I took a small step off the boat, which tread in deep, azure waters that complemented the towering domes of ancient mosques and churches. Between the spires and the sea, everything took on dry, sandy tones, which seemed to offer an exotic charm in themselves, save for the exception of the occasional brown and green sprouts of palm trees. The foreground was entirely a snapshot from an ancient past, of fabled tales and long lineages.
Yet in the backdrop, westernized buildings made themselves visible with their red, tiled roofs and neat, colored, stone structures. It was a meeting ground for the shiny new and enchanting, dusty-covered old. I felt myself, an Englishman, flooding in with all the other things from the west -- ideas, technology, science, philosophy, institutions, buildings -- as though my presence itself was an indicator for the shift all around the nation. Turkey was, under Ataturk, trying to transform itself into a Western nation, complete with the somewhat aggressive secularization of the state and public life, and the institution of democracy.
I buttoned my coat in spite of the warm air that mixed with the temperate sea breeze. Dozens of men flocked about in similar dress, intermingled with more tradition and perhaps humble garments. Of course, there were plenty of citizens who kept to a traditional line of dress that offered plenty of flair, complete with vibrant reds and golds. The women carried on along this trend, some choosing Western clothing, which seemed so exotic and new to them, and some keeping to their customary dress, minus the facial coverings which were excluded under the new policies.
Walking among the crowd, I couldn't help feeling conscious of my role in this duality of ways of life. My pale skin and blue eyes showed themselves boldly apart from the darker complexions of everyone else, catching the hazel gaze of more than a few of the city's inhabitants. A few smiled in a mixture of curiosity and genuine affability, while others scowled in disapproval, like an implicit accusation of the destruction of their country.
After several minutes of brisk walking, I found myself at the hotel I had been assigned, a white structure of thoroughly Arabic design, accented by little blue patterns along the frames of doors and windows. The air lingered with the scents of spices and the smoke of both tobacco and cooking meat. The faint whisper of vanilla tickled ever so slightly at my nose as well. Ushering myself through the door, I found myself among mixed clientele as both men and women, native Turks and Westerners mingled in the lobby. Chatter in half a dozen languages filled the air in a blurred cacophony of what sometimes seemed to be nothing more than a series of emotional intonations, even when things were uttered in my own language.
Behind the receptionist's counter sat a plump graying man, with a thinning mustache and jovial demeanor. He gave a toothy grin, before offering his assistance, "How can I help you?"
"I'm here on business. I have a reservation," I said, unfurling a crumbled piece of documentation and offering it onto the counter. He nodded, reaching with a slight clamor for the key with a labelled room number. I clasped my fingers around the key gently, as though it were an orchid one had to be careful not to crush.
I meandered toward the stairs unescorted, each step muffled by the extravagant rug. Yet, a bright young face stopped me, her arm cradling itself on the spiraling corner of the handrail. With some apprehension and an amiable smile, I continued toward her.
A flock of gray clouds had hung above Paris for the past several days, as though tethered like balloons to the city. Yet, they refused to shed a single tear of rain to purge the streets of blood and gunpowder dust. Instead, they lazily glossed over the city, stationary, as if their only purpose was to set a depressing backdrop for the month's events.
Revolutionaries and soldiers had been squaring off for the last several weeks, systematically slaughtering each other row by row. It was as though, in the true fashion of this Age of Enlightenment, warfare itself had been mechanized, and the violence had become no more significant than gears grinding against one another. Another volley, another minute tick of the gear. Yet, the seemingly apathetic machine seemed to be grinding to a halt, the heated violence simmering down for at least a little bit. Yet, still, as the soldiers conferred their ideologies on the backs of bullets into tattered uniforms, the common citizenry battled in spoken word and newspaper, determined to shape France in whichever way they pleased. Father Lamont was one such verbal warrior of ideology -- a Catholic priest and an avowed monarchist. He pleased himself by knocking on doors each Sunday morning, gathering each member of the neighborhood for the week's congregation.
