Post by Wern on Feb 13, 2016 21:54:22 GMT
Shortly after the event of "Gone"- Open to Mingo's Merchanics members only
In recent light of events, a summons was called for the Mingos Guild. A summons beckoning for all current members to participate, to gather. A concert hall was rented, was set, was prepared. But the décor; it was bleak. The Mingo’s symbol lay against the back wall, behind the central podium, but black lined the side walls in the form of drapes and gears. Little trinkets had been offered here and there, in homage, in tribute. They had gathered for an assembly, but this was as much a funeral as it was a meeting.
The news had spread that Amon’s body had been found— charred, desecrated. Had been left as remains. Yet, even this was just speculation as the speaker stated when he highlighted the past few days events. Further tests were needed to know for certain if Amon could still be alive, or if he was just missing. But the body was hard to ingore. A last arm, ribcage, partial gone. It all pointed to the robotic limb that had characterized their leader so well. Speculation could linger, but the hard fact was that Amon was gone, and perhaps, and most likely in this case, dead.
The speaker, from behind his podium, looked out over the crowd, all standing. Someone had bothered to set up a table in the back, with refreshments— minimally, though. This was not a celebration, and besides. No one planned to be there long —or wanted to be there long. Meetings between Mingos members were rare. Perhaps even unheard of. They didn’t even have a defined space to meet, let alone gather. Mingos itself was a united solidarity, a worker’s union, with each individual like cogs inside of a machine— perhaps interacting with one, or two other cogs at a time, but never the whole mechanism. There were many new faces, many unrecognizable faces. And that was a problem.
“We need a new leader, for stability, for strength, and most of all, for unity. But as you all know, the process to pick a new leader has always been in the hands of the old. Yet, as far as I know, Amon did not pick a successor.” There was a stirring in the crowd. A rattling of whispers, of suspicions, of what would this mean for the guild. The speaker, gripping the wooden podium tightly, continued. “Thus, options are to be discussed. We could choose based on seniority, or perhaps, vote. Both of which offer dilemmas. Persons chosen may not be as qualified to lead. Amon, as we know, was skilled in many areas of expertise, specifically Clockwork dolls.” The audience nodded, having known quite well the extent of their prior leader’s work— Abby and Abe being both a pinnacle and starting point of their leader’s successes.
“It has then been decided that the new leader shall be one who is most familiar with different kinds of merchanics, having a diverse amount of insight. I, amongst other senior members, have thus decided that we not base the new leader on seniority or popularity, but skill.” The stirring in the crowd escalated a bit, some people shouting, asking, shouldn’t we still vote, shouldn’t we decide who is to lead us? But that wasn’t an option, right from the beginning. Not enough people knew each other, and there wasn’t time for a proper vote. If Mingo’s did not establish a leader as soon as possible, it could call disbandment. And so, a decision had to be made.
“The new leader we have chosen is still fairly new to Mingo's. But, despite this, this individual has gained various insights into different fields of merchanics, and as such, we have appointed him to be our new, if only temporary, leader.”
Pausing, the speaker looked over the crowd, holding onto the tension, waiting for the group to settle, for once the name was said, there was no going back.
“Wern Azbanya. Please come to the stand.”
~
There were many members in Mingo’s, Wern noted, looking around at his surrounding peers. Many he did not know, and some he only recognized from Castamere, but aside from that, he couldn’t’ say he knew any of them personally. Not from lack of trying, but, had he really been that secluded? Or was that just the nature of the Merchanics guild? To be secluded, to work, and maybe once work was done, to engage? But even still, he noted hostility amongst the group. Some members boasted. Others kept quiet, as if talking could give away their presence. It was strange, but perhaps even stranger were the black drapes across the walls. There were no pictures of Amon, but the tables on the sides, slowly filling, slowly climbing with offerings to the long departed— no, he wasn’t departed, he couldn’t be— truly related to what this gathering was about. Everyone knew why they were here, and as such, they wanted to pay their respects.
