Post by Barnaby Cuthbert on Jul 3, 2014 0:30:25 GMT -8
The City spins and wheels and flies and turns and burns.
Prince Bella made me Harpy the other night. The neonate Prince picked the Harpy.
The City whirls and twirls and shifts and shimmers and glimmers.
It's my duty to harp. Oh I'm honored. Yessiree. She said somethin' to the effect of 'someone has to say the emperor has no clothes'.
Well here goes:
The first scandal is this: Me.
You see, I am not a Harpy, not like ya think of one.
The City builds and wills and trills and thrills and chills and magic and prizes.
A harpy is seated by Primogen, not Princes. A Harpy is chosen, and granted standin' of their own to show, not just pillow talk and faux confidence in my abilities to harp.
This nickel is wooden. The x-ray specs from the back of the comic book don't show me any ladies undies like it promised.
The City ponders and wanders and wonders and blunders and laughs.
But their ain't no Primogen no more.
The childe Prince Bella sent them all away.
No one represents you now. No one represents the Primogen that don't exist.
The City brines and whines and steps lightly on the tines that dry men's soles.
Well there's Jibran. Primogen of one.
Two Princes, a Seneschal and Jibran, that's our city now. Split into North, South, East and Central, with Prince #1 Bella at the Center and Prince #2, the 2-time, Fecal Regal at the South? I assume #2 comes from down below. I might have that part wrong. Two-time Hephaestus. The deuce of Princes from down below. I don't know, I ain't seen a map. The Princes ain't made one yet.
Ain't that a turd wrapped in a bow?
You Kindred of the Emerald Domain, your voices are not heard!
You have no Primogen!
You've chosen no Harpy!
The City titters and glitters and litters and natters and sings a little ditty.
Then you got Seneschal Hamza. He gets a piece of the four-piece pie.
And good 'ol Jibran. he's got a slice.
But you've been cut out.
'Course now I hear he wants the Brujah to go the way of the Great Pack and secede from the Grand Olde Camarilla. So how Primogen can he be?
So I ain't a harpy, and their ain't a Prince, there's two. Or two halves of one Prince maybe.
And I ain't a Harpy.
No one has a Primogen save the Brujah.
The Nos gave it up so they could have a pretend second-time, second-rate, half-Prince of a quarter kingdom, granted by the Childe Prince, Bella the Pleaser.
The Brujah have a Primogen in Jibran, but who is he Primogen for? All of their young, brash voices have been silenced. Souls swallowed by the Sheriff, scion of justice that he is. His constituency is out-of-towner-downers, putting on a show in a cage for a stain from the Pit in the shadow of a Mountain.
The Malkavians are all but gone. Just me and a young one and Prince #1, barely older than she. Mother has fled, Maltin is whispers on the wind. The Ambassador is unhoused. She tried to claim a few rooms and was turned away.
How dare she? Asked the childe. I'm OLD, said the Elder. Who cares? Shouted the neonates, Prince one and Colson.
The Gangrel keep to themselves and their Pack, never to come back.
Toreador, unrepresented.
Tremere, gone or dead.
Ventrue, an oft-absent clockmaker and another neonate.
There's no one left to tell our stories for.
No one left to represent. Plenty of vagabond races, outsiders and killers, pretenders and ill-willers.
The City weeps and chirps and rattles and gasps.
I am not a Harpy. Prince number one picked me. That makes me a lie.
I am not a Harpy. Prince number one picked Tristan. A co-harpy? A Prince-pleaser picked her. No Primogenship, no standing lent or given. A hollow toy, an Easter egg without a treat.
In the childe's playpen, every doll gets a job at the tea party. Today Barbie is a soldier, tomorrow a nun.
The empress dances nude. Everyone sees and there's nothing left to say. No words for the Harpy to Harp. No weight to them neither.
The City winces and whimpers and shivers and falls silent.
Like your voices.
- MOT DAM