Colonel Brighton: Look, sir, we can't just do nothing.
General Allenby: Why not? It's usually best.
"To do nothing is often the best course of action, but I know from personal experience how frustrating it can be. History was not made by those who did nothing."
— Queen Elizabeth II, The Crown (2016)
"The 'War of the Five Kings', they call it, well the other four are dead!"
— Balon Greyjoy gloating at being the last man standing by default, Game of Thrones
Nick Creamer: "...the way to survive the King's Game seems to be just not doing anything yourself. Nobuaki only managed to live because every other person around him took action before he could and they all died."
Jacob Chapman: "That's the most maddening thing about it! Anyone who's proactive dies, and Nobuaki's just like 'WHAT COULD I HAVE DONE? I AM THE WORST.' (Yes, yes you are.)"
NC: "Turns out the King's Game is just Mario Party."
Jacob Chapman: "That's the most maddening thing about it! Anyone who's proactive dies, and Nobuaki's just like 'WHAT COULD I HAVE DONE? I AM THE WORST.' (Yes, yes you are.)"
NC: "Turns out the King's Game is just Mario Party."
— "This Week In Anime
(November 28, 2017): What the Hell is Happening in King's Game?"
(November 28, 2017): What the Hell is Happening in King's Game?"Jeez. Leave it to SAO to not only have a Boss that glitches out and dies on its own, but also doesn't even flag THE GODDAMN EXIT TO OPEN!
— Kirito, Sword Art Online Abridged
”If you sit by the river long enough, you will see the bodies of your enemies float by.”
—A very selective translation of one of Confucius's writings
of one of Confucius's writingsThere's always another way... in fact, sometimes to do something, all you need to do is nothing!
— Professor Paradox, Ben 10: Alien Force
Aang: I don't understand. Why didn't you free yourself? Why did you surrender when Omashu was invaded? What's the matter with you, Bumi?
Bumi: Listen to me, Aang. There are options in fighting called jing. It's a choice of how you direct your energy.
Aang: I know. There's positive jing when you're attacking, and negative jing when you're retreating.
Bumi: And neutral jing, when you do nothing! [...] Neutral jing is the key to earthbending. It involves listening and waiting for the right moment to strike.
— "The Serpent's Pass," Avatar: The Last Airbender
"So you're not supposed to attack the unstoppable killing machine of death? How counterintuitive."
— Jason Fox, FoxTrot
First among the Commission's clients were five independent traders, blustering and loaded with gold, demanding to know what Scotti intended to do about improving the trade routes. Scotti summarized for them the conditions of the main roads, the state of the merchants' caravans, the sunken bridges, and all the other impediments between the frontier and the marketplace. They told him to have everything replaced and repaired and gave him the gold necessary to do it.
Within three months, the bridge at Slough Point had disappeared into the muck; the great caravan had collapsed into decrepitude; and the main road from Gideon had been utterly swallowed up by swamp water. The Argonians began once again to use the old ways, their personal rafts, and sometimes the Underground Express to transport the grain in small quantities. It took a third of the time, two weeks, to arrive in Cyrodiil, none of it rotten.
The Archbishop of Mara was the next client Scotti met with. A kind-hearted man, horrified by the tales of Argonian mothers selling their children into slavery, he pointedly asked Scotti if it were true.
"Sadly, yes," Scotti replied, and the Archbishop showered him with septims, telling the clerk that food must be brought to the province to ease their suffering, and the schools must be improved so they could learn to help themselves.
Within five months, the last book had been stolen from the deserted Maran monastery in Umphollo. As the Archeins went bankrupt, their slaves returned to his parents' tiny farms. The backwater Argonians found that they could grow enough to feed their families provided they had enough hard workers in their enclave, and the buyers market for slaves sharply declined.
Ambassador Tsleeixth, concerned about the rising crime in northern Black Marsh, brought with him the contributions of many other expatriate Argonians like himself. They wanted more Imperial guards on the border at Slough Point, more magically lit lanterns posted along the main roads at regular intervals, more patrol stations, and more schools built to allow young Argonians to better themselves and not turn to crime.
Within six months, there were no more Nagas roaming the roads, as there were no merchants traveling them to rob. The thugs returned to the fetid inner swamp, where they felt much happier, their constitutions enriched by the rot and pestilence that they loved. Tsleeixth and his constituency were so pleased by the crime rate dropping, they brought even more gold to Decumus Scotti, telling him to keep up the good work.
Black Marsh simply was, is, and always shall be unable to sustain a large-scale, cash-crop plantation economy. The Argonians, and anyone else, the whole of Tamriel, could live in Black Marsh on subsistence farming, just raising what they needed. That was not sad, Scotti thought; that was hopeful.
Scotti's solution to each of their dilemmas had been the same. Ten percent of the gold they gave him went to Lord Vanech's Building Commission. The rest Scotti kept for himself, and did exactly nothing about the requests.
Within a year, Decumus Scotti had embezzled enough to retire very comfortably, and Black Marsh was better off than it had been in forty years.
Within three months, the bridge at Slough Point had disappeared into the muck; the great caravan had collapsed into decrepitude; and the main road from Gideon had been utterly swallowed up by swamp water. The Argonians began once again to use the old ways, their personal rafts, and sometimes the Underground Express to transport the grain in small quantities. It took a third of the time, two weeks, to arrive in Cyrodiil, none of it rotten.
The Archbishop of Mara was the next client Scotti met with. A kind-hearted man, horrified by the tales of Argonian mothers selling their children into slavery, he pointedly asked Scotti if it were true.
"Sadly, yes," Scotti replied, and the Archbishop showered him with septims, telling the clerk that food must be brought to the province to ease their suffering, and the schools must be improved so they could learn to help themselves.
Within five months, the last book had been stolen from the deserted Maran monastery in Umphollo. As the Archeins went bankrupt, their slaves returned to his parents' tiny farms. The backwater Argonians found that they could grow enough to feed their families provided they had enough hard workers in their enclave, and the buyers market for slaves sharply declined.
Ambassador Tsleeixth, concerned about the rising crime in northern Black Marsh, brought with him the contributions of many other expatriate Argonians like himself. They wanted more Imperial guards on the border at Slough Point, more magically lit lanterns posted along the main roads at regular intervals, more patrol stations, and more schools built to allow young Argonians to better themselves and not turn to crime.
Within six months, there were no more Nagas roaming the roads, as there were no merchants traveling them to rob. The thugs returned to the fetid inner swamp, where they felt much happier, their constitutions enriched by the rot and pestilence that they loved. Tsleeixth and his constituency were so pleased by the crime rate dropping, they brought even more gold to Decumus Scotti, telling him to keep up the good work.
Black Marsh simply was, is, and always shall be unable to sustain a large-scale, cash-crop plantation economy. The Argonians, and anyone else, the whole of Tamriel, could live in Black Marsh on subsistence farming, just raising what they needed. That was not sad, Scotti thought; that was hopeful.
Scotti's solution to each of their dilemmas had been the same. Ten percent of the gold they gave him went to Lord Vanech's Building Commission. The rest Scotti kept for himself, and did exactly nothing about the requests.
Within a year, Decumus Scotti had embezzled enough to retire very comfortably, and Black Marsh was better off than it had been in forty years.
