Visual Perception

A lot of people say that they can just "tell" if someone is dominant or submissive. Some people attribute it to a particular pheromone that's given off; others say there's something in the way a dominant or submissive carry themselves. Others say...well, who knows? There are a lot of off-the-cuff theories. Hell, I even created a bullshit one of my own when a friend asked me to write about the difference between male vs. female erotica.

It turns out...some of these are actually true. I always thought it was a load of bullshit, because I never really believed in the concept of dominant and submissive. But after reading some psychological pieces on fundamental issues in behavioral psychology, some of the observations are true.

Take the example of dogs. While you can't say that dogs are submissive in the way that people use the term for each other, there is definitely a strong correlation in behavior.

Now, dogs do not understand the human language, but somehow they are able to be trained and respond to different human beings: they can act like a devoted puppy dog around certain people and act like an absolute beast and terror around others. The change can be almost instantaneous.

So why?

Watch any episode of the Dog Whisperer and the answer is clear as rain. Dogs obviously never listen to words (because they don't understand them), but the body language. They mimic and respond to the person that they're viewing. Act nervous and cautious around a dog and the dog will become scared and protective...which may result in biting. Act calm and authoritative to a dog, and it yields to the dominant position.

The same works on humans. Authority figures tend to have "presence," which is indescribable: you either have it or you don't, and it's obvious who has it. If you think about it intellectually, there are certain types of body language that exude this presence or dominance: standing tall, calm yet aggressive movement, moving fluidly that captures attention, etc. It might be difficult to describe what type of gestures constitute dominant and submissive body language, but it clearly exists.

Which brought up the question...if it's possible to visually perceive a dominant person and a submissive person, how do you translate that dynamic into a virtual world?

That's a hard question and there's no perfect answer. I think the best way to try and bring that dynamic is in writing style. I wrote about this before when my friend asked me to write about the difference between male and female erotica, but I think it holds true.

If being dominant through body language means aggressive posturing, then in roleplay, that may mean having an aggressive and confrontational writing style. Maybe using the active voice instead of passive; using short clipped sentences instead of long run-on sentences that use endless conjunctions and commas. Emphasis is placed on the verb by using adverbs as descriptors, so on and so forth.

Being submissive might be better portrayed through use of the passive voice and use of adjectives over adverbs.

Again, this is only a theory and I have no real clue on how to translate this phenomena into a roleplay environment. Clearly, it should be done...but how?

Frustration

Another blog post about something I've written about ad nauseum.

I can't force character development on anyone, nor can I force them to make choices that I want them to make. Every character is unique. That said, the roleplay environment provides a template as to what character development would be "normal" and what wouldn't.

For example, if you play in Crack Den, a decrepit filthy, run-down part of a large generic city, the environment dictates that your character's moral fiber will essentially decay over time (assuming you started off with some moral center of course). Now, you may not choose to accept this instruction, but it will be readily apparent that such character development would not be "normal."

Gor is no different, except there is a literature base that is a bit more detailed in explaining what is "normal" and "not normal." In this sense, character development should be easier since there's more source material to work on. In practice, this doesn't happen because....well, I've been down that path one too many times. No need to beat a dead horse. Again.

The point of this post was slightly different. My current Gorean character has run into a roadblock. I carefully constructed a backstory to give this character a distinct psychology so I could anticipate how he would interpret information and react to different people. I think that I've been pretty true to that psychological makeup. Most people that roleplay with me regularly seem to respond to it well and can even sense the evolving attitude. Most casual acquaintances wouldn't notice it...but then again, it's hard to pick out nuances when you only interact with an individual once or twice; the information you're given only allows you to create a first impression. In this character's case, that impression is usually negative (and made to intentionally be negative).

The problem arises from the interaction with other characters, specifically slaves. My character doesn't currently own any slaves; if he ever were to own a slave, she'd be a work slave. Meaning, there would be no D/s dynamic between them. It'd simply be a harsh employer-employee relationship. In fact, that's how I choose to treat all slaves in the rp universe. No training, no getting to know them, no treating them like people and fraternizing with them. Either they are there to do a task, or they better leave him alone.