In this miserable week, Lamont remained steadfast as ever, rasping his frail, but still entirely coarse knuckles at the wilting frame of my door. His ruckus of a call to worship stirred me from an agitated and shallow slumber against the dining room table. Groaning into my sleeve, which found itself damp with traces of saliva, I stirred. The chair rattled and hissed in vigorous protest beneath me as I made my way onto my feet, clarifying quite articulately that a chair its age should by all means have been retired.
"Come now, boy," a faint murmur drifted through the cracks of the door with full intonation of its exasperation. The priest's clenched fist battered the door with another flurry. His voice took more confidence in itself and its divine mission, nearly shouting "Come now, you can't live in the house of Bacchus forever, boy. You've had enough wine and harlots for your own time."
I swore softly, waiting for him depart, as he always did, after his third set of knocks. He constantly threatened to say something to my landlord, who regularly attended his congregation, if I continued my "debauched" lifestyle. I damned the woman just as well as myself, he would always add, as if trying to torment my soul further with the trappings of guilt. Who would marry them after I had robbed them of their chastity, he constantly asked without solicitation. Though, to be fair, my writings in the papers were not solicited from dearest Father Lamont either.
There was some truth to his preaching, and I could only assume he did so out of genuine concern. After all, a great deal of value for women in this wretched age placed itself on the prospect of marriage. Work opportunity for woman, as it turned out, was scarce if nothing else, leaving the woman no other stake in prosperity than her appeal. Part that appeal, for many men, came in the form of innocence and chastity. What wretched thing it was, for the mutual pursuit of pleasure to devalue a person as a mere object to a market of scoundrels.
"Thank God," I whispered, to some irony, after the final round of assail passed on my door, leaving the air thin with its fragile silence. My vision returned to the squalor of papers scatted across the table, coated in inky scratches of my own handwriting. Right, the articles. I wrote for a number of the partisan papers which circulated among the Parisian and wider French public at the time. Although, which party did not really matter, so long as it paid well and I had the opportunity to argue. It was often that I found myself arguing against another one of my pseudonyms. I suspected some of my compatriots did the same. Luckily none of them would be demanded for publication for another few days, leaving me a few hours leisure. Being an irrepressibly salacious being that I was, the brothel had a magnetic appeal, though sometimes the women bored me. The young women writers, journalists and philosophes I found much more tantalizing in both talk and touch. They fornicated because it made them feel free, because they took pleasure in it, and that made a substantial difference. Though, it would be hard to bring such a delightful partner home with piety casting its gaze upon me. I collapsed into the elderly chair once more, which again, rattled beneath me even with my relatively slim frame, and contemplated with perhaps some banality which I could more strongly take appeal to, especially at this early hour. Stumbling on the thought that I was not yet properly dressed or groomed, I staggered into my bedroom. I fixed myself into a white undershirt and a deep, navy tailcoat -- the epitome of the day's style -- before stretching vigorously in an attempt to fully rouse myself from slumber. I took foot outside, completing my adornment with a pair of black boots, which brought everything together in such a way that made me look like a commanding officer. A cool autumn wind greeted me, carrying the pleasant scent of the nearby bakery, and seemed content to guide me to wherever my heart would content itself.
Stockholm could be a lovely city in the summer, sometimes labelled the Venice of the North with its archipelagic layout. The cool, northern breeze carried with it a sense of peace, that perhaps those long winters had been weathered for a reason. The sun, after all, just seemed to shine a little bit brighter up here after enduring the brutalities of the season of death. Perhaps that's what drew a normally reserved people out of their homes to get drunk and dance around a pole.
The start of our story, however, was not among the delight of summertime or the state of Carnival which the season permitted. Rather, snow danced about in snaky wisps on the outside cobblestone, the gray heaven's flurries not yet resigned to relent themselves. The wind shrieked throughout every corner and alley, announcing the foreboding chill it carried. Meanwhile, in my own abode, logs crackled in their self-satisfied manner, fending off the weather with its luminous golden warmth. The faint smell of pine sifted atop the air, mostly masked by the distinctive scent of smoke.
