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.

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.

Guttentag

Apparently, my last post is pretty popular with people in Germany. It was linked by, from what I can tell, a German Gorean internet message board, linked here. I'm pretty sure they're making fun of me...which is totally cool! There's really a lot of material out there so if someone can't make fun of me, perhaps they need to stop and take stock of their life.

As I do not understand a lick of German, I have no idea what the thread is about, what it says, or why my last post has something to do with the topic. BUT...I have figured out that "rollenspielwelt" means "roleplayer" in German. And quite frankly, I'd rather be called a rollenspielwelt than a roleplayer any day of the week and twice on Sunday. I also have no idea what "gegenüber" means either, but I'm pretty sure I'd want to be that to. Anything with an umlat is gold to me.

So hello Germans!

Submissives

Ranting time...and what are blogs if nothing else than a way to rant in public and hope no one reads it although secretly hope that the right people actually do read it?

I don't understand "submissives." I don't WANT to understand submissives. Most women in SL Gor self-identify as submissives. I can understand and appreciate that. I have my own understanding of what being an overall submissive is (and I've shared it on this blog a few times), but it's clearly not the definition of choice of most submissives in SL Gor. As far as I can tell, "submissive" in SL means to be intellectual lazy, helpless and wanting to obviate all responsibility for themselves and their life choices. They'd rather pawn that off on someone else. Essentially, being a submissive in SL means to be an overgrown baby. Apparently, that's a good thing.

And even if that's the definition (or even if I'm wrong), I have no problem with that. Everyone has their emotional and psychological problems. I've got plenty myself that probably make me appear childish and selfish, so I really can't be throwing rocks at that type of behavior. Where my problem occurs is when women confuse roleplay with reality and assume that because my male characters portray dominant personalities and react well to submissives...they assume that I personally am a dominant individual and am actively looking for submissives to dominate in my normal life. Ergo, them.

This can't be farther from the truth. First of all, my characters are fake. They exist in an imaginary roleplay world that are subject to the rules of John Norman's very stupid writing and the rule sets contained within them. My characters have to be callous and "dominant" because Norman says they must be. That's not reflective of my actual personality simply because...shocker...I don't live in Gor. I am a product of my environment and my environment says I must respect all people and treat them as equals. So I do, and more importantly, I want to treat all people as equals.

Second, I'm not looking for a relationship in SL Gor outside of someone who can entertain me in roleplay. I find it monumentally stupid to try and find love in a game where people present false depictions of themselves. I understand that this is no different than trying to find a date at a club where a woman is all dolled up and not acting "naturally" because she, too, wants to instantly attract a mate. The only reason I tolerate clubs is, well, it's real so even if the woman is faking it...I might get something tangible out of it like sex or a companion to do fun things on a date with. For an online relationship, I'm simply deluding myself: as long as I can convince myself this person is what I want, I'll stay. Seems rather hollow and superficial to me. I'm not saying I can't do it- it just seems a waste of my time.

And even if I were looking for an actual relationship based on my roleplay interactions, I sure as hell wouldn't want a submissive women. I find the idea of having a "genuine submissive" as a potential mate utterly repulsive. I can interact with them, no problem. But get serious with them? No thanks, not my cup of tea. I'd rather have a woman with a brain who asserts herself. Someone might argue that a submissive can be all those things and assertive...but really, she can't. It's listed within the definition of submissive that she can be assertive, but can't be an assertive person. If she can be all that, then she's not submissive- she's just pretending she is. And I hate people that can't try to be honest with themselves so I wouldn't want to have a relationship with them anyway. On the intimacy front, "submissives" and "me" do not mix- just a fact of life. And those that want to convince me otherwise are largely wasting their breath.

Finally, I think "dominance" and "submission" as state-of-beings is a crock of shit. I consider it something akin to homosexuality. There are certainly a group of people in this world that are inherently and genetically homosexual. No matter what can be said or done, these people will always be attracted to the same sex. Same can be said for bisexuals as well. But there are a group of people who experience the psychological condition of "mimicry." If you put these people around lots of gay people for a long period of time, they will self-identify themselves as gay...and if you took them out of the gay population and put them back in heterosexual communities, they'd self-identify as heteros. You find this exceedingly common in prison populations: inmates have homosexual sex inside the clink to mimic the rules, customs and behavior within prison...but revert to a hetero lifestyle when living in a mixed population. Same thing with SL: when confronted with a paradigm where everyone must be split up into "dominants" and "submissives," women see that submissive box, self-identify with some of those characteristics and then unilaterally decide that they must be all of those characteristics...when they're not.

I don't doubt there are a few genuine submissives in SL Gor. As in people who have an innate tendency to follow and please people. It's just written into their DNA. But I suspect that 99% of the "submissives" out there are actually just sexual submissives who mistake their timidness in the bedroom and sexual relationships to be representative of the rest of their personality. And if you take them out of a sexual relationship, they are confrontational, abrasive and controlling...just like normal human beings. Which is cool. I like normal human beings. I just don't like people who pretend they are something they're not.

The other truth I've learned out there is that most people who roleplay in Gor either do not understand the IC/OOC split...or don't care. They are here for boyfriends and damnit, they're going to get them. Somehow, I end up on their wish list because I can type a complete sentence and can show an original thought from time to time. I have no idea how to disabuse them or get them to ignore me. So...I rant. And this is one of them.

Alright, it's all over now. I will now put myself into that state where I debate whether I should have posted this and whether I should delete it.

Choice

As an aside to the now THREE daily regular readers- I promised posting my story of the Sa-Ta-Tor. That will unfortunately be postponed indefinitely until I figure out what to do with it. Either the roleplay is dead and I need to reconcile my ideal vision of the story with what I have...or I wait until (if ever) it starts up again. Luckily, such projects need no deadlines. They get done when it is time to finish them. Eventually, I'll make a decision but not now. So it will wait in storage as a series of blog drafts, waiting to be published.

I probably did a blog post about this earlier. If I did, who cares? Here it goes again.

Compare these two videos:





In the first talk, Malcolm Gladwell demonstrates why choice is a good thing: the more choices you have, the better chance you have at getting something you genuinely want. In the second video, Barry Schwartz demonstrates that infinite choice creates an information crisis: while you get exactly what you want, the cost it took to make the decision actually exceeds the benefit so you're overall WORSE off than you were before.

So why this topic?

Choice creates two sets of problems that interact with one another: why you roleplay and how you achieve that goal.

To create a Gorean community, much attention needs to be placed on the environment. SL, as a program, gives the creator a lot of choice in terms of creating the most authentic environment: build a Mediterranean city, Victorian style, inland city empire, coastal island, whatever. If someone can conceive of it, it can be built. The same goes with clothes, characters and everything else needed to build a Gorean community: SL provides infinite choice so it's absolutely possible to build the "perfect" Gorean community that a person wants.

The problem is that richly detailed environment makes it prohibitively expensive to play that environment. If you want to create an authentic Torvsland sim, you need to have people that fundamentally understand the nuances of a Torvie culture. People have to promote stories and characters that fit within that niche, instead of the generic Gorean man. And this isn't just one person. EVERY person that plays in that environment has to meet some threshold of immersion or else...the detail, nuance and sophistication is lost. Just walk into a scene where someone says, "Hi lulz. I iz Gorean. U r slave?" The mood is instantly broken. So, to keep that level of immersion, the sim has to create a whole rule set and create a system that approves people into the sim ("You must be THIS Gorean to roleplay here"). The more rules a sim has, the more time is needed to learn and understand those rules. More moderators are needed to keep the sim faithful to those rule sets. The more authentic the picture, the more people and time are needed. To actually extract the benefit of getting what you want, you have to pour in a lot of effort that you didn't think was needed. As Barry Schwartz points out, to get to the level of choice that makes you happy, you're worse off in a situation where there was no choice.

And that's a fundamental unsolvable problem for any online roleplay community: roleplay is supposed to be a diversion, not a job. But to get that deeply immersive and rich element, it's prohibitively expensive. Lots of lots of time and effort must be spent. Is it worth spending all that time and effort on what's supposed to be a game? Some people answer this question by making it personal: they use the game to find themselves a suitable real life mate. By raising the stakes, the effort is worth it (people will do a lot for love vs. just fun). Some people compromise their standards so that the benefit exceeds the effort. Most people, though, answer this question by simply just walking away.

I wonder...

...how people decide their character motivations.

I think most people create backgrounds and stories that help them shape and design their characters. I've done this on occasion: I have a general idea in my head and then I try to flesh it out with specific characteristics and tendencies that would result from that particular idea. I imagine most people do the same thing.

When roleplaying in Gor, I hear so many people say, "Well, my character is proud so she'd never do such and such." Or some guy will say, "My character's a real Gorean man and he'd refuse to take a collar out of principle. His sense of honor precludes him from doing that."

