It is essential to be prepared in arguments, to think about things your opponent might say, so that you aren’t caught completely flat-footed when they do. The truth about people who are good at coming up with arguments ‘on the fly’ is that they’re often getting a read on their opponent and coming up with arguments well ahead of time, and the Onceler has gotten very good at that. Based on how the conversation has gone so far and discussions he has had with other environmentalists, he can reasonably predict what Snufkin is going to say, at least as far as the nature angle goes. Even if the other never ends up saying those things, it’s still good to have a rebuttal in his back pocket. As long as he’s not putting words in Snufkin’s mouth out loud, who cares?
The Onceler knows Snufkin is doing the same thing, too; he can feel the creature’s brain spinning around, see his thoughtful expressions, hear his discontented hums when something he thinks doesn’t pan out how he would like it to. He is making just as many assumptions about the Onceler as the reverse, and the Onceler does not think this kind of ‘conversational shorthand’ is bad.
Of course, he is all about efficiency, so obviously, that also extends to how he approaches conversations. He believes nothing would get done if nobody went into discussions with preconceived notions and expectations, all that time wasted asking questions in an effort to understand each other. He understands Snufkin perfectly well, knows exactly what the guy wants, but he does not intend to give him anything.
It’s not that he doesn’t get Snufkin, but rather that he does not want to give up his business, and why should he when he has worked so hard to get here? Why should he throw away over a decade’s worth of difficult work just because he’s damaging a small portion of the natural world? It’s not like he’s killing it totally because he needs the truffula trees to sustain his business, but maybe he can admit he has hurt the valley and he does not care.
He doesn’t care what the trees were originally used for, either—probably not making Thneeds, as the trees are difficult to harvest without chopping them down. People adapt and find different uses for things, and he doesn’t know why Snufkin is arguing against such a natural progression.
When Snufkin tries to argue that the Bar-ba-loots were still here first, the Onceler scoffs. “I have some unfortunate news about all animals,” he says. “According to the theory of evolution, humans came after about every animal on the planet.” Furthermore, humanity seems to be the most perfect thing that nature has devised, as they have stopped evolving and now reign supreme over every other creature, top of the food chain. He is somewhat curious to know where Snufkin’s species falls in the grand order of things, seeing as they appear to be of mostly comparable intelligence, but given his teeth and claws and fuzz, it’s undoubtedly somewhere under humans. His species is likely evolving to be more and more like humans, shedding the more animalistic features and solidifying the Onceler’s point.
“Again, it’s called survival of the fittest. The bigger creatures will always devour the little ones. Just because they were here first doesn’t mean nature doesn’t dictate something else coming in and swallowing them all.” He knows he’s not going to win with a law-based argument, even though he thinks he should, but Snufkin clearly does not care about any of that. If he can’t be reasonable about property rights, he at least has to admit the logic behind the larger creature (the Onceler) eating the smaller ones (the Bar-ba-loots). At least metaphorically speaking—he has never had Bar-ba-loot, although Swommy Swan is not bad. “Even if they were here first, if they’re weak, they were always going to be driven out of this place, if not by nice, then by someone else.” He tells himself that quite often, that this is simply the natural order of things, that if he didn’t do it, somebody else would.
“As for my land, I think I’m doing just fine at maintaining it,” he says. Sure, it doesn’t look as lush as it once did, but it continues to serve its purpose. As long as he can keep turning out Thneeds, he does not care what it looks like. “I’m in it for its usefulness to me, not its splendor.” Beauty in nature matters to him somewhat, but not nearly as much as success.
The Onceler flushes with frustration when Snufkin seems to brag about playing his own music instead of something somebody else wrote. He thinks it’s impressive to learn how to play an existing piece by ear, especially in comparison to playing your own when you don’t even know what you’re doing. Any idiot can throw together a few chords they think sound good. Any idiot can mess around and have fun with an instrument without actually improving at all.
“That’s how you learn, that’s how you get better,” he protests. “You have to learn the rules before you can break them. If you really want to be good at music, you have to play things other people wrote, so you can see what works. I could write a song if I wanted to, and it would be good because I learned the fundamentals from the radio.” He is so close to marching off to his guitar room and grabbing one of the instruments, specifically so that he can challenge Snufkin and prove with the utmost finality that his own way of doing things not only has merit, but is better.
“I’m a hobbyist as well,” he says, even though it has been—Christ, has it been over a year now?—a while since he played. He is sure he still knows enough to show Snufkin a few things if it comes down to it, though. “So, I’m not selling my music. Believe it or not, I am capable of doing things just for fun.” He likes his business plenty, but he knows he needs more than that to get himself through life, something to keep the overwhelming boredom from creeping in. That’s why he goes out a lot when his workday is done.
