VIGNETTE: The Life of the Party
BadAtScreenNames
Killed a man in Reno just to watch him die
- Location
- the (currently) United Kingdom
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Cool. Vignette for missionary training!
The Life of the Party
It's late. Past her bedtime. But Jem's not in bed, tonight; instead, she's hiding behind the make-shift tent where her father and the others are preaching. It sounds like an argument, but the wind's too strong. It keeps snatching away their words before she can make them out properly. She dithers. Decides. Presses an ear against the wall of the tent.
"...too restrictive," someone's saying. "The more dogmatic we make it, the harder they'll find it to adapt."
"The more they adapt," says someone else, growling with frustration, "the further away they'll go from the scriptures. The further away they go from the scriptures, the more likely Morth is to fracture before she even wakes up."
"That won't be a problem if all our bloody missionaries are stuck repeating the same bloody lines over and over to bored crowds." Her father's voice. Jem fights down a teenager's automatic grimace of distaste and keeps listening. "They believe themselves already. They wouldn't be here if they didn't. And we're far too early to worry about fracturing."
"So what do you propose?"
"We teach them the scriptures in their barest forms. Then we teach them some basic oration skills- enough to tell a good story. Then we send them out. We're popular right now because of the festival- because we're fun. Lean into that. Let them be entertainers, charmers-"
"-wastrels, indigents-"
"You'd turn our priesthood into bards and street whores at best, Danaal-"
"Oh, hush!"
"We need the rich. The powerful. We don't get their patronage by wandering the wilderness playing songs."
There's a tone in her father's voice when he speaks next. Jem knows it well. He's grinning that sardonic little grin.
"Wandering the wilderness playing songs attracted most of those worshippers we have today. That and making paper lanterns, putting on plays and telling stories. Even the rich and powerful like to watch a show."
There's a pause. Her father seizes on it.
"The honourable Mr Baxter can teach them a few chords on the mandolin, and how to sing a song without souring milk. I'll focus on how to tell a tale. The rest of you get to pick scriptures that suit, and give them those. And people will come, because music and stories are excellent ways to pass the time, beaten only by alehouses and, as you so charmingly pointed out, street whores. We'll get every bastard with a few hours to waste that you can think of."
Jem listens, as the others talk and argue. They seem to come around. It's only when they've agreed that she darts away back to her bed. In her little heart, a seed has been born. Tomorrow, she'll ask Jake to teach her a few chords.
The Life of the Party
It's late. Past her bedtime. But Jem's not in bed, tonight; instead, she's hiding behind the make-shift tent where her father and the others are preaching. It sounds like an argument, but the wind's too strong. It keeps snatching away their words before she can make them out properly. She dithers. Decides. Presses an ear against the wall of the tent.
"...too restrictive," someone's saying. "The more dogmatic we make it, the harder they'll find it to adapt."
"The more they adapt," says someone else, growling with frustration, "the further away they'll go from the scriptures. The further away they go from the scriptures, the more likely Morth is to fracture before she even wakes up."
"That won't be a problem if all our bloody missionaries are stuck repeating the same bloody lines over and over to bored crowds." Her father's voice. Jem fights down a teenager's automatic grimace of distaste and keeps listening. "They believe themselves already. They wouldn't be here if they didn't. And we're far too early to worry about fracturing."
"So what do you propose?"
"We teach them the scriptures in their barest forms. Then we teach them some basic oration skills- enough to tell a good story. Then we send them out. We're popular right now because of the festival- because we're fun. Lean into that. Let them be entertainers, charmers-"
"-wastrels, indigents-"
"You'd turn our priesthood into bards and street whores at best, Danaal-"
"Oh, hush!"
"We need the rich. The powerful. We don't get their patronage by wandering the wilderness playing songs."
There's a tone in her father's voice when he speaks next. Jem knows it well. He's grinning that sardonic little grin.
"Wandering the wilderness playing songs attracted most of those worshippers we have today. That and making paper lanterns, putting on plays and telling stories. Even the rich and powerful like to watch a show."
There's a pause. Her father seizes on it.
"The honourable Mr Baxter can teach them a few chords on the mandolin, and how to sing a song without souring milk. I'll focus on how to tell a tale. The rest of you get to pick scriptures that suit, and give them those. And people will come, because music and stories are excellent ways to pass the time, beaten only by alehouses and, as you so charmingly pointed out, street whores. We'll get every bastard with a few hours to waste that you can think of."
Jem listens, as the others talk and argue. They seem to come around. It's only when they've agreed that she darts away back to her bed. In her little heart, a seed has been born. Tomorrow, she'll ask Jake to teach her a few chords.