But...the interesting question is HOW does someone decide what characteristics naturally flow from that idea? What makes something natural as opposed to forced? How does someone connect a particular trait to particular actions? I can easily construct a scenario where it might sense for a Gorean man, even the most stereotypical by-the-codes Gorean Warrior, to submit completely and unstintingly to a woman. I can easily construct a situation where the most elite, proud, spoiled brat of a Free Woman would be so humbled beyond words that escape into a collar might be the most obvious solution for her. And yet...people might disagree with my assessments. So how do people draw the line between natural and unnatural reactions of their characters?

The reason this thought occurred to me dealt with the roleplay between one of my Gorean characters and a slave. I had a chance to converse with this person outside of roleplay for a while. She was commenting about how proud and spirited her character was, despite being a slave. She also mentioned that, at one point, there was a man who truly made her character understand her submission, but he disappeared from the roleplay universe...and because of that experience, her character is motivated to avoid giving away her heart again. It was very interesting to learn and I thought quite sensible. This person has thought about this situation enough to take concrete and identifiable traits to transform an idea into a genuine character.

By chance, our characters got to roleplay for a while. True to her initial explanation, her slave character was bratty, opinionated and irreverent to her station in life. So my character responded in ways I thought a Gorean man would respond: force her to recognize her reality. And not with long-winded speeches about how kajirae do this and act like that. It was quick, swift and brutal. Along the way, I tried to drop subtle hints and clues as to why my character was doing the things he was doing. He wasn't trying to devastate her character by attempting to kill her; it was a series of calculated actions and carefully constructed sentences in order to push her character into being what she's supposed to be: a submissive kajira. Or at least, what I understand a submissive kajira to be.

By the end of the scene, it was clear that the person roleplaying the kajira either completely missed all my hints and subtext, or flat out ignored it. Similarly, I also fear that I missed a lot of the hints and subtext (assuming she was sending them out) that she was giving out.

Some of the hints and subtext I tried to insert (there were more, but these were the two big ones):
*Trying to get the slave to stop using the words "I" and "beg." This is a standard crutch for slaves when they get into trouble. The first thing they say is, "I beg forgiveness." Now, while that's all well and good, I simply don't think that the right response for a true submissive. I think the better response is "I am sorry for displeasing you, Master." What's the difference between the two? The first one is inherently selfish- the tone and subject of the sentence make it all about the kajira and what she did. In the second sentence, the same message is sent but it creates a power dynamic: by being sorry, she is placing herself in an inferior position and the sentence is about the obligation that she owes him. While most slaves intuitively understand the concept of apologizing and why it's important, I don't think they ever really think about how to properly convey that sorrow. A slave is supposed to eat, live and breathe for others. Even apologies.

In this situation, the slave begged for her life. Again, that is the phrasing of a person that has not embraced her submission. Had she phrased it, "Spare me your mercy" or "I am nothing without you, Master," her answer would have been received much more favorably.

This may be too subtle and even a nitpicky thing...but I think it's important in properly conveying a submissive demeanor. A proper slave never thinks in terms of "I" or "me," but always in relation to those that are superior to her. The way she phrases things is a good measure to figure out whether she is actually submissive or just paying lip service to the concept.

*Constantly referring to her as a whore and a slut. Over and over again, the slave was referred to as a "worthless slut," "stupid whore," and on and on. I assume most people think that those are just attempts at insulting and degrading a person. That's very true. But it also serves a deeper purpose. Breaking someone for shits and giggles is generally a counterproductive idea. While every slave needs to be broken from her self-centered "Earth" perspective, the idea is that she's being broken so that she can be reconstituted to fully embrace her submissiveness. The breaking is a part of a process to create something new.

So...a beat down because someone mouthed off seems rather extreme and harsh. It really does nothing but emphasize that minor infractions result in extreme consequences. That's discouraging because it encourages the slave to do nothing...it's the only way she can ensure that she'll never get beaten. So if someone is going to resort to such an extreme measure, there needs to be a payoff.

Enter the constant stream of degrading insults like "whore" and "slut." Now, on Gor- these aren't necessarily bad words...but it's clear that in this particular context, they were. Moreover, I took great pains to use these words over and over. These weren't casual uses of a particular insult.

There's a basic concept of psychology on how people deal with failure. If someone is told that they suck over and over again, there's a good chance they will give up completely. But if someone is told that they can't accomplish a certain task, that person builds an incredible amount of will and determination to prove their doubter wrong. It's the seminal act of defiance that is deeply ingrained in every human. So, in this context, the kajira is not being sent the message that she sucks. The constant use of "worthless whore" is meant as a challenge to her: her existence and her worth hinges on the display and use of her body. If she can please men sexually, then she is NOT worthless. But if she cannot succeed in this area...truly, she is beyond worthless.

So the idea is to damage her psyche at the same time as giving her direction on how she can validate her existence. Breaking while building.

* * *

That's what prompted this blog post. Almost always, no one really ever understands the subtlety of those clues in roleplay. I don't blame them either- it's hard to pick up such meanings in a real-time interaction.

But to properly evolve a character, you have to have pretty much 100% understanding of their state of mind and motivations...even in the unconscious parts. On any given day, if I used these particular techniques and tricks on someone in RL, they would instantly respond to them...whether they were aware they were being manipulated or not. However, in SL and online environments, these tricks and methods, which are so vital to make characters into people, are pretty much useless.

There is no answer to this particular issue. There shouldn't be one. But it is interesting food for thought: how much can you really know about your character? How deeply are you thinking about what makes your character tick?

Blogroll

I don't have one. Then again, I don't really have a readership (still cruising at 2 hits a day) so I suppose having a blogroll is sort of a moot point.

That being said, I don't read many SL Gorean blogs. It's not that I don't want to...it's just that I don't actively search them out like I do my general interest blogs I read in my "normal" life.

If there are any interesting blogs or sites I should be reading relating to the Gorean experience, drop a note in the comments and/or e-mail and I'll make sure to look it over and add to a blogroll.

The Post Script

"And I need you to remember one thing
I came, I saw, I conquered
From record sales, to sold out concerts
So muh'fucker if you want this encore
I need you to scream, 'til your lungs get sore."
-Jay Z, Encore

Aashe reappeared for a brief while in civilization to track down Eve Cartier, the legendary En of the Sa-Ta-Tor. Through their conversations, he learned of the history of the panther tribe that he later turned into a story. Perhaps not the first story about the Sa-Ta-Tor but perhaps the most complete.

That roleplay is still ongoing; what began as a roleplay designed to tease out a particular story has evolved on its own to something much more powerful and interesting. But for the most part, the story of the Sa-Ta-Tor is complete.* The next series of posts will document the history of the Sa-Ta-Tor as learned through the roleplay encounter between Eve and Aashe.

*Of the 6 chapters, 2 are incomplete.

For those few people (according to the stats, all two of you) that read the story of Aashe to completion, thank you. And for those wondering- yes, all the events that were documented within those stories were fully roleplayed scenes. Yes, there was a lot of opinion and slanted explanation given to those events, but they were all events that Aashe experienced in his two years of existence.

Aashe might reappear for a scene here and there to fill in as necessary, but that is the end of the line for him. For now anyway. The future, as always, remains uncertain.

Part VIII, Fade To Black

"So I walk upon high
And I step to the edge
To see my world below
And I laugh at myself
While the tears roll down

Cause it’s the world I know
The world I know.”
-David Cook, The World I Know (Collective Soul cover)

Fate smiled on him for a brief moment.

A panther girl found his bleeding and broken body. Why she hid him in a cave near her camp so no animals or her sister would find him...he'd never know. Why she spent the endless hours setting his bones, cleaning his cuts and stitching his wounds...he'd never know. Why she risked her life and freedom tending to a stranger, and a man at that....he'd never know. All he knew is that he woke up one day, healed.

The panther never offered him an explanation. He never asked. She came dutifully every day, offering him a bite of food and a story. Then after a few hours, she would leave. She never demanded anything from him; she never asked him any questions about who he was or why he was in her forest. It was surprising: a person with seemingly no ambition or angle. He was not used to that. The time in the cave gave him time to think, though. He reflected on everything he had done, both bad and good. He had disgraced his family, he had ruined lives, he had cost thousands of men their lives because of a war he started. And yet...the Priest Kings still allowed him to live. They gave him a guardian angel in the form of this panther girl. His mission in life was still not done. There was something he still needed to accomplish. Perhaps once he discovered what that was, he would finally receive peace and eternal rest.

So when he was finally fit to move on his own, he slipped out of the cave in the cover of darkness. Feeling with his hands, he advanced through the thickness of a forest and down the mountainside.

And poof. Just like that, he was gone.

Part VII, Collapse

"What more can I say?
What more can I do?
I give this all to you
I know this much is true
My Life

I supposed to be number one on everybody’s list
We’ll see what happens when I no longer exist
Fuck this
-Jay-Z, What More Can I Say (DJ Danger Mouse remix)

It crumbled around him so quickly.