“I’m sorry to disappoint by not being the soulless husk of a man you’d like to think I am, but also having enough reason to understand that I can’t get by solely on what’s in my heart.” A world ruled more by emotion than reason sounds miserably chaotic and frivolous.
And then, there is Snufkin’s droll little smile, the one the Onceler would like to smack clean off his face at the earliest opportunity. Brows creased with annoyance as he exhales the smoke from his cigar, he says, “What were you gonna say? Don’t start anything if you don’t intend to finish it.”
Snufkin thinks humans need a better understanding of evolution. It’s supposed to be a beautiful, delicate process that takes place over thousands or millions of years, based on what the world decides people need. Humans, however, have started forcing it, making nature bend to their will instead of living alongside it. They have become impatient, selfish, and cruel—not all of them, of course, but being around the Onceler reminds him that it is enough of them to pose a problem. And that desire for forced evolution has caused the world outside to look the way it does. It’s not sustainable, and in trying to improve their lives, people have sapped the lifeforce from most everything else. So many of them are arrogant creatures in a way that animals would never be, and it makes his teeth grind with frustration.
Humans are not the end of evolution, either, not where the line stops, but it is nearly impossible to convince them of that, especially the Onceler. Moominvalley is full of fully sentient creatures with intelligence that could rival or even exceed that of a human, and they look much more like animals or insects. Some of them are no more than two inches tall. The Moomins have been mistaken for furry hippos before. Yet, he believes them to be more civilized than many people here because they don’t go around tearing up others’ homes.
He inhales from his pipe, chestnut eyes cloudy with concern. He knows if he says there are different ways to be strong, it will only get him laughed out of the room. As much as he hates to admit it, even to himself, the Onceler may have a point about this in particular. The Bar-ba-loots are weak and apparently not even crafty in a way that would allow them to compensate for a lack of physical strength. They have never stood a chance against any of the Onceler’s machines. But they never should have had to—he never should have built those stupid things.
Snufkin looks pointedly at him and says, “You wouldn’t be the fittest if not for your machinery. You’re not really the bigger creature, you just made yourself something you could sit upon to make it seem that way. You wouldn’t be able to ravage the land the way you do without it.” He would love to see the Onceler stripped of his possessions just to see how the man fares in the actual wilderness. Maybe they would see who is better adapted, ‘the fittest,’ man or the Bar-ba-loots, who were surviving in this valley for centuries before he came along.
“You don’t know the first thing about evolution or ‘survival of the fittest’ other than it’s easy for you to hide behind because most of your peers don’t understand it, either.” He is sure many people around here want the Onceler to be right because it also benefits them, as well as the sweeping statements he makes about their species. Of course, Snufkin believes there are people who will disagree with him, but seeing as he has the power he does around here, those individuals are likely the minority.
The subject of music is much more pleasant than the thought of what the Onceler is doing to this place, and Snufkin is much happier to talk about that. It is especially amusing seeing how defensive the other gets about it. Truthfully, Snufkin doesn’t care how anyone learns to play music. All techniques are swell in their own right, and it is good to see someone else enjoying the art. Not everyone is compelled to take up an instrument, and people’s inspiration should not be dismissed, no matter where they find it. If someone wants to play radio songs, that’s their right, and it’s preferable to not making music at all.
However, the Onceler seems easily riled up, insistent that his way is best. And if he is going to be like that, Snufkin will play along, assigning arbitrary moral and technical judgments to the process of creation solely for the purpose of playing devil’s advocate.
“Is that so?” he says, grinning, dangling his pipe over the arm of the chair. “I fundamentally disagree—I’ve broken plenty of rules without being fully aware.” Apparently, there are places in the world where you need a permit to fish, and he never knows where those places are. He doesn’t pay attention to signage or borders, so he is unaware of when he crosses into a place where licenses are required. There have been other instances where people have gotten on him for rules and conventions he didn’t know existed, which only encourages him to break them more intentionally. “I hate obeying rules, and I don’t want to learn and follow them for a while before I have permission to break them. If you have permission to break a rule, then you’re not really breaking it, are you? And I find that genuine stuff to be much more exciting.”
Sure, being technically skilled in music and knowing these rules is an impressive feat, but it is not the end of music, the most important thing. Just like human beings are not the most significant step in evolution. But Snufkin is not going to give the Onceler so much as an inch in that regard, depriving him of anything that sounds remotely like praise.
