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Dec. 23rd, 2011 05:07 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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metem_logsCharacters: EVERYONE!
Date/Time: Yule
Location: La Theâtre Jeu Ancien
Rating: Probably nothing too bad... PG-13 at worst?
Warnings: Possibly language
Summary: The godlings give their performance!
The theatre was dark for now. Though it was a fairly good-sized audience chamber, only two figures were seated there, both in shadow. Their features could not be determined, but one seemed decidedly feminine, and the other decidedly masculine--with a certain aura of malevolence. Both watched the stage with interest, which was set to show the office of the counting house at the moment, the characters of Scrooge and Bob Cratchit already in place.
As the lights began to come up, Nigel's voice boomed over the theatre:
"Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.
The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot -- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance -- literally to astonish his son's weak mind.
Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names: it was all the same to him.
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind- stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.
External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely, and Scrooge never did.
Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!"
But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge."
Date/Time: Yule
Location: La Theâtre Jeu Ancien
Rating: Probably nothing too bad... PG-13 at worst?
Warnings: Possibly language
Summary: The godlings give their performance!
The theatre was dark for now. Though it was a fairly good-sized audience chamber, only two figures were seated there, both in shadow. Their features could not be determined, but one seemed decidedly feminine, and the other decidedly masculine--with a certain aura of malevolence. Both watched the stage with interest, which was set to show the office of the counting house at the moment, the characters of Scrooge and Bob Cratchit already in place.
As the lights began to come up, Nigel's voice boomed over the theatre:
"Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.
Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.
The mention of Marley's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot -- say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance -- literally to astonish his son's weak mind.
Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names: it was all the same to him.
Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind- stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.
External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely, and Scrooge never did.
Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o'clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!"
But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Scrooge."
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Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-15 11:20 pm (UTC)Dionysus turned to look Hades full in the face. "If nothing is changed, then yes, Tiny Tim shall die." He turned back to the celebration briefly, but then turned his head slightly to give Hades the side-eye. "But better to remove the dregs of society from those who work for their supper, wouldn't you agree?"
He turned away from Hades, covered his mouth, and coughed a few times-- though the coughs sounded suspiciously as if they were mingled with the word "dick."
Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-16 02:31 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-16 03:31 am (UTC)"Oh, is it time for the pudding, Mother? You do make the best puddings," she said.
Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-16 08:00 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-16 08:23 am (UTC)"A triumph, my dear. Another triumph," he announced after a minute or two, to the delight of the rest of the Cratchits.
"And, now, if I may... A toast. To the founder of our feast, Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge."
Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-16 08:48 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-16 08:51 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-16 09:03 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-16 10:04 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-16 10:48 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-16 11:13 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-18 05:45 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-19 07:57 am (UTC)They passed through the streets, passing by lighted windows in which the shadows of families making merry in the season could be seen, as well as dim windows and huddled shapes wrapped in blankets upon the sidewalk. As he passed each of them, no matter how bright or dim, Dionysus sprinkled drops from his torch upon them, and quite heedless of Hades' annoyed look.
However, he did turn to Hades again as they approached the opposite side of the stage, and said "We draw near our next destination-- and here, you are actually expected." Voices and laughter grew louder as they approached.
Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-19 11:22 am (UTC)Noting that Melpomene, now playing his bride, hardly seemed to be evoking a party mood, he blithely hooked an arm around her waist, steered her under some mistletoe, and gave her a kiss that would warm her all the way to her toes.
Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-20 08:12 am (UTC)With reluctance, she did indeed melt into him, her arms coming up around his neck. Screw the stupid show. The not-audience could wait.
Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-20 11:37 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-20 05:32 pm (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-21 08:54 am (UTC)"...what the hell is this for?" she asked.
Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-21 09:48 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-22 08:35 am (UTC)Seek the Third World in desert where sky homes soar above the valley, it read.
"What the fuck?" Ciara wondered aloud.
Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-25 05:39 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-25 09:36 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-25 06:49 pm (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-26 01:28 am (UTC)Re: Stave 3
Date: 2012-01-26 04:48 am (UTC)Yeah she wasn't taking this thing seriously. She was sort of playing along, but this debacle had long since lost her interest, especially when it came to accuracy. Like anyone really cared if they did the damn play correctly.
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