He managed to outrace the invading force to Tyros. He was able to warn them, but without much advance warning. It was enough time, however, to hide all the silver. At least his family, if they were to survive this, would escape with something.

His next destination was to meet the Tatrix. Perhaps he could persuade her to spare his family. He still believed he could alter the fate of events if he truly wanted to. She owed him after all; if he asked, she would assent to his requests. What he didn't realize is that he was not the only one with the network of spies.

They were waiting for him. The Praetor of Fina himself placed him under arrest. Hooded and shackled, he was taken back to a specially designed prison. They locked him in there and let him sit for a week. Officially, he was a guest of the Praetor. If he wished for food, he simply had to ring a bell and a slave would attend to him. But he was allowed no visitors. No one interrogated him for information; no one offered him updates on the war. He tried send out notes of warnings to his friends. They would be next; they needed to disappear. But no one would take his notes. In fact, no one spoke to him. He just sat there, alone with his thoughts- completely helpless.

On the eighth day, the Praetor arrived. He was finally given the news: Tyros laid in ruins, his friends at Umbra had scattered and disappeared, Port Kar had declared victory and Fina was flush with riches. All of his work was for naught. So then, the offer was simple: defect to Fina's side and bring glory to Fina. The offer seemed ridiculous: the Praetor was asking him to betray everyone he loved and respected...but then again, if he refused, the Praetor would keep him imprisoned forever. Neither option seemed enticing, but there was no way the Praetor could compel loyalty. He could feign obedience. He would earn their trust until the opportunity arrived. At their most vulnerable moment, he would turn on them and get his revenge. So he agreed.

The Praetor was no fool though. He slit his palm end to end and demanded the same from Aashe. A blood oath. Swear to his allegiance to Fina. It could no longer be token lip service. If he were to accept this condition, he could not betray them. There were some things more valuable than anything; this was one of them. Betrayal, espionage and backstabbing was one thing in the name of the greater good. But to swear on his name, honor and in his blood? He was trapped.

The oath was made, cemented in blood. He swore his allegiance to Fina; of course, by swearing in return, the Praetor promised his allegiance to Aashe. Whatever he needed, whenever he needed it- the Praetor would provide. He was released, given a small base of operations to restart his life. With no friends and family, his heart was heavy. He had no reason to work. The only thing that compelled him forward was the obligation from his oath.

It took several weeks, but the people of Fina soon left him alone. Either he had convinced them of their loyalty, or they simply got bored of him. Either way, he knew that it would not last forever. Eventually, they would demand results from him. He had one opportunity.

It came during a violent storm. Sheets of rain pounded the walls of Fina. The guards were too busy dealing with a collapse of one of the turrets to notice a solitary figure slip into the tarn cot. They could not hear the mighty flapping of the tarn wings and screech of its voice as it passed over the city amongst the loud cracks of thunders. They would not know he was gone for days. And by then, he had flown his tarn to the edges of the Northern Forests.

* * *

When he awoke, he was laying on the ground in a pool of blood. His body hurt in a thousand different places. There was no sign of a tarn. There was no sign of a SKY. Trees surrounded him. From his brief survey, he had a litany of broken bones, he was bleeding from a hundred different places. It was only a matter of time before a forest creature would find him and finish the job that Fate had started. He was dying.

Part VI, Renaissance

"Fear
And panic in the air
I want to be free
From desolation and despair
And I feel
Like everything I sow
Is been swept away
Well I refuse to let you go.”
-Muse, Map of the Problematique

Sometimes the stars just align perfectly.

The largest celebration in Gor was happening in Tharna. The dust had cleared and the city was ready to celebrate its new Tatrix, Fine. All the heads of state throughout the world were to descend on the city to commemorate this event: Fina, Rovere, Cardonicus, Treve, Tyros, Saphronicus, Midgaard and a host of others. It was the event of the year. And the Tatrix was sitting at the Umbra Tavern, hiring Aashe's company to provide all the drink for this event.

The woman's face. The silver coin. It was all beginning to make sense. The only question that remained was...what did it all mean? What was he supposed to do?

A man can live in mediocrity for only so long. He was the royalty of Treve; he was one of the most important people in the world, but he was tending to a garden out in the middle of nowhere. If there is lesson in the world of Gor, it is that a man cannot outrun his destiny. There comes a moment in time where a man sees his chance and a decision needs to be made. When that moment came, Aashe chose.

The plot was simple: with the recent earthquake in Argentum, Tharna was the only city in Gor that had silver deposits rich enough to mine. The Tatrix was the key; she owned the mines outright. And if he pulled out what he planned, no one would challenge. No one would expect a lowly brewer to pull off a kidnapping the middle of broad daylight in front of thousands of Warriors. It would be madness.

So they had to prepare. He drilled his people over and over again. Every detail was planned out; every contingency was thought of. What type of poison could be added to kalana wine to make it odorless and tasteless? What dosage would need to be given so it only made people unconscious instead of lethal? How could brewers smuggle in weapons through the gates? Would the guards think to check to see if a switchblade was hidden inside a kalika? Over and over. They counted the number of steps between the stage and the gate. There would be diversions planted around every corner of the congregation. They had two escape routes planned. Ships and alternate wagons were waiting at checkpoints so that they could not be traced. It was complicated, but it was doable. He could do it. No one would expect it. In one stroke, he could bring Gor to its knees. Bowing to him. So he did.

When the guests all raised the goblets of kalana to their lips, chaos erupted. Ubars fell to the ground, shouts were raised, warriors summoned their tarns. Weapons were drawn, people ran around. No one noticed a small group of people advance to the stage, take the prone body of the Tatrix and whisk away on an awaiting wagon. It could have not gone more perfectly. No one suspected a thing. No one was hurt or captured. It was the perfect crime.

They took her to Bloodstone Isle, an abandoned island far in the south. No one would think to look for her there. She was stripped of her mask and caged. There, she and Aashe sat, just staring at each other. A contract had been prepared, awaiting her signature and seal. The condition was simple: deed control of the mines to Aashe and she would be free to go. Otherwise, she would surely perish.

She protested, cussed and screamed. He would not get away with this; the Ubars of all those cities would not allow such a deed to go unpunished. It would create a dangerous precedent. They would know Aashe was behind it. It would only be a matter of time.

Of course, he had thought of this eventuality. He was sure that the cities would go looking for the Tatrix, but they would not punish him over it. After all, cities were not friendly. There were no principles or blood that bound them together. The Ubars of the world had no obligation to save her; they would do so only if it were in their interest. And he would make it in their interest to keep him alive.

Time and pressure solves all problems. It took several days and several beatings. But she relented in the end. The contract was signed, affixed with the seal. Goreans, those brimming with honor, would have to respect the contract.

Now came the issues of logistics: how could he keep the silver for himself? He had no army, only a handful of men. He didn't have the manpower to extract the silver AND hold off any raiders. Of course, he had thought of this already. The messages had already been sent to all the heads of states. He would auction off the Tatrix and the contract. The holder of the contract would have the legal right to all the silver of Gor. And Aashe would collect a percentage. He knew they would accede to his demands: he offered them a way to possess the mines without having to resort to war.

He was right. Not everyone came, but the major power players were there. What was not expected was that the Ubar of Tyros and the Captain of Port Kar would have struck a deal to share the proceeds of the mines. With the might Karian navy protecting the seas and the formidable Tyros' infantry (headed by who else? Aashe's father Malice), they would be an unstoppable force. Aashe had done it: for one brief moment, all the eyes of the world had turned to him.

* * *

Of course, Kar and Tyros were not content with simple occupation of the mines. Their reach expanded northward. They established an effective blockade of the Thassa entering and leaving the Vosk Delta. All goods passing through were taxed heavily or not let in at all. Silver prices rose 10,000%. The surrounding cities of the Vosk Delta region began to grumble. They did not like this new partnership between these two cities. They were becoming too powerful. Arrogant. Something had to be done.

The Tatrix of Tharna approached him one more time. She was desperate; she had no outs. She was a prisoner in her own city, a puppet of the Tyros-Kar regime. Her information was incomplete, but she knew she had some potential allies in some of these disgruntled cities. They had something to gain by warring against the emerging hegemony. She also thought Aashe to be an opportunist. So she came to him with an offer: talk to the cities on her behalf. Bring war to lands. And she would reward him. Silver, power, whatever he wanted.

He should have said no. He should have walked away and been content with his moment in spotlight. War was coming and he was standing on the sidelines with his pockets lined with silver. He could not do better than that. But he had an obligation to his mother. He had ignored her for so long that perhaps he owed her something. She had never pressured him; she let him live his own life and make his own decisions. She never forced obligations on him. Perhaps this could be his way to repay her: keep her and Tyros out of harms way. Of course, if were being honest- that was not the reason he accepted the Tatrix's offer. Power is a curious drug. In small doses it can be controlled; but he had tasted in its most pure form. It made his head grow. He was invincible. If he wanted, he could own the world. If he got involved, he could control the outcome. So he boarded his private boat and slipped through the Karian blocakde to send his message.