Wern had yet to give his own offering— one he created once he heard the news. A little wooden carving of Abbey and Abe, because they, like Amon, had gone missing as well. He wondered, if somewhere, Amon could appreciate it. Would appreciate it. But Wern may not ever know. Especially not as the man, the speaker, spoke of the inevitable of the acceptance that Amon was gone. And Wern understood that. Despite not having seen the wreckage himself, he knew from rumors, from stories, what lay behind the now locked and blocked off doors to Amon’s shop. Of the blood, of the wreckage, of the ransack, of the struggle of the, the—Wern bit his lip, looking up at the ceiling as he held back the thought, the prospect of the others death. Oh cogs. Heat wavered at the bottom of eyes, and even as he leaned his head back, the tears ended up coming anyway. Goddrat it, Amon. Why did you have to leave? What happened to you? What did they do to you? The questions didn’t hurt as much as the answers, as the evidence, and Wern’s hands trembled. He grasped the wooden carvings, breathed in deeply, holding back his tears. God. Why did it have to be Amon?
For most of the speaker’s speech, Wern ignored it. A new leader? So soon? It made sense, but the pain, the loss. It was too new. Too fresh. Yet here they were, going and going, with seniority, popularity, and skill. Why did it matter? His peers around him though, they cared. They shuffled, many crossing their arms, whispering to each other. As much as it did not bother Wern, it bothered many, everyone appearing on edge. Perhaps they all wanted to be the new guild leader, to take advantage of this open, vulnerable moment. But shouldn’t they be looking for Amon? Searching, but again, that body. That presence. That pain.
Holding the carving tightly, Wern did not care about the decision of the new leader, but knew to listen, if not out of necessity, but respect. There was a pause as the new leader was to be announced. Everyone held still, held their breath, until it last, the news was released.
“Wern Azbanya. Please come to the stand.”
Wern nearly dropped the carving. “W-what?” He stammered, and the people, they searched the crowd for him, not recognizing his name, but the people that did, they shouted, “What, seriously? Him?”, “He has no spine,” “You can’t tell me that man is a leader?” As if anticipating the backlash, a group of men and women surrounded Wern, two guiding him to the podium.
“No, wait, this is a mistake. I’m not suitable, I’m not worthy.” He stammered, trying to fight their touch, but a woman pushed him forward, a grimace on her lips.
“You’re the most qualified. Now, hush. Accept your role, Azbanya.” The crowd had split, as if to grant the moving group passage, but mainly, to get an understanding of who this new leader was. This overweight, toxic man. Didn’t you hear, he drinks? That he runs away? That he’s weak?
Scrambling up the side, there was no clapping as Wern took to the stage. Just whispers and shouts, and the speaker, he stepped aside to let Wern take his place behind the podium.
“Be strong. You’ll do fine. Ignore them— change isn’t easy.” The speaker quickly told him, patting Wern’s arm as he passed. Wern’s hands trembled as he took the podium— his breath, quivering as he looked over at angered faces, at angered and confused faces. He bit his lip.
“Uh, um. H-hello, mem-members of Mingo’s. M-my name is W-Wern Azbanya.”
“We know already! Get off the stage! Traitor!” Someone shouted, and Wern swallowed. And in that moment of weakness, other people joined in, ordering for Wern to get off the stage, for him to leave. Wern looked to the speaker, who motioned for him to stay there. That they weren’t going to change their minds. Again, Wern swallowed.
“I-I am honored to b-be the new guild leader of, um the merchanics guild—ah.” Wern drew back, something sharp cutting his cheek. Someone had thrown something— a trinket, at the stage, and it had connected, had hit Wern. Staggering back a bit, Wern felt the blood form at the wound. The words, “we don’t need a new guild leader,” “Only Amon was our leader,” echoing over and over. Someone tried to help him up, but Wern motioned for them to stay back, that he was alright. But then, he saw it. The little figurine of Abby and Abe— broken, their heads snapped when they had fallen in the skirmish. He stared at the broken ornament, and, well, anger billowed inside of him.
