails of
travelers sucked into sands, or creatures that waited in ambush in
the desert. However, first to find a place sheltered from the sun,
where he could catch some rest before dark, when the dangers would be
many times multiplied.
For the rest of the day, he slept, and
was awoken by a rumbling, he had only just enough time to unfold the
silk twice and cover himself, before the black sand covered him, and
its weight piled up over head. It piled on and on, and then even as
he felt the wind and sand pass by, he felt more pour from the top of
the rock on to him, and he realized he was sinking into the sand
beneath. He wedged himself with one boot, and the weight of the
obsidian powder weighed down on him. He pulled out a dirk, and rammed
it into the soft rock behind him, giving him an arm and a leg, and
grasped with his other hand on a bit of outcropping. He probed down
with one leg, stretching it out, and finally it hit what seemed a
small ledge in the rock.
This allowed him some stability, but
he knew he did not have much air. The memory in his mind was that the
rock itself was black as coal, and therefore, likely to be recent.
This was, as he now reflected, a mistake. However, he was stable, and
now slowly inched himself up through the sand, using the leverage of
the rock. After some struggles, he managed to turn himself around,
and began working his way up more quickly. Rigging had taught him all
there was to know about grasping, levering, and pulling, even under
the weight of the sand. At last he broke through, his breath hot from
being held, but not yet suffocating. The winter's air was bracing and
dry, but a cleansing dry after the fetid build up of moisture.
He breathed the clean air, and scoured
the horizon. Still retreating in the distance was a vast wave of
black sand, born on some kind of wave. That, he could feel, had to be
from the impact of the ship, so there, he knew, he must go. He took
his bearings, took the navigation quadrant from his belt, took
measurements, and mentally counted the time. He would make fast
movement for half the day, and then slower movement in the night,
then, he would sleep the dog watch, where it was safest.
Then off over the sand at a run he
went, he was heedless to being seen, deciding that time, and not
stealth, was best, because anything of any importance would be
focused on the ship, and not on some small man tracking his way
through the northern black desert. It was not the surest concept, he
knew, but his guilt was behind him, and is fear in front of him, and
this lent what seemed to be wings to his feet.
Into the twilight he went, feeling the
cold bands of dark grow in length until the wrapped all around him.
The blackness was almost total, even though the sun was not far from
the horizon. He could hear moving water, and it had to be close. His
feet told him that he was moving from loose sand to more solid soil,
even though it still seemed very black. He wondered if the soil of
Korana was becoming like the shadowlands, but he could hear the
buzzing of insects, the splashing of fish, the rustle of reeds, and
all of the other normal sounds of life near water. He retreated some
distance away, not wanting to be too closed to the animals that live
in the water, or the hunters that come in the night.
opting of expediency over inconspicuousness, he lit a fire, and used
dried reeds and grasses to keep it going. The smoke trailed off of
it, and reached high up into the night sky, he allowed himself to cat
nap in the light of the fire, waking to fuel it periodically.
However, at midnight he threw a last batch, and assembled his
belongings, leaving the fire burning in his wake, in at least an
attempt to create a distraction from his movement. He saw figures and
shapes at the edge of his view, but they all moved like animals, and
they all had stayed well away from the fire. He wished for a torch,
but reflected that would be foolhardy, not efficient.
He hewed close to the water's edge,
and over time it became clear that a cliff was rising up to his
right, and the water level was descending, the beach was perhaps a
hundred paces or so long, before rising up to stoney layered red
rock. He noted this, because it was the first outcropping or surface
detail that was both natural, and not blackened. In the distance
along the water's edge, he saw a small skiff, or other kind of
sailboat moored on the beach. It looked to be a craft for no more
than two or three men, perhaps it was a fishing vessel, or was used
in small trade. its sails hung in a kind of strange limp fashion, and
he wondered what kind of sailor would leave the rigging in such a
state, unless it were either urgent to come to shore to do something,
or perhaps running a very short errand before returning to the water.
The planks of the hull were weathered, and the little boat had seen
both better days, and many of them. It was in a gaff rig: a small
triangular sail fore, and a large trapezoid sail aft.
In another few minutes of pacing
towards it, however, he began to have a different sense of the scene,
with the ship rocking back and forth, making it seem, to his eye,
that something had to be terrible wrong. A skipper might leave the
sails up if in a hurry, but he would not have left the boat so easily
to drift off into the water. He was coming around a great slow curve
in the beach, and gradually the full side of the boat came into view:
and any illusion of a peaceful sea pastorale scene, was shattered.
There on the peak halyard of the gaff rig, was a man hung by a length
of thick rope, and the boat was swinging back and forth, because the
body was still swinging back and forth.
He walked closer and could see more.
It was clear the man had been hung for some time, as the face was
somewhat mottled, and the tongue was hanging out. He was dressed in
the long beige robes common of men on Korana, a style that they
called a “bisht” – it was of a soft wool that hung in loose
folds over his plain tunic that they often called the “tawb, ”
though little different from tunics in any land, other than the
bleached whiteness. On his feet were a set of light shoes, these were
a dull brown. Nothing bespoke of anything but hardy common stock,
without any particular adornment. His feet pointed down slightly.
He heard a gurgling noise come from
the man's mouth, and there was motion. This was out-of-place, the man
should clearly have been dead. In fact, reason dictated that he was
dead, and was thus of the unquiet dead.
There was another gurgling noise, and
Niccolo realized he had been gaping. Niccolo decided that the least
one man of the sea could do for another, was cut him down off the
mast and give him some send off to the void. Even if that meant
killing him a second time. The second death was no worse than the
However, he halted just after climbing
on board. At this point, the hanging corpse spoke: “Don't cut me
Niccolo looked up.