Rovere. Saphronicus. Fina. Others were also sympathetic to the Tatrix's request. They had already thought about the option of war. Perhaps now was the time. They never consulted him directly, but Aashe was a powerful man. He had contacts in each of these cities. From his tavern in Umbra, reports would come in daily about the troop movements. He could see everything. He tried to maneuver the new alliance into attacking Port Kar. But his plan backfired; the Silver Alliance threw in their lot with Port Kar and agreed to crush Tyros.

So he was not invincible after all.

Part V, Resurrection

"Now I've lived through my share of misfortune
And I've worked in the blazing sun
But how long should it take somebody
Before they can be someone

Cuz I know there's got to be another level
Somewhere closer to the other side
And I'm feelin' like it's now or never
Can I break the spell of the typical?"
-Mute Math, Typical

Life as a mercenary was peaceful enough. The solitary conditions suited him. There were only a few members of the mercenary group and Oric knew enough to only use Aashe on the less intensive missions. With all the extra time on his hands, Aashe resorted to various hobbies to keep his mind occupied. For amusement, he maintained a little garden next to their campsite. It was nothing special: some sul plants, carrots, beans, katch and peas. He found it soothing for some reason. There was something about tilling the soil with his hands. His fingernails covered in dirt. The pain in his back after a day spent hunched over, pulling weeds. It was like penance for his failures.

Somewhere along the way, the little garden of vegetables grew. His yield of suls grew every year. Not knowing what to do with them all, he dabbled in the art of brewing. The men seemed to enjoy his try at sul paga. It snowballed from here. The garden grew bigger; he began brewing more and more paga. From a small garden grew an actual business.

In fact, the paga brewery eventually became more profitable than the entire mercenary outfit. Soon, the outfit turned from a mercenary band into a paga tavern and delivery company. Umbra, they called the company- which meant shadow. The mercenaries by themselves could not handle all the work orders; outsiders and friends were brought in to pick up the slack. The women worked in the distillery and bottling plant; the men rode the delivery wagons and protected the storehouses. Contracts kept coming in. Wagons rolled out to many cities: Midgaard in the North to Rovere in the Delta to Kasra in the Southern regions. Soon, seemingly every tavern in every corner of the world served Umbra paga. He never planned it; it just happened.

The dull ache of misery deep within him returned soon enough. Despite all the financial success, the thriving business, there was something wrong. He couldn’t identify what it was, but he knew it was there. He couldn’t enjoy his success. He thought of everything to try and solve his problem: he tinkered with the recipe to content himself that he produced the best paga; he even traveled with some of the supply shipments to prove that he was not afraid of no location. He even returned to Midgaard. He ventured to Port Kar and Fina and stood toe-to-toe with his old opponents. He looked them in the eye and they looked back at him. It wasn’t a question of honor; perhaps he was not the same man he once was, but he no longer felt ashamed. He could look at himself every morning in the mirror.

On one of his trips towards the southern regions, he passed through Tuchuk country. Perhaps it was Fate that drew him to that isolated trading route in the middle of nowhere. For in the middle of the desolation and blackness was a dilapidated old shack. Curious, he knocked on the door and soon found himself face-to-face with a grizzled old haruspex. She was a ghastly sight; one eye was missing, and her naked wrinkled body was covered in odd colored streaks. He could not guess what the origins of the marks were; undoubtedly most of them were feces based on the way she smelled. And yet, it was almost as if she had expected him.

“Come inside, Aashe.” She beckoned him into the shack with one gnarled finger. The only thing inside the shack was a large fire with a pot boiling over it. He had no idea what the woman was cooking, but the odor offended his senses. His eyes watered and he gagged, desperate for fresh air. It was so bad, he was sure he was going to die. But before he could even make a move towards the door, her bony hand seized his wrist. Though he was much stronger and more powerful than her, he could not move. The woman somehow dragged him to the lip of the cauldron and forced him to peer into the boiling liquid.

“Look.” Her wheezing breath sounded like fingernails scraping against a chalkboard. He looked. He was not sure what he was supposed to see. At first, he saw nothing. The steam of the concoction stung his eyes and clouded his vision. But the woman’s grip never faltered for a second and he was powerless to move. The heat singed his skin. Soon enough, the picture cleared. He did not recognize the figure looking back at him. It was not his reflection- of that, he was sure. As best as he could tell, it was the figure of a woman, surrounded by a silvery sheen. He could only look at the image for a moment before he was dragged back towards the door. It didn’t make any sense. Who was this woman? What did it all mean? The haruspex offered no advice, hints or explanation for what happened. Instead, she took him to the door and pointed at him in an accusatory way. What had he done? He protested, ready to strike her for she was mad. But the door shut in his face.

He stood there, perplexed and confused. What had that all meant? He thought about it for a moment, but the more he thought, he more he became confused. Just before took his seat on his wagon, he saw a metallic object glistening in the sunlight not too far away. Curious, he picked it up. It was a silver piece, stamped from the mines of Tharna. Figuring that some good at least had come out of this odd encounter, he whistled a tune and rode away.

Part IV, Crumbling

"Don’t give me that face
I know when I should live in disgrace
Not dig up the deadwood
I knew this place never for me

And of the years that rolled by
Yeah some were good
But now I know that
You were the coward
The holes in your soul
In tatters for all these years.”
-Dirty Pretty Things, Deadwood

In the end, he lost.

The campaign of war turned northward. In Midgaard, they blamed their deposed Ubar, who fled to the city of Fina for safety. Midgaardians said it was his jealousy and manipulation that drove the armies of the Vosk Delta Alliance to the city walls. The Vosk cities had other explanations. It was Midgaard’s support of Treve that had cost the region so much. It was Midgaard’s strategic location so close to the sea and near the edge of the Northern Forests that made it valuable. Its timber- to build a navy, for expansion, for security. Midgaard was the necessary step for worldwide hegemony. Whatever the reason, it was war. Port Kar, Rovere, Fina, Kyna and others against Midgaard alone. Aashe was tasked with the preparing the city strategy. The task was impossible; they were hopelessly outnumbered and no city wanted to ally with the fearsome Alliance lest they be the next target. Even Treve refused to aid; without their tarns, what good would they be anyway? With no allies and no support, he turned to alternate means. Gold was paid to every mercenary he could find. Deals were struck with outlaws. He was desperate; when forced to choose between life and death, he compromised his ideals. There were things more important than honor, he reasoned.

And he lost. The forces of the Vosk Delta were too strong. They could not be stopped. Wave after wave of ships descended from the coast. The Karians begat the men of Fina, who begat the men of Kyna, and then the men of Rovere. They fought back the first flotilla of ships. The mercenaries were able to repel the advance from the north; but like everything in else, it was simply a matter of time and pressure. The lines of defense faltered and then buckled. For every two advancing warriors that were cut down, four replaced them. There were no such reinforcements for Midgaard. The warriors hacked and slashed until the fields were stained red; their blades eventually dulled from striking bone and leather one too many times. Their strength waned and still the men came. Day and night, night and day. The physicians ran out of bandages, there was nothing more to do. Time and pressure. The walls fell. In the end, he failed.

He was there when Dark Starr himself, Captain of Port Kar, came to Midgaard to sign the “terms of peace.” Failure. Officially, the Karians allowed Midgaard to remain standing. They took the spoils they were after and left. The point had been made: stay away from the politics of the Vosk region and stay away from Treve. When Dark Starr left that day, he did not need to remind the citizens of Midgaard of the one last remainder of city’s connection to failure.

No one asked him to leave. The Council knew it was not his fault. Everyone knew that he had tried. No one could have succeeded against such odds. Perhaps he imagined the stares as he passed by on the streets. Perhaps the whispers on the streets were innocuous. But, fewer people stopped by his house. The turmoil in Midgaard grew. Gabrielle soon left to a safer city; Cecelia was sold to a passing slaver to cover the cost of the war; people in his life began to disappear one by one. The explanations were vague, but he could guess for the reasons. And he could not blame them. But blame had to be placed somewhere. In the end, he placed it on himself.

So he left. There was no words of goodbye. He said nothing. One day, the people looked inside his house to consult him on some trivial matter. They found the place empty, as if no one had ever lived there before. They stood there, puzzled for a moment. But soon enough, another warrior moved into the house and life continued as if nothing had happened at all. Midgaard forgot about him and he too, forgot about Midgaard. It would be a long time before he returned.