Getting up, he approached the podium, picking up the trinket, turning it over in his hand, the anger, once more, filling him. Leaning up, he griped the edges of the podium tightly, staring out over the crowd. “Be queit, all of you!” He shouted, and people paused, startled. “You all are acting like beasts, like imbeciles. We are in a war, for goodness sake. We don’t need this. Yes, I am going to be your new leader. Yes, I’m not qualified—but it’s only in namesake. I don’t expect you to treat me like you did Amon. He and I are completely different. Amon was a man of respect, of intelligence, of innovation I have never seen before. I was terrified, and still am, of him, at how powerful, at how skillful he was. I can never be like that, but I can try, if anything, to be half the man he was. We all know there are men out there much better suited for this role, but many were taken from us before they even had a chance.” Lowering his head, Wern glanced at the podium, feeling the wood press back against his palm. “But we don’t have time to search, to squabble, to throw things like children. We’re in a war. Men and Women are dying. And if there were a time to unite, it would be now. So, even if you don’t see me as your leader, just at least listen to me. I know all of you are specialized and masters of your craft. But it’s time to break free from your trades. We need to unite. To work together, to build up a Lodan that will not only defeat Sveden, but make them pay for what they have done. And in the meantime, maybe someone else will step up to the plate of Guild Leader. But until then, I plan not to waste time. Let’s be a Mingo’s that Amon would be proud of, you hear? Now, what say you? Are we beasts, or are we Mingo’s?”
The crowd was silent. Wern breathed haggardly from behind the podium, looking, searching for any response, until at last, someone pushed through the crowd, stepping forward. And Wern recognized him, recognized him from Castamere. The one who had doubted him once before, made fun of him, had opposed Amon. “We’re Mingo’s,” he yelled, and slowly, others followed.
“Mingo’s, Mingo’s.” The crowd repeated, and Wern, startled, slowly smiled at them, at the camaraderie, at the unity. Many of the men and women erupted in a song, in camaraderie, but Wern held up his hand, to quiet them.
“Mingo’s, let us take up gears and fight. Those of you who were at Castmere, try to think back to that day and figure out more of Sveden technology and their weakness. Others, create plans for new technology that will benefit the people. I will arrange for another meeting so that we can further get to know each other and work together to win this war, not only for Amon or Lodan, but for Mingo’s.” Holding up his fist, Wern shouted, again. “For Mingo’s!” And others joined as well as, chanting “For Mingo’s” over and over. Wern nodded to them, offering his thanks before walking off the stage, in case anyone wanted to talk with him. The previous speaker patted his arm on Wern’s way down, telling him how he did a good job and how they would talk later. For now, though—now it was time for Mingo’s to talk to him, to Wern, and Wern nodded, standing near the stage to welcome anyone that wished to talk to him, for their was bound to be questions, and if not, then introductions.
In recent light of events, a summons was called for the Mingos Guild. A summons beckoning for all current members to participate, to gather. A concert hall was rented, was set, was prepared. But the décor; it was bleak. The Mingo’s symbol lay against the back wall, behind the central podium, but black lined the side walls in the form of drapes and gears. Little trinkets had been offered here and there, in homage, in tribute. They had gathered for an assembly, but this was as much a funeral as it was a meeting.
The news had spread that Amon’s body had been found— charred, desecrated. Had been left as remains. Yet, even this was just speculation as the speaker stated when he highlighted the past few days events. Further tests were needed to know for certain if Amon could still be alive, or if he was just missing. But the body was hard to ingore. A last arm, ribcage, partial gone. It all pointed to the robotic limb that had characterized their leader so well. Speculation could linger, but the hard fact was that Amon was gone, and perhaps, and most likely in this case, dead.
The speaker, from behind his podium, looked out over the crowd, all standing. Someone had bothered to set up a table in the back, with refreshments— minimally, though. This was not a celebration, and besides. No one planned to be there long —or wanted to be there long. Meetings between Mingos members were rare. Perhaps even unheard of. They didn’t even have a defined space to meet, let alone gather. Mingos itself was a united solidarity, a worker’s union, with each individual like cogs inside of a machine— perhaps interacting with one, or two other cogs at a time, but never the whole mechanism. There were many new faces, many unrecognizable faces. And that was a problem.
“We need a new leader, for stability, for strength, and most of all, for unity. But as you all know, the process to pick a new leader has always been in the hands of the old. Yet, as far as I know, Amon did not pick a successor.” There was a stirring in the crowd. A rattling of whispers, of suspicions, of what would this mean for the guild. The speaker, gripping the wooden podium tightly, continued. “Thus, options are to be discussed. We could choose based on seniority, or perhaps, vote. Both of which offer dilemmas. Persons chosen may not be as qualified to lead. Amon, as we know, was skilled in many areas of expertise, specifically Clockwork dolls.” The audience nodded, having known quite well the extent of their prior leader’s work— Abby and Abe being both a pinnacle and starting point of their leader’s successes.
