u/Soft-Pudding-3441

Hello! I'm a video essayist interested in doing a video on the Sangheili clan culture in the days of Halo 3, Reach (and then revived in the MCC) before the ability to play as an Elite was removed in Halo 4.

Is there anyone who was actively involved in Sangheili clans that would be willing to speak with me about the culture of these clans, how they fell apart and what they're up to now?

Thank you in advance!

It's wild to me how open the drug use remains in the city centre. I saw a guy openly lighting up a crack pipe in broad daylight in one of the staff entrances for Brown Thomas.

Then, a day later, I saw a guy blood streaming down his face, completely out of it, walk head-first into a wall and fall over.

It seemed like the place was being cleaned up a bit with more Garda presence but I haven't seen them around as much - summer holidays causing a staff shortage maybe?

Hello! Sorry for invading your sub with English.

I'll be in Utrecht from the 11th to the 15th, and I was wondering where the best place to watch the Netherlands' opening World Cup game is? I was hoping for some outdoor, big projector thing with beer and atmosphere, but open to any suggestions!

Scroty-looking teenage girls who appear to have stolen a flower bed(?) from outside one of the pubs - one of them says she's looking for a fight and starts on every girl who passes. After not getting a rise out of anyone, the girl holding the flower bed starts smashing it off the wall of a nearby shop.

We go further down the street and a man is screaming at the bouncer outside Old Oak, blood pouring out of his nose. He collapses on the ground and starts ugly crying.

A homeless man drags black bags out of bins, presumably looking for bottles.

All the while a busker plays the flute and tap dances.

This is sort of the product of a creative riff I've been on. A story set in a neoliberal empire where the main character is a sort of pathetic grunt who hasn't been promoted in over 20 years.

The worldbuilding is very surface-level, but I'm more interested in seeing if people enjoy the tone/delivery/voice? I've written chapters where it's clear I'm trying too hard to be Robert Jordan, and my work ventures into very generic hero's journey territory.

Is this something that you'd be compelled to read on based on an opening chapter? Is it too generic fantasy?

-

Hieronymus Ledrington was hungry. He cared only for the ache in his stomach. It was his body’s way of telling him that it was perfectly willing to start consuming itself if its demands weren’t met. Ledrington. The request was perfectly logical, but sharply delivered. If his stomach was a touch more patient with him, perhaps he wouldn’t punish it with sour ale and fried harpy wing each night. Ledrington!! Was a trip to the Penniless Peddler in order? What would that be, the fourth time this week? No, third. If you do one shift at lunch and one after work then that only counts as one trip, everyone knew that. The serving girl there was radiant; there was something about the way she smiled at him, perha—

“Hieronymus Ledrington, have you lost your ears as well as your wits?” a familiar annoyance pulled him from his pleasant thoughts.
“No, I— ,” he stammered.
“Because I’ve been looking at you square in the face calling your name for the past minute, and you’re staring ahead like you’ve been bewitched by the Morrigan,” his supervisor was a toad-like individual named Melvor. He was short of height, stout of body and his great jowls trembled when he spoke.
“I was—,”
“You were neglecting your supreme responsibility as one of the Empress’s administrators, something you’re quite infamous for within these halls,”
Call him a three-eyed cyclops. Call him a froglicker.
“I— uh… I’m hungry,” he sighed. Shit.
“Oh well excuse me!” Melvor bellowed. “Will I tell her imperial majesty the problems of his realm must wait because Hieronymus Ledrington wants some porridge?”
He didn’t really want porridge at all, actually.

“What can I do for you, Melvor?” he asked, diplomatically.
“There’s a… situation that needs addressing in the East,” Melvor barked, his several chins bobbing. “A gobbo village isn’t paying their taxes,” he lowered his voice to a hush. “They’re saying it’s a… revolution.”
Hieronymus leaned back in his chair and moved his eyes over the room. If anyone else milling about the large hall had heard Melvor, they weren’t making it obvious.
“That’s preposterous of course… because there’s no need for a revolution in the greatest empire in the world. It’s a simple a misunderstanding. A simple misunderstanding that you’re going to solve Hieronymus… you speak a little goblin, right?”

Grashnar Groggik gro Graduar, he supposed he did. This was certainly unusual. The last time he had an interesting assignment, his hair still had colour in it.

“Do we know the cause of this… disturbance?” he asked. Obfuscating one’s true meaning was a prerequisite for working in the imperial administration.
“You know the gobbos,” Melvor waved his hand back and forth. “The Empress herself could arrive, hand over all the gold in the treasury and the greenskins would still insist they’d been cheated.”
The empire was not known for its generosity towards the goblin nations following their assimilation. The relationship remained tense.
“I’ll be going alone, I take it?” he asked.
“Of course. The rest of us are preparing for her imperial majesty’s anniversary celebration. 25 years since Empress Neera ascended,” Melvor gushed.
The man enjoyed little, and loved less, but his passion for the Empress was honest.
“I… uh, shouldn’t need to tell you this Ledrington but it is of the utmost importance that none of those roaches from the—,” anger crept into his voice. “—Ebber Gazette hear of this… matter. Do not use the R word, do not speak to the press. The Empress demands secrecy.” “To her continued good health,” Hieronymus muttered. “Where am I going then?”

-

Grogorve. Hieronymus should have expected this assignment wouldn’t take him to one of those nice villages on the border of Friedyek. He was destined for the jungle, one of the few corners of Neera’s realm that wasn’t yet connected to the Gold Road. It had been 20 years since the war ended, so the remote goblin villages should have been connected by now, but the Ministry of Transport was notoriously inefficient.