As an aside, I realize this play choice is NOT conducive to a healthy roleplay environment. It's awfully hard to strike up a scene that requires a purpose or motive that fits within the character. I get that, I really do. I've chosen to play a role very selfishly that provides little benefit to the overall roleplay community, especially with respect to slaves.

Alright, aside over. The problem specifically is that...slaves refuse to accept this dynamic in roleplay. Now, I have no idea whether this resistance is IC or OOC motivated, but it doesn't much matter. The point is that no slave accepts the status of an object, and thus they fight, spit and rebuke my character to either assert their status as a human being (their perspective) or force my character to recognize their worth as living creatures (my perspective).

The problem then manifests itself in this way: My character orders slave to do something vile and nasty. Slave mumbles and grumbles, but eventually starts performing the task begrudgingly. My character slaps and insults the slave, in order to get her to work faster and keep up with his production. Slave gets insulted and tells off my character. My character then beats her down and then makes her do the task twice as fast. Slave mumbles and grumbles, but does so at a faster pace.

No problem.

Second encounter: My character orders the slave to do something vile and disgusting. Slave mumbles and grumbles but starts performing the task begrudgingly. My character insults and slaps the slave to get her to work faster. Slave gets insulted and tells off my character. My character beats her down (more severely than the first time) and then makes her do the task three times as fast. Slave mumbles and grumbles, but completes the task at a faster pace.

Not necessarily a problem. Bad habits can die hard.

But it goes on like this. Over and over again. The slave is put into a situation, seeks validation or comfort from my character...and when she receives none, she acts out. This results in my character escalating the cycle of violence until he reaches a point where he'll have to kill her.

I don't want to kill a character, but these slave players leave me no choice. Their characters simply refuse to learn the lesson from the previous encounter. Like I said, this might be a conscious IC decision: perhaps her character is extremely stubborn. Perhaps her character has a mental deficiency. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. It might also be OOC motivated: a lot of people playing slaves seek that extreme form of domination to get their submissive jollies off. It feels good and they're constantly chasing that dragon. It also might be that they're projecting their RL frustrations through their character. For instance, they might not like my rp choices and choose to punish me IC for those choices by making their kajira character act out. Maybe they simply like my rp and feel that, if they lock themselves into a punishment cycle, my character will take it upon himself to interact with the slave until she is obedient. This acting out is her insurance policy on getting more rp with me. It also might be much more benign: they simply forget what happened last encounter. This happens quite a bit, especially in a rapid-fire real time interaction. The brain can only hold so much information, the text box can convey even less than that, and the listener will understand even less. It's not implausible that someone could simply forget the effect that the punishment had on their character several days earlier and simply doesn't incorporate it into the scene.

So this is the roadblock. My character is supposed to evolve as he acquires new experiences and actions. But because of the recursive logical loops of the slaves around him, he's stuck in a downward spiral of simply becoming a sadistic asshole. I can think of some solutions, but none of them are that appealing. The easiest solution, obviously, is to simply pull the plug on rp encounters with these types of slaves. That's definitely a possibility but I'd rather not because I've already invested my character into these interactions. Another solution is to simply alter my character's behavior in order to accommodate this logistical problem. Again, this is a sensible solution but I'd prefer to preserve my character's personality at all costs. If he's going to change, it's because of things that have happened to him in-world. In a conflict between character over story, I want to choose character every time. It's beginning to seem that this preference simply is not possible. Another solution is to simply IM the slave players in question and talk out this problem in an OOC context. Again, it's a sensible solution but it seems like dramatic overkill. If I'm going to discuss a character motivation, I want to do it after the events are over, not before. It's better to see if I had an accurate read on the situation as opposed to intervening early and killing the creativity of the roleplay.

The final solution is to let everything play out and let the chips fall where they may. That's the solution I'm going to take. I've given these slave players ample opportunity to adjust their behavior and they haven't. My character has escalated the violence to the point of no return. Should it happen again, their characters will die. They might not be happy about that choice and they might decide not to honor that roleplay. That's fine by me. But I'm not going to compromise my character for the sake of accommodating the character choices of others. I don't mind bending, but I do not allow breaking.

