Warre
Establishing Nation
- Joined
- May 13, 2010
- Messages
- 1,384
- Nick
- Warr
The life of modern man is a stark contrast of that of the ancient man. Food is easily available, work is tedious and follows the same set plans, often while working for someone whom you will never even meet or know the name of's goals; but why we wake up and go to work, eat, and do the things which society ask of us is a question. It was a matter of faith and view that the possibilities for the future are great in ancient times, where as the frontiers are explored, the glory is in the hands of those who did things, and the modern man doesn't have the power to even farm for his own food and live on his own pace if he's not born luckily.
We live in a gray time, a land of a multitudes of shades in between black and white- all of which are indiscernible to those who have lived in destitution for too long. It brings forth the most primal of emotions in certain moments, the reminders to the drones of the modern world that they are indeed mortal man. These moments of passion and happiness are the things which make us capable of not relying on the darker of those primal emotions. The little things of happiness are our teeters in such a world, and they are what make us breath the next breath.
So we find one such modern man, a fourth generation son of dockworkers and fishers from the Suionian territory of Lyngholm, an island known to he and his as Warestyr the source from which the people of the hound had sprung; and the dissolution of one of his teeters. When happiness is gone, and passion cannot be turned into sorrow, it can only become rage. It can only explode.
“Ye got to be fucking kidding me, this's gotta be a fuckin' joke!” came a far too lyrical voice, the words fluttered from Suionian International English, to the Gaelige favored by the Warreic, with the words of Warreic Standard Engellic mixed within it all. His face was a comically, stereotypically reddened, as he said, so reddened it was almost as red as the dye-job his girlfriend had given him to show his Warreic heritage over his Suionian nationality. 'Gotta rep your kin, his boys had said.' And so he had, as all four members of his southeast Lyngholm Thunda [who repped east dock street], had.
As his grey eyes flickered over the words again, reading them once in Suionian, once in international English, once in the Gaelige favored upon Warestyr. The southeast Lyngholm Warestyr heritage centre, and indeed all of them- would be closed after the Drottinggarden official who was in charge of Lyngholm educational expenses saw that it was a cluttered system as of the moment. It further stated that it might be years to get back open, as things were reorganized.
“YE FUCKING NOGS. YE GOATLICKING NOGS, DROTTING UP EN BIZNUS THAT AIN'T A BIT OF IT'S. WARESTYR IS THIS PLACES NAME, OH, OH, I'M ABOUT TA FIND ME BOYZ, AND WE'S GON FIX THIS. CALL TA PARLIAMENT, THIS GOATLICKING NOGS DON'T KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THE EAST DOCK STREET THUNDA.”
And then he promptly pulled his oversized blue jeans, which were sagging even with his suspenders, and stormed from the interior door way where he had been reading this. As he walked, as he huffed, as he reached for a cigarette and stumblingly lit it up, taking a few deep huffs.
He took a few more of those deep breaths, before throwing the half-gone cigarette to the ground on a commonly traveled street in Warestyr City, throwing it down on the ground right in front of a constable, whom began to write him a ticket for littering while muttering at the young man about littering and how any self-respecting Suionian man would know better. The already reddened face young chap didn't seem to like those words, and even against the cool march air, he seemed to be sweating as the passion built up.
How was he supposed to be a famous rapper if he and his boys couldn't practice? How was he supposed to be a savior of Gaelige by popularizing it if he couldn't get famous after practicing? How was he supposed to practice if not for the heritage center? There were folks that didn't like to hear Gaelige when they were in public.
So he did what any self-respecting young gangsta'd do, and shouted out a “Pogue Mahone, netha!” before walking over to his bicycle, unhooking it from the chain, and then throwing it directly at the constable, before grabbing the bike and speeding away upon it.
Our hero continued speeding away and getting hit by a car as he sped through what should have been the car's right of way, a bit bruised and sent sprawling off his bike before he got back up and scrambled on back to his crew's primary hangout, bruised and battered, but more alive on the inside than he had ever been before. In his finally cracked mind, both incidents had been movements of Drottinggarden's tyranny trying to stop him from escaping this 'horrible ghetto' he lived in, and that perhaps his destiny wasn't to become the most fly G to ever come outta Warestyr. It was bigger, better. Drottinggarden saw it before he did, and that Swedish Colonial despot of a nation was more vile than the northeast-north side Lynghom city Rollas sayin' he stood no chance with Banphrionsa Ayslin Ui Tyran [finest wench this side of an Aren Princess by common G understandin'.]
And so something minor transformed into something drastic and unnecessary. A simple closure and restructuring of the full Gaelige immersion community centres within Lyngholm, had turned into something bloated. Hours passed, and the cool, damp, forgettable air of morning-tide in march turned into something that felt like it had been cut from a balmy jungle night in Kassiopeia. Mister Erin O'Donal, who felt closer to Warestyr and the Warreic than his Eireannaigh ancestry, had talked to all the other gangstas and their friends, over the night. The only thing to fix this situation was to show Drottinggarden that Warestyr wasn't just some kinda leech.
An urban warrior's coalition of sedans, bicycles, and on-foot movements dominated the normally quiet eight PM time of Lyngholm City, and within moments any urban or suburban dwellers within the city would be distracted by the bass beats hammering through speakers in these cars, and to the chants of the crowds below, “Suas le Warestyr, Is é seo an bhaile! Drottinggarden ba chóir go tyrants bás!” <Up with Warestyr, it is our home! Drottinggarden tyrants should die!> Followed by chants of “Warre go Bragh, Warestyr go Bragh!” Warre forever, Warestyr forever. And as the sirens of the borough police finally sounded off, words which were more revolutionary than anything else. “Fíor cainte go Bragh! We're tired of being in the same country as Drottinggarden Tyrants!”