I wrote and translated piles of assorted, usually philosophical tomes for a living, dependent on the warmth of fire keeping my inkwell liquid as a newborn was upon his mother. Bundled in a fur coat, I scrawled my pen across the page, my fingers stiffening gradually with what remained of the cold in the room. Inside my boots, my toes curled for the warmth of my feet. At the moment, I was penning one of Tolstoy's into Swedish, thankfully among his later, shorter works. Though, in my reading of it, it seems I had been irreparably debauched by the seductive nature of women. I, myself, felt quite at home with the passion he forewarned and saw no vice or folly with it. Truly, could such things drive a man to murder? A madman perhaps. Not an instant after that thought, a brisk, but firm series of taps enunciated themselves upon my door. The brass mail slot was hitched open, carrying a lone letter inside along with a shivering draft. I emerged from my chair almost immediately, my back suddenly aching from the withdraw of its stock in such a prolonged position. Rolling my shoulders to break the hold of stiffness, I meandered toward the letter, grasping it in trembling hands.
The envelope claimed its sender in a cursive script that deviated from its usual elegance with fitful tremors -- that of Astrid Fredriksson, the wife of the landlord. The winter weather had never her downed her with some minor sickness in the past, leaving me some concern for her health.
Dearest Edvard,
I hope this message finds you warm and well, as I write now with some agony in my heart. It is out of concern for my daughter that I write to you, even if it is not my place to do so. But, I fear you may be the only one with the kind of worldview needed to address this matter properly. Forgive me, but I have found myself reading some of your publications that have circulated the journals and just thought you could handle it appropriately. Her father refuses to do a thing, doesn't want to admit anything is wrong with the fellow or with his encouragement of the matter. You know he is, lovable in his own right, but downright stubborn.
You will, I am sure, recall my daughter's marriage to Mr. Peter Svensson in the spring. After all, you were one of only a handful of tenants we thought would make a civilized additional to the ceremony, and among even fewer I would venture so far as to call a friend. She seemed so happy then, her little white face beaming with sunny joy at the mere prospect of marrying the man. Now everything's gone so rotten, so ill. My dear daughter, for what a mother I am, comes to me in tears with word of his drunken assaults on both body and character. I've seen the bruises that scoundrel has given her and it truly shakes me with rage. Truly, it shakes me. I would do something were it not for my husband's utter lack of humility, and it not being my place in this world to stand up to such fiendishness.
You seem to have a talent for these reasons and words and for that be a respectable man, so I beg and implore you to speak with my daughter and her husband. I apologize for sending this in writing, but I find myself unable to find the strength to speak of these things in person. I do hope you understand.
I folded the letter in my palm, neglecting to read the closing formalities, and entered into a fit of pacing. Who on earth did Astrid think I was, requesting such things of me. Who on earth did she think she was lobbying for such favors. Was I simply to go out of some internal sense of moral duty? Perhaps this was the case, as my cold fingers clutched tightly along the edges of the paper, crumpling them in rage-filled spasms.
I grasped my more formal coat forcefully, rattling the rack to precipice of tipping. After thoroughly and hastily layering myself, I pressed out onto the streets, abandoned save for the occasional carriage.
"This is none of my business. None of my business at all!" I murmured to myself like a raving drunkard, pivoting on my heels to turn back, but anchored in place by a weighty stone of morality in my gut, "But if there is something I can do, I must." I stood, staggering back and forth in either direction at each tip in the balance of decision making. The wind dug like a razor into my cloak and straight through my skin as I gawked about in crisis.
But a sudden, reluctant resolve came over me in a single moment, guiding my feet step by step to the residence of the landlady's daughter.
Okay, first off, it's kind of open-ended on what kind of character you want to be in both of the prompts. Notably, it would be good to have an interesting character that can stand outside of her sexual interests and makes herself relevant to the time period. However, I tend to like a lot of buildup, even if I'm playing a somewhat explicitly sexual character. Additionally, I think it would be interesting to engage with the change of ideas about sexuality, as well as government, ethics and so on were shifting at the time. I'm not asking you be a historical expert, but think about how your character would react to both the scrutiny traditionally placed on sex as well as the more open shift in attitudes.
In any case, if you have interest in the setting or the approach in even the most remote sense, shoot me a PM.
Submitted December 18, 2016 at 09:11PM by Eroticisms http://ift.tt/2gQoR5O
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