* * *

With no place left to turn, he returned to Treve. The situation there was no better than the situation he had left previously. Turmoil, unrest; it was not an easy time. The Ubar Theodoric was planning a campaign and takeover of the Isle of Tyros. Aashe’s father, Malice, was in charge of the campaign. He invited his son to join him at his side as warriors should. Aashe declined; the sting of defeat was too close. Failure changes a person and he knew that he would be a liability on the front lines.

His uncle Oric gave him a more palatable offer: join his band of mercenaries outside the edges of the Semris. He could be a mercenary and Semris was far enough away that their services would not be needed in a war. Occasionally, they would be hired by a merchant to put down an ambitious panther tribe or a group of marauders, but it would be nothing more intensive than that. He could handle that sort of work. So he packed up his things, said goodbye to his family once more and left for the woods.

Part III, Tipping Point

"A lost seafarer, alive
Has returned home

A lost seafarer, alive
Has returned home."
-Sigur Ros, Sæglópur

Years passed.

He was living the life every man dreamed of. Respected officer of his Caste. The ear of any politician when he wished. Sluts as his feet at his beck and call. He had it all. Rich. Strong. In the prime of his life. The job he grew to enjoy over the months had not changed. If anything, the experience made him more successful. As Commander of the city, he had fully protected the city from numerous marauding outlaws and panthers that littered the area and hijacked the caravans rolling their way to Midgaard. The men still respected him. They knew he would protect them no matter what happened in battle. He had their respect. He had everything he could possibly want. So...why did he hate his life so much?

He had too much damn respect. All he had was respect. They always asked for his help. Whenever someone had a problem, he was the first person that would be approached. And he always helped. But his patience began to wear thin. He never asked for their help; he never needed it. He had a house on the water’s edge. He had all the money he’d ever need for several lifetimes. He had all the political connections to get whatever he wants. He was a man with no needs who only gave to others. He had value as an asset to the community. But did he have value as being part of it? If he were to disappear, surely the people would be saddened that their leader could no longer help them. But would they really care that he was gone?

It wasn’t an entirely fair question. Wherever he went, he seemed out of place. He looked different than everyone else; a smaller, tanned man with green eyes and black hair was a stark contrast against the tall, blonde blue-eyed men of the North. In a city dominated by Caste, influence and politics, he seemed wildly disinterested in it all. True, he dutifully appeared at every social function, every Caste meeting, and every time the High Council asked for his advice. He gave himself to his work. What was there outside of that? What were the people supposed to talk to him about? No one knew what his interests were. He never gave them an opportunity to learn. Once the meetings were over, the obligation of social interaction over, he would retreat to his house and stay there. He lived in a nice house, but he lived alone. He had no slaves. Men offered him their daughters as companions and he rebuffed offer after offer. His furs never seemed cold; there would be the occasional captive, prisoner or coin girl that exited his house in the early hours of the morning. But…they were captives. They were not citizens of Midgaard. He didn’t seem to fit into any social circle. Yes, the people valued his counsel and sought his input on everything involved in their city life. They tried to involve him in the only ways they knew how. But he did not seem to want to become one of them. So it was easy to use him. Ask for help, and they never had to give anything back. Who would refuse such a deal? He made it so easy that they sought him often.

* * *

The aftermath of the Treve-Vosk Delta Alliance war completely transformed the Gorean landscape. Many people fled their homestones in the wake of the destruction, looking for a new place to rebuild their lives. Being positioned so far away from the battlefields, Midgaard enjoyed an influx of these refugees. Amongst them was a traveling musician by the name of Gabrielle. Lost, alone and uncompanioned- a number of the men of the city looked at her with the idea of a collar twinkling in their eye. Indeed, she had nothing to start her new life in this place. The collar was the easy solution; many others sought this refuge.

Why Aashe chose to step in and help her, no one would ever know. There were many similar helpless women to choose from, some in more dire straits and others with value. He never offered a reason, and apparently Gabrielle never thought to ask him either. Clearly though, there was something unique that drew him to her. He stepped in and offered food, shelter and a job. The people were perturbed by the arrangement; such generosity with no strings attached was unprecedented. Perhaps he was establishing her in order to eventually companion her. After all, a man of his stature could not deign to lower himself to associating with common beggars and refugees.

If there was any hint of a plan, it never materialized. Gabrielle moved in across the street from Aashe. They would dine together often, but they always parted their separate ways shortly after. She took on a slave, then a second and finally even her own personal kajirus. She pursued a courtship with the head of the Red Caste; he contented himself by sharing the furs with a new female captive every few days and then selling her off for a bit of coin and supplies. Their interaction remained…platonic, a curious arrangement in Gor. The people of the city could not understand it. The two became the center of a series of rumors. People would stop by the streets and peer into the windows, hoping to catch the two in compromising positions. Their actions during the city festivals and dinner parties were scrutinized endlessly; for all their work, the gossip birds never returned with a juicy morsel or a worm. Perhaps it was true that Aashe and Gabrielle were nothing more than friends.

Then one day, Aashe’s immediate superior, Augustus, returned with spoils from his latest victory over a rogue band of panther girls. She was a diminutive thing, unimpressive upon first glance. Augustus seemed to take great pride and joy in her and gave her a home in his private kennels, naming her Cecelia. Whereas Aashe was tasked with the defenses of the city, Augustus’ work took him farther out on the supply routes where sometimes he was absent from the city for weeks at his time. Turning to the man he trusted most, he placed his household in Aashe’s trust while he was away.

It was something Aashe had never done before; caring for a slave seemed so…constricting. He much preferred his arrangement with captives: use them when he wished and discard them when he no longer saw value in them. It was a life of variety and excitement. He was never bored. He never felt burdened with obligation. Cecelia on the other hand…he had to watch her every day. And she confused him. He was used to pliant slaves, eager to please and doting in their demeanor. She was none of these things. She always stood when she had the chance, darting this way and that. Touching everything in his house. And the questions. Always with the questions. What could he do? She was not his slave and he could not kill her. And could not keep her gagged forever; it seemed perverse. Even worse, she acted so differently when Augustus was around. So demonstrative around him, she oozed sex and lust. But when Aashe ordered her when they were alone, there would be a thousand questions. She wasn’t stubborn; she just…he could not explain it. Invariably the task would never get done and he’d have to do it himself. It infuriated him. He could order any other slave in the city and they would do it without question. The slaves feared him and respected his authority. But Cecelia? She was a puzzle, a challenge. The whip could not break her. In fact, in his hand with his force, she took a perverse delight in it. She questioned him; she challenged him. She forced him to grow. And somewhere along the way, the anger turned into intrigue. He began to appreciate her differences. Day after day, he slowly learned more about the slave girl Cecelia. He learned how to adjust his demeanor to make her obey. Instead of raising his voice, he needed to lower it. Where he would choke another slave into submission, he would need to cajole her with his tongue. Gradually, he learned the value of obligation and the reasons why a man would keep a slave. They were not all the same simpering, spineless begging toadies he had come to expect. There were some that were truly unique and truly valuable. He learned to treasure that. It was something he saw worth pursuing for himself some day in the future.

It is said "every man is an Ubar within the circle of his sword." It was a true statement; in this circle, there was only room for one person. These new events changed that. There was no tipping point where despair turned to joy. There would be no day of celebration that Aashe could pinpoint the precise moment in time when everything changed. The wall was compromised by pressure and time. In Gor, where people live for hundreds of years, walls cannot stand forever. Some walls stand longer than others; it was certainly true in his case. In the end, change is inevitable. Now he had an inner circle. People who he could truly call friends: those that he knew in the deepest part of his heart cared unstintingly about his life and his feelings. And when the wall was finally breached, more people sat beside him. Gabrielle and Cecelia. Then Yuliya. Horthgar. Thena. Oric. Stephania. Damien. Drapeta. And others. Some people passed through his life faster than others. Some never left. Each made their mark on him. Permanently. The walls of his responsibility and obligation that he hid behind for so long were soon replaced by a wall of people. It was a welcome change.

Of course, it changed him forever. Now when people came him to him for favors, they were rebuffed on occasion. He learned to say no. His work faltered. He no longer seemed as dedicated as he once was. The warriors under his care were not trained up to standards. He found himself having to answer more and more to a displeased Council. His value to the community was slipping. And where in the past, this would have bothered him and would have worked hard to correct his mistakes…now? Now, he cared less about his duty and more about his happiness. The Codes he had sworn to uphold and protect, the mantra of community and honor first were slowly degrading from oaths into lip service.