As always, this blog post is simply meant to articulate the frustration, despite knowing the answer. Just because I know the answer doesn't mean that it's a satisfying one.

Chapter 3: Crescent Moon

Looking up into the night sky, it is the first and smallest of the moons. From the darkness, only a sliver can be seen; it appears in the shape of a crescent. It is the most fragile of the phases: a delicate balancing act between establishing its position in the sky and hiding itself from the reach of the sun. But where the other phases of the moon only appear once before waiting their turn again, the crescent moon appears four times. Twice, it is bathed in the light of the sun and twice it receives its shape from the pure darkness. Because of this, the crescent moon, though small in stature, commands the most power and attention.

The Free Woman in Gor performs a balancing act of her own. She is tasked with the unenviable responsibility of being able to stand shoulder to shoulder with the men of the world, but must also be the matriarch and glue of the family- the most precious commodity in Gor. To accomplish this, she must earn the respect of men by playing a strong hand in the game of politics, while birthing and caring for a large and prosperous family.

In the forest, the women know that each walks their own path alone.

At least, that is how it worked before. Panthers were runaways, escaping a life they once knew in order to one day die in the harsh wilderness. The Sa-ta-Tor did not escape. They were a group of survivalists. Where a city has a home stone to unite its people, they had a symbol. It was a simple mark: three moons in three phases over one sky. If you asked one of them what it meant, you would receive no answer at all. Then again, if you asked a man of a city what the home stone meant, you would receive a similar answer. It meant everything and it meant nothing. The symbol was a bind that held them altogether.

* * *

They finally decided to set their roots in the midst of a small canyon dug within the sea of endless greenery. There, they built a camp and family. There were rules. There were friendships within friendship. If a man somehow managed to penetrate the walls of the camp, he could have sworn they were experiencing normal city life. But no man could voluntarily enter the sanctuary of the camp. So a man would have to dream of the life inside. What it would be like if he could hide in the trees and watch them.

The trees rise above them, seemingly stretching towards the sky. Interspersed amongst them are the little huts where they sleep at night. In the middle of the clearing, a big campfire roars providing the warmth for all the women, sitting on logs beside it.

At the head sits Eve; her legs are crossed one over the other with a finger against her cheek in quiet contemplation. What she contemplates, no one in the tribe can know.

To her right is her Second, Gretchen. She looks into the eyes of her En, and knows no good can come from that look, so she mentally prepares herself to silently clean another inevitable mess. Her hands look strong and rough. Her eyes are lakes of calm, scanning the entire camp to ensure that she bring peace to the places of turmoil.

To her left is January, her self-proclaimed rock. It’s a subtle movement, a simple touch to Eve’s shoulder. Words are whispered though no one can know what they are. All they can know is that they bring a smile to Eve’s lips, something no one else in the tribe can do with such seeming ease.

At the foot of the fire lies Azalea. Her body is turned towards the warmth of the fire, drying herself after receiving a bath courtesy of a wild tharlarian she was hunting. Her hands reach to her long hair and she squeezes out the river water. Only Azalea would be fearless enough to think she could hunt a tharlarian alone.

Jayda stands close by, waiting for the moment to chastise her sister. Of course, every sister knew better than correct Azalea. To do so would be suicide. But there is a triumphant smile in Jayda’s eyes; even if she cannot voice the words, she is happy knowing that, for once, she is not the one breaking camp rules.

From somewhere in the distance, a quiet thud of an arrow hitting a tree trunk can be heard. It is Kathy, splitting arrow after arrow into the same spot with her bow. Behind her stands Quruni, unsure of whether she should be standing or kneeling. There seems to be a natural attraction between them: the one who collected slaves and the former slave. They seemed like a perfect match.

Suddenly, his ears fill with a sweet sound of a flute wafting through the night air. The tone begins with a sorrowful long bass sound. The note holds and then changes into a rhythmic pulse. She cannot be seen, but Lily is perched somewhere in the trees, looking out into the vast expanse of the forest as she plays. She shares her gift with all those deep into the canyon and beyond. The range is so deep and the music so beautiful that it is not inconceivable that many men of the forest outposts would sneak to the edges of the forest in hopes to catch the faint whisper of such music.