“And why not man? Do you want to
“If you do I will kill you!”
“And why's that?”
“The dead hate the living, ” It
tiled its eyes down upon him in a glare, “hate them. I would not be
able to help myself.”
“How did you end up dead then, I had
assumed that you had been hung.”
“Oh no, I was killed and kept a
corpse, I hung myself after I had killed a woman and ate her, her
bones are back in far cave.”
“So you hung yourself.”
“So you don't wish to be among the
unquiet dead, or in a body.”
“Oh no, of course not. It was some
doing to hang myself, since if it had been obvious I would never have
been allowed to do it.”
“Who has power over you, Death?”
“Oh no. Death is the invader, it is
a dark spirit of this world that raises an army of the undead against
“And do you not want to defend your
sphere, your home, the goddess that gives you life?”
“She is mad, mad I tell you, she
raises a shroud over us, and blots out the light of any sun and all
the stars. She is mad, and none I know see why.”
“Is there anything I can do for
“Have me exorcised if you have the
wit or the power.”
“We don't have such powerful rights.
I can chase away a haunting or so, but not send it beyond.”
“I warn you, all that fall now
remain here, at best haunting the sphere, at worst, like me, they
will. KILL THE LIVING.” With that shout the corpse, with an inhuman
disregard for its neck, twisted its head full around and dropped
down, slipping out of the knot.
It dropped to the deck, but it was
also clear that rot had begun to eat away at the body, as it stumbled
badly as it lunged at him. It was not difficult to cut off the head
on the first pass and duck side. The boat swayed, and the headless
corpse, guided by some unerring force, began swinging its arms at
him. The first swing was so powerful that it knocked Niccolo's heavy
battle sword away, making him draw a rapier. This was less effective,
and even as Niccolo pierced the corpse over and over again, this did
little to the bodily integrity, the corpses arms swung wildly but hit
hard. Niccolo rolled across the deck and brought his feet under him.
He braced his right leg on the inside of the hull, waited for impact,
and slid the rapier home. However this was not the point of the
attack, he then threw the corpse overboard, sliding it off the
rapier. Then after sheathing the steel, he picked up a fishing spar,
and smashed the corpse to pieces with a series of blows that took
several minutes to deliver. On the deck the head continued to roll
around, gurgling all the while. Niccolo turned his attention to that,
and battered it to pieces.
Once this was done, he found a sack,
and speared remains for some time, finally filling the sack with
limbs and guts. Grisly work, but he tied a rock around the shroud,
and made ready to dump it in the water. Niccolo had made devotions to
many godlings over the years, for many touch on the life of a sailor,
but this time he knelt and clasped his hands, praying to the Ferryman
to come. He felt a wrenching in the air, but then nothing. He shook
his head, wondering what the cause of this sensation was.
He then went and found the gnawed
bones of the woman, and buried them on land, again praying to the
bearer of souls, and again, he felt a wrenching in the fabric of the
air, and then nothing.
With this, he cleaned up the rigging
on the skiff, and even though the day was late, he decided that it
was safer on the water than close to land, polling a bit out, he
dumped the sack in deep enough water, and then got under sail. He
examined the ship closely, and found strange fresh markings on it, he
carefully scratched these out, and set fresh wards down. He was far
from an accomplished mage, but here and there, some protective
binding or wording was useful to have. He had not seen these before,
and being a merchant trader, meant he had seen most of the common,
and no small selection of the uncommon.
From there, however, he set his mind
to working his way out of the bay and towards his new destination.
The wind was light, and he had to tack hard into it, but the magic of
sail was that even a slow wind is faster than a hard run, and far
less taxing. He began making his way out of the bay, with the cliff
line growing shorter in his view, but spreading out longer as he
began to appreciate that it was a large crescent, and, he reflected,
quite likely the wall of a crater.
He slept aboard water, but did not use
the net to haul up fish. Even fish have souls, and he did not want so
many separated from their bodies under such odd circumstances. He had
never thought to closely about what happened to such spirits, and he
assumed that most of them, at most times, merely clung to where they
had lived. But now, the idea of eating made him sick. Instead he
scooped up jetsam of seaweed, and rummaged around to find vinegar to
put it in. He chewed on this, and drank the water from the skin.
Before the dawn he awoke, munch a few
marinated leaves, and used his quadrant to check the positions of the
stars and spheres. It was difficult with the bands of darkness, but
no worse than many a stormy day on many a world.
Soon he was at sail again, however,
and began tacking towards where his reckoning told him that the ship,
or what remained of it, had crashed. He remained becalmed for a time
in the afternoon, and allowed himself to nap while waiting for winds.
Out beyond land he could sense how the shrouds of the shadowlands
were, indeed visibly growing and filing in the gaps. If it continued,
in some weeks or months perhaps, the sky would be blotted out by
black, and this would be an inner skin, but without one with either
access to an outer sun, or the inner manifestation of the goddess of
the sphere, which appeared as a sun to those inside of her.
Strangely, or not, the weather was
otherwise faire, with the white rising gyre seeming no more than a
slender cloud that snaked down from the sky far away, and certainly
not threatening, and few other clouds that ran across from horizon to
horizon rather quickly. He slept again, moored in four fathoms of
water, this time more soundly.
On the morning of the next day, he saw
another circular bay cut out of this small sea, but one that was
freshly cut. It had two great arms that circled out into the water,
leaving a wide gate like entrance into it, he spent hours tacking
towards it, as the winds remained against him, but handling such a
small sail was not hard, and even was relaxing. He entered through
the narrows between the two crab like arms, which ran like a sharp
curved ridged spin of black sand. Already the wind was eroding them
He was through the narrows, and looked
straight at the center of the crater.