We live in a gray time, a land of a multitudes of shades in between black and white- all of which are indiscernible to those who have lived in destitution for too long. It brings forth the most primal of emotions in certain moments, the reminders to the drones of the modern world that they are indeed mortal man. These moments of passion and happiness are the things which make us capable of not relying on the darker of those primal emotions. The little things of happiness are our teeters in such a world, and they are what make us breath the next breath.
So we find one such modern man, a fourth generation son of dockworkers and fishers from the Suionian territory of Lyngholm, an island known to he and his as Warestyr the source from which the people of the hound had sprung; and the dissolution of one of his teeters. When happiness is gone, and passion cannot be turned into sorrow, it can only become rage. It can only explode.
“Ye got to be fucking kidding me, this's gotta be a fuckin' joke!” came a far too lyrical voice, the words fluttered from Suionian International English, to the Gaelige favored by the Warreic, with the words of Warreic Standard Engellic mixed within it all. His face was a comically, stereotypically reddened, as he said, so reddened it was almost as red as the dye-job his girlfriend had given him to show his Warreic heritage over his Suionian nationality. 'Gotta rep your kin, his boys had said.' And so he had, as all four members of his southeast Lyngholm Thunda [who repped east dock street], had.
As his grey eyes flickered over the words again, reading them once in Suionian, once in international English, once in the Gaelige favored upon Warestyr. The southeast Lyngholm Warestyr heritage centre, and indeed all of them- would be closed after the Drottinggarden official who was in charge of Lyngholm educational expenses saw that it was a cluttered system as of the moment. It further stated that it might be years to get back open, as things were reorganized.
“YE FUCKING NOGS. YE GOATLICKING NOGS, DROTTING UP EN BIZNUS THAT AIN'T A BIT OF IT'S. WARESTYR IS THIS PLACES NAME, OH, OH, I'M ABOUT TA FIND ME BOYZ, AND WE'S GON FIX THIS. CALL TA PARLIAMENT, THIS GOATLICKING NOGS DON'T KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THE EAST DOCK STREET THUNDA.”
And then he promptly pulled his oversized blue jeans, which were sagging even with his suspenders, and stormed from the interior door way where he had been reading this. As he walked, as he huffed, as he reached for a cigarette and stumblingly lit it up, taking a few deep huffs.
He took a few more of those deep breaths, before throwing the half-gone cigarette to the ground on a commonly traveled street in Warestyr City, throwing it down on the ground right in front of a constable, whom began to write him a ticket for littering while muttering at the young man about littering and how any self-respecting Suionian man would know better. The already reddened face young chap didn't seem to like those words, and even against the cool march air, he seemed to be sweating as the passion built up.
How was he supposed to be a famous rapper if he and his boys couldn't practice? How was he supposed to be a savior of Gaelige by popularizing it if he couldn't get famous after practicing? How was he supposed to practice if not for the heritage center? There were folks that didn't like to hear Gaelige when they were in public.
So he did what any self-respecting young gangsta'd do, and shouted out a “Pogue Mahone, netha!” before walking over to his bicycle, unhooking it from the chain, and then throwing it directly at the constable, before grabbing the bike and speeding away upon it.
Our hero continued speeding away and getting hit by a car as he sped through what should have been the car's right of way, a bit bruised and sent sprawling off his bike before he got back up and scrambled on back to his crew's primary hangout, bruised and battered, but more alive on the inside than he had ever been before. In his finally cracked mind, both incidents had been movements of Drottinggarden's tyranny trying to stop him from escaping this 'horrible ghetto' he lived in, and that perhaps his destiny wasn't to become the most fly G to ever come outta Warestyr. It was bigger, better. Drottinggarden saw it before he did, and that Swedish Colonial despot of a nation was more vile than the northeast-north side Lynghom city Rollas sayin' he stood no chance with Banphrionsa Ayslin Ui Tyran [finest wench this side of an Aren Princess by common G understandin'.]
And so something minor transformed into something drastic and unnecessary. A simple closure and restructuring of the full Gaelige immersion community centres within Lyngholm, had turned into something bloated. Hours passed, and the cool, damp, forgettable air of morning-tide in march turned into something that felt like it had been cut from a balmy jungle night in Kassiopeia. Mister Erin O'Donal, who felt closer to Warestyr and the Warreic than his Eireannaigh ancestry, had talked to all the other gangstas and their friends, over the night. The only thing to fix this situation was to show Drottinggarden that Warestyr wasn't just some kinda leech.
An urban warrior's coalition of sedans, bicycles, and on-foot movements dominated the normally quiet eight PM time of Lyngholm City, and within moments any urban or suburban dwellers within the city would be distracted by the bass beats hammering through speakers in these cars, and to the chants of the crowds below, “Suas le Warestyr, Is é seo an bhaile! Drottinggarden ba chóir go tyrants bás!” <Up with Warestyr, it is our home! Drottinggarden tyrants should die!> Followed by chants of “Warre go Bragh, Warestyr go Bragh!” Warre forever, Warestyr forever. And as the sirens of the borough police finally sounded off, words which were more revolutionary than anything else. “Fíor cainte go Bragh! We're tired of being in the same country as Drottinggarden Tyrants!”