The music brings Becca to her feet. She is beauty incarnate, seemingly chiseled from marble. She is breathtaking. Her perfectly formed and rounded breasts; her slender hips sway in time to the beat. It is an intoxicating sight; any man witness to this scene would succumb to his desire. Of course, it is not just men that would be hypnotized by such movement. There is a slight movement just behind Becca. It is Night. Only, Night’s hand is not reaching out to touch Becca. No, her fingers slip into her furs. Her eyes are filled with lust by the simple movements of her sister. Her lips form into that familiar “O” and then produces the ever satisfying sigh accompanied with it. It is no wonder why so many men, even when caught and humiliated when placed in a collar, have no desire to escape their reality immediately.

…And then, a bang out of nowhere. It’s Nosyrb, throwing her…no one can really know what she was throwing. Whatever it is, it is loud and bright. The blast echoes in the canyon, distracting everyone. But no one can be mad at her for long: the pure joy on her face would make anyone laugh. Of course, the noise makes Jenny roll from the side of her hammock and stare at Nosyrb. If eyes could kill, Jenny would have exacted a gruesome death on her sister. It is the look that has sent a chill down many a man's spine, reminding him of the warning: when you came to the forests of the Sa-ta-Tor, you would live in a constant state of fear. With one simple look, it is easy to know why.

Kneeling by the logs, it is Madison holding her knife. She is skinning some small forest creature. While her hand expertly separates skin from muscle, she chatters happily to Solange, who stands above her. Solange has her hand placed on Madison’s shoulder, just as a mother would do when guiding her child through a task. In fact, that is exactly what is happening.

Sitting near them is Bhakta, the broken soul. The sorrow in her eyes is evident as she stared into the fire. There is an unspoken longing in her body. Of everything within the camp, it is her expression that is most familiar.It is the look of the woman who needs no independence but is stuck in the middle of nowhere, alone with her thoughts. It is the look of a woman who needs a Master. Almost on cue, Maria slips behind her sister and covers her eyes with her hands. Maria’s joy is contagious. Before long, both of them are laughing and holding one another. Whatever lonely hunger there was disappeared with the familiar touch of a friend. The camp jester lives up to her title.

Sylvia, the newest and youngest member of the tribe, stands at the edge of camp, with a finger in her mouth. She watches the whole scene like an outsider; she does not know where she fits in. Almost in understanding, a chilly breeze floods the camp, bringing goosebumps to her skin. The forest beckons her closer to her sisters and she finds a seat by the rest of the sisters by the fire. They accept her without a word; she had never needed their acceptance, she just needed to take her place amongst them.

There were more names and faces that pass through that camp. Sometimes they stayed for a few days; others stayed for years. But each, once they were accepted within the ranks of the tribe, became family forever. There would always be a spot for them around the campfire.

* * *

A panther tribe cannot exist completely on its own. Sometimes the forest is kind and offers total sustenance: food, shelter, and clothes. Other times, it cannot provide enough. In those times, a panther must seek trading points, exchanging goods and services from merchants and other dealers for things that they need. While a panther is not known to be a social creature, circumstance and timing dictated that sometimes she could not choose to walk her path alone.

The art of the trade was difficult to perfect. The Sa-ta-Tor were immaculate. They would scout a suitable location for days. They would pick a dip in the terrain as the spot for their trade point, marked by a small fire and surrounding logs. They always made their own trade point. The traders- Rahn, Prometheus and Shand were the regulars- would be attracted by the smoke of the trade fire; they would come and see nothing. There would only be a note, informing them that if they waited, a trade would be conducted. For some reason, they always waited. The cover of darkness would come and envelop the trading the point. Without warning, the panthers would begin to emerge from the shadows, filling the trading point. Gretchen would approach the trader, Azalea opposite her. The others would form a ring; there would be no escape from this point. And then Eve would appear and sat down, directly opposite the trader. She sat because she did not fear them. There would be no escape from the negotiation: either it would be successful or he would gain nothing. The trader could never win the confrontation. He could only hope to accomplish his task without injury.