It became a game of balance. It was a game he was not used to because there was no answer. He always dove headfirst into problems and conquered them once and for all. Ir was his way; he solved problems. He did not rest until he crushed them out of existence. But how could he solve this one? How would he balance the burden of his communal responsibilities with the desires of his personal satisfaction? He looked all around him for inspiration. It seemed so easy for others. Men had gaggles of slaves on their chains and they seemed able to handle each kajira so effortlessly; women were able to both pursue the work of their Caste and have enough energy to look after their households and children. How was it so difficult for him?
Gor is a world of absolutes. There is no room for balancing. One either adapts or he dies. Aashe knew his choices. He knew what he would lose if he returned to the life of pure caste work and obligation. He could not go back to that life. He had tasted the fruit of friendship and it was intoxicating. He did not want to die alone. But he also knew he could not abandon those that were close to him. They needed his strength and guidance. He had to perform his duties; if he showed weakness, the city would fall to an enemy and they would all be dead. He could not live with such guilt, knowing that his selfishness would cause so much devastation. He needed to win this game. People were counting on him to succeed. He was counting on himself to persevere in the end. There was no choice in the matter.

Part II, Ascent

"God place me in ya armor, I prescribe no partners
I do it for the hood like a parka
And tell my niggas not to shiver
Only time we quiver like a archer is

Cause we only fear God
Know the weapons of the weak
The weakness of the hard
And we will never sleep."
-Lupe Fiasco, The Emperor's Soundtrack

Surprisingly, the harsh climate of Midgaard suited him. The snow toughened him and the high altitude helped build his muscles. Or perhaps, the lack of pressure in a new setting allowed him to flourish. It was clear that his destiny was to be a member of the Red Caste like his brother, his father and his fathers before him. True, in the beginning, his prowess with the sword was beyond miserable. There were even moments where it seemed hopeless that he would ever survive his first battle. But what the boy lacked in natural ability, he made up for in determination. The other boys relied on their superior Torvsland bloodlines to guide them through their training; Aashe worked. Very slowly, he transformed his body and ability from a scrawny weakling into the man everyone thought he would be. His reflexes improved. His aim got better. At tournaments, he placed last; then 10th, then 5th; after a few years of training, he was the undisputed champion of the Red Caste of Midgaard.

Along the way, his demeanor changed. The little odd boy puttering around the streets of Treve disappeared. The red tunic suited him. It changed him; it forced him to grow. When he walked down the street, the men would nod to him and offered a word of appreciation. People noticed him wherever he went. He commanded their respect because of who he was. The crest on front of his tunic never let them, never let him, forget this.

And he respected them. When a low caste woman wandered into the market without a slave or help to carry off her purchases, he would offer a hand. If a man bade him to come into the tavern to listen to a story, he listened. A child never left his house without something in their hands. He never demanded an audience with anyone; they always came to him because he would see them. In the middle of the day, in the middle of the night- it did not matter. The city relied on him and he could not refuse. Who else could resolve a dispute between bakers? When the slaver needed help to train all the new slaves, Aashe would watch them dance and serve. A simple word here and there and they learned. When important foreigners requested a meeting with the city Elders, Aashe always found himself at the meeting. He never said much; after all, he was not an Elder and had nothing to say. But they wanted them there. They trusted him. So he stayed and listened.

Slowly, he became comfortable with his new role in Midgaard. He saw the other men in the city try to create their own destiny. It was the way of the Caste: a game of politics where everyone had to beg, borrow and deal their way to the top. He remembered the lessons from his homeland. In the end, all the maneuvering and manipulation could not escape destiny. What would happen would happen. So he let the community make their demands on him and he tried his best to grow into it. From grunt, to swordsman, to Commander. The transitions were difficult. With the rise in status came the burden of additional responsibility. Life became more complicated.

But as the months went by, he began to enjoy the extra responsibility. True, life was easier back in the days when all he had to worry about was brandishing his sword and fighting. But eventually, his tasks seemed less daunting. He enjoyed the adulation of the people. They loved him and he loved them. The mantle of a responsibility became less a chore than an opportunity: he had a chance to make not only his life better, but his community’s. So he worked hard in his duties. It was his job to protect the city from raiders and marauders. Merchants needed to trust that he and his men could keep the supply routes safe from pirates and thieves. If he failed in his task, Midgaard would collapse. They needed him. So he worked. Responsibility became routine. He could live this life.

Part I, Beginnings

"This is not the way I saw anything happening
I'm only older, screaming over destiny tonight
Don't hear my laugh echoing through your jealousy
I just hear my voice, I just hear my voice

Come on and jump in the fire, the first one's on me
Feel the burn of missing every opportunity
If you stand the heat, we can play loud enough you'll agree
You haven't see the last of me."
-Lucky Boys Confusion, When Bad News Gets Worse

The story began years ago, high in the mountaintops of the Hidden City- Treve to its people. His mother named him Aashe. It was a curious name, one more fitting for a slave girl than a full-blooded Gorean male. Perhaps she wished Aashe were a girl...or perhaps she gave him that name so he would be deemed unfit for the Scarlet Caste of his father so he would become a powerful Scribe in his mother's making...or perhaps she gave him a name that hinted at so many different meanings but in the end, meant nothing...or perhaps the Scribe who recorded his name was simply drunk.

He was born fifth (and last) to the House of Vieria. While he was the second son, his parents had high ambitions for him. His father Malice was now First Sword of the city, while his mother Sabina had risen to the position of Chief Scribe. Aashe was now royalty in the city; the two most powerful Castes were intertwined forever. His birth ushered in the Golden Era of the city. Every city raid was successful without the loss of a single man, replete with spoils and riches of their conquests. It was a prosperous time; no one in the city was wanting for any possible need. The coffers swelled, the warehouses filled and the population grew. No other city dared challenge the Trevans in battle for they knew they were no match for the mighty tarnsmen. For the first time, the lawless city enjoyed a historic period of piece; he was the city's son, destined to be Ubar one day.

But somewhere along the way, everything changed. As he grew older, he began to look odd. Different. His appearance resembled neither parent; he was darker than normal, uncovering the dark secret of his father’s Schendi heritage. His demeanor seemed alien to native Trevans. Trevan men are known for being brash, arrogant raiders who can handle a tarn like no other. Aashe was none of these things: he was soft-spoken and could barely ride a tarn by himself. The Golden Boy, who represented so much hope to the city, was anything but. Rumors swirled, suspicions were raised about the future of the city in the hands of someone who seemed Earth-born and not Gorean. It was becoming clear that he would be lucky to survive into adulthood. Something seemed off.

And then the bad times came. Raids started becoming less productive and more dangerous. During one raid, Aashe's older (and only) brother Dodge left by tarnback on a raiding mission and never returned. He was never heard from again. From then on, every raid came back with fewer men and even fewer goods. No one could explain this change in luck.

Later, a caravan convoy of Trevans was highjacked just outside of Minus; the hijacker had an irrational hatred of the citizens of the famed Hidden City. All the women in the party were savagely beaten and brutally raped before being left for dead on the roadside. Aashe's oldest sister, Cilla, was amongst them. Rather than returning home for protection and revenge, she fled to the forests to seek refuge in the wilderness. She was not alone. These women never returned. The political stability in Treve began to slowly deteriorate. Aashe's mother tried to hold the city together with her instincts, silver tongue and natural inclination for politics. The only solution required her to dissolve her companionship with Malice and join forces with the Ubar, Theodoric. Unraveling the threads of family did not stop the bleeding. By the time Aashe came of age, the stench of war and rebellion hung in the air. No one could explain the sudden and swift changes of events. But they had a guess: the city had no future leader to inspire it.

Officially, he was sent to "the Academy" to pursue his Caste training in the harsh climate of the North. His father hoped the bitter cold would toughen his soft, peculiar behavior. His mother privately hoped that Aashe would discover a passion for literature and follow the path of knowledge to becoming a Scribe. Both knew that training at the edges of Torvsland would keep him safe from the brewing war between Treve and the Vosk Delta Alliance. Midgaard was too far north for tarns to survive, a perfect cover to obscure the reason why a native Trevan could not skillfully handle a tarn. The "Jewel of the North" also represented a potential powerful ally to Treve. Its position on the coast and its superior navy would give Treve a tactical advantage in the coming wars. Entrusting Midgaard with the education of a member of Treve's "nobility" would signify a momentous and lasting bond between the two cities. Politically, the move was strategically sound. Aashe would live in Midgaard until he finished his training.

Psychology of Roleplay, Part II

"You must retain faith that you can prevail to greatness in the end, while retaining the discipline to confront the brutal facts of your current reality."
-Admiral Jim Stockdale

While diagnosing a problem is interesting, talking about the solutions isn't. Where problems are puzzles that have subtle nuances that can be appreciated at a theoretical level, solutions are vague until applied to a specific fact pattern. Of course, while it's sort of pointless to talk about concrete solutions to solving psychological problems, that doesn't mean it's helpful to outline a general guideline for creating sustainable solutions that will actively combat the malaise brought on by an intensive roleplaying lifestyle.

Theoretical Approach

The overarching theory that Zimbardo advocates is called incrementalism. Basically, if the lack of structure and safeguards allows a person's mental health to deteriorate quickly, then the solution to is to build a system designed to force a gradual upward trajectory. The thing that distinguishes success from pipe-dreams is setting small, but attainable goals that promote positive change.