“It has then been decided that the new leader shall be one who is most familiar with different kinds of merchanics, having a diverse amount of insight. I, amongst other senior members, have thus decided that we not base the new leader on seniority or popularity, but skill.” The stirring in the crowd escalated a bit, some people shouting, asking, shouldn’t we still vote, shouldn’t we decide who is to lead us? But that wasn’t an option, right from the beginning. Not enough people knew each other, and there wasn’t time for a proper vote. If Mingo’s did not establish a leader as soon as possible, it could call disbandment. And so, a decision had to be made.
“The new leader we have chosen is still fairly new to Mingo's. But, despite this, this individual has gained various insights into different fields of merchanics, and as such, we have appointed him to be our new, if only temporary, leader.”
Pausing, the speaker looked over the crowd, holding onto the tension, waiting for the group to settle, for once the name was said, there was no going back.
“Wern Azbanya. Please come to the stand.”
~
There were many members in Mingo’s, Wern noted, looking around at his surrounding peers. Many he did not know, and some he only recognized from Castamere, but aside from that, he couldn’t’ say he knew any of them personally. Not from lack of trying, but, had he really been that secluded? Or was that just the nature of the Merchanics guild? To be secluded, to work, and maybe once work was done, to engage? But even still, he noted hostility amongst the group. Some members boasted. Others kept quiet, as if talking could give away their presence. It was strange, but perhaps even stranger were the black drapes across the walls. There were no pictures of Amon, but the tables on the sides, slowly filling, slowly climbing with offerings to the long departed— no, he wasn’t departed, he couldn’t be— truly related to what this gathering was about. Everyone knew why they were here, and as such, they wanted to pay their respects.
Wern had yet to give his own offering— one he created once he heard the news. A little wooden carving of Abbey and Abe, because they, like Amon, had gone missing as well. He wondered, if somewhere, Amon could appreciate it. Would appreciate it. But Wern may not ever know. Especially not as the man, the speaker, spoke of the inevitable of the acceptance that Amon was gone. And Wern understood that. Despite not having seen the wreckage himself, he knew from rumors, from stories, what lay behind the now locked and blocked off doors to Amon’s shop. Of the blood, of the wreckage, of the ransack, of the struggle of the, the—Wern bit his lip, looking up at the ceiling as he held back the thought, the prospect of the others death. Oh cogs. Heat wavered at the bottom of eyes, and even as he leaned his head back, the tears ended up coming anyway. Goddrat it, Amon. Why did you have to leave? What happened to you? What did they do to you? The questions didn’t hurt as much as the answers, as the evidence, and Wern’s hands trembled. He grasped the wooden carvings, breathed in deeply, holding back his tears. God. Why did it have to be Amon?
For most of the speaker’s speech, Wern ignored it. A new leader? So soon? It made sense, but the pain, the loss. It was too new. Too fresh. Yet here they were, going and going, with seniority, popularity, and skill. Why did it matter? His peers around him though, they cared. They shuffled, many crossing their arms, whispering to each other. As much as it did not bother Wern, it bothered many, everyone appearing on edge. Perhaps they all wanted to be the new guild leader, to take advantage of this open, vulnerable moment. But shouldn’t they be looking for Amon? Searching, but again, that body. That presence. That pain.
Holding the carving tightly, Wern did not care about the decision of the new leader, but knew to listen, if not out of necessity, but respect. There was a pause as the new leader was to be announced. Everyone held still, held their breath, until it last, the news was released.
“Wern Azbanya. Please come to the stand.”
Wern nearly dropped the carving. “W-what?” He stammered, and the people, they searched the crowd for him, not recognizing his name, but the people that did, they shouted, “What, seriously? Him?”, “He has no spine,” “You can’t tell me that man is a leader?” As if anticipating the backlash, a group of men and women surrounded Wern, two guiding him to the podium.
“No, wait, this is a mistake. I’m not suitable, I’m not worthy.” He stammered, trying to fight their touch, but a woman pushed him forward, a grimace on her lips.
“You’re the most qualified. Now, hush. Accept your role, Azbanya.” The crowd had split, as if to grant the moving group passage, but mainly, to get an understanding of who this new leader was. This overweight, toxic man. Didn’t you hear, he drinks? That he runs away? That he’s weak?