Of course, artful negotiation was not enough; the parties had to meet first. Eve was smart enough to know that men would not be naturally inclined to trade with panthers. Why would they? What did they have to gain? So, as it was with everything in Gor, it became a game of politics. She needed to cull relationships and friendships with people. She had to make men trust panthers in areas of neutrality.

* * *

Once, as the Sa-ta-Tor were returning from a pilgrimage to the Sardar, a silkened kajirus followed them into the depths of the forests. Showing interest, the Sa-ta-Tor took him back their camp were they enjoyed him for a few days. Eventually, they decided to sell him off when they discovered from their trade point. A man stood there, sent by the Ubar of a faraway city. He had been sent to collect the favorite kajirus of the Ubara. Failure to return the kajirus unharmed, the man warned, would result in a war of sorts. Men would flood the forests until the slave was returned.

The threat was shocking. Starting a war over a kajirus? The man was sent away with a message for the Ubar: the Ubar himself would have to return to the post. But he would return to purchase a sleen.

A few weeks later, a grand caravan arrived. The Ubar and his companion emerged, draped richly in the robes and jewels common of their city. Eve took her customary seat opposite the Ubar and informed him that she had a sleen to sell. The Ubara shrieked and screamed to high hell: she wanted her boy, not a sleen. The Ubar managed to finally silence her after a long while and then motioned for the En to explain. With a wave of her hand, a huge sleen was brought from behind the hill controlled by several panthers. The Ubar looked confused as Eve demanded payment. He continued to look at her and she continued to return his gaze. Neither said anything as the sleen thrashed about and the Ubara screamed in fear at being so close to an untamed beast.

Finally, something seemed to click in the Ubar’s mind and he motioned for a great amount of coin to be brought. After the coin was laid out in front of Eve, the sleen was handed over to four very confused looking guards. Just as the panthers turned to slip back into the forest, Eve looked to the Ubar.

"Ubar, I suppose it would do no good to send such a fine beast on such a long journey without food."

She plucked the boy from the shrubs by the post and tossed him in front of the sleen. She nodded to the Ubar, collected her coin and disappeared.

She had protected the forest from potential danger. He had received the kajirus back. He lifted his gaze, catching her eye from across the crowd and paused. A smile found his lips and he tipped his head in respect. They had both exited the trading point with their reputation in tact.

* * *

It is said that every panther walks her path alone. Of course, that cannot always be true. Every once in a while, a situation arises which requires a strong hand at the game of politics and a large, supportive family. Without those ingredients, no woman can truly survive.

Chapter 2: New Moon

The moon rotates around the planet. This is not an interesting or new observation; it is a simple law of science. Every cycle is the same. Every cycle is inevitable. The new moon is the first phase. It begins the dance between the sun and the moon over the sky. The new moon signals a new beginning for, at that moment, the moon retains no shape. The moon rests high in the sky, but it cannot be seen directly by the naked eye. Only those that pay careful attention can notice the black circle in the sky, surrounded by more darkness, and know that the moon is still there.

A woman cannot live alone.

She didn’t know where she was supposed to go. She simply trusted her feet would take her to the place she was needed. Armed with only a quiva and her wits, she wandered aimlessly. At first, the path took her westward to the coast. She begged, borrowed and dealed her way up the Thassa and eventually arrived at Port Cos. The people of the city would not accept her. Why would they? She had no companion; she wore the tatters of a dress that barely covered her body. Just outside the city walls though, she knew why she had been compelled to come here.

Eve met the first in the forests just outside of Cos. Unlike Eve, she was angry. A fire burned in Kathy’s eyes that sparked the idea. Then came Jenny, who presented an ever-present calm. Next was Lily. Gretchen. Quruni. January. Nosyrb. Azalea. Becca. Caly. Night. Eris. Jalav. Solange. Madison. Jayda. Maria. Bhakta. Alastair. Sylvia. Some came to the forests as slaves. Some came as Free Women. Their stories were different, yet all the same. Something compelled them to the wilderness; something drew them to seek each other. Together, they became the Sa-ta-Tor, the Daughters of the Light.