He strolled out of the behemoth building that was the Outer Court into a plaza of whitewashed cobble. Ebber’s inner wall dominated the view, tall and imposing. The city guard proudly claimed the inner ring was impregnable, though no foe of the empire had ever marched close enough to test that claim.

The sun was directly overhead, its harsh light reflecting off the surface of the cobblestones. Hieronymus was temporarily blinded after emerging from the candlelit halls of the Court, but his eyes soon adjusted. He was always surprised by how few people ambled around the plaza these days. When he’d first passed his exam, he’d had to force his way through hordes of loitering bureaucrats to reach the steps he now stood atop.

He descended the steps and briefly considered visiting the Roost. A gryphon and rider would solve all of his problems, but he suspected the entire flock had been drafted in to help build extravagant decorations for the anniversary. The keeper, Kosnos, was a hard man, but decent. He didn’t regard Hieronymus with the same disdain that many in the Outer Court did. Still, he believed it best not to bother the man with a fruitless request.

Instead, Hieronymus headed for home. A short jaunt through the inner gate preceded a lengthy descent through Ebber’s Upper City. The upcoming festivities had the city in fine spirits, as the merchants and innkeepers expected plenty of business from those who arrived to pay homage to Neera.

He went beyond the townhouses of the city’s fortunate, through sparkling marketplaces and beyond establishments where a bed cost more than a week’s work. We all prospered under Neera’s benevolent and wise rule, or so they said.

He descended a final set of stone steps before arriving at the Lower City proper. The air down here was filled with anticipation. An imperial celebration meant plenty of business for the well-to-do merchants of the capital, but there was plenty of coin to be made in the lower city, too.

A great lord or lady brought with them a score of household guards, servants and other loyal followers who tended to their every need, be they physical, emotional or sexual. With their duties fulfilled, the gainfully employed descended upon the depths of Ebber for revelry and merriment.

Hieronymus came upon The Penniless Peddler, a sure sign that home was near. He regarded the tavern with a rueful look. He went two decades without a meaningful assignment and now he was set to leave town right before a festival. The Peddler was always a legendary spot during times of celebration, and he’d created a fair few stories within its walls during those times. “Praise be to Neera,” he muttered, sarcastically.

A couple of corners and a careful step over a beggar still in recovery from a night of cheap ale and he had arrived home. Hieronymus rented a room in a long, wooden building crammed between two shops. The landlord, a rather unsympathetic man named Joss, was constantly adding crudely-built expansions, so the once elegant structure was now an amalgam of wood and nails. Thankfully, he occupied one of the original rooms, which was a good thing as he didn’t expect Joss’ creations offered much in the way of warmth or protection from the rain.

An unfortunate sight popped into his periphery.

“Hieronymus! Just the bureaucrat I was looking for!” Joss’ voice was eerily even-toned.
“Hell—,”
“Two months! I keep telling myself that a leal and hard-working servant of Empress Neera—may the light shine on her—would never fall two months behind on rent unless he were immersing himself so wholly into his duties that he simply forgot,” his voice betrayed no hint of sarcasm.
“The thing is—,”
“I’m sure someone as erudite as Hieronymus Ledrington can understand the rental market in the city. I’m sure he would be the first to tell me that I could charge someone a lot more than the pittance he has to pay me every month,” Joss continued.
“My salary hasn’t—,”
“I am certain he understands I have allowed him this grace because of who he is, but I won’t remain as gracious forever,” Hieronymus stopped trying to get a word in.
“Give my regards to the folks at the Outer Court, won’t you?” Joss patted him on the back as he brushed past him, disappearing towards the Upper City.

Hieronymus sighed, before shambling towards the door of his room. He slid the key into the lock, and leaned shoulder-first into the door to force it open. He removed the key and, before closing the door, he bent down over the end table beside the door and popped open his tinderbox. A couple of rhythmic strikes of flint with a sharp steel rod and the tinder popped into flame, allowing him to light four candles positioned around the room.

This ritual had become necessary when one of Joss’ creations had blocked his only window, depriving him of the sunrise and all natural light. He emptied the burning tinder into the bucket of water he kept in the corner, and gently pushed the door closed.

Hieronymus’ room was sparse. His straw-filled bed dominated the floor, with only the bucket, end table and another long, wooden table for company. Atop the long table were some of his few possessions: a wooden plate, a set of wooden forks and knives and a couple of clay pots. Beneath the table was spare bedding and another set of clothes. He wore one set for a week before washing them, and then swapped to wearing the other set while they dried.

Auspiciously leaning against the table reflecting the candelight was a pristine steel shortsword, standard issue for every member of the imperial administration. Nobody quite knew why the Empire insisted on arming administrators, but the commonly accepted explanation was that if the inner walls were breached, the bureaucrats were expected to sacrifice themselves to slow down the advancing enemy to allow the Empress time to flee. Hieronymus predicted that he’d buy Neera two, maybe three seconds if he were ever forced into combat.

He collapsed onto his straw bed, suddenly feeling very exhausted despite it being only midday. Grogorve was a half-day’s ride, and perhaps a full day of trudging on foot through the jungle, away. He’d have to bring someone to collect the horse, which was another logistical nightmare he preferred not to think about.

Then, there was also the small matter of appeasing Joss. The greatest empire in the world had not seen fit to increase his salary for nigh on a decade now. Unfortunately, Friedyek’s economy had not been kind enough to stagnate alongside his progression, and there were certainly plenty of people who would like a room this close to the Upper City - even one without a window.

He sighed. Perhaps the goblins would gut him on sight. Martyrdom might be nice, actually.