Scrambling up the side, there was no clapping as Wern took to the stage. Just whispers and shouts, and the speaker, he stepped aside to let Wern take his place behind the podium.
“Be strong. You’ll do fine. Ignore them— change isn’t easy.” The speaker quickly told him, patting Wern’s arm as he passed. Wern’s hands trembled as he took the podium— his breath, quivering as he looked over at angered faces, at angered and confused faces. He bit his lip.
“Uh, um. H-hello, mem-members of Mingo’s. M-my name is W-Wern Azbanya.”
“We know already! Get off the stage! Traitor!” Someone shouted, and Wern swallowed. And in that moment of weakness, other people joined in, ordering for Wern to get off the stage, for him to leave. Wern looked to the speaker, who motioned for him to stay there. That they weren’t going to change their minds. Again, Wern swallowed.
“I-I am honored to b-be the new guild leader of, um the merchanics guild—ah.” Wern drew back, something sharp cutting his cheek. Someone had thrown something— a trinket, at the stage, and it had connected, had hit Wern. Staggering back a bit, Wern felt the blood form at the wound. The words, “we don’t need a new guild leader,” “Only Amon was our leader,” echoing over and over. Someone tried to help him up, but Wern motioned for them to stay back, that he was alright. But then, he saw it. The little figurine of Abby and Abe— broken, their heads snapped when they had fallen in the skirmish. He stared at the broken ornament, and, well, anger billowed inside of him.
Getting up, he approached the podium, picking up the trinket, turning it over in his hand, the anger, once more, filling him. Leaning up, he griped the edges of the podium tightly, staring out over the crowd. “Be queit, all of you!” He shouted, and people paused, startled. “You all are acting like beasts, like imbeciles. We are in a war, for goodness sake. We don’t need this. Yes, I am going to be your new leader. Yes, I’m not qualified—but it’s only in namesake. I don’t expect you to treat me like you did Amon. He and I are completely different. Amon was a man of respect, of intelligence, of innovation I have never seen before. I was terrified, and still am, of him, at how powerful, at how skillful he was. I can never be like that, but I can try, if anything, to be half the man he was. We all know there are men out there much better suited for this role, but many were taken from us before they even had a chance.” Lowering his head, Wern glanced at the podium, feeling the wood press back against his palm. “But we don’t have time to search, to squabble, to throw things like children. We’re in a war. Men and Women are dying. And if there were a time to unite, it would be now. So, even if you don’t see me as your leader, just at least listen to me. I know all of you are specialized and masters of your craft. But it’s time to break free from your trades. We need to unite. To work together, to build up a Lodan that will not only defeat Sveden, but make them pay for what they have done. And in the meantime, maybe someone else will step up to the plate of Guild Leader. But until then, I plan not to waste time. Let’s be a Mingo’s that Amon would be proud of, you hear? Now, what say you? Are we beasts, or are we Mingo’s?”
The crowd was silent. Wern breathed haggardly from behind the podium, looking, searching for any response, until at last, someone pushed through the crowd, stepping forward. And Wern recognized him, recognized him from Castamere. The one who had doubted him once before, made fun of him, had opposed Amon. “We’re Mingo’s,” he yelled, and slowly, others followed.
“Mingo’s, Mingo’s.” The crowd repeated, and Wern, startled, slowly smiled at them, at the camaraderie, at the unity. Many of the men and women erupted in a song, in camaraderie, but Wern held up his hand, to quiet them.
“Mingo’s, let us take up gears and fight. Those of you who were at Castmere, try to think back to that day and figure out more of Sveden technology and their weakness. Others, create plans for new technology that will benefit the people. I will arrange for another meeting so that we can further get to know each other and work together to win this war, not only for Amon or Lodan, but for Mingo’s.” Holding up his fist, Wern shouted, again. “For Mingo’s!” And others joined as well as, chanting “For Mingo’s” over and over. Wern nodded to them, offering his thanks before walking off the stage, in case anyone wanted to talk with him. The previous speaker patted his arm on Wern’s way down, telling him how he did a good job and how they would talk later. For now, though—now it was time for Mingo’s to talk to him, to Wern, and Wern nodded, standing near the stage to welcome anyone that wished to talk to him, for their was bound to be questions, and if not, then introductions.