The camp grew too big for the small island of Cos. So the women left everything behind and started anew in the north. They found their way to the Northern Forests. They met other panthers along the way, living at the edges of the forest, close to places like Laura and Rive-de-Bois. The Sa-ta-Tor was not content being so close to men. They drove deeper into the woods where none had dared brave before. Soon, the legend grew: to find the Sa-ta-Tor, one needed to travel the farthest north and most eastern point of the Forests that a man had ever traveled…and then go deeper for another week. Only there would men find the thirty women that comprised the very first band of panther women.

The men of Gor could not accept this new reality. Word was passed silently around from city to city about a new mysterious band of women that shunned society and the trappings of life to survive and live on their own. This precedent seemed dangerous. So they came.

* * *

First, it was the Rencers. It was a hodgepodge group of men and women, wielding rence cutting tools and axes. One of them even carried a comically small ladder; clearly, none of them had ever been to the thickest parts of the forests, for at best their ladder may have reached halfway up the smallest wall of the camp. But they seemed determined and formed into a densely packed group to attack.

The panther tasked with watching the camp from the highest perch could only smile. She offered no warning; she neither taunted them nor begged them to leave. Instead, a volley of arrows greeted the group. The women fell to the ground instantly and hid back inside their boat. The Rencer men became furious and rushed the campsite without a second thought. Two more arrows greeted the man carrying the ladder and he fell to the forest floor. There were only three left, but they managed to reach the perimeter wall. The panther watched the men with a hint of amusement; their tools used to cut the thin rence reeds of the marshes were woefully inadequate in felling the massive tree trunks that comprised the camp’s walls. The men huffed and puffed, toiling in their task for what seemed like hours. Their faces turned red and they soon peeled off sweat drenched clothes to press on. The panther watched with interest from her perch: what were these men planning to do? Finally, one of the men collapsed in exhaustion; they had not made even so much as a dent in one of the wall posts. The men dejectedly gathered their things, collected their fallen comrade and slipped back into their boat and were never seen again.

* * *

Then the Warriors of Laura came. Instead of a small party, it was an entire army headed by the Ubar himself. Row after row of men descended from the flotilla of boats. All throughout the forest, there was the clinking sound of empty collars attached to the belts of the men…waiting to eventually grace the neck of one of the Sa-ta-Tor. The only protection between the panthers and the army was a small bridge. This was not a fair fight; the panthers would lose in the end. Fighting Rencers with primitive sticks was one thing. These were fully trained, well armed professionals. Still, the panther Madison armed her bow and aimed at the bridge, waiting for the men to come.

The Ubar stepped forward with two of his best men flanking him and surveyed the scene. From his vantage point, he could only see the solitary Madison from the towers of the camp, waiting to attack. He could not see the others; in truth, there were no others at this hour. The rest were hunting deeper in the woods. The Ubar motioned for his two personal guards to fetch the solitary panther so they could then tear the camp piece-by-piece and flush out the rest of the tribe. The men rushed forward without hesitation.

Madison only fired two arrows from her bow. They were all she needed. The first lodged itself deep into one man’s thigh, dropping him to the ground and immobilizing him. The other arrow buried itself into the neck of the second man, instantly killing him. The rest of the Lauran Warriors became enraged at the sheer audacity of the panther girl and started to form up into a group so they could rush the bridge. The death had to be avenged. And then a curious thing happened.

The Ubar raised his hand in the air, ordering his men to stop without even uttering a word. Wordlessly, he walked out to his fallen soldier, checking their wounds. Then, he looked up to the panther, still at her post and defiantly looking down on him, ready to let loose another barrage of arrows if need be. The Ubar understood and so he took his injured soldier, loaded the boats back up and sailed away right then and there.

* * *

The lesson was learned and no large group ever came again to question the pride of the Sa-ta-Tor. They were fierce; they were proud; they would not leave the forest. Most importantly, they would not answer to a man’s demands. They were panthers.