"Our 'slow ascent into goodness step by step' makes use of what social psychologists call the 'foot-in-the-door' (FITD) tactic. This tactic begins by first asking someone to do a small request (which most people readily perform) and then later on to ask them to comply with a related but much bigger request (which was the goal all along)."

For instance, if a person is logging into a roleplay environment day-after-day, doesn't know why they do it, and doesn't particularly enjoy the roleplay they're getting (or avoids roleplaying altogether)...that's a tell-tale sign of depression. People can come up with a myriad of excuses justifying why that behavior is acceptable; in the end though, they're just justifying why they're depressed.

The simple solution to this problem is to walk away for at least a brief period of time. Let the batteries recharge (if at all), and don't come back until the person genuinely wants to roleplay again. The problem is that this is easier to say than do. If a person is continually logging into a bad environment, they are creating a path dependency: it's an addiction of sorts. It takes an incredible amount of will and determination to stop an addiction cold turkey. And even if the person is able to stay away from roleplay for a while, when they come back, they'll re-create those bad habits that caused the problem in the first place. So...like any other addiction, an approach is required that gradually turns back the clock on the addiction so it becomes a manageable pastime instead of a consuming habit.

Principles

So, the solution is developing a system of incremental change. Before jumping directly to the solutions, there's an intermediate step. This system needs outlined principles: what sorts of attitude changes should be promoted? Zimbardo outlines 10, but I think only 7 are applicable to a roleplay game context:

1. Admission of Error

"Let's start out by encouraging admission of our mistakes, first to ourselves then to others. Accept the dictum that to err is human. You have made an error in judgment; your decision was wrong. You had every reason to believe it was right when you made it, but now you know you were wrong. Say the six Magic words: 'I’m sorry'; 'I apologize'; 'Forgive me.' Say to yourself that, you will learn from your mistakes, grow better from them. Don’t continue to put your money, time, and resources into bad investments. Move on. Doing so openly reduces the need to justify or rationalize our mistakes, and thereby to continue to give support to bad or immoral actions. Confession of error undercuts the motivation to reduce cognitive dissonance; dissonance evaporates when a reality check occurs. 'Cutting the bait' instead of resolutely 'staying the course' when it is wrong has immediate cost, but it always results in long-term gain."

It's incredibly hard to admit error. That's just a natural human tendency because everyone likes to think that they are smart and make good decisions. Admitting fault directly undercuts that belief. In addition, when people admit error, they wallow in the bad decision. This wallowing has two consequences: 1) we wallow in self-pity and 2) we hesitate to make choices because we've become gun-shy. We doubt ourselves and ability to make future decisions in the wake of our mistakes. So in order to avoid that feeling of failure, it's more comfortable to continue making the same error over and over instead of confronting reality.

So it's not just admitting error that's important. It's admitting error and moving on. People need to understand that a bad result doesn't necessarily mean the decisionmaking was bad. Hence, the necessity for positive reinforcement ("I will learn from my mistakes") that eventually manifests itself into a positive outlook on life again. If you say something long enough, you eventually believe it.

2. Understanding Context

"In many settings smart people do dumb things because they fail to attend to key features in the words or actions of influence agents and fail to notice obvious situational clues. Too often we function on automatic pilot, using outworn scripts that have worked for us in the past, never stopping to evaluate whether they are appropriate in the here and now. Following the advice of Harvard researcher, Ellen Langer, we must transform our usual state of mindless inattention into “mindfulness,” especially in new situations. Don’t hesitate to fire a wake-up shot to your cortex; even when in familiar situations old habits continue to rule even though they have become obsolete or wrong. We need to be reminded not to live our lives on automatic pilot, but always to take a Zen moment to reflect on the meaning of the immediate situation, to think before acting...Support critical thinking from the earliest times in a child’s life, alerting them to deceptive ads, biased claims, and distorted perspectives being presented to them. Help them become wiser and warier knowledge consumers."

Breaking up cognitive dissonance requires someone to constantly evaluate their situation from multiple perspectives. It's hard to have a holistic view of a situation because we don't have the benefit of perspective until after the event is over. It's easy to criticize because that is a reflective action; it is much easier to figure out what the correct action was after the fact than beforehand. Similarly, failure to reanalyze a situation locks people into a particular set of behavior. And while the behavior may have been good at one point, situations may have evolved such that the behavior now produces bad results. It's important to realize that a person and his environment are always changing; therefore, perspective must as well.

3. Responsibility

"Taking responsibility for one's decisions and actions puts the actor in the driver's seat, for better or for worse. Allowing others to compromise their own responsibility, to diffuse it, makes them powerful back-seat drivers, and makes the car move recklessly ahead without a responsible driver. We become more resistant to undesirable social influence by always maintaining a sense of personal responsibility and by being willing to be held accountable for our actions. Obedience to authority is less blind to the extent that we are aware that diffusion of responsibility merely disguises our individual complicity in the conduct of questionable actions. Your conformity to anti-social group norms is undercut to the extent that you do not allow displacement of responsibility, when you refuse to spread responsibility around the gang, the frat, the shop, the battalion, or the corporation. Always imagine a future time when today’s deed will be on trial and no one will accept your pleas of only following orders, or everyone else was doing it."

Problems are created by the interaction of two forces. Someone cannot start a fight by himself; a fist needs a face to hit to become a punch. Without an object to receive the blow, it's not a fight. The person throwing the punch might be "wrong" for starting the fight, but the other person is also "wrong" for receiving the action. And if the receiver doesn't retaliate, there's no fight.

It's important to understand that blame doesn't create a problem. It's actions. Therefore, both parties always bear some responsibility for creating the problem (via their actions), even if they're blameless. So an individual always has the ability to solve some of the problem on his own by changing his actions. He might not be able to solve the whole problem, but if he can solve the portion he controls, the situation will be better than if he does nothing.

Hence, personal responsibility and the need to promote individual action is ALWAYS required. Simply dumping the problem on someone else's doorstep is never the right solution.

4. Individualism

"Do not allow others to deindividuate you, to put you into a category, in a box, a slot, to turn you into an object. Assert your individually; politely state your name and your credentials, loud and clear. Insist on the same behavior in others. Make eye contact (remove all eye-concealing sun glasses), and offer information about yourself that reinforces your unique identity. Find common ground with dominant others in influence situations and use it to enhance similarities. Anonymity and secrecy conceals wrongdoing and undermines the human connection. It can become the breeding ground that generates dehumanization, and, as we now know, dehumanization provides the killing ground for bullies, rapists, torturers, terrorists, and tyrants. Go a step beyond self-individuation. Work to change whatever social conditions make people feel anonymous. Instead, support practices that make others feel special, so that they too have a sense of personal value and self worth. Never allow or practice negative stereotyping—words and labels can be destructive.

Obviously, this advice can't work in a Gorean roleplay sim. It just can't, because the the role of a kajira needs to be deindividuated and dominated in roleplay. However, that doesn't mean that the person roleplaying the kajira needs to feel deindividuated. By promoting a sense of self outside the character, a person can better control their roleplay experience and avoid pitfalls like self helplessness and other forms of depression. At the same time, there might be some people that genuinely want a fully immersive experience and wants to act in a kajira-like fashion in IMs and out-of-character scenarios. It depends on the needs and wants of the players.

5. Authority & Ethics

"In every situation, work to distinguish between those in authority who, because of their expertise, wisdom, seniority, or special status, deserve respect, and those unjust authority figures who demand our obedience without having any substance. Many who assume the mantel of authority are pseudo-leaders, false prophets, confidence men and women, self-promoters, who should not be respected, but rather disobeyed and openly exposed to critical evaluation. Parents, teachers, and religious leaders should play more active roles in teaching children this critical differentiation. They should be polite and courteous when such a stance is justified, yet be good, wise children by resisting those authorities that do not deserve their respect. Doing so, will reduce mindless obedience to self-proclaimed authorities whose priorities are not in our best interests."

There is no simple formula to determine which people are genuine leaders who have good advice to dispense vs. posers who have no idea what they're talking about. Even well-respected individuals with elite status can be very wrong about the things they are paid to analyze for a living. In trying to figure out how to trust people in authority though, there are two basic rules of thumb: 1) figure out the incentives/biases of the authority figure; and 2) come up with a system of ethics and principles that you strongly believe in. Thus, every statement should and must be balanced against these principles. Granted, there's always some element of bleeding out-of-character restrictions with in-character restrictions...but always questioning authority figures to determine whether their advice actually makes sense in the situation is key. Blind obedience is a death sentence to having a fulfilling roleplay life.