“I think art should be, at its core, unconventional. So, no, I don’t share your sentiment about the necessity of rules.” Of course, it should be apparent now that Snufkin does not share most of the Onceler’s sentiments. What’s one more on that list?
He brings his pipe to his lips again and shrugs, staying silent for another moment. “I couldn’t think of anything nice to say,” he says, “and a wise woman once told me that if you can’t think of anything nice to say, you shouldn’t say anything. That is easier said than done, but I thought I might make an effort.” Maybe he could have come up with something if he thought on it long enough, but well… he’s lying about wanting to make an effort.
Send me 🚪 ( or ‘door’ ) and I’ll generate a number for my muse to show up on your muse’s doorstep ( a mix of angst, silliness, and fluff ) …
- crying
- starving
- possessed
- sopping wet
- blackout drunk
- holding a baby
- after a car crash
- looking for a fight
- covered in bruises
- after being mugged
- covered with confetti
- severely dehydrated
- angry beyond reason
- with a broken arm/leg
- covered in blood (theirs)
- after having a nightmare
- after being missing for days
- after the death of a loved one
- covered in baking ingredients
- about to faint from exhaustion
- with a real crown on their head
- on their knee, with ring in hand
- covered in tiny scrapes and cuts
- covered in blood ( someone else’s )
- holding a baby animal ( sender’s choice )
“You hurt me!” they cried, taking another, clumsier step backwards. The fixed stare he gives them only aids in their increasing fear, a shiver traveling down their spine as their fur begins to stand on edge. What little they could recall from when Silco first brought them in was hazy at best— but what truly stuck out to Ekira was the way Singed went about it when left to his own devices.
It was Singed who was disappointed that he was not able to truly pull them apart at Silco’s request— the only thing Ekira gave him credit for was being the one to pull the arrow out of their leg. Flashes of test tubes, saws. vials, syringes, and scissors still laid fresh in their mind from when Singed first got his hands on them, and again they shiver, shaking their head with another bite to their thumb.
“You hurt me,” they repeat, instead ignoring his question as they turned their back to the scientist. “An’ you were gonna do— do worse, if Silco didn’t…” they trail off, folding their free arm across their chest. “You coulda treated me like a person.”
“I suppose you’re expecting an apology,” Singed says flatly. He drums his fingers against the table, already regretting putting his work on pause to deal with this. All that is really on his mind is taking those purple growths and putting them under a microscope, something solid that can be observed and quantified, not the mess that is Ekira’s feelings.
“I don’t like to lie.” At least, not with such intention—he regularly lies by omission. If somebody does not ask him something directly and specifically, he often will not tell them.
Yes, Singed is often chagrined by Silco’s bleeding heart. The man claims to understand the necessity of sacrifice, yet when anyone experiences a perceived betrayal, he wants to take them in. Singed doesn’t bother telling him he can’t help everyone but wishes he would figure that out for himself.
“But Silco was there to make sure I didn’t go too far, wasn’t he?” the doctor says. “And here you are, with all your parts still attached. You realize you can’t hold what I might have done against me, right? It’s a waste of energy to work yourself up over events that never transpired.”
i finally figured it out. my favorite ship dynamic. murderous
Eyes are the window to your soul.
▸ @bornchaos ⟶ ❛ SQUASH / PUMPKIN / PEAR <3 ❜ ╱ ( fruits & veggies , accepting . )
- SQUASH - a muse you’d date in real life?
//you know my gay little ass has to say silco, even though realistically, i would not be nearly interesting enough for him, haha! i just wanna wrap him up and keep him warm ;_;
muses i stand a better chance with are probably akali and viktor. i’ve projected my romance repulsion onto akali, so we wouldn’t set each other off in that way, and she seems like she would be fun to go on an adventure with.
then, with viktor, eli says i have a lot in common with him already, and i think he and i would make the greatest shittalking duo of all time.
- PUMPKIN - a muse you’d hate in real life?
//SINGED. singed would freak me out so bad if i ever met him irl, like straight-up would traumatize me. writing certain scenes with him makes me physically ill sometimes, so i’d be fucked if he was real.
- PEAR - favourite muse?
//well, my favorite is silco, as you all know and as i answered in another ask.
my second favorite is ekko, and you can tell i love him because i keep putting him through horrors :) real shit, though, ekko is very special to me for his ability to face those horrs and still come out thinking the world is good and worth saving. the fact that he remains optimistic and doesn’t let anything he goes through break him completely has me like LKFDJSKDJF CRIES!!!!!
Well...i'm a Silco simp i quess...
It’s great. It’s your best hair ever!
How long can this last?