Chapter 1: Sunset

The world is bathed with light. During this time, that people refer to as the “day,” the most important tasks happen. People need the sunlight to be productive. But, like everything in the world, the day must end; the sun must sink below the horizon and the people must welcome the darkness. When most people see the sun setting in the west over the Thassa, they know that it is time to rest and sleep. And as the sun’s last light creates a million different colors on the water, it allows people time to reflect on their thoughts and welcome the change from day into night.

It started with a choice.

She had been born of the Scarlet Caste in Ar, a true gentrified noblewoman. Because of her shrewdness, she found herself companioned once, then twice and then at the side of the Ubar of the Kataii on the Plains. It was a hard life, but it was a good life. The men respected her, the Wagon Camp flourished and most importantly, she fell in love with him.

And then, she made her choice. She asked, “Do you love me?” He never answered the question; he didn’t need to. She saw the way that he looked at his slaves, lying by his feet. She could never compete with that. “If that’s what it would take,” she said, “I would kneel before you.” He laughed at her statement and waved his hand dismissively. He hadn’t even given her offer a moment’s thought. She decided in that moment that not only did he not love her, he couldn’t. She retreated to her chamber, aghast and broken, and spent the loneliest night of her life…waiting to see what the morning would bring.

At the dawn’s first light, he was gone. His slaves were gone and his only lasting mark on the Camp was two wagon wheels ruts trailing off into the distance. He had not even bothered to say goodbye. None of the men seemed to care or notice her; they simply packed up their own wagons and set off to follow their Ubar. As the last wagon left the Camp and the sun slipped beneath the ground, the woman known as Livia DeBoar died on the Plains of Turia. As the moon rose, the Panther Eve was born.

The Prologue

It starts innocently enough.

A little girl crawls on the limbs of a tree in the family garden. Her mother sees her out of the corner of her eye and comes running, pulling the girl down from the tree.

“Don’t let your father catch you doing that,” her mother chastises. “We do not want to have a little Eve in the family. Get off that tree before your father finds you.” The mother speaks half in fear, half in hope that the sentiment comes true.

Night falls and the little girl looks outside her window. In the clear night sky, she can see the three moons each in a different phase. The largest is full, followed behind with a half-moon and a crescent. “Look mama!” the girl exclaims excitedly. “Look how pretty it is!” The mother looks out the window and her face pales. Immediately, the curtains are drawn and the child is dragged back to bed. The mother slaps the girl across the face and rebukes her, “No more of this talk. You are no Sa-ta-Tor. Go to bed and get this silliness out of your head.” As the girl’s eyes close, taking her to the dream world, she is confused yet mystified. A simple tree and the moons had caused such a commotion: why?

Three moons, three phases, one sky. It was…it IS…the symbol of the Sa-ta-Tor. There were many panthers before them and there will be many panthers after them, but they will always be known as the first TRIBE in Gor. Men will speak of their fierce cunning, their prowess with the bow and their shrewd negotiating skills at the trade fire. Women will scoff at their wild ways, their howling at the moon and the general terror they caused a city without ever setting foot inside.

The truth, of course, is always much simpler. They were the Sa-ta-Tor because of the singular unwavering dream shared by all 30 women: three moons, three phases, one sky.

Psychosis, Redux

I mentioned in one of my previous posts that soulplayers can suffer from a form of psychosis. Disingenuous? Slightly, sure.

Using terms like this is tricky because...well, when it comes to psychological diseases, there is not a uniform set of standards or agreed-upon definitions within the larger scientific community. Behavioral psychologists use terms differently than cognitive psychologists who examine the same problem slightly differently than evolutionary psychologists. Psychosis (as I'm using it, anyway) is sort of an umbrella term that used to describe a condition and is not necessarily a stand-alone disease: someone has a disease, which leads to episode(s) of psychosis. In this case, the symptom of psychosis means that the individual has lost contact with reality due to some particular mental stress (usually a disease).