6. Self-Identity

"The lure of acceptance into a desired social group is more powerful than that of the mythical golden ring in “Lord of the Rings.” The power of that desire for acceptance will make some people do almost anything to be accepted, and go to even further extremes to avoid rejection by The Group. We are indeed social animals, and usually our social connections benefit us and help us to achieve important goals that we could not achieve alone. However, there are times when conformity to a group norm is counter-productive to the social good. It is imperative to determine when to follow the norm and when to reject it. Ultimately, we live within our own minds, in solitary splendor, and therefore we must be willing and ready to declare our independence regardless of the social rejection it may elicit. It is not easy, especially for young people with shaky self-images, or adults whose self-image is isomorphic with that of their job. Pressures on them to be a “team player,” to sacrifice personal morality for the good of the team are nearly irresistible. What is required is that we step back, get outside opinions, and find new groups that will support our independence and promote our values. There will always be another, different, better group for us."

It's ok to be a loner. A lot of people accede to demands and requirements for fear of being ostracized. It seems rather stupid to log into a social platform...and not socialize. That's what authority figures try to set up: if you do not comply, you will not get to roleplay with anyone interesting and will be doomed to a solitary life without any roleplay fulfillment. However, that's not true at all. There are a million ways to get the same level of interaction without having to bend to anyone's will (obviously, I mean this in an out-of-character context; in character, obviously, a kajira has to accede to demands of her Master). Those people that are comfortable being by themselves will thrive because they don't require social acceptance to be happy; those that are terrified of being alone will always be susceptible to threats, making them easy prey for manipulation.

7. Framing Problems

"Who makes the frame becomes the artist, or the con artist. The way issues are framed is often more influential than the persuasive arguments within their boundaries. Moreover, effective frames can seem not to be frames at all, just sound bites, visual images, slogans, and logos. They influence us without our being conscious of them, and they shape our orientation toward the ideas or issues they promote. For example, voters, who favored reducing estate tax benefits for the rich, were urged to vote against a “death tax”; the tax was exactly the same, but its defining term was different. We desire things that are framed as being “scarce,” even when they are plentiful. We are averse to things that are framed as potential losses, and prefer what is presented to us as a gain, even when the ratio of positive to negative prognoses is the same. We don’t want a 40% chance of losing X over Y, but do want the 60% chance of gaining Y over X. Linguist George Lakoff clearly shows in his writings that it is crucial to be aware of frame power and to be vigilant to offset its insidious influence on our emotions, thoughts, and votes."

It's helpful to avoid categorization and labeling of roleplay itself. People get so obsessed with trying to box in particular actions and tendencies within specific roles that they forget the overall picture: this is roleplay. As frightening as it is, we simply need to accept that everyone has a different interpretation of a role and those differences need to be celebrated and not scorned.

It's a matter of framing the problem as "individuals coming together to create an environment" instead of "people coming together to conform to an environment." When people have to conform, they are reviewed critically. When people create, people are encouraged to build the environment from their interaction. How something is said is almost always more important than what is being said. Saying and framing issues in a positive light ("How can I encourage people to learn" vs. "why are all these fucknuts ruining my roleplay experience?") creates a positive environment, which leads to positive experiences.

Practical Application

So, the system is set up. There's a theory on how the system should work, what type of change this system should create...the only thing left to do is to develop a concrete plan of action. This is where the analysis gets boring or unhelpful. Every person will be different in which tangible actions will best accomplish the goals set forth by the system. Some people need a more rigorous environment with lots of little steps. Some people need to make large leaps (the equivalent of either peeling off a band-aid or ripping it right out). Of course, it would not be very satisfying to simply stop the analysis here. So all things being equal, some general solutions that can contribute positively to creating healthy roleplaying environment:

1. Take occasional breaks from roleplay. No one would ever sit down and work for 5 straight hours. In fact, the government requires scheduled breaks every few hours for about 15 minutes or so. Walking around and stretching not only helps an individual learn the separation between IC and OOC (giving the person time to reflect on what happened), but it also helps them refresh themselves and bring renewed creativity to their future endeavors.

2. Undertake a real life hobby that requires going out on a regular basis. For instance: a pottery class that meets once or twice a week, going on an evening jog three times a week, joining a book group, etc. The purpose of this is to not roleplay every day, which can eventually develop into a habit-forming addiction. Hobbies also help gauge the level of addiction and serve as a barometer in knowing when roleplaying has gone from simply fun to an obsession: when a person begins to justify skipping the hobby for more roleplay time, it's a problem that's beginning to spiral out of control.

3. Create a deadline for logging out of roleplay every night. People who get too caught up in roleplay develop irregular sleeping habits, which creates physical and mental health problems. That's not even an exaggeration. Sleep deprivation literally makes a person more combative, sluggish, sickly (compromises the immune system) and a host of other horrible consequences. Basically, lack of sleep makes a person very unpleasant and unhealthy. While it's always fun to keep roleplaying until a scene reaches its natural conclusion...if that scene forces someone to get 4 hours of sleep instead of their normal 8, then there's never a scenario where that extra time roleplay outweighs all the negative consequences of lack of sleep. It's also important to note that while someone might create a 12 AM curfew, it's ok to cheat a little on that time...so long as it's reasonable. The point of the deadline, more than anything else, is to create a roleplaying alarm clock: once that clock hits 11:45, it's time to start wrapping things up and prepare for sleep. A person that's hell-bent on roleplaying until the scene naturally concludes will lose hours and hours of sleep because there are no firm guidelines.

4. Never eat or snack at the computer. One of the other big problems with a gaming lifestyle is the huge caloric intake with little to no exercise. The fatter a person gets, the slower the body metabolizes fats...which means excessive snacking with no exercise makes a person sleepy, lethargic and slow. These are not good habits. Forcing to eat away from the computer creates a few good consequences: a) it forces a person to get up every once in a while; b) it prevents multiple pleasurable activities from merging into a path dependency. Roleplaying is fun. Eating is fun. Thus, roleplaying and eating together is even more fun. The brain then associates those activities and the dependency doesn't become just roleplay. It becomes an addiction to roleplay and eating. Eating triggers a desire to roleplay and roleplaying triggers a desire to eat. The combination is not good.

5. Get regular exercise. While lethargy dulls the senses, exercise gives the body endorphin rushes that contribute in positive ways. The body produces more energy, the mind is clearer and overall, a person is much fresher to bring a positive, healthy attitude towards their roleplay. Positive attitudes tend to beget positive experiences, which is great for roleplay.

6. Keep a journal. If a roleplay character is basically an exercise in self-projection, then a journal is an absolute requirement to help figure out which emotions and reactions are "real" and which ones are "fake." To be clear, everything that happens in SL is fake. But some reactions stem from a real life emotional problem whereas some are feelings triggered by the experience of the character (i.e., crying at a movie because the interaction between father-son seems autobiographical vs. crying at a movie because spooky music was playing and the mood was scary). Trying to understand the significance of the roleplay and why it was so powerful (or in some cases, why it wasn't) provides an emotional outlet outside of the roleplay environment. It's ok to bring some crazy into the roleplay. Of course, bringing too much crazy is a bad thing. For safety, it's good to have multiple places to release the crazy. A journal is one way to do that.

7. Create small, distinct achievable goals in roleplay for a particular time period. For instance: purchase some meat from a butcher by the end of the week; travel to another city sim and taste a foreign delicacy; the list can go on. While most people chafe at setting up roleplay scenes ahead of time, these goals at least give a character some roleplay direction. People can feel lost or aimless at times when they don't know what they're supposed to do. And in this case, these tasks are not meant to shape the character, but simply give the character some tasks to push them into roleplay and move the story forward. This little bit of structure can reap dividends in the future: eventually a person can look back on their list of goals and see how many were accomplished. If there are too many unfulfilled goals, it can raise interesting questions as to why there are so many failures. Sometimes the answers are benign (got sidetracked with more interesting roleplay); sometimes the answers are revealing about some larger problem (major self-confidence issues and/or the standard approach to attracting roleplay is not very good).

I could list more, but continuing this list, as mentioned above, is sort of pointless. These suggestions may or may not be helpful in coming up with clearly defined steps to achieving goals. Everyone will define their principles and steps differently. There is no universal approach that can work for everyone. Zimbardo realizes this in his analysis. The underlying point, however, is universal: the roleplaying community will try to exert influence over its members in subtle or deliberate ways. Large communities thrive on homogeneity because that is the only way they can exist: everyone must think on similar terms. And while it's appealing on some level to associate with like-minded people, it's important to remember that some level of diversity is needed: you are a person first and a member of a community second. Understanding and appreciating this need to create an individual sphere within the roleplaying society is the only path to being mentally healthy while embarking on the journey.

Players that create systems or develop habits that are designed to push themselves forward in positive ways become great roleplayers who are major assets to their communities; those that don't eventually get alienated and feel isolated and angry at their surroundings. These people, in SL parlance, are known as drama whores and drag down everyone's roleplay experience. Each path requires a choice. Zimbardo provides a roadmap towards each path. The decision of which path to take is up to each individual.