It might as well be until the Sea-Horse reach shores, but that's still days away. Anything could happen between now and then. Storms brewing and sending them off the path, though there will be other ports where the Nauts could be at. Once Vasco figures that out if the ship loses the course. The other captain could slip out of his small prison and start attacking, even if he is outnumber. Then again, a single man could still win, even if he is outnumber. Vasco heard stories about it before and it's not too far off if Silco managed to do it, even if he is a bit weak right now.
Although a few what if questions popped up in his mind, Vasco brushed them away. There's no time for that. He has other times to dwell on it. Not breaking character. Sure, he could have easily ended the man before him. Do more and get more information. Anything at all. Then again, doing more than allowing this man just to sit here - and possibly rot - is something Silco might want. And that is something the Naut captain isn't going to give in if that's the case.
And much like any other times, his patience will be paid off, even if he is a bit annoyed with the outcome. An enemy sitting below the decks and refusing to do anything, refusing to give up any information.
❝Well, there is other ways for you to escape. I have no doubts you'll come up with something. Even with how weakened you are, given you haven't ate yet, you seem to have strength beyond than an average man.❞ Even if Silco can't swim back, he can use the rowboats above or find something to get him back to shores. Perhaps he could put Vasco at gun point and steer the ship. Anything can happen. Any scenarios for the other captain to flee. Even if Vasco can't think of everything and can't read this man like a book, there is still some scenarios to think of. ❝If you are capable of getting out of those ropes and steer this ship. There's a lot of men and women, who is ready to prevent you from that.❞
And trained too.
Silco probably already knew that too, though it didn't matter to him. He can and will attempt anything.
Vasco studied the captain's face. The grin on those lips fell away and a troubled expression came. Something is calculating in that head of his. There is a part of the Naut captain who wanted to know what goes through that mind. What gears turned and came up with something. And it's something Vasco going to save for another time. Maybe never.
❝No. I can't allow that. Anything could happen and I'm not going to risk having you free of your ropes now. It's either me or someone from my crew. Pick your person of feeding you.❞ There's no room to argue in his voice, though it probably didn't matter anyways. There will always be argument somehow.
Vasco understood the shred of dignity. If he was in the same position, he probably ask the same thing. Maybe not in the exact wording, but something along those lines.
If it is only days until they get to shore, Silco should be able to wait it out. However, he does not know for sure—the Naut captain has not shared those details with him, and why should he? Keeping prisoners controlled is the most important thing in these situations—or so Silco has heard, seeing as he rarely takes prisoners himself—and restricting information is a large part of that. He has more opportunities to plan an escape if he knows exactly how much time he has left.
But because he does not know if it will be days or weeks—and because any number of things can happen when at sea—he realizes it is becoming riskier by the day to reject the Natus’ attempts to feed him. He still thinks it is a waste of resources, and if he had seized their vessel as intended, the brig would be empty, the bodies thrown overboard for the sharks. But it is getting to a point where he may have to sacrifice principles and pride to ensure his own survival. As much as he thinks the Nauts are cowards for not killing him, he wants to see the shore again.
Despite himself, a slight smirk crosses Silco’s face when Vasco compliments his strength. “Thank you, it’s almost heartwarming to know that you have such faith in me,” he says. “I can respect a man who knows better than to underestimate his opponent.” Even if Silco is not in a fighting state, he is crafty, and he likely could devise a way to get out of here if the Nauts gave him enough time to look around.
“I don’t expect you to trust me, even though I can assure you I have no interest in commandeering your ship. I already know what your crew is like, how they would fight me, and how little of a chance I stand against them. What I meant is that I intend to leave your ship in your possession and ride quietly along with you back to shore, seeing as it is one of my only options.” Of course, he knows he made this bed—Vasco’s paranoia around him—for himself, and he is lying in it with little complaint, but he’s telling the dead truth now. The plants to steal the ship and any cargo aboard died with several of his men.
Silco’s small smile dissipates when Vasco refuses to untie him. He can’t fault the Naut for it, but all the same, it causes a pit to open in the bottom of his stomach. “Please,” he rasps. “I would have my hands right where you could see them the whole time, too occupied with eating to attack you.” Even as he is making the protests, he understands this is not an argument he is going to win.
He ducks his head, gaze flicking toward the plate of food in Vasco’s hands. He hates the notion of anyone feeding him, but if he has no other choice, the higher ranking, the better, right? How pathetic would it make him to eat from the palm of a lowly deckhand? “Ideally, I want to feed myself, but… if it must be another, I…” The words burn his tongue like acid when he utters them barely above a whisper. “…I want it to be you.”