It's definitely true I used the word "psychosis" to be provocative (yes yes, how can you be provocative when no one reads your blog?). But I also used it because the fundamental tenet of soulplaying has to do with alienation of environment: a soulplayer feels too connected to the source material to want to be called a roleplayer; conversely, the soulplayer feels too disconnected to the fantasy to want be put into the immersive lifestyler bucket. Faced with a situation where they feel they do not fit in either choice, a soulplayer tries to create a third option: find some middle ground where they can live some happy hybrid between roleplaying and full immersion.

The problem with this approach is that the brain craves balance. When confronted with a problem, the brain and pysche have a series of defense mechanisms in order to push the mind into a natural equilibrium. Sometimes these defense mechanisms are good: if someone is constantly insulted, the criticism can be explained away, ultimately ignored or dubbed as a learning experience. Sometimes these defense mechanisms are bad: when someone is developing deeply intense feelings for a person to the point that they wish to expose their true self, there's a natural inclination to pull away and withdraw from the relationship before the individual gets hurt from this new vulnerability.

A soulplayer's choices deliberately cause an imbalance in cognitive function: the person feels a deep connection with the fantasy world and wants to somehow manifest that connection in his/her real life. The only way to accomplish this is to essentially persuade themselves that elements of things they experience that they know are actually false are, in fact, real. Of course, the problem with trying to force this viewpoint is that the position is inherently unstable: the brain is being confused into merging IC and OOC when it intuitively knows that they are separate concepts. When trying to live in this "middle world," the brain has no template or formula with which to fall back on. So the brain tries its best to find some solution by creating stimuli to force a decision. This can manifest itself in different ways: becoming highly irritable to provide an outlet for those intense emotions that are felt during roleplay. Increased social anxiety so that a person becomes averse or nervous to interacting with people in roleplay. Becoming depressed, which creates general lethary and apathy for anything going on in the roleplay environment. All these moods and attitudes are encouraging the individual to withdraw from the source of confusion.

Beyond psychosis, there is the basic drug addiction problem. The definition of soulplayer is someone who has intense, visceral reactions to roleplay. There is obviously nothing wrong with having profound emotional attachment to roleplay scenes. The problem is trying to maintain that level of attachment. The "intense" reactions are usually the result of someone being exposed to a very new, very provocative stimulus. However, as the person gradually becomes accustomed to this new experience, the intensity level continues to dwindle. Obviously, this is the same problem that faces drug addicts: a little bit of the drug creates euphoria but as the tolerance level increases, so does the need to consume more drugs. In this case, the soulplayer is "consuming" their neurotransmitters. They need to have an experience that makes them feel as deeply as it did before. The problem is that roleplay is limited by logistics: plot, players and time. Time can be fudged: a person can log into SL for longer of periods of time than normal in order to chase more roleplay experiences. Of course, that means there's less "soul satisfying" roleplay, but the chance of getting their "soulplay" fix increases significantly. The player and plot problems cannot be fudged though.

The player/plot problem is pretty simple: there will be a select group of people that have a high level of writing skill and creativity that will properly resonate with a soulplayer and create intense storylines. Unlike drugs, which can be purchased in unlimited quantities for money, the soulplayer only has finite sources for a finite period of time. So after the person gets their fix and looks for more...the payoff won't be as intense. So the person logs in for longer and longer periods of time, searching for that next new connect. Maybe they make one, maybe they don't; but eventually, the person reaches a breaking point where they come to the realization that they can't find what they're looking for. And this crisis creates one of two reactions: one is to lash out at the environment and blame people for the problem of lack of roleplay. The other reaction is to withdraw and quit roleplaying.

The ultimate conclusion then, is that soulplaying is unsustainable: it can't be kept up forever and eventually the soulplayer will collapse upon himself/herself like a dying star. Of course, that's true of any addiction: the addiction will eventually destroy the person. So why do I give a shit if the problem goes away eventually? For one, the collateral damage of a soulplayer is immense. The amount of grief and anxiety they bring to others around them is truly significant and has been known to destroy entire sims. But beyond that, soulplaying annoys me because it's simply dumb. There is no way to rationalize it as a smart idea or perspective. And yet...people do it all the time. And what is the point of having a blog if it's not to rant?